Lately, I've been reading myself to sleep with tales from one of my favorite anthologies: "Huntings Best Short Stories". Authors like Ernest Hemingway and Guy De Maupassant have entries in the collection, but some of my very favorite stories are written by obscure authors who managed to capture the essence and joy of hunting. The stories themselves emit heart stirring spirit, causing one to yearn for a frosty November morning, a shotgun, and a good hunting dog with whom to enjoy the adventure. One particular story I read the other night was an absolute gem. Called, "The Road to Tinkhamtown", the story is about a man recalling a hunting trek with his dog "Shadow" as they discover an old, overgrown farm that turns out to be prime grouse cover. It is clear that the man is dying of old age as the story is told, but in his end, he is happy. He hears the Shadow's bell and leaves the world to hunt grouse for eternity.
While my hunt last Saturday lacks the echanting drama of "The Road to Tinkhamtown", a cherished memory was made that I know I'll recall for some time close to forever. After some mid-morning pheasant hunting, I returned home to enjoy lunch with my wife and son. Mid-afternoon I embarked on a journey to one of my favorite hunting haunts that I had not visited since opening day of grouse season last month. The opener was a soaker. Roughly 6 inches of wet snow fell two days prior, and a drenching rain pelted my father and I as we hunted dogless. Why no dog? Simply because rabbit wasn't open yet, and I wasn't about to torture my pup by not allowing her to chase her favorite game. Arriving somewhere near 2 p.m. Daisy and I set off into a tangle of briars and overgrown fields. She pursued a few rabbits, which I never saw. Rabbits are very clever, and it can be especially difficult to gather a glimpse when hunting alone with the dog. I will be sharper later in the season, and of course, snow on the ground is a great benefit to a rabbit hunter.
I purposely worked her along a hillside edge in hopes of flushing a grouse. She worked the forested area to my right and I trodded down the clear cut carefully watching the dog work. It was clear she was picking up something, but I could not discern exactly which quarry she was on at the time. My mind wandered, "Squirrel? Rabbit?" As the ground began to level and the stream bed appeared in front of us, her tail whipped into a frenzy and that hearty, magical game bird, the mighty ruffed grouse, flushed, wings whirring. Somehow, I managed to stay composed, swung the shotgun to my left, and squeezed off a shot and the bird twisted through the trees. Immediately, I knew I had hit it. It tumbled to the right, and my heart began to gallop. There is no sweeter sound in all of bird hunting than the flapping of grouse wings once the bird hits the forest floor. Off we ran to find the game. Many times I have doubted my dog, and I am glad Daisy forgives me every time. She knew exactly where the bird had fallen. But, in my arrogant human nature, I thought I knew. After about 10 minutes of searching, I allowed Daisy to lead the way, no longer concerned that she might pick up a rabbit and leave me behind desperately searching for a grouse I knew I had hit hard. Sure enough, the bird lie camouflaged in the grass just off the trail. I would have never found it without the dog. But, what a feeling it was! Both dog and I rejoiced at our good fortune, and once again, I realized how important all the wing-shooting practice hours in July and August had been.
There is nothing as sweet tasting as a grouse. A bird that is not stocked or corn fed, grouse eat berries, bark, bugs, and other food found in the forest. They are a hearty, smart bird, and to bag one is an honor. The grouse was the fourth of my hunting career. I hope to bag many more in the years to come. Some of the best hunts end with a recipe, and so, I googled grouse recipes and settled upon an old favorite my beautiful wife used when she cooked up the grouse I shot the winter before—a late January evening grouse I had surprised as Daisy ran a rabbit. I missed the rabbit, but bagged the grouse—probably one of my best shots ever.
As we close upon Thanksgiving weekend, I can't help but hope that the weather cooperates for a Friday or Saturday hunt. I've been fortunate enough to score a pheasant on the last day of the fall season for the past two years. I am not sure if it will work out this year, but hope is a good thing. Deer season is coming, and I am already excited. For the next few nights, I'll drift off to sleep by reading "The Harlows' Christmas Dinner": a true deer hunt classic written in 1903. It's impossible to keep a dry eye reading the beautiful story about two young boys who set out to provide a little meat for their mother's Christmas table.
Daisy's Score Card:
Pheasant: 15
Rabbit: 3
Turkey: 1
Grouse: 1
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