Post by Uplander on Nov 14, 2005 10:11:36 GMT -5
On Saturday, after a push through some swampy woodcock covers to close out the last day of Massachusetts’ woodcock season, I set aside the 28 gauge Red Label and took a walk in my favorite partridge cover with the venerable 20 gauge Browning Auto-5. I was already whipped from the morning’s hard hunt. So, after almost an hour, I was beginning to stumble, had seen no birds, the sun was going down, and a hot shower and glass of wine was sounding better and better….
Suddenly, at least 50 yards out in front of me, a partridge rumbled skyward in a tangle of grapes and brambles. I could barely make it out through the thicket ahead. The very first thought that went through my head was a grumble that yet another d**n bird this season was wild and wooly, flushing way out ahead with no chance for a shot. The second thought that went through my head was that the brown rocket streaking in my direction was getting awfully close, awfully fast! Without even a modicum of conscious thought on my part, the gun hopped up to my shoulder. POW! The bird crumpled and skidded to a stop in the dry leaves only feet from where I was standing. It took me all of two strides to reach the nice big red phase hen.
I still can’t believe that bird committed suicide in such a fashion! This season all the birds I’ve been finding have been unbelievably crafty, flushing far, far out ahead, and presenting very difficult shooting.
I don’t know what made this bird decide to flush in my direction. Perhaps it feared something else in another direction more than it did me. Or, perhaps it just wasn’t as wily as all the others this season. Either way, that is one defective gene I have removed from the pool.
As I sat on a mossy log, staring out across the valley with the warm bird lolling gently in my hand and the setting sun casting its long shadows through the bare November forest, I admired the gift Nature had given to me.
The tail fan will be preserved as a memento, sometime this Winter that partridge will be a part of a wonderful game dinner, and, this coming Summer many Berkshire brookies will rise and strike the flies tied with its feathers!
Berkshire Partridge
Suddenly, at least 50 yards out in front of me, a partridge rumbled skyward in a tangle of grapes and brambles. I could barely make it out through the thicket ahead. The very first thought that went through my head was a grumble that yet another d**n bird this season was wild and wooly, flushing way out ahead with no chance for a shot. The second thought that went through my head was that the brown rocket streaking in my direction was getting awfully close, awfully fast! Without even a modicum of conscious thought on my part, the gun hopped up to my shoulder. POW! The bird crumpled and skidded to a stop in the dry leaves only feet from where I was standing. It took me all of two strides to reach the nice big red phase hen.
I still can’t believe that bird committed suicide in such a fashion! This season all the birds I’ve been finding have been unbelievably crafty, flushing far, far out ahead, and presenting very difficult shooting.
I don’t know what made this bird decide to flush in my direction. Perhaps it feared something else in another direction more than it did me. Or, perhaps it just wasn’t as wily as all the others this season. Either way, that is one defective gene I have removed from the pool.
As I sat on a mossy log, staring out across the valley with the warm bird lolling gently in my hand and the setting sun casting its long shadows through the bare November forest, I admired the gift Nature had given to me.
The tail fan will be preserved as a memento, sometime this Winter that partridge will be a part of a wonderful game dinner, and, this coming Summer many Berkshire brookies will rise and strike the flies tied with its feathers!
Berkshire Partridge
