Written By: Daniel Barry. Philadelphia, PA
Growing up,I loved hearing stories of the glory days of upland hunting in the First State. As a
kid, my father would tell me stories of how the landscape of Delaware had changed since “back
in the day”. We drove past fields where homes were being built and he would say. “Yeah I used
to help farm all of this” sweeping his hand across the horizon.
My father and grandfather were avid bird hunters, chasing the once-abundant wild bobwhite
quail throughout Delaware. The Hedgerows where once a many reliable covey lay were now
next to neighborhood developments, rather than farm fields. Because of this, at a certain point
my dad devoted his hunting time to deer, a now more abundant quarry.
I didn’t hunt growing up, or at least so I thought. Hunting for me was synonymous with deer
hunting. So when people asked me if I was a hunter I would say “Not really, I went out a few
times.” Thinking just of the deer hunts, which maybe I had gone on two of. For some reason, my
childhood upland hunts got pushed to the back of my mind. They felt more like play, running
around in the woods, except my dad had our dog, our Brittany named Jack, and a shotgun. We
rarely got many birds or rabbits on these trips, so perhaps I hadn’t placed it with the same
importance that deer hunting seemed to have.
I later took to deer and turkey hunting after a stint of living out West with my now Wife, Giselle.
Moving back east I knew it would be a good way to feel the sense of adventure I got from the
mountains. Like the previous hobbies I had since leaving college, I developed an obsession for
knowledge. Reading every book I could find, watching various hunting shows on lunch breaks or
in the evening, determined to fill the gaps in knowledge from my times in the woods as a kid. I
had come across the book “Hunting The First State” by Steve Kendus. The book opened my
eyes to a whole realm of possibilities in hunting that expanded far beyond the boundaries of the
tried and true spots my family hunted. I went down a rabbit hole, learning about every piece of
public land in Delaware, dreaming of all the game I would pursue.
When I would talk to my dad, I would tell him about all the different kinds of hunting I wanted to
do now. This included carrying on the family tradition of bird hunting, and I began asking more
about the experiences he had while quail were in abundance. He was happy to oblige, but when
the subject of going out for some birds came up, he was somewhat skeptical. In his mind the
best days of finding wild birds in our state had passed. He still fondly recalls the last covey of
quail he flushed while walking to his truck after deer hunting one morning, and that was years
ago. I had however come across information that there was one wild bird species that could still
give you enough action to make a season. That bird was the American Woodcock.
The following fall I committed to chasing upland birds, mostly unsuccessful pheasant hunts in
Pennsylvania, but I just considered those a warm up. The real prize was finding a woodcock in
Delaware. I had a couple of different spots in mind. The first was a complete bust as a I spent a
majority of my time covering piney unproductive ground. The second, I had higher hopes for. It
was an old clear cut surrounded by mature forest. It had been a reliable deer hunting spot and I
had reports from my family that they had bumped woodcock walking to their stands.
I went walking the edge of the regrowth about 10 yards in to mature forest. I hadn’t been
walking long, when suddenly a woodcock burst into flight, the sudden whistle of wings had
caught me totally off guard. I stood with shotgun in hand, amazed I had witnessed a woodcock
flush. I had not even thought to mount my gun as I watched the weaving flight of the bird toward
the thick maze of new growth. To me the hunt was already a success. I continued pushing up
the edge, when again a woodcock got up, this time I managed to get a shot off but admittedly it
was quite poor. The woodcock flew about 10 yards before settling back into the leaves. I quickly
snuck over to the spot walking around in small circles hoping to get the bird up again. But the
bird held so tight it fooled me, or gave me the slip, I’ll never know. The excitement I experienced
on that hunt reinforced that upland hunting was something I was going to continue to pursue.
The success of that hunt and the post season dreaming that ensued led me to get my first dog,
Boots, an English Springer Spaniel. Throughout the process of training my puppy that spring,
summer and the early days of fall. I kept mentioning to my dad “We have to get him out to hunt
Woodcock.” This Thanksgiving we made that happen.
Delaware has a short first stretch of the Woodcock season which coincides with the week of
Thanksgiving. Arriving to my parents house the day before Thanksgiving I snuck off for a quick
evening hunt at a spot I had gone upland hunting as a kid. The cover was a plateau of grasses
high above the canal with a patch work of young trees. Boots and I worked our way through the
mosaic. I sent him in to work through each island hoping to get him on a woodcock and connect
what we were in search of. Approaching a slightly larger one of these islands that consisted
mainly of hardwoods, I had this intuition. “There’s gonna be a bird in here.” Arriving at the edge
of the island, Boots and I hardly had a moment to assess the situation when a woodcock
flushed. From the middle of the ring of trees it had been sitting in a moist patch of leaves, a nice
sanctuary for a woodcock. I snapped my gun up and fired off a shot. The woodcock was still
working its way skyward . It flew out of the back of the patch and I fired another shot. Still the
bird sailed on. We never got another flush that night.
Thanksgiving day my dad and I managed to get out for a couple hours in the same area but with
no luck. However, It was still a great day in the woods. I saw about 6 mallard drakes get up out
of a pothole and we came to a spot in the woods with a few dozen doves congregated in the
forest canopy. We left flushless but happy to have run the dog before the family came for
dinner.
The next day we woke up late experiencing the post thanksgiving hangover that comes with
eating too much. The house moved slowly and hunting seemed to be the last thing on anyone’s
mind, except mine. Around 10am I started feeling antsy. “Well I think I want to head down state
are you interested?” I said to dad. Of course he wanted to hunt! However, he was not interested
in driving the hour and half for maybe a single woodcock flush. “I have another spot we should
check out, we would flush woodcock all the time while quail hunting, if it doesn’t work out we’ll
keep driving south”
I didn’t even ask where we were going. I was excited to see a spot my dad had hunted growing
up. My dad stopped at the country road intersections digging through his memory to figure the
next turn. I with the latest hunting app pulled up, saying “oh this is state land here” or when he
hesitated at an intersection I interjected “if you go right here there’s some state land” The advice
was sometimes rejected “Yeah but that’s not the one we’re looking for” a couple times however,
I kept us on the right path. Eventually we arrived at our destination, what was perhaps younger
saplings back when my dad and his father chased quail in these woods, was a bit more grown
up, but still dense enough to consider. My dad explained there was a field on the other side and
they would likely feed in it, but return back to the safety of the woods.
We loaded up and headed in. Sending Boots quartering between us, hoping he would put a bird
in the air. The first hour went birdless as we meandered here and there through the woods. I
eventually arrived at the edge of a thicket of undergrowth that went just over our heads, when
the sudden movement of wings sprung from the forest floor. I tracked the movement with my
eyes, and yelled out “Woodcock!” As if my dad would impart some fatherly advice in the couple
of seconds I had. I stood yet again staring in wonder as the woodcock flew away. “Why didn’t
you shoot?” He asked when he got closer. My excuse being that Boots didn’t flush the bird and I
was hoping to get him on it. Which was for the most part true, and so we followed up on the
bird.
The next flush happened in much the same fashion, this time my dad not taking a shot as he felt
the bird was too close when he was on it. The one after that I managed to fire off twice with no
luck, but the bird landed within sight for us to try for another flush. My dad and Boots had
managed to get in the birds zone, flushing it again and he cracked off another shot. Giving us
four flushes in total, but alas no birds were brought to the bag.
But still, with each flush when the ring of the shots had faded and the birds escaped unharmed.
With Boots running excitedly wondering where the dead bird was, my dad gave me a look and
smile that only a great day afield can produce. Perhaps there was hope for the future of a
tradition in Delaware after all.
