A Beautiful Day For Chasing Mid-Season Woodcock

I decided to stay home and hunt woodcock today rather than drive 95 miles southeasterly to hunt grouse. Late yesterday afternoon, a tornado warning was issued for grouse country, and I guessed that, tornado or not (it was “not”), the grouse might be a bit skittish this morning.

We enjoyed breakfast under a cloudless blue sky. A fresh southwest breeze waved the branches of trees still wearing more than a leaf or two. Gordie and I headed out at half past one and arrived at this field 5 minutes later.

I’m obviously not much of a photographer, but this snap gives a sense of the redbush meadows where I’ve been chasing woodcock since 1994. The dogwoods that were knee to waist high then are now 10 to 15 feet high. The immaculately maintained snow sled lanes running through them then are now overgrown and rutted badly from ATVs. Successful shooting over Gordie is a lot more difficult than it was over Bean, my curmudgeonly American Water Spaniel.

Still, there’s something to say for being into birds in 5 minutes, even if the sharp sticks poking at my eyes get thicker every year. And, as I’ve mentioned before, I’m delighted to hunt in places where I have some history.

We had good luck today. I shot 4 times at 6 birds that gave us 7 flushes. I convinced a brace of woodcock to accept my invitation to tomorrow’s dinner. The sun was beaming down so brightly when I photographed today’s first bird that my orange vest bled to yellow in the photo. The Prince of Wales grip on my 20 gauge Cole Custom has been a delight both when carrying and shooting.

I decided to try one more spot, the field at the end of my street. If my Big Field Covert is growing up, then my End of Street Covert is almost completely overgrown. The first time I walked into this field in 1994, the pines in the snap below were about 8 feet tall. The area within 30 yards radius of those pines was a genuine hotspot. These pines are more than 40 feet tall today, and I got torn up when I dithered into the now-gone hotspot around them two years ago.

When I saw those pines today, it reminded me of an anecdote I’d read concerning Sam Snead. Balls, Sticks & Stuff tells the story nicely:.

“There's a story often told about an elderly Sam Snead, playing at Augusta National in a practice round prior to the Masters.  He was playing with a much younger player who could really crank the ball out there off the tee.

Most of the way around, the younger player asked Snead for advice on how to play the tricky Augusta National course and Snead was more than happy to oblige, his Southern hospitality ingrained in the mountains of Virginia was too reflexive not to do so.

As the two stood on the 13th tee, a par-five dogleg left around tall Georgia pines and Rae's Creek, Snead offered this peace of advice.  ‘You know, when I was your age, I used to just take a driver and hit it high up and over those trees.’  The younger player had the honor, so he addressed the ball with his driver, took a mighty cut, and the ball sailed into the trees, hitting the pines only about halfway up their trunks.

The younger player looked bewildered and Snead followed-up.  ‘Of course, when I was your age, those trees were much shorter.’"

I’ll have to snooker Patrick like that the next time he and I chase birds at the end of the street.