Written By: Marie Madaras. Pittsburg, NH
The air shifted. The humidity settled; a cold mist suspended around me, unearthing the smell of rotting leaf litter beneath my boots mixed with a threatening October chill.
BIRD!
My exhale was cut short. The visible breath rolling and roiling in front of me, hanging indecisive of whether or not to dance away with the wind or flirt with atmospheric mist, remaining visible for just a second longer. The disembodied pounding of wings on the ground echoed down the gully, producing nothing but a moment of hope and flickering glint of glory, wisped away in an instant. For a moment the forest seemed to exhale as mist droplets converged into chilling rain droplets, playing a percussion symphony on the canopy above us.
The cut we were walking had quickly become one of my favorites aptly named Brook’s Nook, after my lab pup, Brook, bagged her first grouse in the area; a 10-15 year old young growth cut of Aspens and scrub brush interlaced with swampy sections and sandwiched between the safety of towering pines and productive old growth. I happened to be in the coveted downhill position of three hunters and two dogs scouring the invisible scent trails that danced across the forest floor between us.
As the fleeting moment passed, we continued on our walk, maneuvering under low branches and dodging prickers, all while secretly willing the next encounter with thundering wings.
Colt has never worn a bell or beeper. Although stealthy in the woods, I track Colt’s position by the rhythm and sound of his strides, deceived only by the dry fall leaves and forest brush. He moves ahead of me 40 yards, disappearing silently up the hill, and reappearing moments later, seeing a world of color through his nose. I imagine the picture he sees, scents winding, rising & falling like a dancing leaf slowly weaving across a gentle breeze, eventually resting at the base of a tree where it becomes a hidden beacon waiting to be uncovered.
BIRD! BIRD!
Eyes forward, breath contained within my lungs. I strained my ears, listening past an ever-growing ringing from tinnitus, doing my best to locate any movement throughout the forest. Although I cannot see them, I know where my hunting partners are, and somewhere about 30 yards ahead I hear Colt’s last footsteps before he came to a halt to assess the situation.
He had recently learned the association of “BIRD” to a flush.
The rain seemed to slow as my heartbeat matched the sudden pounding of wings on the ground, speeding up as my eyes locked on to a bird rising and gliding above the young growth downward toward my shooting lane. I felt the beating of my heart and an involuntary exhale. My eyes and optical nerves fired rapidly as my brain processed the movement. But my muscles seemed stuck, moving at an earthly pace while watching an ethereal moment.
Colt located the bird after the flush and pursued his new found feathered quarry, black ears flopping & speckled body athletically bounding & outstretched with no regard for his own physical well-being.
Instinct and muscle memory took over.
I had recently purchased a new upland gun. After years of frustration, I took time to self-analyze and diagnose my technique, the gun, and the mechanics between us. Upon self-diagnosis, I sought out professional help in the ways of a fitting. With my analysis confirmed plus some helpful tips, I turned a new leaf in my upland hunting; a gun that fit, a new gauge, and next, a formal lesson. With a whirlwind of change to my gear and technique, the trust in my new Beretta grew exponentially.
My feet planted; hips squared to my shooting lane. My cheek caressed the wood stock of the Beretta as it found the “sweet spot” nestled in the crook of my shoulder, atop my vest strap. I could smell the perfumed scent of the wood stock, filling my nose and my mind with intent and poise. Left to right. 30-35 yards out. Gliding fast, but in an open tract. Lucky. Eyes open, bead on the beak, barrel moving.
CRACK.
Colt skids to a halt and watches the bird as the shot rang. Steady. Good dog.
Follow. 45+ yards downhill.
CRACK. Hail Mary.
I let the Beretta follow its quarry soar behind a busty pine, out of sight, swallowed once again by the mist and Northwoods.
The moment hung as disappointment shrouded me. The Beretta seemed to lose its light and life it had milliseconds before. Rain droplets resumed their normal gravitational journey, and the fading sunlight made the woods just a little more ominous.
I had been hunting Ruffed Grouse for 2 years now. Season 1 was all learning with sub-par grouse hunting dogs; Season 2 gaining the confidence to click the safety but hunting with baby bird dogs; and finally Season 3, 2023, things seemed to be coming together. I had confidence in my gun, my dogs, finding productive habitat, and now I just needed a little bit of luck. Colt and I had found and retrieved birds for others, all the dogs worked nicely through the woods this year, and this was my gleaming chance – last hunt of the last day of the trip.
I broke open the barrel, automatically ejecting the physical and metaphorical empty shells. I replenished the barrel with a disappointing shake of my head and a deep exhale. As many misses as I may have, each new shell holds that same sliver of glory & hope of finding its quarry. Just one more flush, the next one is “The One”. Whether to believe in that hope is up the wielder of the gun and I continued to choose hope, albeit, with a bitter note.
Did you get it?
I don’t think so.
The moment gone, but not forgotten, I trudged forward. I picked my way to Colt where he stood in shivering anticipation. Eyes locked downhill. Determination building. As I approach the black and white speckled dog, body stiff as a board and pointing straight as an arrow, his side glances read me like a book. With a solemn shake of my head and a sorry smile I apologetically whispered, “no bird”, letting the woodland breeze carry the words to Colt’s ears, hoping it would lessen the blow of disappointment. With another stealing side glance, every muscled in his body loosened, denoting the ever-dreadful “you missed again?” look. He stood, relaxed, and gave a “let’s go” wag of his docked tail.
At his right side, I heel him off from his sentinel spot toward the dark timber. A few paces ahead we stop as a team, he looks up at me, tail at a slow methodical wag, the “I’m ready” wag. I lean over and lay my left hand at the base of his neck, running it slowly down his back, feeling every ripple, muscle twitch, and vertebrae on the way.
Deep breath. Reset.
“Alright bud. Hunt ‘em up.”
With a light tap on his side, the moment was a thing of the past. Colt had his new objective and he didn’t look back. His resilience is a trait to be coveted.
I walked a little slower as we left the world of the young growth and entered the cover of old, towering pines. I let myself revisit my last 2 shots, replaying my memory’s vision as I carefully picked my path to avoid prickers at eye level.
About 100 yards ahead, I stopped and listened for Colt. His bounding strides became faint and the forest floor soon became silent as he pursued his new mission. I stopped and looked at my handheld GPS tracker mounted to my left shoulder strap.
67 yds. 79 yds. 101 yds. Too far.
I whistled.
Colt. Here.
I waited, breathing slow, allowing my it to hang before me like a fog rolling into a forest and listening for the faintest sound of movement.
Colt. HERE!
107 yds. 89 yds. 61 yds. Good boy.
I glanced up from my GPS to the wood line ahead of me. I chuckled to myself as the moment felt reminiscent of Shadow’s gallant return home in Homeward Bound.
I heard the faint crunching of the littered forest floor, slow and methodical. His return is always slower than his departure. Colt’s black head appeared from under a large downed pine log, led by a mouth full of feathers.
Once again, breath trapped in my lungs, my optical nerves fired faster than my muscles. My heartbeat became rapid and pounding with the spike in adrenaline that coursed through my blood. My boots planted to the damp earth beneath me. Eyes wide, instinctively, the Beretta broke open and slung in a proud position over my shoulder. I dropped to one knee, all peripheral sights and sounds blurred, “tunnel vision” became more than just a metaphor.
GOOOD BOOYYY!!!
At nothing less than a prance, Colt claimed his prize; his best track, recovery, and retrieve to date. A wing bounced over his eyes in pace with his stride. The flashes I caught of his eyes as he swung to my left side, clutching his quivering quarry, exuded pride and happiness mirrored by my own; Colt for his bird, me for Colt.
My first Ruffed Grouse bagged.
Trust your shot. Trust your dog.
