The sound of the truck tires hitting the gravel and leaving the pavement mark my arrival at the aspen cut, and I slow the Chevy down to survey the cover. Golden yellow aspen mixed with edges of dark green conifers, with a brown tannin-stained creek cutting through the middle of a swamp, provide the edges I am looking for. I pull the truck to the grassy shoulder of the two-track, shut the engine off and take one last sip of my morning coffee before leaving the warmth of the cab. The frosty morning, although frigid compared to the heated seat of the truck, welcomes me, and feels good after weeks of unseasonably warm weather both at home and up here in the north country. I open the back door of the crew cab to get my gear and notice the deafening silence. Not only is the breeze as still as a lifeless body on a battlefield and no other hunters in sight, but unfortunately, this year, there is no sound of a canine whining with anticipation coming from a dog box in the truck bed either.
With my strap vest on and a couple of twenty-gauge shells in the chambers of my side by side, I step into the aspens and walk the edge of the swamp. I head west, with the morning sun at my back, and inhale the smell of the earthy autumn woods deeply. It feels like a homecoming, and it is certainly good to be back in the north woods. I take a quick compass bearing and continue into the trees, once again noticing the silence. I hear nothing but the slow flowing creek to my left and my own boots gently on the forest floor. The sound of a bell ringing through the forest with each step of a hunting birddog, one of the most beautiful and melodious sounds ever created by God I might add, is absent. Also gone is the welcome weight of a lanyard resting around my neck carrying a whistle and e-collar remote. There is no short leash or tube of EMT gel, both “just in case” items, in my vest pocket and there is no plastic jar full of dog treats waiting in the truck for after the hunt.
I break my way deeper into the aspens without flushing a bird for almost forty-five minutes before I decide to cross the creek and head back to the truck on the other side. I find a narrow spot and easily step over the small flow. Just as my second foot lands on the far bank, the thundering sound of a grouse flushing to my left snaps me out of my thoughts as it flies to the right and away from me. I get off a quick shot, but do not see a bird fall. Nonetheless, I make my way through the tangle of alders, jack pine and young aspen that make up this side of the creek and head in the direction of where I last seen the bird to have a look. There is no need for me to call out “Dead bird!” to alert the dog he has work to do nor is there a blur of fur and collar as the dog searches for feathered quarry. I investigate the area thoroughly with no reward for my efforts other than the joy of just being in the moment. I give up, confident of a clean miss, and continue in the direction of the truck.
I do not walk far when a bedded whitetail deer leaps from its slumber not twelve yards from me, hurdles the creek and disappears into the forest. Startled, I take a moment to let my heartbeat slow back to a normal pace while standing still and admiring the morning sunshine on the aspen leaves.
I undertake my trek to the truck again, half expecting another deer to jump up at any moment. My pace is slow and so is the hunting, until I come to a low-lying clearing in the trees. The spot is about as big as a swimming pool with earth that is soft from the creek rising above its banks in the not-so-distant past.
I have just enough time to tell myself there might be a woodcock in here when as if on cue Mr. Timberdoodle launches himself into the air twittering. In the blink of an eye, I bring the side by side to shoulder, point and squeeze the trigger. The beauty of a woodcock in flight is interrupted as the load of seven and a halves dissects its path, and the small bird falls groundward lifeless. I have no time to think as a thunderous blur of feathers is heard at the edge of the clearing and the lightning-fast flush of a grouse jump starts my muscle memory. I swing with the bird and pull the trigger, letting loose with the second and only loaded barrel of my shotgun. It too stops midflight and drops to the ground. With my gun empty, I can do nothing but stare as another woodcock takes flight at the sound of my second shot and rises over the alders to disappear unscathed.
With little effort, I quickly find both the woodcock and the grouse. There is no retrieve to hand from a tail-wagging, proud bird dog nor is there any struggling to get the pup to pose with our bounty for a proper picture. The joy of a successful hunt is tainted with the lack of man’s best friend, and I find it sadly unfulfilling. I lay the birds across a fallen tree, lean my unloaded gun next to them and sit down on the log. I reach into one of the pockets on my hunting vest and remove a leather pouch that holds my pipe and tobacco. I take my time packing the pipe and putting flame to it, enjoying every moment of an almost forgotten tradition. With a puff or two the tobacco begins to glow, and I extinguish the wooden match. I lay the match on the log next to me to cool as I blow a smoke ring upward. The smoke ring rises and breaks apart as it sneaks its way through the branches overhead. There is no dog sitting nearby waiting for a drink of water or mischievously chewing on a pinecone.
As I enjoy the pipe, my thoughts are taken back to days in the field with a particular four-legged hunting companion. His time on earth had ended a little over a year ago and at times like this I miss him terribly. Although this has been a great morning in one of my favorite places on earth, it is not the same without his goofy ass to share it with. My mind wanders through each of our secret covers and countless trips together, my heart sinking further and further with each memory. I sit for what feels like a minute or two, but as the last of the tobacco turns to ash, I realize I have been reminiscing for almost forty minutes. I ensure the pipe is good and out, dig a boot heal sized depression in the ground and dump the ash into it. I cover the hole back up and stomp it firmly. Confident that I have extinguished any potential danger, I load both birds into my vest’s game bag, reload my gun and continue towards the truck.
No more birds are flushed or seen until I step out of the aspen and onto the gravel road. I glance north at my parked Chevy fifty yards away and there, just steps away from the driver’s door, are three ruffed grouse going through their morning routine of eating grit and gravel. They see me while I spot them, and they stop what they are doing simultaneously. There is a moment of stillness as we give each other the stink eye and then the largest bird walks into the forest with the other two birds in tow. Without a dog that needs the work, I opt not to chase them into the woods. I unload my gun and walk to the truck, the gravel crunching under my boots with each step.
Back at the truck I load up my gear, put the twenty-gauge in its case and climb into the driver’s seat. I put the truck in drive and give a quick glance in the direction the three grouse took to retreat. They are there, just mere feet inside the dark woods, watching me intently. I tip my hat to the king of gamebirds, sigh deeply with yearning for the smell of puppy breath and drive away.
A Cranky Woodsman 