Day's End
Enjoying the Ride
W
hy are grouse hunters so
serious? Why is a bird in
hand worth so much more
than one in the bush?
I mean they and we,
when skunked, are eternally waxing on
about the beauty of the day and such, as
though the antics of the birds themselves
are of no concern. After all, the grouse
are what lead us where we go. Old
Burton Spiller always had flushes that
went this way or that and seemingly
always got shot at. I have flushes that
go that way or this, and I get a blast
sometimes in the general direction as I
step in a hole and head for the ground, or
I get a snagged-armpit whip shot that’s
off by 30 degrees. And
I’m happy if I make it
through the course of a
day with only one face
plant off a slippery wet,
slashing log.
I mean, I grew up
in North Dakota where
the pheasants make a
whopping racket as they
cackle and get up and
then fly straightaway into
the open sky. Once you
calm down and realize
you are hunting with your full choke
duck gun, it isn’t that hard to nail them.
Grouse, on the other hand ... no big
sky, no straightaway flights, no swing
through.
Don’t even wear a big hat.
The prickly elm or hawthorn
will pluck it off your head and
throw it to the ground well
behind you. And when you go
back and bend down to retrieve
it, a grouse flushes from five
feet away. You should laugh.
Or maybe you will be
caught in a tangle of antique
barbed wire in the nowhere
of the woods, and when you
finally give up and reach
down to free your pant leg,
you find yourself eyeball to
eyeball with old ruff. And he
will putt and purr and strut just
off your nose until you decide
enough is enough and start to
advance your trusty firearm.
At the merest micrometer of
movement of your shotgun,
old ruff exits stage left and is
straightaway behind the biggest
oak in the forest. And you
should laugh at him, too. And
yourself as well.
And you’ll hunt all day
and hear birds going hither
and yon but always just
beyond your ken, or view,whichever is broader. Then you’ll
flush a wonderful red phase giant
across an open meadow, and he will
fly directly at your partner who, while
currently answering nature’s call, not
only precludes your shot but is also
incapacitated from taking one of his
own. You get to laugh at yourself, the
bird and your friend on that one.
However, sometimes during the
day the gods of physics bless you, and
the kinetic energy of your shot string
meets the evanescent energy of a fleeing
grouse at a single point in the time-space
continuum, and you have a bird for
dinner. And it is exquisite, succulent,
tender, flavorsome, wild and worthy of
at least a lightly chilled $50 Meursault.
But you’ll oblige with a can of beer
and be tired and happy and ready to go
again tomorrow. And, hopefully, forever
you will laugh at your foibles and your
ability to be outdone by a half a gram of
brainpower in a plump brown or gray or
red handful of feathers.
So why take it seriously? Grouse
make fools of us, and hunting them is a
humbling kick. Sort of like life. As my
existentialist merchant mariner son once
decided while watching waves go by,
“Life has no meaning, so the best we can
do is enjoy the ride.” As I see it, there’s
no better fulfillment of those truths than
following a dog through the grouse woods
and going wherever the bird takes us.- Jim Gilsdorf
“Luc,” digital image, Tailfeather Communications, LLC“Lunchtime Negotiation,” digital image,
Tailfeather Communications, LLC