“Upland
Nuances”
By
SteveHarrison
My
unfamiliarity with the seemingly esoteric subtleties of the upland bird hunting
game had me intrigued. Running a fine balance between my growling and grunting
subsistence ideology and my dabblings of fair-chase, I was at a crossroads.
But was I really? Too long had I lambasted them off the ground or
plucked them from a tree-branch with my .22 pistol. Too long had I
flouted the gentile traditions of fair-chase championed by the “real”
sportsman. Now, it was not enough, I told myself. Was this maturity
knocking on my door? I reached for the .410 hanging among the coats
on the hook by the door. “On the wing today Su, on the wing.”
In lieu of the Pendleton
hunting sweater with the right-side shoulder patch and the bloomers rollin-high
socks, I took down the trail in my standard-issue hoodie and crocs.
Not to be outdone, I made sure the shotgun was draped romantically
over my forearm, breech open. I was ready. Su, running out ahead was flushing
her little heart out. She was hustling and sniffing, darting around
hither and thither. The definitive omega pup of her litter, Su’s
subservient manner has closed more doors for her than has been opened but she
is always eager to please and senses more in the realm of the hunt than a
normal day has in store.
Perhaps my heightened
sophistication would bump me up the ladder. Maybe my upward mobility in
the hunting social hierarchy would land me at some fancy shooting club where I
could chum it up with my new found cronies. Together shooting trap, with our
yellow tinted shooting glasses we would call each other “ol’ boy” while
swapping reloading tips.
Perhaps I would find myself at an
exclusive country club where the mint juleps would lubricate my hunting fables
alongside my new doctoral friends and maybe even a few foreign dignitaries.
Perhaps a fine woolen Fedora will
replace my cotton Adidas ball cap, coming with it (of course) the smoking of a
low drooping English pipe.
The shocking flutter of wings interrupted
my daydreaming along with the nervous cackle of the male spruce grouse.
A slamming of the breech along with an upward swing of the .410 had
me pinning on bird (or so I thought.) BOOOOOOM!
A single twig of spruce, caught in
the crossfire, dangled in limbo for three full swings before falling onto the
bough below it. The grouse, grousing at me from the safety of his new
perch was silhouetted against the cloudy afternoon sky.
Perhaps I’m not ready.
Or perhaps I was kidding myself
and perhaps, just maybe I will never care how the bird falls as long as the
bird falls. What about the mint Juleps? What about the Fedora?
BOOOOOOM! The bird toppled off the
branch like a bowling pin on league night. Su bounded over the log to
gather our prize.
Within a minute I had stepped on
the wings, pulled on the feet, and had all edible meat zipped up in a baggie,
heart still beating. This one would be added to the growing number of
them in the freezer.
Adjusting my ball cap, my fingers
stained the bill with blood. “Good girl Su.”
