My pants are soaked from the morning dew left on the underbrush. I’ve just tripped a third time over a decapitated stump from a state forest cut, likely within the past two years. I examine my Browning Citori and quickly notice several nicks that didn’t exist hours prior. I’ve completely lost sight of my friend Kyle’s spaniel, although he’s probably within a 10 yard radius of me. It’s day one. Hour two. This sucks.
“Why the hell does anybody do this?” I said to myself quietly, as to not let my frustration and lack of interest in the hunt be noticeable to Kyle and Dylan, who were kind enough to invite me on the trip.
Don’t get me wrong, I love bird hunting. There’s not a dove opener that I will sleep in for. The mercury on the thermometer could drop well into the negatives and I will still be out there shooting pheasants. I’ll get soaked in the timber every year just to shoot the green head off a mallard. But who in their right mind would go through all of this work for a grouse?
“Jordan, the dogs are on point! Get ready!” Kyle shouts through the dense aspens.
Wings shutter like the sound of a drumroll from a college football game. I scan the landscape trying to locate the sound. I see the flutter of a bird cut through the forest. I raise my shotgun, attempting to lead on the bird's path, a useless tactic given the shooting lanes and the speed of its exodus. Needless to say, that bird flew away healthy.
“They say a good hunter should be successful on about 10% of their grouse flushes. So you’ve got nine more tries.” Dylan says, laughing.
At the rate we’re going, there won’t be nine more flushes that day. Which brings me back to my original question. Why the hell does anybody do this? I can more than appreciate the sportsman aspect of a tough hunt. In fact, I’ve been on countless big game hunts where I came up short, and still considered the hunt a success. Kind of.
But all this work to get a bird one out of every five to ten flushes? Get me back to duck blind. At least there I’m not pushing my way through miles of congested oaks and aspens, watching my gear take an ass beating. At least there I can enjoy my coffee, and bullshit with my friends next to a portable heater. At least there I can wait for the birds to come to me instead of the other way around. Am I sounding soft?
We’ve just hit flush number six. No dead birds yet.
I notice a slight bowl in the landscape, surrounded by a perimeter of young oak trees. I walk about fifteen yards in, planning to work the edge and see if I can get anything to fly. It’s seven in the evening, and the sun is falling. A last ditch effort before I shamefully hang up my hunting gear and consider becoming a golfer. Perhaps just an intrusive thought. Nevertheless a present one.
I notice my friend's spaniel go on point. He remains frozen in position. He’s done his job. Six times in a row he’s done his job. Now he’s waiting for me to do mine for a change.
I shoulder my shotgun as I slowly creep towards his position. Safety off, eyes peeled, breathing controlled. Don’t let it be seven in a row.
The drum echoes off the aspens and flies to my left towards the bowl. I can make out its shape as it is skylined from the bowls opening. I paint it out of the sky, pull the trigger, and watch as that damn bird becomes stone and falls towards earth.
As I grab the bird from a proud spaniel's mouth, Kyle walks up to me to celebrate the kill.
“You just shot perhaps the most difficult game bird there is. The king of the upland.”
“I get the appeal now, I’m obsessed. But the bag limit on these things is bullshit. No chance I kill four more.”