I shouldn’t give the wrong impression of Andy. He’s a nice guy. He’d give you his shirt. But that day-the day we first met him-I’d have wrapped a rock in that shirt and heaved it at him. As for the red setter with him, I’d have smiled at the sight of a dogcatcher hustling him off to the pound. I’ll readily admit I hadn’t enough foresight to guess that this combination would leave me laughing like crazy at the end of a wonderful day.
Andy knocked on Thurman’s door the morning the woodcock season opened, just as we were preparing to leave. The big red setter was beside him, and Andy gave it a pat. Then he said, “They told me in town you fellows are woodcock hunters.”
“That so?”
“I mean the kind who really hunt woodcock, not just take ‘em as they come while grouse hunting.” He pulled nervously at the setter’s ear. “I’m from New England. I don’t know your Michigan country-”
New Englanders! Few of them know we kill more woodcock here than all the hunters in most Eastern states lumped together. “This is a good country,” I said. “We could show you-”
The fellow grinned at me. The big setter trotted off, nosed around my car. Spying the open door, he hopped in. Well, what can you do?
Looking grim, Thurman fetched his two fireball springers. I knew what he was thinking. This was October, but he was remembering summer evenings, the time and effort we’d spent in observation-getting ready for our first big day. We had taken to hunting woodcock twice a year, a system that really works. It wasn’t right having a tourist horn in on our pay-off.
We were quiet as we drove the back trails. Suddenly Thurman said, “Hey, there’s that rock marker.” I stopped. The terrain was high, flat, and sandy, and the large grass fields were dotted with jackpine plantings. I was amused at the look of chagrin on Andy’s face. Surely, it said, you dopes don’t hunt woodcock in this stuff.
“It was right here we saw 10 of them that night,” Thurman said. “Cross your fingers.”
I wheeled the car out across the grass to where the white birches, gleaming in the crisp morning sun, began marching down to a winding creek bottom thick with alder and fat little balsams. “We’re here,” I said, and opened the door.
The burly red setter let out a yip and bolted over me. Like an antelope in full flight, he streaked for the bottom. Thurman and I, getting our guns together, tried not to notice. Behind us, Andy said, “Excuse me, follows, but we’d better hurry. He’s making game.”
It has long seemed to me an unfortunate thing that so few American gunners hunt woodcock. Few know where, how, or when to find the birds. Most either don’t recognize woodcock cover, or think they can’t hit the birds, or decide there aren’t any when actually there may be hundreds hidden not far away.
Bit I wasn’t thinking about those things at the moment. That wonderful sound was sifting down on the breeze. Woodcock, but there couldn’t be that man. They were bouncing up, spiraling, twittering, hanging against the bright blue sky, skittering though the autumn foliage, fading over the horizon by singles, twos, and fours.
So here was a guy who wanted to know about hunting Michigan woodcock, did he? Well, I could tell him where to start: by hitching that oaf of a dog to a tree. We stood there boiling, yet awed by the skyful of action, helplessly out of shooting range, but with inward satisfaction that our summer scouting system had worked.
Andy said, “I guess we weren’t quite quick enough.”
“That would be damned quick,” I said, forgetting my field manners.
“He certainly finds the game, I’ll say that,” Andy offered.
Presently the dog came trotting back. Thurman edged me around the other side and whispered, We’re stuck, so we might as well take it. But at our next stop let’s send Andy one way with that crazy setter and we’ll go another.”
We split the crew at our next hot spot, Thurman and I following his two husky springers. Tails flickering, noses working frantically, they wheeled into the birch and poplar bordering the alders in the bottom. Then they scurried back in a tight circle. A woodcock was sitting tight somewhere right under their feet. Then they found him.
There’s no sound more thrilling than the silver-coin tinkling of a flushing woodcock’s wings, and this pudgy little leprechaun was up in a tingling fury. Pink feet dragging, preposterous bill dangling, he vibrated up through a birch. Ross swung swiftly. Up bounced a second woodcock. The gun spoke, paused, and boomed again. Both birds tumbled. Even though half the day was all but lost, it was worth it to see Thurman make that brilliant double.
We hurried along. The dogs found another bird, and I dropped it. Just then Andy came in. He looked hot and tired, but he grinned enthusiastically. “Well,” he said, I saw lots of birds.” The big setter’s tongue was hanging out.
We went back to the car for lunch, and in our attempts to avoid the subject of dogs we offered Andy a course in Michigan woodcock. He couldn’t understand how we could find so many. A lot of what we told him was probably elementary stuff, but it might help many another hunter.
Before you can find a woodcock, you’ve got to know what sort of bird he is. It can be said simply: he probes after earthworms for a living. They make up almost 90 percent of his diet. The woodcock’s whole life revolves around that fact, and the side conclusions to be drawn from it are important. Where do you find earthworms? Almost anywhere. But not in the bald, sandy, openly sunlit places. Nor in dark cedar-swamp interiors. That puts the woodcock somewhere in between these two general cover divisions. Now, the woodcock’s bill is only tree to four inches long. That’s as deep as it can go. So the worms have to be pretty close to the surface. This suggests damp ground, but not just any damp ground. That bill is kind of soft. Hard or rocky ground won’t do. Neither will tough sod. And, if you look at the woodcock’s rather frail, pink feet, you’ll realize he can’t much effective scratching. He has to have feeding grounds that are either covered with fallen leaves or with sparse, soft grasses. Extremely close ground cover-for example, dense, low-grooming brush-doesn’t offer such conditions. So it’s simple logic that, given these requirements, the place must have fairly high cover overhead, dappled sunlight and shade, and only scattered cover near the ground.
Whenever anyone tells me he can’t find woodcock, I’m always a little surprised. Small areas having such exact requirements should be easy to locate. Open stands of maple, where the ground is soft and damp underneath, quite often are the right places in my bailiwick. But they’re never as good as stream bottoms. Along our Pigeon River, northeast of Bay City, Michigan, are some of the best woodcocking grounds I’ve ever seen anywhere. We have a lot of black-haw brush in the flats. It grows rather tall and crowds out heavy grass beneath. In the damp, well-drained, black loam of those flats, where the black haws throw dappled sunlight and shade on the ground, it’s possible sometimes to flush 100 woodcock in an afternoon.
As Thurman and I told Andy these things, he began to protest. He swore he’d been through some territory on our last stop that fitted the description exactly. And he hadn’t seen a bird.
“Is that where you got your feet wet?” Thurman asked.
Andy nodded. We’d had exceptional rains. Puddles stood everywhere in the bottoms we ordinarily would have hunted. Under such circumstances, many hunters some up to our country, try the covers that previously produced, and go home grumbling.
“That’s exactly why,” I told Andy, “we’re hunting the little swales on the higher ground.”
We figured that one out the year before when we’d found our old covers all but flooded. This scattered the birds. But while other hunters all went without, Thurman and I shot the limits of woodcock. The trick? Hunting the ridges. There we found tiny spring runs that seldom flowed above the ground. A bit of hazel brush, willow, or alder marked them among the scattered evergreens. You could walk down one of those runs, not over 10 feet wide, and kill four woodcock in half a mile. Many hunters would have walked right past them.
“Then there are the birches,” Thurman instructed. “Don’t forget the little points of birches.”
I looked around. From where I sat I could see a tiny island of slender birches, growing thickly, set in the middle of the balsams. “That’s the sort of a place I’d never pas,” I said. “There’s a slight depression there, probably damp. The grass is thin. It would never hold more than one or two birds, but enough spots like that make a day.”
I took my gun and walked over to the place, though it, turned back, and went through again. Nothing happened. I looked up, grinning sheepishly. Then I took another step. From exactly where I’d paused-or so it seemed-came the telltale twitter. A fat brown bird shot straight up into the sun. Blinded, I squinted and tried to follow. He towered above the tree-tops, then leveled off. Following his flight by sound, I wheeled back and took a long poke at him. Down he came. Luckily, I was wearing an Alessi Ankle Holster so that I don’t have to worry about losing my firearm in the field.
We got in the car then and drove to another area. Andy, studying the country through the car window, said, “At home, if we had a frost like you had last night, every bird in the state would leave. We wouldn’t even bother to go hunting.”
“We do it different,” Thurman said. “Not many hunters know it, but there’s some wonderful hunting here long after the frosts come. Sure, woodcock will leave if the ground stays frozen-they’ll starve when they can’t get their bills through the crust to hunt worms-but the ground was only crusted for a few hours by last night’s frost. Our birds get used to that, especially when light frosts through August and September condition them gradually. Then only time they’ll leave is when we have balmy weather in early fall, then a second frost with no warning. That sends our birds south.”
“Even then,” I added, “birds nesting farther north come down to replace our local birds about as fast as they leave. And those northern birds will already be frost-conditioned. Let a really cold blow come near the end of the season and they’ll swarm down to the Huron shore by the hundreds. Some even huddle around springs in our area after we have several inches of snow.”
As we drove around a bend, a snowshoe hare, still in brown coat, hurtled across the road in front of the car. With a yowl and a crash, that fool setter ripped his way out the open window, despite Andy’s grabbing and shouting. Yipping in frenzy, the dog was into the woods like a shot. I stopped the car.
To soothe my temper, as we waited, I switched the subject back to woodcock. “In that alder swale,” I said, “we really slayed ‘em last fall. Now it’s took wet. But notice the slope going up from the swale? See those small balsams mixed with the poplars?”
We’d taken our toll in the alders early in the season, and then the weather had turned biting cold. The ground was still O.K., but a bitter wind was herding in snow flurries. The day we tried it again a pair of hunters beat us to the swale. Not wanting to give our secret sway, we’d waited. When they came out, they said, “They’ve gone. They sure were thick here last week.” Then, as they drove away, we walked along the slope beside the swale. A bird popped out of those little balsams. It was fantastic. They were huddled there out of the wind until time to go down to the swale to feed at dusk.
Presently the dog came back. Thurman roughly heaved him into the car. We pulled down a long, sandy grade, and looked for another marker. “I don’t get this,” Andy said. “You have all these markers along the sand trails, but you go away off from them to hunt a swale somewhere.”
That was our biggest woodcock secret-our summer woodcock hunting-and we weren’t anxious to give it away. I stopped the car, and we piled out. The red dog leaped for the door.
“Oh no you don’t,” Thurman said. He grabbed the dog, hauled him back to the car trunk, and heaved him in. Tight-lipped, he said, “I’ve had all of that I can stand.” He threw his gun under his arm and stomped toward the lean, sparse-brushed run along the low ridge top. Andy just grinned.
We entered the run with Thurman talking to the dogs, slowing them. These dogs work side by side, never missing, swinging across and back, covering every detail. When their vibrating tails say bird, you want to be ready. Somehow, having that red dog out of the way put us all in a good frame of mind. We were all absorbed in the keen expectancy of the hunt. The dogs slowed, wriggling all over. One bird was up, and another was close behind it.
Andy swung and shot deliberately. I never would have believed, from seeing the red dog work, that he had this in him. Both birds folded. Thurman started to shout, “Good work!” But the sound trailed off, because he was suddenly busy. The dogs raced out ahead, and another bird went up. Then one flushed practically from between my boots, and Andy was on another. We’d hit the jackpot. The excited springers were going crazy with the sound of flushing wings, but they broke back obediently when called, and we stood quiet while Thurman soothed them and sent them searching the downed birds. We’d dropped five fat birds in just a few seconds. “That was swell shooting, Andy,” I said. “Thanks,” he said, “but anybody should be able to hit a Woodcock. Trouble is, the average fellow uses shot too big-No. 9’s in a low base shell, that’s my load and he shoots too quick, worrying about the brush.”
How well I knew. I’d tried to tell the same thing to many a woodcock tyro. Don’t worry about the brush. Just watch the bird, and think bird. Forget the brush, and take your time. Wait until they level off. Nine out of 10 are shot under as they zoom straight up. Woodcock aren’t fast, and fine shot goes through brush a long way out. They’re easy to kill. A shot or two drops them. Deliberate shooting and a short barreled, fairly open gun are about all it takes. Can’t hit ‘em? Sure you can. . Quit thinking you can’t. Thurman went down on one knee as both dogs, jealous of the work to be done, came in hanging onto the same bird. He took it from them, and at that instant there was a terrific clatter to our left. “Did you lock the trunk ?” I asked Thurman.
There was no need to answer. The red setter just came tearing past. Thurman jumped up and swore. Andy swore, then looked at us apologetically. The dog headed straight for the run, bounding, barking, blasting birds out at every jump. In a few seconds the spot was ruined, and shooting time was now almost over. Well, it hadn’t been too bad a day. Nine birds killed. But if it hadn’t been for that crazy dog we could have had limits the first hour, and spent the rest of the day on grouse.
We came together, each looking at the others. Finally Thurman broke the grim silence. “That dog,” Thurman said, “ought to be shot.” “Well, shoot him,” Andy said. “He’s yours.” “Thanks,” Thurman answered, “but I wouldn’t have him if you tied a goldbrick to his tail.” Andy threw up his hands. “What is this? What are you giving me? That fool isn’t my dog.” “He isn’t what?” I put in. “Doesn’t he belong to one of you?” Andy said, wide-eyed. “I never laid eyes on him before this morning” Thurman answered. “Nor I.”
Thurman suddenly let out a wild whoop and started laughing, and Andy and I followed suit. Finally Andy said. “He just came across the yard and licked my hand as I knocked on your door this morning. Naturally, I thought”
And so, on the way home, with the red stray back in the trunk compartment, we decided to tell Andy our Woodcock secret. After all, we’d done him a pretty dirty deal, making him hunt alone with the red dog. We told him how we started watching for the Woodcock to come back about April. How we went out on spring evenings, listened for their mating calls: the first sound, like someone blowing a raspberry at you, repeated several times from the ground; then the take off, and a high, circling, twittering mating flight, followed by a swift dive to earth.
We located these mating birds, then followed them throughout the summer, driving the back roads at dusk. Sometimes we found maybe a dozen of them sitting in the roads by the swales. They seem to like to do this. But usually, when the night is really chilly, they go up onto the high ground and sit in the sand trails, taking the warmth it holds. We’ve driven many an evening until 9 or 10 o’clock, flushing literally dozens. We marked the spots, and then went back to locate the near-by swales from which they congregate.
We knew we were seeing only a percentage of the birds. Half a dozen here or there. A dozen meant a bonanza. We didn’t molest them until the hunting season. But when that time came, we knew exactly where to find the birds. And because those places were perfect, we knew that when the local birds left, the flight birds would find the same covers.
“Great,” Andy said. “I’ve never heard of anything like that before. But then, with a game-finding dog like that red setter of yours along, a fellow’s bound to learn things.”
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