Fear at First Glance

by Dave Balcom

  “That’s great,” I said.

  “He’s been accepted, and we keep reminding him that university is about all the opportunities, not just one track, but he’s been on that line for quite a while.”

  The cover was beautiful in the soft morning light. The aspen leaves that remained on the trees were the color of sunshine, and they danced lazily in the morning breeze. The dew on the ground was starting to dry, but all in all I figured the scenting conditions couldn’t be better. Hell, I could almost smell the birds.

  “This section is long and narrow,” Miles explained. We’ll be goin’ south away from the river, then the cover will peter out, and we’ll take a break and walk some climax stage forest for ten minutes or so, and then we’ll encounter another arm of this cover and work our way northwest until we reach the Manistee river, and then we’ll just hunt the south shore back to the truck. That last stretch is tag alder bottom cover, and it’s usually pretty good for grouse.”

  “Total time?”

  “We’ll be done by two. It’s a healthy walk. There’s good water for the dogs throughout except for that climax area. You bring a canteen for you?”

  I smiled at him, “Hunting in Eastern Oregon?”

  “Just thought I’d ask. I’ll take the middle; James on my right, we’ll give you the left wing if that’s okay?”

  “Lead on, McDuff.”

  As we had stood there talking, I took note of my hunting companions. Miles is a Michigan State Police investigator and a certified marksman. He was carrying a light over-and-under that, as he was loading his barrels, appeared to be chambered for 28 gauge.

  James was carrying a light-looking auto loader. I saw him putting red-hulled shells into the magazine, and guessed they were hand-loaded 12 gauge; probably trap loads. Both hunters were wearing blaze-orange hats which had seen as much wear as their game vests and cotton flannel shirts. Their blue jeans were shrouded by iron-cloth chaps and their leather boots bore the scars of hard use.

  Both men were wearing shooting glasses tinted yellow to improve contrast, and each had ear protection molded to fit the contours of their outer ears. I could tell by the way they were talking that they were aware of the ear plugs, but they weren’t yelling. I figured they could hear normal voice levels.

  I didn’t have those chaps on my legs, but my hunting pants were double layered in the front for protection against the sharp-pointed flora that make up great grouse cover everywhere. Otherwise we seemed identically turned out. My weapon was a Benelli Legacy in 20 gauge.

  “Felix,” Miles called to his dog, “Let’s hunt.”

  The Vizsla bounced in front of his master and started quartering as we all moved out. Judy was running adjacent to the Vizsla, but didn’t seem to be paying him much attention. As I moved to the left I kept track of Miles and James, and when I was what looked like ten feet or so from the tamarack tree line that bordered this slashing, I could see both Miles and James to my right, their orange caps making flickering witness to their presence.

  I hunted being careful to keep my companions in line to my right. When they stopped, I stopped; when they started so did I. Judy made regular visits to hunt in front of me and then worked her way down the line and back again. The Vizsla covered me occasionally, but spent most of his time in front of Miles and James. I figured they hunted as a two-some most of the time.

  We’d walked maybe 50 yards when I heard the bell on Felix’s collar go silent, and seconds later Judy’s went still as well.

  “Point,” I heard James say in conversational tone.

  “I see them,” Miles responded. “Hold on a second; I want a picture.” I saw his hat moving carefully to his right. He paused. “Perfect, perfect. Oh, boy, Stanton, you’re going to be proud of this girl.”

  I watched then as Miles moved back a step. “James, just walk right in as usual. You know where everyone is...”

  James was making that bird hunter walk, the one where if you’re a right-handed shooter, you lead with your left foot, bring the right foot up, then lead with the left, never letting your right foot move ahead because at that instant a flushing bird would be unshootable.

  He was past the area where I guessed the dogs were on point, and I heard Miles say, “steady, Fritz; atta boy,” and then there was the tiny drumbeat of a flushing bird and the “cheat-cheat-cheat” call as it helicoptered out of the cover. At the top of its flush it leveled off and started its darting escape maneuver which was interrupted abruptly by the sound of James’s gun.”

  “Good shot!” Miles called.

  “Fetch!” James said sharply.

  “Good girl, Judy,” I heard Miles saying, “Jim you want to come down here and introduce Judy to Mr. Timberdoodle?”

  I walked down and found James on his knees with two very interested pups on either side as he held the tiny bird in his hand.

  “Their bill is prehensile,” James said with awe as he lightly combed an index finger through the feathers of the bird’s head. “That way they can maneuver it to catch worms.

  “I just love the way the browns, gold and yellows of their feathers make them invisible. I never saw him until he flushed, and he was no more than a foot from me. They’re so beautiful.”

  He handed the bird to me, and I knelt down. Holding it gently in the palm of my hand I reached out to Judy who sniffed it and then licked it from her sitting position. Then she started looking around at the cover yet to be hunted.

  “I think that’s all the introduction she needs. She’s never been too interested in birds after delivering them to hand. She pointed some of these the other morning, now she knows the game’s afoot.

  “Good shootin’, Tex!”

  James blushed a bit, “I don’t hit ’em all, but I at least know I’m hittin’ one today.”

  “Let’s find some more,” Miles said.

  When I was back in position, we started again but after only a few steps Judy froze right in front of me as I heard Miles say, “Point down here.”

  “I think there’s two birds, two points,” I said.

  “Okay, you go ahead and I will too; James?”

  “I’m here and waiting.”

  I only took two steps before one of the little buzzers exploded under my boot, rocketing away and staying below what was left of the leaf canopy. I snapped a shot and heard rather than saw the bird hit the ground.

  Judy hadn’t moved, but she wasn’t being steady to the flush; she was still on point.

  I took another step, and then another. I was looking at the ground in front of her nose, but I couldn’t see a bird. I heard a flush to my right, but even as Miles shot, Judy never budged.

  I took another step and two woodcock erupted inches from Judy’s nose. I instinctively shot the bird going left and swung back to the right, but that bird had disappeared. A second later I heard a shot and James direct his dog, “Dead bird, Felix.”

  I looked down at Judy, and then, pointing with my left hand in that direction, “Dead bird; hunt dead.”

  She exploded with contained energy and disappeared into the cover in the direction that second bird had flown. I started walking in the direction of the first bird I’d heard hit the ground.

  I heard her hunting in the leaves, making those zigzaggy moves that usually indicate she’s homing in on something, then I heard her turn and bounce in my direction.

  She came out of the gloom with a bird in her mouth and sat in front of me. I put my hand down, but she didn’t drop it, so I grabbed it gently and said, “drop it.”

  She let go and the bird, still hanging on to life, was in my hand. I dispatched it immediately with a quick pressure of my thumbnail between the vertebrae of its neck. “Good girl,” and I motioned ahead of us, “hunt dead.”

  She went into action and in seconds she had the original bird and was back in front of me. “Drop it!”

  She spit it out into my palm. I put it in my game bag with a cursory look, and then petted her head.

  The rest of the hunt was
a great experience afield. We took a breather after the walk through the climax stage forest next to a small feeder stream. Both dogs drank their fill. Judy spread out in the trickle, her tongue looking two feet long as she huffed in the autumn sun.

  “Wow,” James said from his seat against an ancient fir tree. “That has to have been the best hunting we’ve ever had here, Dad.”

  “It was pretty cool. I’ve shot my limit; Jim?”

  “I’m one short.”

  “Me too,” James said, then with a grin, “but I didn’t miss any.”

  “I don’t believe anyone missed a bird on that walk,” Miles said with satisfaction.

  “Oh, no. Mr. Stanton missed that second bird I shot. I heard it flush over there and I heard a shot, but here came the bird, it was out in front and turning back to me when I nailed it.”

  Miles gave me a look. I chose to stay silent. “How many times have you shot, Jim?”

  I shook my head.

  “Come on, Jim. Coachable moment.”

  “Twice.”

  “And you have how many birds?”

  “Two.”

  “That can’t be,” James said, “Can it?”

  “Tell him, Jim.”

  “There were three birds up there when Judy went on point; a single flushed before I reached the point and it flew low and straight away. I shot it, and then I walked on up to Judy, and a double went out from right under her nose – those birds do sit tight – I took the one to the left, and then turned to the other one, but it had disappeared so I didn’t shoot.”

  “Oh, and then I shot that bird, but it hadn’t been missed.”

  I nodded, and his dad spoke up, “When three guys are hunting and doing it right, it’s like three different hunts taking place at the same time over two separate dog performances. We can’t always know, and we should never assume, what the other hunters are experiencing; you hear me?”

  The young man was braiding grass and staring intently down. “I should have asked Mr. Stanton about his hunt, and not made a show of wiping his eye when I didn’t really do that anyway.”

  “He is coachable,” I said to Miles.

  “He is at that. You boys ready for the home stretch?”

  CHAPTER 10

  When I drove into the Skeegmog Inn that afternoon, Michigan was struggling with Brigham Young after a late start in the Big House on the radio, and I was yawning. Judy was sound asleep in her carrier.

  I parked and sat there with the door open, my eyes closed, the play-by-play a buzz in the background.

  “Howdy, Jim; you all right?” It was Greg. He looked as if he’d just returned from a bird hunt of his own.

  “Oh, sure; I’m just feelin’ real relaxed right now. Did you hunt this morning too?”

  “I hunt pretty much every day,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I don’t shoot all the time, but I hunt pretty much every day.”

  “Did you shoot this morning?”

  “I did, but not too well; two pats and a woodcock. The shooting is better as the leaf drop goes on. How did you do?”

  “I think we could pool our bags and make a meal for four or more hungry people.”

  “Really? You did well?”

  “Limit of woodcock; four pats. Both Miles and James limited on both sides. It was a pretty amazing hunt, all in all.”

  “I think that sounds like a great idea, and I have birds in the fridge, too. I can see woodcock marinated Thai style wrapped in prosciutto and grilled with a great merlot followed up with creamed grouse and noodles with morels and a great, ice-cold Pinot Grigio.”

  I blinked at the thought of it. “What are you, some kind of Le Cordon Bleu chef?”

  “Actually, no; but applying my cooking hobby to wild game, fish and forage has become a passion for me. You wouldn’t be trying anything I haven’t done before, but its a favorite in our house.”

  “I’m in, and I’m sure Jan will be salivating all afternoon. By the way, where are the girls?”

  “Frannie took Jan into town; Angie Ritter called Jan and told her she had some books and stuff at the museum that might interest her, so they decided to go. I’ll call Frannie and have her pick up something for dessert; you think of anything you’d need?”

  “After dinner drink?”

  “We have that covered,” he said with a smile. “Where are your birds?”

  I opened the back and handed him my cooler. “I didn’t leave a feathered wing, I just didn’t see me taking these home to Oregon.” I let Judy out of her cage, and pulled my gun and my gear satchel as well. “I’m going to shower, and maybe nap; when do you think we should rally? I’d like to watch the prep if that’s allowed.”

  “I’m thinking I’ll put the woodcock in a marinade right now and then we’ll start the whole thing about five, okay?”

  I woke up at a few minutes before five, surprised that my internal alarm was running late, and I looked at the clock radio and saw that it had been turned off while I slept. I had showered before the nap, but I headed straight back again to clear the cobwebs. I walked out of the cottage just at five with Judy at heel. We walked around the back of the lodge to where the Blake residence opened onto a private patio with a breathtaking view of the lake.

  “The best part of the year,” Greg said as I stopped to gawk at the view. “No mosquitoes, and some beautiful lingering dusks when you need sweaters. I love this time.”

  He was making the fire in the grill; a campfire was burning nicely in a pit surrounded by deck furniture. “The women are inside making cocktails; something about a tribute to successful hunts...”

  “Don’t be conned; it’ll be gin Martinis if Jan’s building them.”

  His task finished at the grill, he rubbed his hands, “let’s go inside and I’ll show you what we’re doing. I’m just about ready to make the noodles.”

  Dinner was magnificent. I couldn’t help but think of what my father always said when we finished a great meal around a campfire, “I wonder what the poor Rockefellers are eating tonight?”

  As the stars started twinkling, the four of us sat around the campfire and our chatter had gone idle with just an occasional comment.

  “What did Angie have for you, Jan?” Greg asked.

  “Oh, that was nice of her. I had a terrible fire a few years ago, lost everything. Got out in my sleep clothes and nothing else.”

  “Wow,” Fran said, “How did that happen?”

  “Long story,” Jan said, “But one of the things I no longer had was a yearbook.”

  “Oh, all those memories, what a shame,” Fran said.

  “I didn’t miss it so much until I decided to come to this reunion. It’s so hard to remember people from so long ago; you know, what they looked like back then to go with their names. You know they’re not going to look just like that, I know I certainly don’t, but I think it’ll help having that frame of reference.”

  “I’m sure it will. So, tell us, Jan; why this year, after all these years, have you decided to attend?”

  I knew this question was potentially embarrassing to Jan, and me. “I’ll tell you if you promise not to mention it again while we’re here; okay?”

  “I promise.”

  “Greg?”

  “I have to hear this; I promise.”

  “I wanted to see everyone’s face when plain old Jan introduced them to Mr. Jim Stanton, my husband.”

  “Oh, Jan,” Fran giggled. “You don’t; I mean, you can’t, oh, hell; that’s priceless. But of all the women I know, to think you’d show up with a trophy husband?”

  “That’s my point, dammit; none of you would have ever thought a man like Jim, a man not only successful and talented, but a hunky guy to boot, would ever fall for a skinny, bespectacled Janice Coldwell.”

  Greg was laughing soundlessly, slapping his thigh trying to regain control.

  “Out with it Mr. Blake,” Jan said agreeably.

  “I’m just trying to imagine what’s going on in Jim’s mind right now, hearing that he
’s a ‘hunky, trophy husband.’”

  “I can understand your wondering,” I said from a shadow that had fallen across my face. “I’m certain that couldn’t happen to a guy like you.”

  “Oh,” Fran said. “That’s more like it, Mr. Blake; that wit you warned me about Thursday? How’s that feel?”

  “And to think I taught him to make noodles; my mom’s secret recipe,” he said.

  Then we all broke up.

  “Your secret’s safe with us,” Fran said to Jan; “who would believe us anyway?”

  We readied for bed without much talk, but when Jan climbed in beside me, I put my arm out for her to lay her head on my shoulder, and she did. “That was nice of them, wasn’t it?”

  “They’re good folks. So what was your day like?”

  “Nostalgic, as you told me it would be.”

  “Fun nostalgia?”

  “I’d say so. I recovered a yearbook that belonged to Marci Evers. She was a gal in the class who went away to college, came home to student teach, then took a job down south, married another teacher down there, then just disappeared, according to Angie.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “From Stoney. She may have been divorced, Angie said, but the last time she was here was to close up her family’s house; her parents had moved to Florida and died down there...”

  “So how did Angie end up with Marci’s yearbook?”

  “That’s the curious part. Another of my classmates, Dave Boyington, came home after twenty years in the military, and then he, too, just up and left everything. Finally his place sold, and the new owner donated all the stuff that was there. Angie said Marci’s yearbook was in that batch...”

  “Hmm.”

  “Jim?”

  “What?” I started.

  “You dozing?”

  “Yes’m.”

  CHAPTER 11

  We had a lazy breakfast on Sunday morning, eating light in the cottage, and then I left Jan studying her yearbook, while Judy and I drove over to a spot near Kalkaska where I had hunted as a youngster with my dad along the banks of the Boardman River.

  We had a nice walk, Judy pointed three pats and I shot one of them; and we picked up two more woodcock in a matter of minutes. I realized we’d found a family group that had stopped over for a rest; Judy pointed five more birds out of that flock, but I took photos rather than shots. I remembered sadly an evening when I was in high school, before I understood the migration, when a friend and I had wiped out a migrating flock in a matter of minutes.