A Walk In December

I turn my truck off of the gravel road and onto the ancient dirt road. Once farm-to-market most of these old roads in Iowa are abandoned or seldom used. Many are closed, ceded back to the owners whose farms border the roads. This particular road is still navigable, unless it rains. The isolated track is lined with the inevitable high weeds and brushy junk trees; features that make these old tracks especially good roads on which to spot a rooster standing in the fencerow where he feels safe.

It is late fall the second week of December and winter has yet to arrive. The weather has been glorious but is set to turn colder for the weekend. On Friday night Karen I drove up to Iowa from our home in Missouri, a quick two-hour trip. We are back in our hometown to celebrate my mother-in-law’s 39th birthday, plus a few.

In anticipation of a whole Saturday free to hunt I rounded up my pair of English Setters, Cromwell and Mingo and packed my guns and ammo. I am up early to let the dogs out but linger over coffee and a great breakfast. At my age I am in no hurry to brave the cold. I load up the dogs then drive out of town, south for a mile on the highway, then turn right onto the gravel for another mile, then a left turn onto the dirt road.

I slow my truck to a crawl, lower my window, and kick up the heater. A quarter mile down the hill I spy a nice mature rooster lurking in the weeds of the fencerow. He sees me at the same time I see him so I coast on another 30 yards before I ease the truck to a stop. Over my shoulder I hear the old boy cackling for all he is worth. I cannot tell if he has flushed leaving me high and dry or is just giving me sass. It has been my experience over the years that even if a rooster flushes, or you spot a hen, it is worthwhile to check out a fencerow in the event there are multiple birds there in hiding.

I spot my bird standing in a protected thicket, big and bold. My first inclination is to leap out and head directly to him; but I am nowhere near ready. In my younger more foolish days I would have just grabbed a couple of shells and let the dogs loose. This is generally a very bad idea because you often find yourself out of the car longer than you anticipate, improperly dressed, and getting very cold in below freezing temps. Also, the dogs are so excited about being let out of the car first thing to chase game without their shock collars on, you will play havoc getting them back into the truck. You are always better off taking your time and making the proper preparations before chasing the first game of the day.

With Mingo safe in his cage I struggle to keep Cromwell on his seat in the truck while at the same time I shrug into my hunting vest, open a box of shells, buckle shock collars on both dogs, put my gloves on, and all while the clock is ticking on my errant rooster. Today I was re-resurrecting and old friend my NR Davis .12 gauge side-by-side. It dawns on me that I bought this old gun more than 30 years ago. The Davis is a fine example of American shotgun manufacture and as was the custom back then for fine shotguns, it was built with Damascus barrels. Damascus is beautiful and was a premium feature a hundred years ago. Not so much now. Because Damascus is weaker than fluid steel, modern powder is not considered safe to shoot in these old guns. For several years after I acquired the gun I shot hand loaded black powder shells, which generate much less pressure. A few years ago I purchased two .20 gauge sleeves so I could shoot modern shells. Recently I decided to try .16 gauge sleeves so today was yet another resurrection for the Davis.

With all of my accruements secured I set the eager dogs loose and we are off to pursue our quarry. In the fencerow where I spotted my bird Cromwell hits a crouch. In a semi-point he creeps forward, warily. In another 10 yards Cromwell is on a solid point, no movement from head to tail stiff as a board. In anticipation of a flush I move toward Cromwell keeping my eyes locked on the grass in front of his nose where I expect the bird to flush. Mingo bounds up the ditch toward Cromwell ready to back his point. Suddenly the weeds explode with a beautiful rooster pheasant highlighted against the cold morning sun. Except the rooster left cover 15 yards to my left and slightly behind me. I struggle to move my feet and turn my body. I snap off two shots, punching holes in the air behind the wily rooster.

I laugh at the cunning of the old boy and my poor shooting. Well the gun works. The dogs did good work. My shooting definitely needs some work. Chagrined, I put the boys and my shotgun back in the truck and I drive to our farm. I park off of the road in the acre of grass on the corner of our farm that was once a one-room schoolhouse and playground next to an old cemetery. I pour myself a cup of coffee and settle in to relax before starting our walk. As I sit in the car admiring the scenery I am treated to the sight of a dozen wild turkeys walking regally in single file up the hill to cross the highway. What a splendid sight. The flock shies away from the road when a car passes, then they just disappear into the landscape like copper colored ghosts.

The temperature is warming and the boys are restless, I can put off the hunt no longer. With collars already in place and all else ready I merely slide out my shotgun, put in 2 shells, and point the dogs in the direction I want to hunt. We start by circumnavigating the edge of the old school yard then head south down the hill following a tree lined fencerow. Over the years this is always a hot spot for both pheasant and quail.

I smile watching the dogs as they work well together. Cromwell is almost 12 years old but still has a great nose. After a long day his energy flags but he still balks when he has to leave the field. Mingo is 5 years and has all of the energy of youth. Mingo was crazy when I got him nearly 3 years ago but he has become a good hunter. Mingo is learning fast with some nice points and retrieves to his credit. The three of us are jelling into a good team. We reach the bottom of the hill; here the fence splits left and right. The boys did a thorough job vacuuming the fencerow we just walked down so I don’t think we left any game behind. They have a “birdy” look to their gaits though and are excited to press on. Turning left we skirt the property line between our neighbor’s farm and ours.

Within a couple of hundred yards we come to a gap in the fence and I shift right through the fence line into a large patch of grass. Suddenly Cromwell hits a brick wall, a rock solid point on my left. Mingo comes around on my right and also hits a point, in a different spot. I step into the grass and the world explodes in quail. It’s a large covey of at least 20 birds flying in what to the uninitiated seems to be that many directions. Some birds are flying left and some to my right but the majority are in fact going up and over the rising hill to my front.

If you have never been in the middle of a covey flush of quail let me assure you it is exhilarating. The sudden blast of so many little bodies rising seemingly out of thin air at first startles, then the beating of many small wings at once sets off a vibration in the air that you feel right through your body. You realize you need to pick a target out of the blur of all of those rocketing clumps of feathers going hither and yon. Few upland hunting situations are more challenging or exciting. I have seen novice hunters just stand with their mouths open, then ask, “what, was that?” “What you are supposed to be hunting,” is my response.

The repurposed NR Davis came up to my shoulder almost on it’s own. I pick out a single quail rocketing away on my left from in front of Cromwell’s nose. When I fire my right barrel the quail drops out of sight. Immediately I turn my attention elsewhere. There! I focus on a small bundle of feathers flying straightway from me. I fire the left barrel and the quail drops into the weeds leaving a shower of feathers floating in the morning air. The rest of the covey flies away over the hill leaving my heart pounding from the excitement.

I call the boys in with the command “dead bird.” I direct them to where my second bird went down. In a few moments of casting around Cromwell sticks his nose in and comes up with the tiny prize. “Good dog.” I direct the dogs back to our left where I feel sure the first bird will be found. The dogs cast back and forth in the grass but no quail. Maybe I missed him? We work up the slight slope about 20 yards and Crowell goes on point. “A single,” I think to myself. With my gun at port arms I walk into Cromwell’s point. Suddenly he breaks point, dives in, and comes up with the errant bird. Whoowee! a nice double and some beautiful dog work.

We hunt slowly up the hill following the flight of the covey. I anticipate bumping one or two singles but nothing flies. At the top of the rise I pause to admire the view. It is late fall and no snow has fallen so the foliage across the land, while browning is still upright and in places lush. The land is a mosaic of various shades of brown, green, yellow, red, all the splendid colors of a muted fall. This magnificent vista unfolds under a bright warming sun. It is a beautiful sight. We press on following the fence down into the valley.

There is a slough that drains both farms running north to south beginning on our farm almost up to the road ending a half-mile south where the slough intersects into a creek. The slough is widest on our side of the fence where the two property lines meet then it narrows dramatically south of the fence line. Over the years water runoff has cut a trail into the land. The dry ditch is hidden by long grass that grows up each year then lays over forming a natural screen. I have seen many a hunter step on the “solid” grass covered ground, only to find themselves pitching forwards after stepping into the hidden ditch. The result being some very dramatic and humorous falls. Of course this includes yours truly. Today I step carefully as I cross to the opposite side.

I direct the dogs to work the heavy grass along the fence line. Nothing. We turn south towards the creek and Mingo immediately dives into a large plum thicket. This thicket is a real hot spot for roosters. They like to slip into the 30-yard long thicket and keep the bushes between you and them. When the rooster runs out of the thicket he flushes keeping as much cover between you and him as he can manage. Over the years many roosters have been shot flushing out of this one thicket. The birds that got away have frustrated many hunters too.

Mingo is working the dickens out of the small forest of plum trees. I am convinced he is working a live bird. Keeping my eyes just in front of the peripatetic pup I anticipate a flush at any moment. Mingo and I reach the end of the trees but no rooster comes out. I am most surprised. I really sense he is working a bird, but where is it? It dawns on me I do not see Cromwell. I step around the far end of the shelterbelt of plum trees and there is Cromwell on point in the tall grass next to the thicket. The pheasant tried to slip out of the opposite side only to be frozen in place by Cromwell. That dog knows his business.

At the same moment I see Cromwell on point Mr. Rooster flushes from his hiding place. He soars across a picked bean field at a high rate of speed. I mount the fine shotgun to my shoulder and swing the barrels out ahead of the bird. Boom! The rooster folds in midair. Cromwell bounds over for the retrieve and delivers his bird to my hand. Teamwork. Nice.

After praises and pets all around our little hunting party resumes our march to the creek. At the confluence of the slough and the creek we turn east following the line of the creek. Somewhat to my surprise the several hundred-yard stroll to the next fencerow yields no birds. At the next fence we turn north and start back up the hill. About halfway up the hill the boys get birdy. On high alert I step along quickly. We pause at a small break in the cover where a bird must cross an open space to get to the next cover.

Cromwell is on my right and Mingo on my left. Mingo circles around me and back down hill. The dogs trap their quarry in between them. The bird flushes. A hen. Reflexively I shout “Hen!” then laugh, as I am the only person there to hear the warning. After praising the dogs for their good work we keep trudging to the top of the hill back to our property line. Turning west we are on the way to complete a long rectangle of our walk back to the truck.

We follow the fence and are trending down hill, nearly back to the plum thicket when Mingo goes on point in the dry fall grass. A quail single flushes straight away from me flying down hill. I raise my gun tracking the bird pushing the barrels out in front of the fast moving target. At the bottom of my vision I see Mingo leap off of the ground. At the last moment I pull my gun up and shoot air behind the bird. Darn. One gone bird is better than one dead dog, I reason.

I smile wryly at the near disaster then continue down the fence line. Both dogs are casting off to the right side of the fence. I let them track their noses. About 30 yards more I turn to call the dogs and at that moment I step on another single. The quail shoots away behind me. I spin in the wrong direction screwing my feet into the ground in the process. My hasty shots are both clean misses.

The two single quail are the last birds we see on our trek back to the truck. This morning I have three hits and three misses. In baseball that’s a .500 average and they pay pro ball players lots of money for that accomplishment. I would not trade a beautiful morning like this with my gun and my dogs for all the money they could give me. Seriously.

For me, in bird hunting the misses as well as the hits are all good. Watching the dogs work the birds until they go on point. When the bird flushes, in that singular moment you experience success or failure. But even in the miss there is still the triumph. After all is said and done it is not the getting that is important it is the pursuit. In the end