Mud, Memories, and Bird dogs

The alarm clock never got a chance to go off this morning, not because of the excitement of a day of bird hunting but because my dog Trapper noticed a change in my breathing. Apparently that was all it takes to kick off a day of hunting. Today was going to be a good day for us both. A cool crisp morning is the perfect time to chase birds in the south.

The woodcock migration was in full swing and early reports indicated that it was heavy this year. Tennessee is a perfect place to chase these kings of the southern woods. Oddy enough not many southern upland hunters pursue these birds. Perhaps it’s the perception that they don’t taste well or maybe it’s because hunting them is very different from the more popular bobwhite quail.

Pre-hunt mornings are always the same routine. The dogs go outside while I prepare coffee and breakfast. After the morning rituals were complete, I uttered a quick prayer for some really dumb woodcock. After All this was Trappers first season and we needed all the help we could get.

The very second the door of the gun safe opened, Ole trapper started for the door. When I got to the truck he promptly sat down by the passenger door like a good boy. Only problem is he was supposed to ride in his dog box. Since this was, more than likely, the last hunt of the season I caved and let him ride “shotgun”.

This morning I happened to know exactly where I wanted to hunt. We arrived at a local Wildlife Management Area shortly before 8 in the morning. Normally I would avoid these areas like the plague because of deer season, but that closed last weekend. As I pulled into the designated parking area there was only a single other truck there. I would say the truck was 20 years old if it was a day old. Not junk yard quality but, it had certainly seen better days. The homemade dog box indicated that this was an old school hunter. Most likely a rabbit hunter, as upland hunters went away when the quail population crashed. In fact, I only knew of one other guy who still chased these wild birds. 

Trapper and I were waiting for my partner over coffee and Little Debbie Snacks. Yea I know all the dog trainers are cringing because I share my snacks with my dog. Well, he is mine, he likes little Debbie’s, and my mother taught me to share.

Shortly after we parked my partner, and the guy who is NEVER late, called to say his daughter had his first grandson last night and he couldn’t make it. Normally I would say there is absolutely no excuse to bail, or be late, on a hunting trip. This time though I didn’t get sideways as you could hear his pride over the phone. I looked at the young trapper and said, “Today is all on you boy”.

While I had my back turned Trapper found the only mudhole in miles and proceeded to take himself a mud bath, then he found what was left of a deer gut pile and rolled in that as well. This dog can’t be trusted to his own means. To him everything in life is an opportunity for fun, then I realized if people were more like bird dogs the world would be a better place.

I called trapper over to the truck, Muddy and stinking to high heaven. He sat there like he was posing for a magazine. I think he does stuff like that just to make me swear.

The plan was to test out my new side by side while we worked some old grown over fence rows, and creek bottoms. I held my breath and put the tracking collar on Trap, he is not a fan of this new collar. However, he has learned the drill and knows the rules “no collar no hunt”, I was worried about him running into a pack of beagles and deciding he was a rabbit dog. I mean he is still just a 75-pound puppy.

I was getting my gun out of the cab when I heard a single shot ring out in the morning air. Odd I thought, as no beagles could be heard before or after the shot. The shot also came from a piece of cover I know holds birds this time of the year.  Then about 3 seconds later I heard a voice call out in the distance “Dammit Sam.” At that moment I was not a 55-year-old bird hunter with more miles behind him than in front of him. I was a 7-year-old boy on a pheasant hunt in the late 1970’s. Our dog’s name was Sam, and as a pup she was terrible at holding until we got there. My dad yelling “Dammit Sam”, when she flushed the birds prematurely, is a long-lost memory of mine.

I would have daydreamed more had it not been for trapper screaming and running for the truck. He had been doing his thing and peeing on everything within 20 yards. When I looked to see what all the excitement was about, I saw he had made a friend. A very stinky friend. So now he was covered in mud, week old deer remnants, and had tangled with a skunk and lost.

It was at that moment I realized that my hunt was not only over, but it had also been oddly fulfilling. Hearing that man yell “Dammit Sam” took me back a few years and made me remember what’s important. It’s not the birds at all that we seek, it’s the experience and the memories made while chasing them. However, I do wish Trapper would make a few less stinky memories on our journey through the uplands together.