Mulak Reader - Cycles

Here’s a story that may be a preview of things I later dwelt on in Just Off Main Street. In this case, I may have tried to get overly philosophical by connecting the cycle of life and death in my own life to the cycle of the seasons. Sports Afield liked it, and used it as their Backcountry feature in the February 1988 issue.

CYCLES

"When one tugs at a single thing in

nature, he finds it is attached to the

rest of the world."

John Muir

          The morning sunlight slanting through the naked branches could, without over-taxing my imagination, be a remnant of a morning from last November: the air is wool-shirt cool, the shadows hold a few scattered patches of old snow—and the woodcock migration is on. Almost as if to complete the illusion, my young setter hesitates and then takes a pair of cautious steps before stopping in a tentative point. I cross the little brook and hurry to grasp her check cord just as the twitter of wings breaks her resolve, and her resulting lunge forward nearly pulls my arm out of its socket. After a moment's struggle I wrestle the pup back into a pointing posture, command her to "Hold!" then walk a few steps and fire the blank pistol into the air. Whatever intensity she showed on her point is absent, but she stands until I whistle her on.
          Some day I might figure out a finesse method of actually teaching a dog what I want, but until then repetition will have to do. I open the revolver and dump out the spent blank .22 cases for the second time this morning.
          I reload as I walk on, and my attention is divided between the display of boundless puppy energy by old Win's replacement and the resurgence of life that is springtime in New England; We are following a brook where the emerging fiddleheads are a study in miniaturization—Each is a full fern leaf, complete in every detail, rolled tight and only awaiting the unfurling push of life's juices; The first of the marsh marigolds are in bloom, growing out of the water at the edge of the brook. The larger blooms are the size of half-dollars. Theirs is the pure yellow of a child's crayon box, all the brighter for the buttery gloss of the petals; Willows are everywhere, their gray catkins gone to yellow-green florets; The liquid call from an unseen redwing blackbird seems to ride on the sunbeams slanting through the branches. A month ago the Valentine's day storm dumped nearly a foot of snow here, yet today the lowlands are alive once more. I walk on, through what Hal Borland often referred to as "a quiet miracle".
          New smells for the pup are everywhere, and her short attention span works against my efforts to keep her hunting. She chases up a robin, then several more. Robins have been wintering over for the past several years, but I wonder how they've fared the unusually bitter months we've just endured. They are supposed to be a sure sign of spring, but I've always put a lot more stock in the arrival of the first woodcock.
          At the bottom of the slope the ground turns swampy, and ahead a green sea of new skunk cabbage leaves promises wet going. I whistle to the pup and direct her uphill toward the birches on our left. As I change directions, a woodcock flushes a few feet in front of me, pretending to be fast, "woodcocking" his way through the dense branches overhead. (The verb could well be a legitimate one: "To dodge by a random series of course changes.") In spring, when the only gun I carry is a blank training pistol, I am continually impressed by the amount of time for a would-be shot that each flush presents the hunter. Admittedly, my perspective is different in autumn, but I know I rush far too many opportunities without good reason.
          On the leaf mulch where the woodcock had been squatting are several small white puddles, and the pup is about to get called in for a nosefull when I notice that she is pointing. The new woodcock that she has flushes before I can get to her, and for a moment it looks as if the pup will not break and chase after the bird. I hold my breath, but the moment ends when the climbing woodcock abruptly elects to sit back down again after flying a scant fifty feet. The coiled spring that is any puppy on point unwinds in a mad rush, and bird and dog disappear downhill into the swamp. Although woodcock reek of scent and hold well for even clumsy points, their propensity for occasional short-hop flights keeps them from being a perfect bird for puppy training. It takes me a full five minutes to whistle the pup back in from the skunk cabbage.
          Farther along the birch slope we pass through a little stand of hemlocks. My pulse quickens. On the reverse side of the year I moved a grouse when I came through these same hemlocks, and after missing him with both barrels, his partners decided to leave—All three of them. There is no logical reason to expect an encore of the incident, but I do, and fight off a twinge of disappointment when only a wood thrush takes flight takes flight from the far side of the evergreens. But in the distance I hear the rolling sound of a drumming grouse—One of that same autumn quartet, I hope.
          Beneath the birches the blossoms of bloodroot appear like scattered bits of tissue above the forest floor. If one looks for them, the tiny Canada mayflower and Dutchman's breeches are in bloom now, too, as is my favorite, the Jack-in-the-pulpit. They take the sun quickly while the woodlands are still bare, and as a result all are short-lived blossoms, often fading before the plant itself sends up it's first leaf. Perhaps it is for this reason that nearly all of the flowers that man has taken into his garden trace their origins to the blossoms of the field rather than the forest. But holding the pure whiteness of a bloodroot flower in my fingers, I can't help but think the horticulturists missed a great deal when they passed-up this one.
          The puppy is working scent: her tail bounces with excitement and her nose is nearly in the dead leaves and bloodroot flowers. I stand on her check cord to stop her, then lift her head so her nose is scenting the air. I've watched as woodcock walk in a seemingly aimless series of circles, hairpins, and figure-8s as they feed: the pattern of scent laid down has to resemble a maze. It must be a natural defense against predators who also hunt with their noses. A trailing dog will have problems with the maze, but a dog that seeks out the scent carried in the air can usually go directly to the bird. The puppy has her head down again. Old Win was a woodcock dog of the first degree, but even she loved to put her nose down and smell those footprints once in a while.
          I step on the check cord again—When she gets to be as good as Win was maybe I'll look the other way once in a while, but today she's got to learn the right way. Still, I find as I lift the pup's head once again that I'm using the same gentle touch I needed in training that other woodcock dog a dozen years before.
          From far away I hear what seems to be a barking dog. I stop in the next clearing and search the southern sky. At first they seem like an indefinite pencil mark, but as they come closer I am able to make out individual geese in the wavering line. They are "V"ed-up, and as they pass overhead I can see the white chin patches on each bird. I would think they'd want to save their breath, but there is a constant gabble from the flock.
          It would be only rational to think of springtime as simply a phase of the year's continuous cycle that the migrating Canadas represent—The year never really ends or begins: It simply changes as one season inexorably becomes the next. But springtime is something that transcends the cold reality of fact and demands the warmth of understanding. In autumn, I can tell myself that the year has not really died, and count the dormant buds at each branch's end as witnesses to that fact. But spring seems a time for re-birth, a new beginning, and the proof is in the miracle of life's renewal. The miracle goes on all around us, overhead and underfoot, more profound than anything the mind of man has ever dreamed up. Spring is a time for starting over.
          The pup has found another woodcock, and this one is more cooperative about holding for her point. I spot the coal black button of the bird's eye first, then see the rest of the bird hunkered on last fall's now-matted leaves. This is the 20th woodcock we've found in an outing of little more than an hour, far more than we'd ever find on even the best flight days of autumn. The springtime migration of woodcock is a huge tsunami compared to the little meandering waves of the fall. The great horde of impatient birds nearly pushes the thaw northward, and as such, they are prone to disastrous storms like the April blizzard in 1982 which trapped and killed so many woodcock in New England. My puppy stands firm on this bird, and in answer to my singular command remains unmoving as I cross some unseen boundary and set off the brief flurry of wings. I fire the blank pistol, and the child's squeaky-toy sounds fade away, and still the puppy has not moved, although her eyes strain after the bird's flight. As of this moment I own a staunch dog, and will never again quite be able to forgive her breaking point.
          Grinning, I kneel on one knee and call her to me. She seems as pleased with herself as I am with her, and playfully dodges my attempts to pet her. With a clap of my hands I get to my feet and send her ahead.
          March woodcocking is proof enough of my belief that if it ever came down to a choice between leaving the dog or the gun at home, there would be no hesitation on the part of most woodcock hunters. Woodcock charm everyone who peruses them, but, more than with any other gamebird, woodcocking without a dog is an exercise in futility: Dog work is what woodcock hunting is all about.
          But a bird dog's life is short by any measure, and dogs—even woodcock dogs of the first degree—have a way of growing old and dying before their human hunting partners are ready to accept that fact. Ahead of me the setter puppy is a white streak through the birches. She'll be a good one someday.
          Maybe even every bit good as Win, who now lives only in my memory.
          Spring is indeed the right season for starting over.

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This site was last updated 09/20/06