Kismet
UPH Guru
THE SINGLE-SHOT portion of the hunting season starts about now. Well, it is my own designation, unheralded by anyone else in the World, but I will still think of it as "official."
Pheasant season runs from late October to December 31st. Gun deer is usually Thanksgiving week and bracketing week-ends. Early pheasant hunting for me usually involves a side-by-side shotgun in 20 or 12 ga., most often at the State hunting grounds, with rare visits to private property...much less so these last few years, as folks move, die, or decide they hate me because I am so beautiful and graceful. The week before deer season no more birds are put out at the State grounds, so the walk with a shotgun is just an exercise in, well, exercise.
The little private property available to me has suffered from the weather the last few years, and wild birds here, and really, throughout pheasant hunting areas, even bountiful states like South Dakota, suffering substantial declines in bird population.
I've always been judicious in my hunting at this spot, not wanting to eliminate the birds there, and enjoying the dog working the birds much more than shooting any pheasants. Of course, I had Young Bert, the not-right dog, who provided endless entertainment, and to me, watching a pointing dog stalk and freeze in an atavistic compulsion is a new miracle, each time I've seen it. The HUNTING was the joy, not the shooting, if that makes sense.
Mick is a flushing dog, a Field Springer Spaniel, so the hunt is vastly different these days.
The restraint in shooting and the paucity of game (and my old legs), prompt me to carry a lighter single shot shotgun for this ending time of the season. I figure that one shot should be enough for me, should I chose to take it. While a quick second shot has often dropped birds, I'm rationalizing that I'm evening the odds for the birds we might find. Since I can't be trusted not to shoot the second barrel, I leave it at home.
With that long preface out of the way, Mick and I had a good day. Wisconsin put on one of its best days, with temperatures in the mid 30's, shining sun, and 5-10 mph winds. We've had little rain, so the ground is firm. We've had no snow, so the cover is open and what feed there is for wildlife is accessible. I like these brisk, clear days; feeling the weather like this sharpens my senses.
Mick and I moved throughout the land, flushing a hen and then a rooster, far distant. We kept on, him (more or less) following my direction; me (more or less) using my experience to go where other birds had once been.
We flushed a rooster who chose to fly the length of the property and glide down into an open area I'd hunted in years past. It takes a little work to get to through the brush, and past downed trees and bramble growth.
But the day was good, and the aches and pains of the start of the hunt had worked themselves out, or muted, so I whistled Mick to me and headed out for the long walk to the envisioned landing spot of the bird.
No great drama occurred, just some good dog trailing work, resulting in a flushed pheasant, cackling with displeasure and annoyance. I dropped it. Mick found it and brought it to me.
And then I sat, had a cigarette, and smiled at the dog, the bird, the old single-shot 20ga (modified) NEF, and the quiet of the day. It was an experience that movies have an actor replay in exquisite detail in his mind. For me, I can't recall with such precision. It was just...satisfying.
Perhaps I'll be able to keep some of the memory in days to come.
Pheasant season runs from late October to December 31st. Gun deer is usually Thanksgiving week and bracketing week-ends. Early pheasant hunting for me usually involves a side-by-side shotgun in 20 or 12 ga., most often at the State hunting grounds, with rare visits to private property...much less so these last few years, as folks move, die, or decide they hate me because I am so beautiful and graceful. The week before deer season no more birds are put out at the State grounds, so the walk with a shotgun is just an exercise in, well, exercise.
The little private property available to me has suffered from the weather the last few years, and wild birds here, and really, throughout pheasant hunting areas, even bountiful states like South Dakota, suffering substantial declines in bird population.
I've always been judicious in my hunting at this spot, not wanting to eliminate the birds there, and enjoying the dog working the birds much more than shooting any pheasants. Of course, I had Young Bert, the not-right dog, who provided endless entertainment, and to me, watching a pointing dog stalk and freeze in an atavistic compulsion is a new miracle, each time I've seen it. The HUNTING was the joy, not the shooting, if that makes sense.
Mick is a flushing dog, a Field Springer Spaniel, so the hunt is vastly different these days.
The restraint in shooting and the paucity of game (and my old legs), prompt me to carry a lighter single shot shotgun for this ending time of the season. I figure that one shot should be enough for me, should I chose to take it. While a quick second shot has often dropped birds, I'm rationalizing that I'm evening the odds for the birds we might find. Since I can't be trusted not to shoot the second barrel, I leave it at home.
With that long preface out of the way, Mick and I had a good day. Wisconsin put on one of its best days, with temperatures in the mid 30's, shining sun, and 5-10 mph winds. We've had little rain, so the ground is firm. We've had no snow, so the cover is open and what feed there is for wildlife is accessible. I like these brisk, clear days; feeling the weather like this sharpens my senses.
Mick and I moved throughout the land, flushing a hen and then a rooster, far distant. We kept on, him (more or less) following my direction; me (more or less) using my experience to go where other birds had once been.
We flushed a rooster who chose to fly the length of the property and glide down into an open area I'd hunted in years past. It takes a little work to get to through the brush, and past downed trees and bramble growth.
But the day was good, and the aches and pains of the start of the hunt had worked themselves out, or muted, so I whistled Mick to me and headed out for the long walk to the envisioned landing spot of the bird.
No great drama occurred, just some good dog trailing work, resulting in a flushed pheasant, cackling with displeasure and annoyance. I dropped it. Mick found it and brought it to me.
And then I sat, had a cigarette, and smiled at the dog, the bird, the old single-shot 20ga (modified) NEF, and the quiet of the day. It was an experience that movies have an actor replay in exquisite detail in his mind. For me, I can't recall with such precision. It was just...satisfying.
Perhaps I'll be able to keep some of the memory in days to come.
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