Written by: Jesse Rock. Duane, NY.
For me, growing up, “pá-tridge” hunting was something you did in the coldest days of winter at the hopes of staving off cabin fever in a desperate attempt to get back in the woods after deer and ducks were no longer on the table. I have fond memories of trudging through the snow of an open field, nostrils froze with the sting of cold and eyes watering in cutting wind as I headed off to find the thickest conifers in the old pastures and hedgerows across the family farm. It was there that I could find the rare bird along with my own shelter from the bite of winter. Whether it was that same fight against cabin fever or nostalgia about the bitter cold that reminded me of those bygone days, with this past week of deep freeze, I couldn’t help but feel the strong desire to brave the weather and re-live my introduction to my favorite bird.
Grabbing my young dog “Flick” and a 16ga hammer gun I’ve come to call “Belle”, we headed out for a run of an overgrown cedar pasture before work. At 3 degrees Fahrenheit, the air feels sharp as it enters your lungs and for a moment, I questioned my sanity pursuing birds in such weather. However, the undying motivation of my dog as he excitedly whined from his crate ready to spring into the covers directed me back to my task. A quick survey of the landscape helped me formulate a plan of attack as my fingers numbed against my gun barrels. We would stay to the southeastern edges of cover; take advantage of what little warmth the rising sun provided and attempt to find the few overgrown apples still standing here along long forgotten stone walls and homesteads.
As the dog began his search, my eyes were pulled to the 150-year-old cottonwood trees marking the once entrance to the farm and homes here when they were first built. My mind drifted as I thought about what the brutality of winter must have done to this farm over the years, and to those of both nature and humanity that called it home. To think “Belle” could have seen these trees as saplings before the turn of the 20th century, maybe even hunted nearby? “I wonder if the 19th century settlers of this piece of border land received a mention by Laura Ingalls Wilder in her “Farmer Boy” book series; written about the childhood of her husband who grew up a stone’s throw from where I was standing today?” These thoughts and other reflecting on the history that surrounded me danced about as I imagine they do for many grouse hunters as the places we love to venture often hold so much history of use, abuse, and neglect. So it must be for wandering in the home of a bird that thrives in the in-between and changing landscape.
At about this point, I realized that we were nearing one of the apple trees I had been searching for. While its limited bounty had long fallen and been buried under snow, grouse seem to remember these trees and frequent them past their most useful season. A quick scan around below the tree revealed that this site was no exception. A set of blown in grouse tracks wove their way through the underbrush around the tree and towards an alder stream at the edge of the cedars. I recalled my dog to the sign, and he did his best to convince me he could smell something in the freezing cold. However, I suspect he was relying more on his eyes to follow the bird than the senses of his frost covered nostrils. As he worked across and to the far side of a creek about twenty yards from me his demeanor changed. I could tell he was no longer relying on his eyes, and something had awakened his sense of smell. All at once, he froze, stood somewhat confused checking the wind, and doubled back on his tracks. His body language screamed bird, but he was also obviously unsure of where. Eventually, he settled and on a shaky point at the base of a white pine, I assumed he must have something.
Taking careful step, I attempted to cross the frozen creek between us. However, the game was already made with an explosion of snow less than a foot in front of my pup’s face explained his uncertainty. In a flash the bird, erupting out of her shelter from the cold pushed through the pine and out over the frozen stream turning a barrel’s length above my head to attempt a lively escape to the north and into the armor of cedars. Raising the gun, the right hammer found its way back as the stock touched my cheek and the spirit of “Belle’s” history led her to the mark. As my shot rang out, both feathers and snow fell back to this frozen world.
In embracing these harshest of conditions, the fragility of the world and our connection to it is evident in all that surrounds us. The veil that separates us from those before us who may have had no other choice than to venture out on such days to survive, seems thinned. For that, a winter bird is a true treasure, a rarity that seems ever slightly more special, at least to me. With these thoughts and others once again playing within my mind, we headed back through the drifting snow thankful for our morning’s gift to rejoice in a warm wood stove and conclude that there may be no better way to start one’s day, than a frozen world and grouse feathers.
