Respect for a gamebird born from the tribulations of crazy flight and thick cover.
by Jay Hanson
Originally published in Covers magazine – Spring 2019
We’re all introduced to bird hunting in various ways. If wealth is measured in long-haired bird dogs and access to an abundance of wild birds, some of us are born into fortune. Others were introduced into wingshooting later in life by being invited to a posh Dakota pheasant lodge, maybe a corporate shindig or by a fast-talking brother-in-law. In my neck of the woods, my dad and his cohorts made up a small circle of hunters that walked behind dogs they trained themselves. The bulk of the other locals were what we called “road hunters.” We counted the pointed birds that we encountered, while they tracked the number of miles they had driven – to each their own.
“Woodcock?” they would ask, as if you were discussing a gastrointestinal problem or a snowmobile that wasn’t made in Minnesota.
“Can’t shoot them from an ATV.”
Nope, that is why we have dogs.
“They taste any good?”
You respond by letting them know that they aren’t ruffed grouse, but they aren’t bad if prepared the correct way.
“Huh, I wouldn’t mind trying it one time.”
With that, my dad and I would consider the bait taken, and we were out to introduce the curious party to the alder swamps to hear the whistles of woodcock wings. We were fairly reckless with whom we shared some Timberdoodle coverts, especially when one considers the fact that these folks were resident guys who could return the following weekend with their buddy from work. And before you know it, you see the entire men’s bowling league traipsing through “The Meat Run” or “Maggie’s Orchard.” Except, that never happened. With the exception of a couple of guys who ended up trading their four-wheeler for a four-legged animal, most of those taught “Woodcock 101” never took any advanced courses. Once was enough.
“Wayne” was one guy who goes down in history as a member of the “One and Done” club. Wayne was a legendary deer hunter in our parts and enjoyed shooting “partridge” from his Polaris. Much to our chagrin, he always fared well hunting grouse, just due to the sheer volume of miles covered in a day. We would walk 10 to 12 miles a day in prime bird cover, while he would rack up 20 miles of trails and roads. And when the woods were still a green jungle in September, his method may have been more effective.
Regardless of our differences in hunting philosophy, Wayne and my dad got along just fine. They both shot trap together and kidded each other about guns – Wayne shot an auto; my dad shot an over-under – and trucks – Ford vs. Chevy – but it was all in good fun. When Wayne showed up at the cabin early on a Saturday, my dad had nearly a sinister tone in his, “Well, Hello Wayne,” greeting. As a know-it-all junior in high school, I was excited to show off our setter’s nose and hopefully my gunning skills.
My dad and I had hunted the previous Friday afternoon, so we knew the woodcock were still in the area. In fact, the limit back then was still five per day, and we had our 10 before dark. It may have been that perfect, often brief, window in the season when some local birds were still hanging around and some flight birds from just across the border were arriving. In other words, Wayne couldn’t have timed his first woodcock hunt any better.
The Meat Run was a rare, hunter-friendly, open lane amidst thick tag alders with a few scattered tamaracks. The old trail was grown over in places, but as far as woodcock cover goes, it was a walk in the park. Without hesitation, my dad offered Wayne the lane and told me to flank him on his left. As we so often did, we hunted one side north and the other side back to the truck, keeping a shooter on the lane at all times. Maggie, our English setter, would often hunt both sides, but we did our best to keep her in front of us.
My gun was barely closed as we heard Maggie’s beeper echo in front of us. Maggie was curled tight, acting as if the bird was between her and her master. Regardless of being closer in proximity, my dad called Wayne in to flush the bird. As he moved in, the bird took flight, flying low and over Wayne’s head. Wayne lost his footing as he spun around and tried to hit pay dirt going away. And based on the subtle cussing uttered, the bird escaped unharmed.
When Maggie’s beeper went off again, she was between my dad and me. We moved in and told Wayne to cover us but to stay put. It was a fairly easy shot for my dad, if there are any easy shots with woodcock. Maggie brought the bird to me, which didn’t matter. In our book, a retrieve was a retrieve and just the cherry on top, as long as the dog would find a dead bird that was shot over her.
The next three birds flushed were not retrieved, as Wayne was unsuccessful on all three attempts. One bird flew across the trail, provoking my dad to utter the usual, “You have one job to do, don’t let them cross the trail alive!” Wayne replied, “It dipped, just as I pulled the trigger!” which is a good excuse, as far as excuses go.
I finally had my chance, as I foot-flushed a woodcock and marked roughly where it went down, just on the edge of a grassy slough. Woodcock like tall grass about as much as dachshunds like cattails, so I knew about the limit of the bird’s flight path. Maggie erased any doubt I might have had, as she flash-pointed the bird just long enough for me to close the gap and collect the bird on my second shot, with the first shot probably taken before the gun stock was anywhere close to my cheek.
To this day, only one time have I witnessed a hunter fire three consecutive shots at the same woodcock. It was that fateful October day with Wayne and his itchy trigger finger on his automatic. The first shot was taken as the bird quartered toward him, and the second and third shots were taken in vain as the bird hooked down the long path, staying in sight longer than most. At that point, my dad spoke up, giving sound advice for a situation that arises when a hunter is trending toward repeated two consecutive, quick shots at each bird. “Wayne … concentrate on taking one good shot, not worrying about a possible second shot. Heck, I didn’t know I guy could even get three shots off in this thick cover!” Wayne mumbled back, and we continued.
We returned to the truck late in the morning, with four woodcock, none of which were Wayne’s. He was still a good sport overall, but he did admit that he missed a couple of easy ones, especially that straight away shot where the bird flew down a pretty good shooting lane. We took a break and ate a quick lunch on the tailgate. These days, we take our sweet time at the cabin, not worrying about being off the clock for 90 minutes or more. Back then, if we weren’t walking nonstop, we were wasting our lives away.
The second covert was one of our favorites and bore the moniker “The Funnel” for its gradually narrowing real estate, eventually coming to a point. One of the sides of the triangle-shaped piece ran along the river, which seemed to be even more of a contributing factor during the peak of the woodcock migration. We gave Wayne the river’s edge on our march south, again allowing my dad to warn Wayne, “Don’t let any birds fly across the river!” Easier said than done.
The ground was very chalky in the funnel, giving the impression that birds were recently moving through the area. But, as Maggie’s beeper rang loud, we knew some birds were still around. Dad connected on a grouse, even though he thought it was a woodcock, as Maggie was locked up, only breathing through her nose and with her rear paw off the ground. I also managed to shoot my third woodcock, which didn’t draw any praise from Wayne at this point in his Timberdoodle sojourn. I was also just mature enough to know that I’d better not gloat or make a joke at his expense.
Wayne’s next opportunity of the afternoon outing was a whiff, but a single-shot whiff, which I guess was a bright spot versus the common double-tap we had been witnessing. Wayne said he sheared off a small popple tree, which we’ve all done, giving Wayne a second good alibi. Maggie pointed another bird for our newbie, and Wayne took a shot as the bird flushed over his head. He didn’t get off a second shot. My dad explained that he would have better luck waiting and taking it going away. Over the years, I learned this lesson the hard way, as I had connected on a couple of woodcock (and grouse) as they came cruising at me. When that pattern of lead was still fairly constricted, you strike the bird in the breast, causing excessive damage to the bird’s meaty part. My dad said, “I hope you like the legs.” Point taken.
By mid-afternoon, Wayne’s patience was gone. And to no one’s surprise, his leather shell belt was nearly empty as well. My dad always had leather shell belts available for a couple of reasons: one, he hated how a lot of cheap upland vests had cheap elastic shell holders that held shells as well as a wet paper bag, and two, at the end of the day, he could give you a hard time about your shooting percentage as he pointed to your hull-ridden belt. My dad also gave the rookies a straight-forward order to carry a box of shells on the longer walks. If the belt held a mere 18 shells, you must somehow carry seven more. Shells for sale in the middle of the woods were expensive. Now Wayne had to confess that he was down to two shells but promised he would only load one at a time in his gun for the remainder of the day if someone came to his rescue. He had the good sense to ask me first, and I handed him over five of my yellow 20-gauge shells.
As a mild bright spot for Wayne, we came into a brood of swamp grouse, at least five or six birds that Maggie located for us with her incessant whining. Years ago, we panicked when we heard the Ryman setter squeal as if she was injured, but now we knew it indicated that she could see at least one grouse that flushed only to end up on a low perch, taunting the bird dog. As we walked into the now half-pointer, half-coonhound, other birds flushed, each giving us some shooting. Wayne was finally on the board, making a good shot at a bird going away. We were more excited than Wayne, and he matter-of-factly said, “At least I know there is lead in my shells.”
Maggie continued to do her thing, as an experienced grouse and woodcock dog should do. At times she would pinball from point to point, almost as if there were birds located everywhere you saw ideal habitat, as if she had been there before and took notes. The autumn sun was getting low as we decided to spend the final hour of the day walking trails for grouse. Dad took us to a remote corner of the state forest and parked at a location where three trails all split off. We each were assigned our own and were told to walk 30 minutes down and then turn back. If someone didn’t return by dark, the others would honk the horn, acting as a lighthouse, steering the lost hunter to safety. When hunters end up chasing birds around in the woods in low light, it’s fairly common to get disoriented.
Dad and I returned to the truck before our guest, each with one partridge. I’d seen at least three, but without a dog in tow, the other two got the best of me. My dad and I took a quick photo with the little light we had. Maggie was already in the truck with her eyes closed, knowing her magical day was over. As we sat in the old Jeep, looking down the road, Wayne entered the picture, still with some spring in his step. He’s veered off course, chasing a lone woodcock that had given him fits. As the story goes, he had three chances at the bird, with no assistance from a dog or other hunters. With his final shell, he dropped the Timberdoodle in a small patch of ferns. Thankfully, he was able to locate the dead bird just as the sun set on his quest to shoot a woodcock. Fifty-something Wayne was as proud as any kid could be for shooting his first deer or game bird. My dad asked, “Did you shoot him on the ground?” Wayne shook his head and smiled for the first time in hours, officially a woodcock hunter.
The names were changed to protect the guilty. No ill will is intended toward Wayne on his forgettable day. We all have missed woodcock … plenty of them. They aren’t the fastest bird on the uplands, nor are they the toughest to kill. Their uncanny ability to juke and jive as they take fly through thick cover is part of their allure. Wayne continues to cruise the trails looking for partridge, but his respect for the little birds some locals call “snipe” has grown since that day.
