Time to reflect

[TylerS]

With hunting season right around the corner, it's nice to reflect on memorable hunts. Why don't we share? Post up your favorite upland hunt and what made it so special. I'll start:

Fifteen years ago, when I was 12, I happily graduated from firearms safety training in Buffalo, Minn. This was during the summer, however, so I had several months to anxiously wait for my father's yearly grouse hunting trip up to grandma and grandpa's place near Chisholm.

Oh sure, I'd gone along in the past, but always as a helper; a tag-along. I’m sure I would have made a great retriever, too – if any grouse actually were shot while I was long.

In dozen years of life, I’d figured out many things about grouse hunting. It consisted mostly of walking paths on or around grandpa's property; old ATV trails that my uncle and cousins tried to keep clear during the year. On occasion, we’d hop in my grandfather’s old Chevy pickup truck and drive back roads. Once, a few years earlier, my cousins and I were sent flying into the back of the seats in front of us when Uncle Mike slammed on the brakes. He and my dad were out of the vehicle in the blink of an eye, and all three of us cousins were craning to see out of the small backseat window as they stealthily slinked into the woods. We held our collective breaths, waiting for the heart-stopping report of a shotgun. But it never came. Mike later would say he thought a grouse was sitting on a stump, but upon their investigation discovered it was, in fact, just a log.

For some reason, I always remember being damp this time of year. It was as if it perpetually rained every autumn. The golden leaves from the poplars and birch glistened with moisture from sun-up to sundown. And the knee-high grass that grew in the middle of the trail where ATV wheels didn’t touch kept my pants just as soggy.

My hand-me-down brown leather boots would be soaked within the first five minutes of a walk. And everything was too large: the jacket I'd gotten from a cousin, the old, army-colored hunting vest, and the floppy orange cap on my head. If I wasn't trying to pull up my sleeves to keep them from falling past my hands, I was constantly pushing up my cap so I could see just what the heck was going on.

This year, however, I wasn’t just a spectator. For the first time in my life, I was participating in the hunt. We drove the four hours up to my grandparent’s place and I went straight to bed. Falling asleep, however, was another thing entirely. I laid there on the basement couch, eyes wide, staring at the drop-in ceiling tiles. They were speckled with tiny black dots, and I did my best to count each one. But, being young, my imagination ran rampant and it wasn’t long until each dot took on the feathery form of a bird. Then, instead of sleeping, I’d be wide awake and relishing the idea of shooting my first “partridge,” as grandpa called them.

Eventually I did fall asleep, and when that gentle shake from dad in the morning greeted me, I snapped awake like a well-oiled mouse trap.

Dad took his time. Having grown up hunting grouse, this was old hat to him and he wasn’t in a hurry. But I wasn’t about to wait around. Slipping into my over-sized clothes, I was up the stairs and at the kitchen table ready to devoir whatever breakfast was laid before me. Hunger didn’t have a chance to send one gurgle of warning from my belly by the time I’d downed the bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios.

I was just walking out of the bathroom when grandpa spoke, with a quiet voice.

“There are grouse in the driveway,” he said, almost a whisper. “Get your gun.”

Time seemed to stop for a moment. Somehow, I was out in the driveway with the single-shot .410 in hand before I even knew what was going on. The thumping of my heart sounded like it was blaring from my ears. Slowly, deliberately, I made my way to the end of the short driveway.

I crept like Elmer Fud up to the rickety mailbox that was planted near the main road. Around it sprang dense weeds and ferns that cowered below spindly poplars and a mighty pine tree. Between the pounding of my heart and the crunching of my feet on the gravel road, I was sure the birds would be long gone by the time I was in position.

Upon reaching the end of the driveway, I made an about-face and stopped. The .410 vibrated as my tiny hands held fast in an iron grip. All was quiet in the early morning of the north woods. That ever-present moisture glazed leaves and trees alike in a thick layer of dew. The air was even damp, and a slight wisp of fog barely remained visible among the nooks and crannies of foliage.

Like a brown claymore, the grouse exploded from my feet. Then another, and another. By the time the synapses of my brain fired loud enough to tell my tiny hands to pull the hammer back on the old single-shot, three more had taken off in a feathered fury. The gun was to my shoulder in an instant, but not up to my cheek. Too bad, as the seventh grouse blasted skyward in a burst of acceleration that, to this day, seems nearly impossible.

Grandpa, who’d been watching from the kitchen window the entire time, emerged from the house and walked up the driveway.

“Why didn’t you shoot?” he asked, a slight grin creasing his wrinkled face.

I stood there, dumbfounded, unsure myself what had just occurred. The fleeting seconds of action replayed in my mind like a sick horror film. What had happened? I didn’t really know. The excitement of the moment combined with the seemingly impossible stiffness of the hammer made for inevitable futility.

Grandpa gently pried the .410 from my still clenched finger and, in one motion, set the hammer back in place. We walked back to the house without a word.

I don’t think I saw another grouse that weekend. After that initial morning excitement, I was determined to hike every mile that my dad did in an effort to redeem myself. It was tough going, and frustration quickly built as mile after mile ticked off with nary a grouse in sight. But even as no further opportunity presented itself, I became a helpless grouse hunting addict.

In fact, it was another two years before I finally shot my first partridge. And it was several more years after that until I finally took one in the air.

But to this day, the memory of that morning haunts me. And every fall on our yearly trip up to grandma and grandpa’s place, I make sure the first spot we check is that old mailbox. Just in case a grouse wants to try and fool me again.

This time, I’ll be ready.

[slimngrizzly]

Your quite the "wordsmith" Tyler. Nice story! You should submit something to a few magazines. Your a great storyteller. Thanks for the read. Keep it up!

[TylerS]

Your quite the "wordsmith" Tyler. Nice story! You should submit something to a few magazines. Your a great storyteller. Thanks for the read. Keep it up!

Appreciate the kind words! I'm a reporter, so writing is just part of the biz. But anything outdoors is my passion...makes word-smithing much more enjoyable

Well, nearly 100 views and nobody else has any memorable upland hunts? C'mon...it's right around the corner! I'll help you out: pretend you're having a cold one, chatting with friends around the campfire on the night before opener...

[cbrooks]

Appreciate the kind words! I'm a reporter, so writing is just part of the biz. But anything outdoors is my passion...makes word-smithing much more enjoyable

Are you the outdoors writer for the Fargo Forum?

Oh I'm just getting into upland hunting and all hunting for that matter, first year, so I don't have any story's...yet otherwise I would be posting

[TylerS]

Are you the outdoors writer for the Fargo Forum?

Oh I'm just getting into upland hunting and all hunting for that matter, first year, so I don't have any story's...yet otherwise I would be posting

HA! I wish. After they dumped McFeely, I tried getting in there as his replacement. I was told that having an outdoors section wasn't the "direction" the paper was going. Funny, eh? Especially since they still run outdoors stories almost every week, except now they're regurgitated from other newspapers (Strip, Herald, Duluth News Tribune, etc.)

But I digress...

[life=outdoors92]

my favorite one when i was bout 7 or 8 hunting with the ol daisy red ryder bb gun along my dad who used his 20 gauge. couple birds were sittin on our road (200 yards of grassy road surrounded by thick forest on each side). i thought i was so cool in my new huntin boots, new glenns army navy camo pants, and my red ryder shooting at those birds. they ran off into the woods after a couple of my shots and i pouted the rest of the hunt and when we left to go home that night. i just couldn't grasp the idea of why they wouldn't die. took me till i got my first 20 gauge (12 years old)to realize that it takes a little more than a red ryder to down a grouse

[cbrooks]

HA! I wish. After they dumped McFeely, I tried getting in there as his replacement. I was told that having an outdoors section wasn't the "direction" the paper was going. Funny, eh? Especially since they still run outdoors stories almost every week, except now they're regurgitated from other newspapers (Strip, Herald, Duluth News Tribune, etc.)

But I digress...

Thats too bad they don't have an outdoor section. I always look forward to Brad Dokken's articles every Sunday for the Herald. I would buy a Forum if they had a outdoor section thats not regurgitated.

[TylerS]

my favorite one when i was bout 7 or 8 hunting with the ol daisy red ryder bb gun along my dad who used his 20 gauge. couple birds were sittin on our road (200 yards of grassy road surrounded by thick forest on each side). i thought i was so cool in my new huntin boots, new glenns army navy camo pants, and my red ryder shooting at those birds. they ran off into the woods after a couple of my shots and i pouted the rest of the hunt and when we left to go home that night. i just couldn't grasp the idea of why they wouldn't die. took me till i got my first 20 gauge (12 years old)to realize that it takes a little more than a red ryder to down a grouse

[Da Biggin]

I grew up in a family that predominately fished; and, I mean the old school way of fishing. Sit in the boat for what felt like fifty billions hours in absolute silence, surrounded by acres of water with not so much as a single molecule of it for hydration, and my body ached with rigidity as we could not move, talk, cough, or have the incidental flatulant outburst all due to the skittish nature of the elusive freshwater gamefish. With that all being said it wasn't until I became and adult (so I'm told) that I was given the opportunity to experience the exhilarating joys of movement while enjoying the outdoors.

It was a deal settled with a cold brew and a handshake. I would put this deal somewhere in the ballpark of the Louisiana purchase: I teach you to fish if you teach me to hunt... And with that the tale yet to be finished began.

It was a picturesque morning. The sun breaking ever so slightly above the tree tops, the woods yawned alive with the whispers of wind, and the chill darn near froze my man berries right off! Forecast my rump! Anyway, we arrived at our destination and the anticipation grew exponentially. The dogs were wired and adding to the electricity of trying to fathom the unknown. "Ok, let's go get 'em." echoed in the awkward silence and like a jack rabbit flushed from its burrow I was out of the truck, door flung solidly behind me. Just as quickly the field itself seemed to take flight. Before I could so much as grasp the idea of holding the firearm let alone shooting it that what we pursued was gone in the flap of a wing... "well, let's move to the next spot and this time try not to slam the door please". Like a scolded puppy I slinked back into the truck. Looky here it's my lifelong fishing buddy! The weight of his memories seeming to be stored in every muscle at once. Twenty minutes later we crested a hill over looking what appeared to be a tufted ocean of golds with green highlights. As if someone hit the reset button we start again but this time I don't move an inch. Out goes my friend, his father, and the two dogs. I light tap on the window snaps me back to reality. "You plan on hunting this trip or just keeping the truck company?". I opened the door with surgical precision with hands like lead and took even more care to shut the door. First success behind me I embark on the trek that would spiral me to what some would equate to addiction.

The fatigue of carrying my borrowed vest loaded to the gills will shot shells and holding what was astronomically heavier than any graphite fishing rod I'd ever fished with (which was getting heavier with every step by the way) began to mount. The pleasure of watching the dogs work feverishly to harbor the scent of game began dissepating as mist on the breeze. I'm starting to think this is golf with a gun! Just then the seasoned brittany spaniel locks up tighter than the tin man and the labrador rushes in wildly nose first. I was on top of the pointer like bottled lightning and before I knew it I heard a noise I had never imagined. The sound rang from so close it could have been in my britches! And from between my legs shot a ghostly figure making the most God awful cackle. As instinctive as the fight or flight syndrome itself, 26 inches of barrel swung around and reported the sentiment equaled by the thumping of my heartbeat. After the field grew quiet again and a quick shake of the legs to make sure I didn't wet myself I looked to find the black lab, whom previously despised the idea me, wagging uncontrollably mouth agape with feathers strewn about both sides. I shot it? I shot it! I took the bird with a wink of approval from the dog. Satisfacttion began to warm my chilled body until looked at the bird. How am I going to clean this? The voice of wisdom broke the silence and critiqued, "That was a good shot but we typically let the bird get out a ways more. Leaves more meat that way."

One in the pouch and yet my load seemed lighter. That first bird on the ground opened the door for what inevitably replaced my fishing buddy, camaraderie. We walked what could have been an eternity, shot countless amounts of times at what felt like and infinite amount of birds. Ribbing one another for shots missed that others felt should have been made and congradulating one another on shots that we all thought were just this side of Tom Knapp. In the end, now wearing exhaustion as a badge of honor, we limited out for the day. But the narcotic effect of that first bird is a high I continue to chase. 9 months later I've got my own hunting partner to aid in my quest and a new shotgun to boot!

I smell October on the breeze and here the angelic call of the wild ringneck beckoning me to my next hit. Low numbers or not its going to be a good season for me.

[Traxxx]

Well done. You have quite the way with words. Good read