Christmas Hens

For a several seasons I gunned for a chance to hunt the Christmas hen stocking in Lycoming and Union county's State Game Land 252. In years prior my brother George and I had made it out post holiday, and we usually harvested several rabbits and if we were lucky, a single female pheasant.  For the first time I was able to hunt on the day of the stock, and it was well worth it. My friend and colleague Spencer accompanied Daisy and I on the hunt. It was a beautifully chilly mid-December afternoon and we arrived with just over 3 hours of winter sun remaining. Daisy set out to work quickly, and for once I purposely steered her into the wheat fields instead of the hedgerows hoping to flush birds as opposed to rabbits. She didn't disappoint us. Nearing the edge of a cut field Daisy began to show the frantic signs of a nearby bird. Spencer and I readied ourselves and a nice double flushed between us before splitting in opposite directions. Spencer took the low flier with a nice head shot, and I marked the high flier down in the distance.

Daisy made quick work of the recovery efforts for a second flush—the bird rose not more than ten yards to my left above the blond grass, and my 12 gauge pump dusted it into a pillow explosion of feathers.  With two birds in tow the frustrations of other less fruitful days afield ebbed away in a heartbeat. The sun warmed our faces and we crossed some brier filled woodlots. Upon crossing a low stone wall and reaching the edge of a remarkable field of winter wheat, Daisy plunged into the middle—hot on the scent of another bird. Half jogging, half running behind her, we scanned the edges as she attempted to reign in the bird we could not see. Slowing to a walk and preparing for a shot I knew would come, a hen suddenly burst forward above Daisy and climbed right to left presenting a quartering 35-yard target.  In a relaxed swing I squeezed off a shot and the bird folded in one smooth swoop.  We broke for water and simply to enjoy the beautiful setting and satisfaction of an enjoyable hunt.

Eventually,  Daisy tired of our so called bird hunting, and decided for herself to pursue her favorite target—the cottontail rabbit. It was the last half hour of the hunt, so I indulged her.  Delving into a mess of tangled bramble she was rewarded with a running bunny.  After a cat-and-mouse-like scamper in the thicket, the cottontail sprinted for open field before comically breaking and streaking in the opposite direction. Somehow, the third shot I squeezed off found its mark, and Daisy had herself an early Christmas present.  We enjoyed the early winter evening as we ambled toward home—vests heavy with game.

Daisy's bird count: 27 (new record).