My Genesis
Certainly, hunters must have one particular experience that launched a life of pursuit. A magical moment set apart from all others; one experience that sustains us through the many days when game is scarce.
For me, the bird was our native ruffed grouse and the place was the cherished forests in and around my aunt and uncle’s 300-acre wood. This was the space and time when the timber-king fell to earth at the bark of the gun in my hands.
On bird sparse days, I have learned to find the experiences that made those times wonderful in other ways. Say, when dogs perform flawlessly or conversation with companions was most engaging. Though I may be bird less and tired, I am always invigorated from a day of exercise and comradery.
Yes, there are several reasons to enjoy each day and, often, there’s time to reflect on the opportunities we’ve been given.
Like many youngsters growing up in my area and era, the rugged outdoors had a certain appeal. In my lifetime, the ebbs and flows of environmental approaches have ranged from sound science to, sometimes bazaar, spiritual precepts. From taking an active role as a hunter-gatherer to letting nature take its course; absent of all human interaction. For me, I chose the allure of wild things – such as ruffed grouse. To take part in the struggle and witness the many strategies wildlife uses to successfully maintain life.
Sluicing a grouse (the act of potting a bird on the ground) was generally how to start a young hunter on the path. Much like a lioness returning with a wounded young antelope for its cubs, that’s how we began. There was encouragement yet, always a clear message that, to be a “real” hunter, you must eventually snatch birds from the air. The hunting literature and mentoring adults, all in one accord, preached the sermon of the sport’s highest-level of skill and excitement.
The apex of such a goal was taking the king of the forest, the ruffed grouse, on the wing. Easier said than done when the firearm is a single-shot Stevens .410 manufactured in 1913. Rest assured, it wasn’t new when I bought it!
In the hands of a twelve-year-old set free to bring home wild game for the table, a gun was powerful medicine - a step toward adulthood. Before considering condemnation, it is best to keep things in historical perspective. First, sporting firearms held greater familiarity and, I dare say, caring mentorship within the family unit more plentiful, in that regard. Statistically, it is still far safer to allow a responsible pre-teen to tote a gun alone in the woods than to allow a teen to drive a vehicle. This is undeniable.
So, there I was, in the grouse-woods, on a sun-dappled September afternoon - just me and my nearly antique Stevens four-ten. I can even recall what I was wearing; blue jeans, a three-quarter sleeved purple football jersey – number 77 – and a brightly colored cap I got that summer in Alaska. I wasn’t totally new to the sport, either. During the season or two that I had hunted, I had already learned many grouse habits and hunting tactics.
For example, to hunt safely, I could not hunt with the hammer set to fire. But there were obvious grouse-holding haunts such as small creek crossings in the bends of old logging roads where gun and hammer were often at the ready. And edges of open glens that allowed enough sunlight to grow large stands of elderberry; their branches hung-low with waxy purple fruit. My journey would begin at just such a place, over a half-century ago.
The dry creek bed with its tangle of wild raspberry and thimble berry did not produce the thundering flush of a ruffed grouse that I had hoped for. A bit disappointed, I climbed out of the wooded draw toward the top of a long ridge. As I neared an opening, I moved the diminutive four-ten to port arms and placed my right thumb firmly on its hammer’s spur. I crept with purpose; armed with expectation and the experience of having been there before.
I could see the tops of the monster elderberry bush above and, as yet, did not spy a feeding grouse among its branches. I listened for the tell-tale chirping twill of a startled ruffy, the noise it makes while deciding its mode of escape. If caught early, it could be dropped from a branch or sluiced off the ground prior to its flush. Most often, all it allowed was enough time to thumb the hammer, raise the steelie gray barrel along with its bead of silver to my eye and loose a parting volley toward a flash of feathers.
Startled without the benefit of warning, I was caught as much unaware as waiting. The large male grouse, tail broad like a fanned deck of cards, exploded from the base of thick elderberry! It coursed up-slope, following the ridge’s spine! Youthful reflexes and familiarity allowed an attempt, though failing. Not disappointed - to the contrary. I enjoyed the action and the mere act of shooting. Besides, to my way of thinking, hitting a flushing grouse was near miraculous, not impossible but certainly not to be expected.
I had learned that ruffies, though fleet, didn’t tend to fly far. Generously offering multiple flushes - and therefore, shots - if you followed the direction of flight. To its list of tendencies, you can add that they tend to land short of entering openings such as logging roads and clearings. I knew that there was another opening above the bench of forest it had flown into and an excellent chance that it would take a seat on an evergreen bow before leaving the relative safety of the trees.
Large Ponderosa pine and Douglas fir shaded a sprinkling of seedlings underneath; giving the bench a park-like appearance. The bird and I had likely met here before and it had always left the victor. Like a dance, the steps were repeated, the outcome expected.
As I neared the opening, squinting eyes scanned the branches above for the bird’s silhouette. There was another elderberry there, not as large as the one below. I looked from branches to base without a seeing a grouse or hearing its nervous chatter. From there, I had to make a decision as to which side to pass the elderberry. Knowing that if I chose wrong, the grouse may make its escape from the far side of the cover. In all respects, I would choose right.
The brush was aged and surrounded by the dry remains of branches accumulated over as many years. Ahead and slightly to my left was a large rotting ponderosa stump severed by axe and double-handled buck saw. “How long ago was this forest logged?” The history-book, black and white, photos of lumberjacks came to mind as I passed the elderberry whose ancestry could likely be traced-back to the felling of the pine tree and its neighbors. I stood a moment then cautiously stepped forward. The sole of my left boot pressing down against a dry elderberry limb, it gave-way with a loud “crack”!
As before, the clever bird had not given itself away in boisterous alarm. Chopping the air with stout wings, like a ghostly apparition, the grouse materialized from the ground in a whirling mass of leaf and feather! It chose a similar tact, its flight following the ridge across the opening. The hammer was back as the gun raised to my shoulder! The distance the cagy bird must travel through the opening allowed an additional split-second! The little gun bucked at the trigger’s pull, sending its less than an ounce payload of number 7 ½ shot hurtling through the air!
Divinely handed over, the upland king faltered at the shot! As fanatic in death as it was in life, the noble bird beat its wings against the ground in protest until, in bitter acceptance, it was still. I cannot tell you how many similar shots had been tried – and failed. How many grouse had slipped-past the string of shot? All for the exhilaration that is, for the briefest of time, a life and death interaction between hunter and hunted.
There have been several memorable shots since - my own and those of my companions. Yet, for me, this was genesis; seared and sealed into my soul forever. The charge that propelled me like lead shot toward a life-long passion for upland birds and the dogs that would eventually join me in their pursuit. In a moment that was both mournful and excitingly momentous, the king had fallen. Long live the king!
