A Bird in the Hand
by Jeff Gazdik
It was probably around 1975 in Washington County, New York. By the way, the most beautiful county in our state, IMO. I would’ve been in my late teens. My dad was the most avid grouse and woodcock hunter on the planet. His motto was, “If it doesn’t have feathers, it ain’t worth shooting”.. as a matter, fact, my grandfather on moms side had the same mantra, although they both weren’t afraid of shooting a rabbit as long as we did not have the bird dog with us. We had Brittany‘s my whole life growing up.
Anyway, it was a beautiful day hunting a spot we called McKnights, because the road on one side was McKnight Road. It was a long hunt, probably four hours overall. Back then, if there were no poster signs, it was huntable. That hunt went through some real thick, grown-up fields around dilapidated old barns, old houses, where I swear I saw a ghost in the window once when we went by, but we had to hunt it because it was thick and always loaded with birds. This particular day, Rookie, our Brittany at the time was doing his normal ranging way too far. He was not one of our better-pointing dogs, but he could retrieve really well. We bird hunted for quantity more than quality back then as we loved my mom’s grouse dinners, and dad actually ate the Woodcock, thank God. Dad was very competitive. We covered a lot of ground. That is the background.
The story is a grouse got up by my dad and flew through the poplars right by me, I knocked it down.. calling for Rookie he finally came over but could not find the bird. What he did was stick his head down in an old woodchuck hole. Then, of course, without leashing him he was off running again. My dad said, and I was skeptical, that “sometimes birds will run into a hole when they cannot fly”.
Anyway, because I wasn’t scared then like I would be now, I shoved my arm down into the hole to my shoulder and came out with nothing. Dad then had an idea to get a long forked stick and put it in the hole, and twisted it. Low and behold, he actually pulled out feathers that were stuck to the fork. I couldn’t believe it. So, while rookie was in the next county probably, we dug with sticks and our bare hands so that I could get my arm in there deeper. This whole process took at least 30 minutes, maybe more, but I was getting that grouse, as we had a running tally and I could not let my dad get more than me.. plus, we never stopped looking for downed birds until it was determined that we were not going to find it. We could barely hear rookies bell, he wasn’t much for hanging around when we were resting or discussing where we were going.
So, when we thought we were in the hole deep enough, I reached my arm way down into the hole and actually felt around grabbed the bird by the breast and pulled it out. I am not sure who was confused more when I pulled that bird out, us or the grouse, I had him in my hand, and he was looking at me and dad, bright eyed. Before I could grab him better and dispatch him, he flapped his wings hard enough that he flopped out of my hand and started running through the briars. Neither one of us had our shotguns close. Of course, rookie was a long way away and was no help. Once we got the dog back, we searched and searched, and never got that bird. Hence, my father always called it, “the bird in the hand” story..
