Feathers That I Have Ruffled

A unique achievement

It is winter right now, temperatures are frigid and snow is coming down burying all cover, bird season – the wild kind – is over for all practical purpose, and to cope with that I mind travel to times and places where I had the opportunity to ruffle some feathers and these are the top birds and places that I visit while daydreaming.

I cannot say that I am an accomplished shooter since I never experienced the gentlemen’s circuit of grouse in Scotland or driven pheasant in England or red-legged partridge in Spain, and considering the cost associated with driven game it is unlikely that I ever will. But although not an accomplished shooter, I am an enthusiastic bird hunter and have done my fair share, again probably much less than many, of rough shooting after great, and many times not so great, bird dogs. And although I will not be talking much about dogs today I am the first to recognize that the heart and hopes of passionate bird hunters ride on the nose a bird dog.

It is just fair that the first bird that I revisit should be the South American perdiz or codorna. Some of my earliest memories send me back to some pasture or stubble field in northern São Paulo state in Brazil following my father’s footsteps and occasionally being censored by Diana, the English pointer, by making too much noise while she held one or more perdiz under her nose. After the shot and while Diana retrieved I would collect the fired 28 gauge waxed paper hulls and bring it to my nose with its inebriant fragrance.

 

Sugar cane, soybeans and other changes in agricultural practices along with “liberal laws” that outlawed hunting decimated the perdiz population where I grew up, but I would finally reconnect with them in Uruguay where I have been going to Uruguay since 2008. In Uruguay I hunted in all kinds of weather, from a balmy windless day where a T-shirt is more than adequate to gale force winds that provide a good excuse for missing easy shots (the shot pattern was disrupted by the wind), to deep killing frosts and a day after a veritable deluge that sent some of the local rivers up over twelve feet and left the fields half submerged for several days.

 

The perdiz and the grassland of South America are made for pointers, English, shorthaired, setters or my personal favorites Épagneul Bretons. Early in the season you will find mostly singles, but birds start to form couples there are the opportunity for memorable doublés. As the right barrel folds the first bird there is a smooth swing towards the second, and this one also crumbles under the left barrel before the first perdiz touches the ground.

 

Next in line is probably the most beautiful of all upland birds in what is for me probably the most emotionally charged place in the world. The first time I went pheasant hunting in North Dakota I was taken by surprise by the landscape, at the same rough and delicate, settled by somewhat unconquered. The vision of my first tumbleweed drove me back to my childhood as I watched cowboy movies with my grandfather. And I was absolutely unprepared for the savageness of the pheasants. They may or may not be related to preserve birds, but their soul is wild and free, and their flashy colors and tormenting cackle mock the naïve hunter.

 

Tupã, my black lab, flushed and retrieved the first wild pheasants that I shot. We were exploring PLOTS and this one was removed from the road, maybe an acre of unkept prairie grasses and vines crawling upon the once upon a time fence that surrounded a decaying homestead. I could only but imagine which dreams could have led people to the desolated and unwelcoming Dakotas and what they may have endured. But eventually perseverance failed their bloodline and the homestead was abandoned, left for their ghosts and pheasants. A hen flushed under Tupã’s nose, I called him back and he continued to push the brushy fence line and at the very end, from under a thorny apple tree came the thundering cock, and down he came like a rock. The second bird came out of the other end of the fence with nothing but the cold blue sky to disguise him and I botched it. I shot his landing gear out and he flew a good quarter of mile before collapsing.

 

Then one morning we stopped our trucks near a marsh, maybe to eat a snack, maybe to find out where we were (not lost, of course. We knew we were in North Dakota!), and at the slamming of a door pheasants started flushing in droves, blackening the sky. They did not flush at once, but in groups, large and small, almost as if flushing and cackling of a group would energize the others. We watched all that mesmerized, guns cased as we did not have permission to invade pheasant heaven.

 

A rather short time ago I experienced the most frantic bird hunting so far. I took a break from a week of bow hunting in the Limpopo and spent a day shooting. Waterfowl in the early morning, then decoyed pigeons and doves, followed by upland birds with point dogs after lunch and again waterfowl in the evening. Well, I thought I had seen everything and was I wrong!

 

We had four dogs and six guns on the field and we just could not circle the guinea fowl in any way, shape or form. No matter what we tried they would run and flush out of range, so we did the unthinkable. We run, and run, until we barely got into shotgun range when the huge polka-dotted birds would take to wing. This may not be the most orthodox way to hunt birds, but it worked.

 

The thorns took their share of the action. My chaps took a beating, my shell bag was almost ripped apart, I was bleeding from both arms and just this weekend I noticed that the shirt I was using that day is well ventilated in the chest. I hate exercise, but I will sign up for another guinea fowl hunt anytime. I just need a ticket to fly 8,571 miles!

 

And from all those faraway places we end up back at home, hunting the forests of northeastern lower Michigan during the greatest month of the year, October for two birds that are so different and that cannot be hunted apart – Ruffed Grouse, the darling of my palate, and the darling of my heart, Woodcock.

 

After I moved to Traverse City it is almost impossible for me to go anywhere else during October. The days may be balmy or may be frosty, sunny or rainy, still or blowing, still fall is in the air, the grouse are doing what they do, making us believe that they only exist in our imagination and then exploding from under our very feet or from a branch where they should never be allowed to be, and the woodcock, local or migrating, fill our days with joy zigging when they should be zagging or the other way around.

 

No matter what year it is, it appears that grouse are always at the bottom of their cycle, and every bird is a true trophy, at the field and at the table. Last fall was even worth as there was little or no fruit to gather the birds, but I can replay the shots of each of the three birds I shot.

 

Oh, but talk about a fall of woodcock! The lite, delicate and brave birds abounded. For me nothing compares to hunt woodcocks where the trees give way to the ferns, and when the ferns are just starting to die and the trees are bursting with colors.

 

I will never forget a woodcock that I never shot but that almost impaled me after it flushed coming within inches of my face before it veered away. And I will never forget the true double that I shot on 9^th October. The right barrel of my old Laurona hit the first bird going straight away and then I swung on the second bird that took to my right and dropped it with the left barrel. And yes, I had witnesses: Mr. Bill Berghuis and Mr. Del Whitman, Jr. Now, whether or not you consider them reliable, that is your call.

Blue Racer

Del and a looong Blue Racer

During the last weekend of woodcock season Del and I went out to bid goodbye for the nice little up side down brain birds until next year, and maybe, just maybe, invite a couple of them for supper. Well, it happened that all representatives of Scolopax minor had already packed and headed south, but eventually we met some of them during a pheasant hunt a week later, but good bye was all you could wish them at the time.

Anyhow, we walked some nice but demanding hilly terrain and Gina pointed several time, but we had no flushes. The soul of a bird hunter rides the nose of a bird dog, and at every point our hearts bit faster, adrenaline flushed, and upon walking the fruitless point disappointment settled in place of the earlier excitement and hope. But such is the life of all bird hunters.

On the way back to the car Gina pointed again, in a very intense way. We followed her beeping colar and as in the earlier points no birds flushed, but there was something else there.

Gina was pointing a curled long snake bluish in color and quite lazzy due to the cool, but not yet cold, temperature. I grew up in Brazil where snakes are not only bad, but really dangerous, but i really contained myself and did not shoot it on first sight, specially because Gina was way too close.

Del recognized the snake as a Blue Racer (Coluber constrictor foxi), a nonvenomous snake that is endemic to North America. As you can see by the photo above Del's snake was about four feet long, and it was unusually docile, maybe because of the rather cool weather. Anyhow, I think it did not enjoy being handled that much as it soon released a very foul smell that encouraged Del to return it to the Michigan fall woods.

When we came back to Del's home and told the story about the snake to his wife Chris, she asked me if about my experience with snakes in Brazil. I told her that the only nonvenomous snakes that I had experience with would happily eat your (see "Monster Still Exist" from January, 2012), so I really did not care to being to friendly to any snakes, blue or other color.

I hope that the endangered Blue Racer found a nice nest to hibernate during the long cold winter that already set over the land and that when it wakes up in the spring it will feast on rodents and leave upland bird chicks, specially woodcock and grouse, alone.

Of Wild Flushes and Wild Meals

Woodcocks on the way...

Yesterday Del and I went out bird hunting again. It was a fresh and moist morning and the fall colors were glowing in a particularly beautiful way. I love the burnt reds and coppers.

In the early part of the hunt we had a lot of walking, which should please Dr. March as he insists that I exercise daily, some false points and many wild flushes, mostly woodcock, but also one young and illegal whitetail buck with short spikes over its head. The buck was illegal because we had shotguns for the birds we were after and it is now bow season for deer, and because of the new antler restriction regulations based on Quality Deer Management principles that protect bucks until they have at least three points in one side.

After coming back to the car we drove around to another area and let out both Gina and Zap, and we went out in another long walk. Finally when we were no more than one hundred yards from the car the dogs started pointing woodcock one after another. We would have had a limit between the two of us if Del's auto-loading shotgun had not misfired twice and if we had found one of the birds I shot.

I think that Del knew all along where the birds were, but he is under orders of Dr. March to make me exercise and walk every inch of the Michigan north woods, or at least every inch of Grand Traverse, Benzie and Leelanau counties, before we can collect a couple three birds for dinner.

For a change we did not go out for lunch in respect of our respective diets.

For dinner I prepared the woodcock (beccaccine) skinned (poultry skin is bad for triglycerides) and cut in half, lightly browned over just a bid of lard, and then cooked with shallots and cipollini on a white wine and rosemary sauce. As contorni I had grilled eggplants (melanzana) white beans (fagionlini) salad. The wonderful dinner was washed down by a glass of I Tre Vescovi, and excellent Barbera d'Asti.

There may be more pleasurable things in life, but few can surpass good friends, hunting and a wild game dinner.

to become a meal!

A Nice Fall Morning

Zap & Gina with woodcock

It is no secret to anyone that knows me that I endure most of the year to really live and enjoy fall, as fall means hunting season is open, and that translates into spending time outdoors with friends.

I was able to take sometime out this morning to go bird hunting with friends Del and Dan. We met at Del's around 9:00 AM, which is one of the beautiful things about "upland bird hunting" as we don't need to wake up well before the stars dim out as we need to do when deer and duck hunting.

We enjoyed some small talk while getting ready and loading Del's German short-hair pointers, Zap and Gina, in his Honda Element, which is really a nice little hunting car, and then drove in a generally Southwest direction to get to the same plot of state land where Del and I hunted almost a year ago.

When we got there we parked where we intended to end the hunt and walked the dogs on leash to the covert a half a mile or so to the beginning of the covert where we released the eager Zap and Gina, loaded our guns and started walking through the ferns, already burned, but bravely resisting the passing of the season.

The first part of our walk was quiet, for the lack of a more sedated word, but just so suddenly Zap and Gina started to go on point, sometimes at the same time but a hundred yards apart. Over the next two hours or so we may have had twenty or twenty five woodcock flushes, and maybe we got legitimate shots at half of them.

Dal was shooting  a very nice Benelli Ultralight 28 gauge semi-automatic shotgun that he own at the Ruffed Grouse Society banquet last month, while Dan was using a side-by-side 20 gauge SKB and I had my Browning BSS, also a twenty. Del had one misfire and another time he forgot to chamber a shell, and even if I say so, I enjoyed an inspired day, and got my share of the action and of woodcock.

By the end of our morning stroll when it was already quite warm, if not hot, we had bagged six birds, while we could not find two other. We also had a single wild flush from a grouse, but neither Del, Dan or I could even had a good look at it.

We finished our morning with excellent burgers at Jodi's Tangled Antler, a great hunter friendly and antler decorated northern Michigan bar. After that, back to work...

Woodcock

A new experience in Northern Michigan

This weekend my wife and I came to Traverse City, Northern Michigan Lower Peninsula, to enjoy the fall colors, relax and pick-up two shotguns that Del Whitman (www.dcwhitmangunsmithing.com) was working on for me.

Although the weather was less than great (and that is being positive), we had fantastical views during the almost three-hour drive, with all tones of auburn, yellow, copper, orange and red blasting out of the landscape, with patches of ever greens trespassing here and there.

My wife and I first came to Traverse City during the US Labor Day weekend (first Monday of September) and we fell in love with the place. We needed vacations and wanted to spend a lot of time together doing “nothing at all”, but I used the opportunity to meet Del, who was recommended by my friend Tony South, and drop the two shotguns that needed work.

One of the shotguns is a little Beretta 28 gauge side-by-side box lock that my mother bought in 1969 to my dad as a wedding gift. The well balanced gun was probably made in the late 1950’s, and although mechanically solid, the old lady needed some “make-up”.

While discussing the project with Del – lengthening the chambers to 2 ¾” (70 mm), rebluing the barrels and all furniture, refinishing and re-checkering the stock and fore end – we talked a bit or a lot about bird hunting, especially grouse and woodcock, and we made plans to hunt together sometime in October, when I could be back “up North”.

Yesterday morning I met Del at his place and I was nothing but delighted with his work. The little Beretta was gorgeous, the bluing perfect and the checkering sharp. The overall fit and finish just perfect. But guns were born to be used, and even if this is the most valuable gun that I own I could not deny its destiny.

While I put on my boots and brush pants, Del loaded his German short-hair, Gina and Zap, in his car, and we took off towards some of the fantastic public hunting land that is so overwhelmingly present in Michigan, especially its Northern portions.

Gina went on point very close to car and Del directed me to flush the woodcock that was holding under an evergreen pine, and as it flushed I killed, or at least severely injured, a tree! I just can figure how that branch moved in to cover the woodcock flight path.

We continued to brave the woods, and that was a challenge for me, as I am used to hunt open uplands, especially the Uruguayan pampas, and I missed a couple more flushes and then Del got a bird with a beautiful shot from his Browning over-under 28 gauge.

And then Gina went on point again and as we walked in a woodcock flushed and he fell to left barrel of my little Beretta. What a beautiful bird is the Scolopax minor. Although smaller than the Beccaccia (Scolopax rusticola) – la regina del bosco – I held in my hand in Italy, it had the same inebriating perfume. It was also very similar to the South American Narceja (Gallinago paraguaiae) that I once hunted in Uruguay, although it inhabits much open grounds than its Northern hemisphere relatives.

We continued hunting and Del bagged two more woodcock, one over Gina and the other over Zap.

A memorable, if bitter-sweet, moment happened when Gina flushed a Ruffed Grouse (Bonasa umbellus) and Del had the rare and perfect crossing shot, only to face a misfire due to a bad shell. It was the first time I heard their peculiar drumming, and that created another pleasant memory.

Despite my poor shooting I hope to be able to hunt the Michigan Northern woods again, and I hope that Del, and especially Gina and Zap, won’t mind if I come back.

And today I hope that Zezé will let me taste at least one of wines from Old Mission Peninsula.