Mulak Reader - Showers, Heavy at Times

This one was my first big sale. Gray’s Sporting Journal bought it and made me much happier than just the money alone ever could have. Like all my stuff, everything in this story actually happened, just not all on the same day.

Showers, Heavy at Times

           "To find birds, you've got to go where they are. Not where they ought to be. Not where you'd like them to be. Not where they'd be easy to shoot."

                             Havaliah Babcock

          "You're going out?"

          I nod.

          "In this rain?"

          Another nod.

          "You've already got two sets of clothes drying in the cellar from the past two days, and you're coughing..."

          "Hon, we've already been over all this." I finish tying my boots and stand up to go.

          "You've said yourself that you never have much luck in the rain..."

          "No more, huh?"

          As I start from the kitchen, Win gets up from her rug and goes to the door, waiting to be let out. My wife hands me my thermos. "I'm sorry, Steven.  I just don't want you coming down with pneumonia."

          "I know. I'll be back sometime this afternoon."

          "Good luck. I love you."

          "I love you too."

           The weather follows the news, so I sit in the truck for an extra few minutes, parked on the drive into the Electric Fence covert.

          "...the Travelers weather outlook is for showers, heavy at times, continuing throughout the daylight hours with temperatures ranging into the high 50's..."  Pretty much a repeat of forecasts I've been hearing all week.

          Win sniffs and squats a half-dozen times while I pull on rain chaps and uncase the gun. We walk down the dirt drive and cross the little bridge, then I cast her into the cover along the brook. One thing about the rain—No matter where we hunt, we have the place to ourselves.

          The covert is wet. The brush, the grass, the trees, the air itself is saturated. It is impossible to remain dry on a day like this. No matter how you dress, it's just a matter of time. The alternative is to sit at home and hope the woodcock will halt their migration until the weather turns better. November rains being as they are, Win and I spend many outings getting wet while trying to stay dry.

          Gunning in the rain does have its pluses... Not many, to be sure, but it's not all sweating yourself wet inside a rainshirt. There is beauty: Autumn's brilliance lies now on the ground, the last of the leaves having been driven down by the week's rains.  Only the occasional white oak is not naked, though its leaves are reduced to pale shards. The indirect light of the overcast sky lends an even brightness to the covert, and unexpected colors emerge on the wetted surfaces of rock walls and tree bark.  With the foliage screen gone, birds can now be seen on the wing for more than just the blink of an eye. And it's quiet. The ear-filling sound of dry autumn leaves underfoot is all but absent in the rain. The hushed swish of wet branches against my clothes is the only sound as I follow Win's bell through the brush.

          We pass through a stand of high-branched white pines. I keep looking up into the dark canopy, hoping to see a grouse before he flushes, but it's a talent I don't have. I feel the bird's wing beats before I catch sight of him. I turn, watching the bird, and fire twice. He is wet, and the hollow noise of his wings can be heard for a few long seconds after I lower my gun. Overhead shots are not my forte. I practice them on the skeet range, but regularly miss them in the coverts.

          Win comes in and eyes me. I know she can't be aware of anything other than that I've fired at something, and now she's looking for instructions. Still, as always, I imagine an accusative look in her eyes. I put the empties in my pocket and close the gun on two fresh shells. A pair of smoke rings pops from the barrels.

          The grouse headed up where the dirt road forms a barrier. He won't cross an opening if he can help it, so it's a good bet we'll find him on the near edge of the road cut.

          We work the cover along the drive. The grouse has landed in another pine, and waits until I have passed beyond him before departing. He crosses the road and is gone before I can see him. Birds like that are best left for another day.

          In the orchard Win points, but then tip-toes ahead when I approach her. I have grouse on my mind and react too quickly when a woodcock takes wing beyond the next apple tree. I put two more empties in my pocket, accept Win's comments, and put my shooting glasses back into their case. They are now beaded with water and are more hindrance than help. A miss like that one needs an excuse, and "obscured vision" is as good as any.

          Within a hundred yards Win points again. She holds as I walk in front of her, but no bird gets up. I glance back at her, and she is looking off to her left. I move there. No bird. Now she is looking further to her left, almost behind her. I move there, and two woodcock spring up—My annual chance at a double. I take the far bird cleanly, then pivot to try for the second bird back over my head. I fail to hold under him and miss.

          Win brings in the bird, and I scratch her behind a wet ear. I ask if she scented the birds moving or merely spotted them sulking away from my approach, but she just smiles her open-mouthed dog's smile and won't tell.

          We begin to cross a low marshy area, always wet but now spotted with standing water. I am in up to my ankles when I notice that Win, 15 yards ahead of me, is doing the dog paddle. I retrace my steps and elect to take the long way around to the upper orchard. We must cross through the slash of a recently timbered area, and the going is rough. Win is on game the last 200 yards while I attempt to hurry after her. We are still 60 yards out in the slash when a grouse, then two more, take wing into the evergreens beyond. I am encouraged that they are moving about in spite of the rain, although these three have seemingly vanished. After a couple of fruitless passes through the hemlocks we continue on our way.

          The upper orchard holds two more woodcock for us, both pointed and taken nicely. Beyond the old farmhouse is "woodcock corner."  If there are no other woodcock in the world, there will be at least one here. Win finds him. But the underbrush is thick where her bell stopped, and the bird gets up while I am still searching for the dog: I hear first the bird's twittering flight, then Win's bell again.

          But he is not the last woodcock in the world, because Win points his partner within 100 feet. The bird flushes immediately and swerves behind a small pine. I have the proper lead on him and fire. Every cluster of pine needles acts like a paint brush in the rain, holding a droplet of water at its end. The result is an explosion of spray as the individual shot pellets pass through the bush, leaving me with no idea if the woodcock fell or flew on. Win searches behind the pine and brings in the bird to answer my question.

          We walk back along the dirt drive. In places it is carpeted with fallen swamp maple leaves, all the more crimson for having been washed bright by the rain. Do I love this beautiful season because I hunt? Or do I love hunting as much as I do because it takes place here in autumn?

          Reflected in a puddle is a single scarlet oak leaf, nearly luminescent in its brilliance. The leaf rests lightly on a discarded fence post that is frosted with emerald green moss. I dig out my little camera to capture the scene, but before I can click the shutter a breath of breeze flips the leaf into its own watery reflection.  I attempt to replace it, but cannot recreate the delicate balance, and the resulting photos are of nothing more than an ordinary leaf on a soggy piece of wood. Autumn, and her beauty, are too quickly gone.

           I remove my rain shirt and chaps in an attempt to dry out while I drive. The rain has made inroads around the neck of my sweater, and though my feet are still dry, my pants are wet up to the knees. It won't be much longer before the dampness begins to work its way down the tops of my socks. The windows of the truck fog up, and the cab is filled with the not unpleasant odor of wet bird dog. Win rests her head on the transmission hump in the floor, snoozing. It's 15 minutes to our next stop, the twin covers of Rodger's and Burned Barn.

           Today Burned Barn holds only an owl, who eyes us suspiciously as we approach his roost high in an oak. He glides off, eerily silent, when we are still 50 yards away.

          I emerge from the covert wetter by an hour, and pause for some coffee from the thermos before crossing over into Rodger's. Win looks comically out of proportion with her normally fluffy coat soaked to peaks of meringue. She shivers a bit while waiting for me. There is water inside my rubber-bottomed pacs now. My thoughts run to the pair of dry boots in the truck. A fast pass through Rodger's and then I'll change. There are spare clothes in my war bag, too. Thinking of them makes my sweater feel all the more wet under my rainshirt.

           We work uphill at Rodger's. Under a twisted old apple tree a windfall is still showing white where something has picked at it recently. I examine it: Lots of animals eat wild apples, but this one doesn't seem to be gnawed by teeth. A grouse was eating here within the last few minutes. I look about, thinking of hiding cover.  No place seems more obvious than the next, so we head farther uphill.

          A deadfall. A stand of hemlocks. A tangle of thorns. I send Win to the unlikely side of each one while I walk the other. A stone wall. I send Win over, and as I turn the grouse flushes 50 yards down the wall and is gone in a moment. I stare at the woods, hoping for a clue.

          I get what I am looking for: Nothing, really, just a flash of motion. It could be the movement of a distant tree limb, but it is enough to base a hunch on. I tell myself that what I saw was the grouse moving through the woods after making his turn. If that's true, then he has swerved to the right, heading for the birches beyond the fence. I whistle Win ahead, beginning a circle that will take us through the birches at a right angle to the bird's line of flight.

          Ah, the power of positive thinking.

          Win works the birch flats, dodging the prickly barberries and thorns that grow in clumps all around us. She is an all-day dog, and can work at her easy trotting pace for as long as I care to walk behind her. Some men prefer a bigger ranging dog, but I've always thought more time is spent hunting for their dogs than for birds.

          We pass out of the birches and cross the fence into the old pasture. Have I guessed wrong? More positive thinking: The grouse is here, but our cast through the birches missed him. We walk up the fence a bit and begin a second pass back the way we came. 100 yards in the bird erupts from the far side of a thorn tangle, retreating toward my rear and the overgrown pasture. The shot is easy—15 yards, a natural pivot off my left shoulder. I see the grouse clearly: He is steel gray, and by the proportions of his tail, he is most definitely a "he". On shots like this I can never really recall my own actions, but can accurately recount every move the bird makes.  He passes close and shows me his belly for a moment as he banks away. I fire too fast, as I do with close birds, miss, and then cannot swing fast enough for a second shot. I watch the woods again, but this time see nothing in the way of clues. I look back at Win. "Hey, you get paid to point those things!"

          In reply I get the open-mouthed smile again. The balloon caption over Win's head should read, "And you're supposed to shoot 'em—So what else is new?"

          Chase him? Or hope he will still be there on the way out. He may calm down by then. On the other hand, he may be done feeding for the day and fly out of the old pasture to roost in some pines. My chances of getting a good shot at him are slightly worse than my chances of finding him a third time—I've already used up a lot of luck on this bird, after all.

          I squish my toes inside my boots. There are little puddles in there now. The grouse and the old pasture are between my wet feet and the truck. The deciding vote is cast, and we begin a loop that will take us back through the old pasture and then out.

          Ten minutes later Win stops in mid-stride with a hind foot hanging in the air as she points to her left. Her high head indicates a long-distance point. I move forward.  The grouse is here, but not where Win's point says he is—He roars into flight from behind the next juniper tangle, screened by a cedar 20 yards out. I duck to the right to get clear, but he swerves left and stays hidden by the dense branches, and the time for a shot evaporates. A hundred yards out I see him top some cedars, then turn right heading downhill.

          I tip my wet hat. Three chances are enough for any gun. Admittedly, there is a bit of the sour grapes attitude in my policy, but I will not chase any bird for more than three flushes.

           I pull into the driveway of the house I used to own. Fran Burland comes out onto the porch as I get out of the truck.

          "Steven, you look like a drowned rat."

          "Oh, you're just being nice. I'll bet you say that to all the fellows." I grin at her. "Can I borrow your garage to change my clothes?"

          "Why don't you go into the cellar—It's lots warmer. I'll put on some tea."

          Ten minutes later, slightly wrinkled but dry, I'm in the kitchen talking to my wife on the phone.

          "Hi, Hon. I'm at a nice lady's house, and I just finished putting my clothes on..."

          "You must be at Fran's. How's your tea?"

           Overlook orchard is the next stop. It is the side of a mountain, really, where 20 or 30 years ago someone had a producing apple orchard. Indeed, there are still several piles of what were once apple baskets here, and where a long-handled picking basket was left leaning in a crotch the tree has grown around the pole. 

Half-way down the hillside, in a flat open spot, a single chimney rises from the ruined foundation of a homestead. An old hardy rose still climbs on the foundation, having outlived the dreams of the one who planted it. The orchard is now overgrown into birches and popples, with alders near the bottom where a stream runs along the base of the hill. A hemlock forest climbs the opposite slope. There seems to be an abundance of grouse here year after year, and migrating woodcock stop among the apple trees. The covert is nearly perfect except for the fact that the hills seem to be getting steeper with each passing year.

          My raingear has dried out a little, and I have the renewed optimism that comes of dry clothes on a wet day. In the west a brightening sky promises clearing within the hour.

          Win points my fifth woodcock before we are out of sight of the truck. The hillside is so steep that I approach her by moving from sapling to sapling, holding on with one hand to keep from slipping downhill. Win is rock solid, and holds the bird in spite of my long and clumsy approach. I start to slide as I pass in front of her. The bird rises, twisting among the popple branches, but I'm still sliding. I sit down and poke the barrels in front of the bird and he folds at my shot, falling from 50 feet above me to as many below. Win is determined, and after finding the woodcock she fights her was back up the slope to make the retrieve to my hand. Small as it is, the limit bird weighs comfortably in my gamebag.

          We pass behind the cellar hole. A flock of evening grosbeaks ignores the rain and our presence, intent on their feast of "doll's eye" viburnum berries from the bushes around us.

          At the bottom of the hill we work the stream course for a couple hundred yards. At the end of the cover, as I turn back uphill Win suddenly strikes scent behind me at the edge of the brook. She surges ahead, then sniffs her way back along the bank. After shooting me a quick glance, she plunges into the rain-swollen stream and wades to the other side, then dashes across a small swampy area and points into a fallen hemlock tree.

          There is no stepping stone to be seen, and haste is imperative. I am across in five quick steps. So much for my dry boots. The grouse will flush impossibly into the hemlocks beyond the deadfall, so one approach is as good as the next. I manage a dozen steps before the bird takes wing, flying not so much into the trees as under them in a curving, rising path. There is only one chance for a shot here, and I react quickly and thread the needle through the hemlock boughs—and connect!

          Everything in the world is wet except for the grouse. His feathers float like cattail fluff and stick to everything they touch as if charged with static electricity. Win brings the bird to me, and we retreat to the edge of the brook to clean the grouse and remove the persistent fluff that now clings to both of us.

          In the bird's empty body cavity I place a couple of small cold stones from the stream bed. Admiring the bird, I ponder the imponderable questions of bird hunting; Why is this bird dry? That his crop is full of ground greens indicates that he was moving around in the rain. He must have been feeding on the orchard side of the brook, then flown across to the fallen hemlock when he heard us coming. But how had Win known where he had gone? She went directly to the deadfall after she crossed the stream. Did she scent him from the other side? If she did, then how could she have walked within five feet of the grouse in the birches at Rodger's and not known he was there? And why had I been able to make this difficult shot, yet missed the gift opportunity at Rodger's? For that matter, why hadn't I seen that stone at the narrow spot in the brook where I could have crossed with dry feet?

          I admire the bird's tail one last time, then slip him head-first into my gamebag. Maybe if I always understood what the dog was doing and outguessed all the birds' maneuvers and connected on every shot, maybe then all the challenge would be gone from upland hunting. Maybe. One thing is for certain, though: A little consistency wouldn't hurt.

          My truck is at the top of the opposite slope, which I noticed on the way down is indeed steeper than it was last year. Under the seat are my worn out penny loafers with a ratty old pair of wool socks stuffed into them. The rain, which had stopped for awhile, now begins anew. Whatever signs of clearing I saw in the west have vanished.  I open the gun and start back up the hill.

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