“That’s a slick operation,” I said. “I’ve hunted on a few quail plantations in the South where they did the same thing, only their pickup dogs were usually Boykins or English cockers.”
Mitch laughed. “Funny you should say that,” he said. “Amy has been after me for some time now to get an English cocker. I haven’t given in yet, but I expect it might happen.”
“I don’t think you’d be sorry,” I said. “I hunted over one in Georgia a few years ago, a little black and white dog named Ralph. There were several other writers on that hunt and by the end of our time there, everybody had hunted with him and we all had Ralph stories to tell. He was kind of a cocky little guy and just a hoot to hunt with.”
“I like dogs like that,” Mitch said. “Dogs with personality. They make it more fun.”
“Yes, they do. And Ralph definitely had personality, no doubt about it.”
“What about that big wirehair of yours? I think Amy said her name is Preacher?”
“That’s right. She’s named for Clint Eastwood’s character in Pale Rider.”
“Amy mentioned that. That’s one of my favorite old movies.” I winced at the word “old”—I seemed to keep attracting these unwelcome reminders—but then I realized that the movie had probably first been released around the time Mitch had been born and he’d most likely only seen it on cable or DVD...in fact, I remembered Amy mentioning that they’d watched the DVD quite a few times. Well, it was to their credit that they were Eastwood fans anyway, considering they were of a much younger generation.
“We don’t see many wirehairs in this area so I’m looking forward to seeing her work,” Mitch said.
I laughed. “Well, I hope she doesn’t do anything to embarrass us too badly,” I said.
I shouldn’t have worried. Preacher was more than up to the task at hand. Me, not so much.
We followed the lane along a tree line until it forked at a break in the trees, where we turned to the right. The tracks of the other vehicles continued on to the left but there was a single set of tracks going off to the right as well, and I realized those would have been made earlier that morning when Mitch or one of his guides had come out to release the birds we would be hunting.
We traveled another quarter mile or so and then Mitch stopped the ATV. “We’ll start here,” he said. We were on the edge of a picked cornfield bordered by shelterbelts and stands of briars and multiflora—classic Midwestern quail habitat, in other words. My worries about hunting in an unnatural, too-groomed setting were allayed.
“Looks good,” I said. I climbed out of the ATV and walked around to the back to release Preacher from the crate. She jumped down, took a few steps and squatted to pee. That seemed like a good idea to me as well and I stepped away from the rig to take care of matters.
“Too much coffee this morning,” I said over my shoulder, and Mitch laughed.
“That can happen,” he said.
I zipped up and returned to the ATV to uncase the Remington. I considered taking my camera also but decided to make the first pass without it so I could concentrate on watching Preacher work. After we downed a few birds, I could throttle back a bit and focus on photo ops. I wanted shots of Preacher working the cover and pointing, of course, but also some of Mitch and a few of myself. I’d need Mitch’s help to stage and shoot some of the latter.
“You can go ahead and load up,” Mitch said. “We’ll swing down here to the right along the tree line.”
I dropped two Federal low-brass shells with 7-1/2 shot into the breech of the Remington and closed the action. “Hunt ’em up!” I told Preacher and she moved away from us at a lope, quartering out into the corn stubble and then turning back toward the tree line. We followed her down the edge, walking side by side.
“She’s got a nice easy gait,” Mitch said. “Is that her usual range?” Preacher was about 50 yards in front of us.
“She’ll move out farther in open cover, like big CRP fields,” I said. “But yeah, when we’re working mixed cover like this, she tends to stay within about 50 to 75 yards.”
“That’s a nice comfortable range. Most guys don’t want their dogs out there on the horizon, at least not here in the Midwest.”
“I gave up chasing those horizon-busters years ago,” I said, and Mitch laughed.
“I take it you haven’t always had wirehairs, then?”
“No, my first three dogs were setters,” I said. “A couple of them came from field trial stock, so they were bred to run in front of a horse. Trying to keep up with them always gave me a good workout. But my arthritic old knees just aren’t up to that anymore.” Good Lord, here I was using the O word on myself now.
Mitch laughed again. “That’s why you switched to wirehairs?”
“That was one of the big reasons, yes. I wanted something a little closer working and easier handling. Plus, I hunted over a couple of wirehairs belonging to friends and I liked their looks. Before Preacher I had another one named Bristol.”
As we’d been talking, Preacher had been working the cover strip next to the corn stubble. Now she slowed, stopped, then moved forward another few feet. She stiffened into a point before a large clump of multiflora at the base of a huge oak tree, her head outstretched, her docked tail erect and quivering slightly.
“There we go,” I said, and Mitch and I picked up our pace.
“You go on in and take the shot,” Mitch advised. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just hang back and watch.”
“That’s fine,” I said, mentally kicking myself now for not bringing the camera. I could have asked Mitch to shoot a couple of photos of me flushing the bird or birds in front of Preacher and, I hoped, dropping at least one for her to retrieve.
A few seconds later, I was glad the camera was still in its case on the back seat of the ATV.
I moved up behind Preacher and reminded myself, as I’d done thousands of times before, not to try to spot the birds on the ground in front of her. Looking at the birds on the ground almost guarantees you won’t be able to get your eyes back up high enough and quickly enough to make the shot when the birds flush. It’s better, as any shooting coach will tell you, to keep your gaze out at about horizon-level and let the birds rise into your sight picture.
That little trick didn’t work for me this time, however. As I came abreast of Preacher’s flank two quail flushed from beneath the multiflora. Both swung to my left toward the cornfield and I swung with them, pulling the trigger just as the Remington’s muzzle swept past the lead bird. Or so I thought.
Both birds kept flying.
I tried to correct my swing and center on the trailing bird, which was now flying almost straight away. I pulled the trigger a second time and watched as both birds flew on untouched across the corn stubble to land in the tree line on the opposite side of the field, maybe 100 yards away.
“Damn,” I said, glancing back at Mitch, who was standing a few yards away with a sympathetic smile on his face. At least I thought it was meant to be sympathetic.
“Not sure what happened there,” I said apologetically. “Thought I was on those birds.”
“Not your fault,” Mitch said. “Federal just forgot to load the shot in those two shells.”
I smiled weakly at the lame joke. “Yeah, that must be it,” I said. But I was reviewing both shots in my mind, wondering what the hell had gone wrong.
“We’ll just continue on down this edge,” Mitch said. “We can work all the way around this field and try to pick up those two bobs on the other side.”
“OK,” I said. Preacher had relaxed from her point and stood looking at me reproachfully. I gave her a little wave and said, “Go on, find us another one.” She trotted away and began questing through the cover.
Mitch and I followed, walking side by side like before. Neither of us spoke and I wondered if he was considering the possibility that I might be all words and no birds—an outdoor writer who talked (well, wrote) a good game but couldn’t hit squat when he went afield.
/> I knew better, my poor performance notwithstanding. I just hoped I could prove it.
Chapter 32
We were almost at the far end of the field, opposite where we’d parked the ATV, when Preacher locked up again. This time she was pointing at a large brush pile, a tangle of downed limbs and branches surrounded by briars and tall grass. If I hadn’t known better—that the brush pile most likely harbored another bird or birds, released earlier that morning—I’d have guessed, based on the cover, she might have been pointing a rabbit.
That’s considered a cardinal sin among bird dog purists, but wirehairs were developed as a versatile breed expected to handle both feathers and fur in their native Germany. I don’t take the versatility thing that far—I never shoot rabbits when I’m hunting with Preacher—but neither do I make a big issue of it with her if she points one.
Why not? Because I don’t know, and no human knows, what a gamebird or a rabbit smells like to a dog. For all we know, they may have similar scents. I once posed a question in one of my magazine editorials, asking readers to write in and share what non-gamebird species their dogs had pointed.
The results were varied—everything from the expected meadowlarks and field sparrows (referred to by gun dog trainers as “stink birds”) to more exotic creatures like mice, groundhogs and box turtles. But the most unusual answer of all came from a guy who described in detail how, during an early spring outing, he and a buddy had seen their two setters lock up tight on a newborn Hereford calf nestled in a multiflora thicket.
So, given the vagaries of scent, I don’t fault Preacher if she occasionally points a rabbit. But as I moved up on her point this time, I was reasonably certain I’d be flushing a bird, and I hoped I could make a good shot and redeem myself in Mitch Halvorsen’s eyes…and Preacher’s, to boot.
Well, I was right about it being a bird, anyway.
A single chukar partridge flushed from the brush pile and, like the two quail a few minutes earlier, headed out across the corn stubble. I told myself not to rush the shot and I mounted the gun carefully, tracked the bird and fired.
The chukar flew on, crossing the field and landing on the fence line not far from where the two quail had pitched down. Another miss.
“Sheesh!” I said, shaking my head. I broke the Remington, caught the fired shell and pocketed it. I dropped in a fresh shell and closed the action. I looked over at Mitch and said, “What am I doing wrong?”
“Well, that time you lifted your head just as you fired,” he said. He smiled and added, “I think you were a little too eager to see the bird fall.” To his credit, he’d withheld his comment until I’d asked, not offering unsolicited advice or critique.
“OK, thanks,” I said, and I meant it. I’m not opposed to constructive criticism, and the error in my shooting form he’d just pointed out—lifting my head off the stock—would indeed explain my miss. I vowed to keep my head down the next time.
I also sympathized with Mitch’s situation. He wanted to show me a good hunt and so far I wasn’t holding up my part of the bargain. The birds were presented well in natural cover, the dog was pointing them solidly, and the shooter was letting the team down. I definitely needed to up my game.
I glanced over at Preacher, who appeared less forgiving than Mitch. She was favoring me with the look that says, “What the hell is your problem?” Anyone who’s spent much time hunting with bird dogs knows that expression, a combination of disgust and disappointment. Veteran gun dogs know when you should be able to make a shot, and they don’t hesitate to show their displeasure when you whiff. Preacher was letting me have it with both barrels.
I sighed and said, “OK, let’s try for another one.” Preacher swung down the edge and Mitch and I followed, just as a burst of shooting sounded from another part of the preserve. Either the Larsons or the Parkses were getting some action and I hoped they were having better luck than I was. I said as much to Mitch.
“Oh, you’ll start connecting here directly,” he said, then repeated something he’d mentioned during his safety talk at the lodge. “You’re going to see plenty of birds this morning so you’ll have a lot more chances.”
“I’m going to need them,” I said, attempting a laugh. I tried to relax and concentrate on what my dog was doing. I hoped I wasn’t heading into a major slump—the occasional curse, usually inexplicable, of all shooters. In this case, however, there was an explanation—a near-sleepless night caused by my preoccupation with Charlie Flanagan.
We’d reached the end of the cornfield and Preacher swung away to our left, quartering at right angles to the direction we were walking. “OK to head that direction?” I asked.
“Yep, it’s fine,” Mitch said. “We have this area completely to ourselves so we’ll let her pick the course.”
We followed Preacher for another fifty yards or so and I noticed her casts narrowing. She was moving with her muzzle held high, trying to pinpoint the scent, and her tail became a blur. “Getting birdy,” I said, and Mitch nodded.
Preacher made another half cast and then wheeled back toward us. She froze in a half circle, head turned so she appeared almost to be pointing over her shoulder. One hind leg was cocked off the ground in mid-stride and, my miserable shooting notwithstanding, I wished now I’d brought my camera to get a photo of her.
“She’s got that bird nailed cold,” Mitch said.
“Right,” I said, moving up on her point with my shotgun at port arms. When I was within a couple yards another chukar flushed, coming almost directly at me. It veered just as it passed my head so close I could feel the wind on my face from its wingbeats. I instinctively ducked, then spun around as the bird headed straight out across the corn stubble.
I straightened up and recovered my balance, mounted the gun and remembered to keep my cheek tight on the stock. I gave it another second, then I fired and, miraculously, the bird dropped.
“Now you’re cookin’!” Mitch said. “You just needed a little more of a challenge!”
“Challenge, hell!” I said. “That was self-defense!” I knew I was grinning. “That bird nearly flew up my nose.”
Mitch laughed. “Yeah, we breed ’em aggressive!” he said.
Preacher located the chukar in the corn stubble, picked it up and was on her way back to us as I broke the Remington again and replaced the fired shell. I closed the action and bent to take the bird from her, but as always, she made a short victory lap around us before stopping in front of me to deliver. I’m not a stickler for the field trial etiquette that requires a dog to sit at heel before presenting a retrieved bird, and apparently Mitch wasn’t either.
“That’s a mighty good dog you’ve got there,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind having her in my string.”
“Thanks.” I took the bird from Preacher and smoothed its feathers. “She’s probably a better dog than I deserve, considering the way I’ve been shooting.”
“Aw, you’ve got your groove back,” Mitch said, and with a bird in hand, I hoped he was right.
“These chukars are beautiful birds,” I said, admiring the plumage of the one I held. Primarily dove gray with black and white bars on the flanks and a striking black outline around an ivory-colored face, chukars have red bills and eye-rims and bright orange-red legs. The birds aren’t native to North America—they were introduced from southern Europe and Asia—but they are now well established throughout the mountain West, and they are popular quarry on shooting preserves as well.
They are also wonderful table fare.
“Yes, they are,” Mitch agreed. I started to slip the bird into the game bag of my vest and Mitch said, “I’ll carry your birds if you’d like.”
“That’s OK,” I said. “I doubt I’ll shoot enough for the weight to be a problem.”
He laughed and said, “Well, you never know!”
We continued on around the edge of the cornfield and it wasn’t long before Preacher struck another point.
The remainder of the morning went much better. I miss
ed a couple more shots but dropped most of the birds Preacher pointed—enough to get myself back into her good graces, anyway—and even managed to score a double on another brace of bobwhites. When Mitch told me it was time to head back to the lodge for lunch, I was feeling reasonably good about how things had played out.
A final tally of the birds I’d taken—I had eventually acquiesced and let Mitch share the carrying duties—showed six quail and three chukar. So I’d shot nine of the twelve birds released for my hunt, a respectable number.
We’d returned to the ATV a couple times over the course of the morning to move to adjoining areas, and after our first pass I had carried my camera as well as my shotgun. I had photos of Preacher on point and making retrieves, Mitch walking the cover, and even a few of myself swinging and firing on flushing birds. Mitch had proven to be a quick study in the operation of my camera, a Nikon Coolpix P520 that I’ve used for quite a few years—not super-sophisticated as cameras go but user-friendly and adequate for the job at hand—and he was happy to help me get the photos I needed.
We’d heard shooting throughout the morning but had never seen the other two hunting parties, and I considered that another plus worth mentioning in my article. There’s a certain amount of unavoidable artificiality to any shooting preserve operation, but not being crowded by other hunters helps reduce that feeling. It was to Mitch’s credit that he’d planned our hunt so that we’d avoided bumping into the other groups.
“This was a good morning, even if my shooting was pretty dismal there at the start,” I said as we settled into the seats of the ATV for the trip back to the lodge. “You’ve got great cover and strong-flying birds. This is the kind of place we like to feature in the magazine.”
“Thanks,” Mitch said. “I really appreciate that. We try to make it as realistic as possible.”
The Killer in the Woods Page 17