Upland Nuances

“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.”