Mike pointed and two birds broke, one went
down but the other headed due north. Following our usual practice,
we followed the line of that bird. Mike found several more birds,
all of which headed north after we saluted them, and we followed.
Trailblazer worried aloud that we were distancing ourselves from
the cars but I had my compass and told him not to worry. He felt
secure with that knowledge.
Eventually, I glanced at my watch and realized we had better
start back. Mike, of course, chose that moment to point a bird
out in an alder swamp that broke and offered a long shot. I knocked
it down and we spent quite some time searching unsuccessfully
for it in tall swamp grass. Finally giving up, I said, "Let's
get moving, we've gotta get out of here fast."
We headed south on my compass heading and I let Mike continue
to hunt because I knew we weren't far from the road. After some
time passed and we didn't strike the road, I picked up the pace,
scanning ahead and expecting to see the road any second. Trailblazer
humped along behind me. When more time passed and no road materialized,
I began to circumspectly inspect my compass every couple of minutes.
Fear and doubt crept into my mind and I began to wonder if we
were in some kind of magnetic field and the compass was wrong.
I knew we should have been at the road a long time ago.
Soon I was all but running through the cover, getting sort of
panicky but making sure I didn't show it for Trailblazer's peace
of mind. Right about then his voice wafted up to me, "Boy,
Bob, I'm sure glad I'm with you, I don't have any idea where
we are." Talk about feeling guilty.
There's no way to describe the relief I felt when we clawed through
a particularly nasty piece of cover |
and blundered unsuspectingly onto the road.
It was a long walk back to the cars and I discovered what I would
have learned had I only driven further east on the road. It was
laid out in a crooked pattern with quite a few long jogs to the
south before resuming a brief easterly course.
Not too long after that adventure, Trailblazer bought a GPS unit.
Apparently he decided we weren't infallible after all. I was
too proud and penurious to buy one and continued to rely on my
compass and sense of direction. Admittedly, there were a few
times when both conflicted that I asked him to confirm the direction
of the cars. We did learn, the hard way, that compass, GPS or
sense of direction aren't foolproof if you wander through the
North Woods chasing birds in a wandering loop. The GPS is handy
to give you a straight line back to the car, but it doesn't show
you the flowage you discover he's between you and the car.
RULE: Be careful of what you ask and of whom you ask it. Asking
"Get it?" when your partner shoots is fine, provided
he's an experienced hand. That same question asked of a tyro
or a man who spends most of his time balancing the demands of
bird season and those of domestic tranquility will produce a
predictably Pavlovian response. 'Yeah, pretty sure I did."
Somehow, your simple question has conjured up in his mind a picture
of the bird tumbling to the ground after it went out of sight.
This man will not have one of Pavlov's dogs so you will be expected
to haw yours in and search for the bird. Certainly every missed
grouse should be followed. A decent dog will find a surprising
number of them dead of a body shot a few hundred yards away.
You will learn, the hard way, to ignore the shots of the tyro
and to remain silent. If he truly saw the bird come crashing
down, he'll call to you when he can't |
find its camouflaged body. If you're a
nice fellow, you'll probably forget this rule and remember it
only after several instances of walking to the tyro and asking
"Where's the bird?" and hearing, "Down there."
You will never again forget this rule after looking down several
perilous slopes into a distant valley, scrambling down there
while he remains on top to "keep the line", finding
nothing and clawing your way back up after wasting a half-hour
of hunting time and five years of your life.
RULE: if you shoot reloads, the only misfires you'll ever experience
will occur simultaneous with the "chance of a lifetime."
I've had three misfires in more than 30 years of shooting Coach's
grouse loads. Each came over a beautiful point and was an opportunity
for a classic double. All occurred with the second barrel when,
after cleanly downing the first bird, I covered the easier second
one, pulled and heard "ploof ".
RULE: "Newcomer," or the person in your group who'd
be better off carrying rocks than a gun, will get shot after
shot while you might as well be in an adjoining county. Accept
this, it is a given. Logic may suggest a way to circumvent this
rule and turn it to your advantage. Forget it, you'll just double
your grief and imperil your sanity.
Let me explain: Coach and Cloudy were setting up deer stands
one morning in an area that also was home to quite a few grouse.
I volunteered to take Cloudy's son and Trailblazer on a short
hunt so they weren't bored. My reasoning was sound. The boy was
a neophyte at wing shooting and Trailblazer gave credence to
the theory about not being able to hit the side of a barn while
standing inside it. I figured to get lots of action by taking
the middle with my setter and positioning them on the flanks.
I have no idea how many birds flushed out of range for me but
sailed over and alongside Trailblaz |
