Gold Mine

I feel fortunate to live within a community that exists large in part to the presence of a major university.  Moreover, thanks to Penn State's vast tracts of public land open to hunting,  we have been able to enjoy several days afield in relative solitude with plenty of game to keep us company.  Over the weekend we hunted a new area of university land and were richly rewarded with a sack full of cottontail rabbits. It seemed that every time Daisy's nose hit the ground, she'd pick up a fresh scent.  She was the champion of the day, as was Spencer who bagged half the rabbits with some quick shooting.  Every bunny Daisy scented she brought around at least once for an opportunity; it was the most fun we've had hunting rabbits in a long time, and the grounds were ideal—not too thick and frustrating, but enough to give us a challenge. The rabbits were wily and tried to fool us at every turn. We missed a few shots too, but having four hunters was ideal. We were able to keep them boxed in, but some still managed to slip through and around us a few times. One sometimes overlooks that prey animals are highly intelligent creatures who are experts at escaping danger.  They just couldn't escape Daisy's nose.

Another exciting discovery was the presence of turkeys. We flushed a total of three, and probably scattered a bigger flock. Unfortunately, turkey wasn't open on Saturday due to a new opening day for bear season. But, we all agreed that it was great thing that this year Fall Turkey season will reopen on Thanksgiving. We vowed to return on Thursday morning for a chance to bag a bird for the afternoon table.  That wasn't the end of the story. We also spotted deer—including a fine buck that had been enjoying some berries when Daisy tore into a thicket after a rabbit. The buck exploded out of his afternoon haunt and dashed away much to our enjoyment. He was at least a six-pointer, and he looked to be close to his prime. A fine specimen of a deer. Tonight, I returned to set up a secondary stand for upcoming deer season and spotted three more deer. A local bear hunter and I crossed paths at dusk, and he gave me some great inside information in regards to bucks in the area.

Thanksgiving weekend is upon us, and I can't help but revel in the crossing of fall small game and deer season.  Consecutive days of hunting small game before the big one (deer season) makes this time of year truly golden.

"First Buck"

A combination of my son needing a diaper change and Daisy needing to go outside for similar reasons roused me from my late fall slumber at 4 a.m. this morning.  I had been planning on hitting the rifle range early to throw down a few warm up shots before next Monday's opener, but there would still be three hours of darkness before the task could be approached on a rather frosty morning. The Centre Daily Times was lounging about in the front yard, so I decided to check it out before catching a few more hours of sleep.  Sundays feature local writer Mark Nale's "Woods and Waters" section, which I almost always enjoy. Usually there is a column and a feature story about hunting or fishing—depending on the season—set in Minnesota or some other outdoor enthused state.  Today, the column was about the magic of a "first buck". At the article's close, Nale called on the general public to submit their own "first buck" stories for possible publication the following Sunday or "Buck Eve"—many hunters will be passing the night in quaint camps throughout the state in quiet anticipation of the event which will see close to half a million men and boys in blaze orange entering the woods.  I spent the next three hours recounting my own "first buck" story before firing it off for a chance to run in print.  The memory is still young, as it was a mere four years ago that my brother, George, helped me end the drought.  But, I suspect the story will always remain clear as day.

"First Buck" November 27, 2006. 

I was 12 years-old the first time I accompanied my father on the annual trek to my great Uncle Bill’s camp in  northeastern Pennsylvania to hunt the first few days of deer season.  While I did not score a buck that first year, the nuances of deer camp left an indelible impression upon my young mind.  I would return for the next four years with fresh hope and enthusiasm that would not wane until my senior year of high school when I skipped the experience to remain focused on my last wrestling season.  A seven-year hiatus from deer hunting began—mostly due to four years of service in the army and the college years that followed at Penn State. Over the span of that time, the prospect of harvesting a “first buck” faded into the background.  

When I picked up the rifle once more, the nostalgia of my earlier experiences returned, and new adventures began.  I hunted on farms and in the big woods. Days were spent patiently waiting on stands and in ground blinds with nary a buck in site. Unperturbed, I continued to make the annual journey into the forest—all the while enjoying the experience regardless of the outcome, which when all was said and done, did not include a buck to my name.

In 2006 my brother George—who had recently finished eight years of service in the Marine Corps—enrolled at University Park.  For the most part we had not been able to hunt together since our youth, and autumn found us taking pheasants on the wing and rabbits on the run over my beagle, Daisy.  Before long it was late November, and a new deer season was upon us.

George, who had taken a buck in archery season, recommended a few good spots, and we scouted them for stand sites in the days before the opener. Eventually, I settled upon a scrappy pin oak which rose above an old clear cut that broke up the open hardwood surrounding it; it seemed like a perfect escape passage for pressured deer.

Monday morning arrived and I woke with a scratchy throat, but the anticipation of a new season remedied all physical ailments and it was not long before I found myself scrambling up a tree in the predawn light like so many other hunters in the commonwealth. I watched the sunlight filter across the horizon and relaxed my mind—taking in the familiar sights and sounds of an awakening wilderness. A peaceful hour passed.  

Suddenly, I saw the flick of a white tail. Immediately, my brain snapped into a heightened level of concentration as my eyes scanned for another sign.  A few seconds later what I could only identify as a single deer skipped into the rhododendron about 70 yards to my right. A single rifle shot shattered the silence.  Another hunter in the hardwood had fired. Moments later activity exploded.  A doe and a four-point buck dashed directly under my stand, and then, another doe trotted into my secluded ally. Directly behind her was the finest eight-point buck I’d ever seen. The buck stopped about 30 yards to my right, and gave me a nearly broadside shot.  Harnessing my nerves, I carefully shifted and took aim—placing the sights of my .30-06 directly behind the deer’s shoulder. I relaxed. I breathed. I squeezed off a round.

A euphoric state that bordered on disbelief and overwhelming joy pervaded my soul in the moments that followed. The fine creature had dropped in its tracks and died quickly. I don’t even remember climbing down from the stand; the adrenaline coursing through my body may have permitted me to make the descent in a single bound.  The hunter who fired the spooking shot ambled along and congratulated me on the harvest and my grin probably told him all he needed to know about my first buck.  

That single moment and the minutes that followed are forever etched into my memory.  A first buck is in many ways a rite of passage for hunters not just in Pennsylvania, but for all hunters across the country.  And even though it took twenty-eight years for it to become a reality, it was worth every second of the wait.  

Nineteen Birds and counting...

Opening Day arrived and passed with much excitement and success. A party of four headed into the swamps, and by noon, we had bagged six pheasants and missed some too. From our warm-up the night prior, I knew Daisy was a lock, and she didn't disappoint the next morning. She earned her afternoon nap at home. John, a family cousin from my wife's side, drove in from Pittsburgh for an afternoon hunt with his new six-month old puppy, Tally. Tally is my Daisy's half-sister. Both were born by the same mother, Chloe. This would be Tally's first real hunt. My brother, George joined us, and the three of us set out to break in the pup. She did great, and by the late afternoon she had learned what a pheasant was and how to chase them to flush. Seeing her run along in the under brush evoked vivid memories of the days Daisy and I spent afield in her puppyhood. It was also enlightening to realize just how good Daisy has become over the years. In her absolute prime now at five, she knows exactly what she is doing, and every time I doubt her nose, she has humbled me by flushing a bird I never anticipated. We bagged three more birds that afternoon, and it was special to praise a puppy after shooting the first bird she ever flushed—a fine rooster that had tried to elude detection by scooting off in the tall grass. The following Friday George and I experienced a golden afternoon by limiting out in less than two hours. Daisy would have been done earlier had we not missed a few birds. We dubbed her "Hell Hound" that afternoon. Nothing fooled her. With three nice roosters and a hen, we shook hands, snapped some pictures, and smiled happily as we hiked home. The next day was Hell Hound 2. My father nailed two nice roosters. Myself a hen. George a hen and a rabbit. We didn't miss any birds, and it felt good to return the favor to little Daisy who over the years has worked more than hard enough to earn a perfect day.

This past weekend the pace ebbed, and as expected, the hunting was tougher. The weather was damp, and the birds hunkered low. There were many runners who frustratingly wouldn't fly, but we still managed to score one bird and rabbit. However, there began to sprout an idea about where all the birds go, especially the smart ones who manage to live through the season. The pressure in the game lands drops off after the first two weeks, and there are still birds, but they become much harder to locate. Many are long gone at the first sound of a dog's bell. And so it was on Saturday evening that I employed technology and used Google Earth to check out the land beyond the boundaries in hopes of finding some secret hideout.

I found one. About 200 yards into the deep woods, there appeared on the satellite shots a field. A field I never knew existed or had previously seen. And so it was on Sunday afternoon George and I set out to find El Dorado. It was real. Needless to say we huffed it back there Monday evening to squeeze in a post daylight savings time hunt with Daisy. An overgrown super-sized patch of bramble spills along the south facing hillside that is the hidden field. It's impossible to walk through any of it, which makes it even harder to hunt, unless you skirt the perimeter and have a very small dog to work through the middle of it. And guess what we've got in Daisy? Presto.

Within ten minutes Daisy flushed a quick grouse, which George missed. Daisy picked it up again, and this time it ran, and afforded us no shot. Yet, we couldn't help but think that it may have been nicked. We worked the terrain for another 20 minutes without any luck, and then we decided to drop down to the hill base. Traipsing through the high grass in the fading light, we were greeted by a explosion of cackling and feathers. Surreal. A cockbird began its ascent between we two shooters. Just as it emerged over the thick hedge George fired and struck it, the bird absorbed the impact and attempted to continue rising, but my 12 gauge pump found its mark, and bird was dead before it hit the ground. Daisy ran up to inspect the kill, and for a few moments we stood there awed. Our plan had actually worked! The rooster truly felt like a late season bird given the circumstances, and it was immensely gratifying to harvest him. Daisy picked up another scent and we had to pull her off a few times to head home. It was already dark. As we ambled home I couldn't help but think that we had crossed into a new level of pheasant hunting.

In the last few moments of this post I'd like to share a recipe or two. So far this year, I happily realize that I've kept up with all the birds I've killed. Meaning that I've prepared each one and all have been consumed by myself, family, or coworkers. Enjoy these made-up on the spot recipes.

Daisy's Brown Sugared Pheasant and Apples. Cut up three pheasant breasts into portion sizes. In a bowl mix brown sugar, regular sugar, a pinch of Old Bay, and some seasoning salt. Coat the breasts with the mixture. Cut up two apples into wedges. In a crock pot add 1/2 cup of water. Make one layer of apple wedges. On top of apples, place half of the pheasant meat. Add another layer of apples. One top of that layer add one more level of pheasant. Cover dish and heat on low for 7-8 hours. Spectacular.

George's Rabbit/Pheasant Stew: this one is straight from my brother. "This is an inexpensive, quick and flavorful way to enjoy game. I survived off of a sack of potatoes and spaghetti sauce in college during the months of November and December as a result of productive days in the field and this recipe." -George L. Cunningham.

One can classico spaghetti sauce, any flavor you like (cabaret works best). 2 medium sized potatoes, 1 large carrot, 1 stem of celery. 2-3 table spoons of Texas Pete wing sauce.

-Quarter and clean bird.-be sure to remove all shot.

- Add One jar spaghetti sauce to medium sized pot,

- Refill jar with water and add to pot.

-Slice potatoes, carrots and celery and add to pot, stir and add bird,

-add Texas Pete,

-cook on low heat for 2-3 hours or until meat falls off bone.

-Strain bones and serve with fresh bread.

Add more water or sauce if cooking more than 1 bird, feel free to replace bird with rabbit or mix the two. Salt and pepper are best added when serving not before cooking.

Score Card

19 Pheasant
2 Rabbits
1 Woodcock

Pheasant Eve

It's almost here, and like childhood Christmas Eve anticipation, I am excited for the 2010 hunting season to begin. Technically, it began with grouse season last Saturday, and while my brother and I did not as so much as take a shot at the wily state bird, we did enjoy our walk in the woods on a magnificent October morning. There will be opportunities for grouse later in the season when the leaves have fallen from their perch, but it's always nice to be reminded while scraping though the underbrush that grouse hunting builds character. Daisy and I took a walk tonight—a chilled October evening full moon included. We didn't flush any pheasants in the fields, but they will be there come Saturday. Tomorrow, we'll warm up by flushing a few...maybe 20-30 minutes worth just to build the excitement for Saturday morning. I can't wait!

Last Chance

There are some moments that will stick in the mind forever. The 2009 deer season will be one I'll always remember quite simply because it was the first "season" I hunted until the last drop.  Opening day of whitetail hunting in Pennsylvania is a circus event.  In the event one is fortunate enough to hunt private land, the memories can be peaceful and memorable.  However, public land is a different story.  I've learned to prepare myself mentally for disappointment.  I don't mean disappointment in not scoring venison; that can happen on any type of land one may hunt.  Disappointment in mankind is more like it. My brother uses the term "hilljack" quite liberally to describe your run of the mill fool in the woods.  We encountered one on opening day this year, and he ruined our hunt.  I do blame myself for what happened after our dear friend departed the forest, however. Around 4 p.m, a group of drivers walked right under my stand as they attempted to push out deer.  I've never seen this happen on opening day, so I wasn't expecting it—mostly because I was hunting public land.  I consider it downright discourteous to make a drive on the opener and destroy another man's hunt.  Jaded and discouraged, I packed up my stand about 20 minutes early.  This was my biggest mistake. It literally broke my heart when I returned to retrieve the rest of my stand at dusk and there was a deer standing not 20 yards from my tree.  I hadn't spotted a deer all day, and suddenly the tail end of one was bounding gracefully away into the thicket.  I never saw if it was a buck or a doe, but it was a nice-sized deer. My imagination ran wild and added to the heartache. The next day I discovered my scope was off after shooting at a doe in the cross-hairs. I couldn't understand how I could have missed her, until I decided to check the rifle at the range on the following Friday. Turned out the scope was inaccurate, and I thought I had done well by sighting it in August— before the mad rush of shooters who appear Thanksgiving weekend. 

Hunting is good for the soul; it teaches one humility.  Boy, was I ever humiliated by the events of the first week.  I had spotted on deer when I was unarmed; I missed a deer when I was armed.  I had to re-sight my scope, and I was leery of returning to some of the most promising spots we had scouted before the opener, mostly because I didn't want another day ruined by severe hunting pressure.  Regrouping, I began to read.  Articles in regards to locating late season deer, especially bucks, flashed across my laptop screen on a nightly basis. The same themes continued to dominate:  thick cover, bedding areas, food, and south facing hillsides. In the end I discovered that one of my favorite haunts was the best place to start all over again. I had pegged a grouse there a few weeks before, so I decided to venture into an area a little less accessible to hunters in general.

Six days into the season, I was growing desperate enough to set up my stand at midnight in the complete darkness.  I had a two-hour class Friday night after teaching all day.  I sacrificed a hour and half break in the late afternoon to site in the scope at the range.  So, as the chill bore down, I set two stands with the aid of a headlamp.  One of the stands was for my father who was able to hunt with me that Saturday.  No luck.  But, the morning was spectacular as two inches of snow fell serenely throughout the wood.  I returned the following day to retrieve one stand and scout the area for tracks I hoped would give me an idea as to where the deer were moving. It was a bright, sunny Sunday morning, and I did find tracks, and I did kick up a deer.  It was sheltered in the thicket on a south facing hill. How about that? Discerning a small pack of does, some bear tracks, turkey tracks, rabbit tracks, and grouse tracks, I noticed a separate set of tracks that belonged to a lone deer, a large set too.  Blood pumped a little faster as my mind entertained the idea that the tracks belonged to a buck. 

The following Monday I was able to hunt for a little over an hour—I repositioned my stand to overlook a dry lake bed and running stream.  There were tracks all over the area.  I didn't return until Thursday evening.  New snow had covered the old tracks, and an icy layer of sleet crusted the terrain.  However, for the first time in a few days, I spotted the lone set of large tracks again.  This time I decided to spend my hour of daylight trailing them.  I discovered a bedding area, and with what little time I had, tried my best to pattern the trail.  I repositioned my stand again.  This time moving it well back behind a thicket.  I no longer had an open shot at the stream, but I now could cover a small, piney thicket off the to my left—the large tracks were peppered along that same hillside.  An uncanny confidence coursed through my mind, but I continued to play down my chances mentally.  After all, who really gets a shot at a buck on the last day of the season? The percentages are low.

Saturday, my last chance, arrived.  The beginning was anything but auspicious.  More ice had fallen, but it was a gem of a day.  The best day we had all season.  Clear, cold, sunny, and no wind.  However, the crunching snow announced a hunter's presence to every creature within a square mile.  Placing my father in a small hollow on the other side of the piny hill, I climbed into my stand just in time to see a doe galloping across the lake bed and hear another one rise and charge away.  Damn the snow!  As fate would have it, however, the snow would later turn out to be my greatest ally.

The sun rose and warmed the hillsides.  A group of drivers passed, and I guessed everyone was encouraged by the weather.  I nearly gave up hope after the drivers walked through, but remembering the lessons I had learned on opening day a fortnight previous, I stayed put. Four does galloped out of the thicket across the stream and stopped, listening to the drivers who were oblivious to their presence.  I scoped one of the does, a large one.  At 110 yards and shooting through bramble, I decided not to take the shot.  I didn't think I could make it. Suddenly, the pack reversed direction and sprinted across the lake bed, giving me a wide open shot, but I could not glass them with enough confidence to take a shot.  Dejected, I seriously pondered packing it in, but I remained glued to the tree.  I had watched five deer run away, and listened to another amble off in the predawn light, all on the last day!  I was sure I had lost my chance. 

An hour later, the sun continued its unimpeded climb—washing winter trees in a warm, golden glow; I watched another driver emerge hundreds of yards away along the same thicket I had traced tracks to a few evenings prior.  He swung left and disappeared.  For a fleeting moment, I thought, "I wonder where that buck is?" The does had long since departed, and I began to wonder if I had been chasing ghost tracks for a week.  The drivers disappeared much to my relief, and expecting things to quiet down until noon, I pondered the location of the afternoon hunt.

Crack, Cuh, Crack, Cuh, Crack! Adrenaline washed out the cold and brought me fully alert. Immediately, I knew it was a running deer.  Nothing moves that quickly over hilly, forested terrain. Focusing in the direction of the crunching snow, I saw a beautiful set of curving antlers moving up the lake trail.  I was awestruck. It was the buck! Exactly as his tracks had indicated, he cut into the thicket on the evergreen hill.  Somewhere within my inner cognitive confines, his three points on one side registered:  a legal buck.  Swinging the scope I sighted him.  One step beyond a scrubby pine, and I had a plate-sized shooting window.  Not hesitating, I squeezed the trigger. He collapsed immediately. 

The next few moments were surreal.  I moved up the slope through the bramble to a beautiful six-point whitetail buck. His hooves told the story; it was him.  Pausing a moment to thank him for the venison he would provide my family, a smile broke open. "Dad! Dad!"  Of course, my father couldn't hear me, so there I was sprinting through cracking snow.  In the morning light, we celebrated as primitive man would after a big kill. It was the first deer I had ever taken in the presence of my father, and perhaps, it was fitting that it was just the two of us. As he displayed a  different way to gut a deer, my boyhood days at hunting camp were brought back to life.  A memory I never had was taking shape before me.  The buck did not suffer.  He died within seconds, as the well-placed shot struck him in the neck, breaking it.  He was large in body—though his rack was smaller than average.  It did not matter to me.  The last day of the season, and I had harvested a buck.  A half-mile later, perspiring in the midday sun, we loaded up our prize and made a joyful trip home.  A successful hunt obliterates all unsuccessful adventures. It was a fine day.

Grouse, Golden Bird of the Forrest

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

Navigating the Labyrinth

Saturday was a day for the memory book. After Dad scored his first rabbit run by Daisy, we moved toward the standing corn fields.  Working our way from the wood line, George and I surprised a pair of fine cock birds.  Unfortunately for my brother, his gun jammed, and as he hurriedly worked to chamber another round, the second rooster rose helicopter fashion.  I never saw the first bird, but I killed the second bird on my second blast.  Upon skinning our harvest later that afternoon, I discovered that I had hit the bird with both shots.  Pheasants never cease to amaze me with their extreme toughness. Not many animals can take a shotgun round and continue flying. At any rate, my first bird of the day proved to be the biggest bird I've bagged all season. Fortunately, the breast was still intact, and it made a wonderful meal a few nights later.

It was an exciting start to our mid-morning plunge into the corn.  The birds used the cover to their advantage all day.  A rooster flushed well out of range and we did not take it. However, ever persistent, Daisy was eventually able to corner the same bird in an opposite field and George took it with a single shot. With two birds and a rabbit, we rambled into the overgrown clear cut that nearly all hunters avoid.  It's thick and treacherous, but full of game. A flock of turkeys, pressured by Daisy's methodical pace, flushed, and George squared up a hen.  His first turkey ever.  It was cause for celebration and a sweet taste of revenge, as we have had the misfortune of running into turkeys out of season.  More often that not, I shed clothing and chase down the dog, sometimes this takes place over the course of a mile or two.  Running a mile full bore through the woods is more like trying to sprint an obstacle course. 

After wading through the bramble, we returned to the far corn fields—in reality, elaborate mazes for the birds, Daisy worked the forest edge and pushed out two running hens.  George and I sprinted after them in a spirited attempt to make them flush.  They did.  Pulling up abruptly as the second hen rocketed over the stalk tips, my Mossberg 12 gauge found its mark cleanly and the hen folded nicely.  It was a shot I could not have made a year ago.  Summer practice paid dividends in the field once again.

By lunchtime we called it a day.  George had to be at work, and Dad and I were looking forward to a little college football. Not that we could have hunted longer, everyone, dog included, was exhausted. It was a banner day for the pup.  She scored a trifecta: rabbit, pheasant, and turkey.  One hit short of the cycle. If we had flushed and bagged grouse, it would have been unforgettable, but Saturday was as good as they come.

Daisy's Bird (Pheasant) Count:  14
Rabbits: 2
Turkey: 1