Birds of a feather

    At some point in everyone's life they have been asked the question "If you could spend a day with any person from history whom would you choose?" At this point we usually blat out the name of some famous athlete, politician, celebrity, or war hero from days gone by. We then are asked to justify this response in which we respond with some form of hair brained answer devoid of much or any real meaning. I am no exception to this rule and have many times answered the question poorly. Perhaps I feared an esoteric response would in some way be regarded peculiar or even the slightest bit pretentious; and so I rendered generic responses forfeiting the opportunity granted my creativity by the proffering of this question. Nonetheless I like to consider myself a student of life and one whom learns from the errors of his ways; so I shall give you a more thoughtful and honest answer to the aforementioned inquisition. If I could spend a day with one person from it would be Burton Spiller. This name probably means nothing to most people. Burton Spiller was a man from Maine who grew up one town over from mine roughly a hundred years ago. He spent his entire life living working and most importantly bird hunting in the region we both call home. In addition to being a New Englander, lifelong hunter, and general salt-of-the-earth man, he was a writer.  Burton Spiller is considered the poet laureate of grouse hunting. Through his works the hands of time have reached out and connected our two otherwise mutually exclusive lives. Without reading Burt's books I'd still be a bird hunter just as he would have been, but through his tales I've found a deeper and even more meaningful connection to the sport and the place I've come from.
   
Despite the surely many nameless differences between us I find that there remain more than a few uncanny parallel's. Foremost our mutual admiration and borderline religious fanaticism with the king of the woodlands, his majesty the ruffed grouse, followed closely by the passionate relationship between a man and his dog. I'd read several of Burt's books and had known he had grown up somewhere coastal Maine but it was not until recently that I learned how close in proximity to my own home that had been. Upon acquiring this information the glorious autumnal woods around me took on a profound and entirely new mystique. With each covert I explored and  hunted I now wondered if perhaps I was not only figuratively but literally walking in the footsteps of Mr. Spiller.

   It was with this thought in my mind that I took to the woods on a Saturday eager to experience the thrill of the hunt with my new-found sense of nostalgia and historic connection. I left my driveway and confidently turned towards the direction of Wells (the the town from which Mr. Spiller hailed). I made my way along the back roads appreciating what was left of the fall foliage after the week-long wet spell. My exact destination was not clear but I knew that it would be in close proximity to a "Spiller's Farm" a small family run farm that I was now 100% convinced shared a connection to my historic tutor. At the farm there was a pumpkin patch and corn field and an apple orchard where I'd spent many afternoons as a small child (and I hoped now that he had as well). Before reaching the farm I began looking along the roadsides for likely places to begin my hunt. Finally after some driving I discovered a gas line that had some promising looking cover on either side. I pulled over uncased "Mrs. Rose" my trusted old 12 gauge Fox-sterlingworth side by side and loaded it with #7.5 in the right barrel and a high brass #8 in the right and snapped it close with a satisfying "click".
 
   The air was warm but not uncomfortably so as I strolled off of the gas line and into a field that sloped southward. the bottom of the field was dotted with islands containing ancient apple tree's, aspens, tangles of bittersweet, and raspberry vines. I eagerly pushed through them, but they produced nothing. I then walked along the edge of the field into a swampy area thick with spruce white pine and the occasional cedar. It didn't look all too promising but I sallied forth and kept my chin up. I was pushing through some thick clumps of white young pines now the better part of an hour deep into my hunt when I heard his drum. "Bingo!" I said aloud. I knew that somewhere just north of where I was pacing, up a small but steep incline was my quarry. My minds eye saw him there strutting proudly on some hollow rotting log pounding out his triumphant challenge. His cockiness would surely be his undoing I thought to myself silently with an ironic sense of self confidence.
 
   Upon my approach towards his perch, I heard that familiar thunder of wings as he alighted, presumably for thicker cover. He hadn't flown far though, of that I was sure. I made my time circling around to opposite side of the knoll, thinking I'd give the drummer an opportunity to simmer down. Upon reaching the opposite edge there came a second (less explosive) but still galvanizing hammering of wings. My right barrel sounded as the lone bird flew away low and true back into the swamp. I took the bait and made chase. Mr. Ruff flushed again some thirty or so yards ahead of my boots, again flying low and giving me only a fleeting glance at the royal tail feathers. I snapped the gun to my shoulder sliding off the safety as I did so, knowing all the while that the effort was a fruitless one. I made a large swoop circling into the swamp hoping to head off the bird and prompt a flush in the favor of my gun. However the bird seemed to be untraceable, as is often the case when hunting without the company of a partner with superior olfactory abilities. I made my way back to the knoll and began pushing towards the side opposite the swamp. The pucker brush there was sinfully thick and I struggled to make my way through it. I paused for a moment to catch my breath and began curiously eyeing a particularly birdy looking bit of brush to my left. Ignoring my predatory intuition (as I far too often do) I stepped away from the probable tangle and headed towards my predetermined destination. I'd no sooner put my foot down, when the large bird erupted from that particularly precarious bit of pucker-brush now behind my left shoulder. It thundered up towards a small derelict cemetery. I saw him only momentarily and not enough to put a good bead on him. I decided he'd landed in the trees as I hadn't detected any noise indicating his descent.

    I trudged through the ensuing brambles and brush for almost another half hour without stirring another bird. I then returned to the cemetery and gave the tree's a final glance before tipping my hat to the birds as if to say "you've won this one". As I strolled back through the woods I couldn't help but think again that perhaps Mr. Spiller had hunted this same covert. Perhaps the great great ancestors of those several grouse I'd been bested by, had also bested Burt. I mused to myself as I broke down my gun at the car, that those birds must surely posses superior genes if their ancestors had managed to escaped from the great B. Spiller.  This whim did a remarkable job of sobering my sore feelings about my lack of luck. I then piled into my car and drove for home, feeling lucky (as I so often do) to have had the opportunity to spar with such a noble and worthy adversary.

Good things come to those who wait

Tail fan from a bird well earned. Shot by L. K. Guptill October 18th 2014

   This past week has been a challenging one for me, from overcoming a virus and pneumonia to general life and relationship stress with family and my significant other. I'd been trying to make the best of each and every one of these challenges and situations and keep my chin up and head above water but sometimes you just feel like you could use a win. In life you often time have glimpses of what you're working towards and those glimpses are what power us forward and keep us keeping our faith and commitment in the task at hand. However despite glimpses never achieving a really concrete solid "win" makes it easy to lose hope. 
   Saturday of this past week rolled around and I found myself at a loss for how I would use the day. I was feeling somewhat lost but not defeated. I decided that since much of my week hadn't gone as I'd anticipated it going I'd do something to turn the tides and make the most of the time I had. I decided it was a good day for a bird hunt. I'd recently been told by my grandmother (one of my biggest supporters of my sporting lifestyle) of a place a few towns over where my great grandfather (her dad) had spent many years hunting. I didn't know the area all too well and was skeptical of whether I'd even find anything, partridge are thick as flies in Downeast Maine compared to the numbers I've rustled up in the Southern part of my fair state. Nonetheless I set off into the woods hopes high and ready for anything. 
    As had been the case for the last few weeks it was unseasonably warm for mid-October on Saturday but it wasn't unbearable. Despite the warmth provided by Indian summer there was decent cloud cover and a slight breeze and it looked as if it would be a decent day for birds. Most of the leaves had fallen of the trees several nights earlier when the remnants of a tropical storm blew through providing much greater woods visibility then I'd experienced this season thus far. 
    I walked perhaps a quarter mile in the woods bush whacking my way through several layers of woods; in the swamp lowlands tangles of alders wove their maze the occasional young birch and aspens growing throughout, this followed by thick stretches of white pine growing closely together to form a formidable wall. I walked through this jungle for near a half hour before I stumbled into the type of cover I'd been hoping for.
Leaving the thick pines I hopped onto a four wheeler trail that led into somewhat of a clearing on a south facing slope. There were thick islands of pines dotted hither and yon, with tangles of raspberry bushes bittersweet and all kind of imaginable prickly pucker-brush dotting their edges. The grass was all golden brown and the air smelled poignant, the scent of decomposing leaves mixing brilliantly with the sweet and intoxicating aroma of fallen thorn and crab apples fermenting near the earth. As I entered the cover still unsure of it's potential I began to take it all in and my hope regained it's place. Just then a bird hammered up from a small island of pines to my left. I did not see the bird but the thunder from his wings faded quickly revealing a short and merely cautious flight. Noting the somewhat docile nature of the prince's departure I surmised that these birds were not as flighty and nervous as some I have encountered. I decided to leave the first bird for the time being and explore the cover a bit more before I put the pressure to him. I went sharply to the right where a derelict old apple tree stood embraced in the bosom of a coniferous embrace. It stood there seemingly supported by the pines, a distant memory of the past like the stone walls found in the New England forest miles from any infrastructure. The underbrush below the bows of the pines was thick and impenetrable even to the eye; red berries, and fox grapes seemed to pop out from the tangle like stars in sky of a clear-black winter night. Again several steps, and again the hammer of wings, but yet again no sighting of his majesty. I mused that perhaps I had a tab on this fellow though and decided to give chase. 
    For not the first and certainly not the last time I percolated upon just how greatly I longed for the companionship of a good bird dog, although honestly I'd settle the camaraderie and sub-par talent. This situation was not unlike many others I've encountered, bird on the run in thick cover, myself and the gun trying frantically to position ourselves keenly before the next impending flush. Attempting with futility to head off  and pin the bird (or birds) through a series of circling maneuvers, back-door entrances, and zig-zag walking patterns. The key to the game is to remove options and to then put yourself between where the bird is and where they want to be. Then when the escape flight commences you have provided yourself a chance to strike. With two or more hunters or a dog one can hope to successfully head off the bird and take time to make a preparatory stand. I however, was on my own and the bird remained one step ahead and out of sight. I flushed him several times pushing him almost to the end of the cover before he turned around and flew back to his initial perch in the historic fruit tree. 
      His last flush provided me a silhouette view of him flying just above treeline briefly before nose diving out of sight. As I chased this bird he drew me tactfully into thicker nastier cover with the expertise of a time hardened veteran. This jungle of needle-like branches and razor edges was doing a fine job of poking prodding and slicing me finely to ribbons and subsequently hindering and delaying my reflexes and advance. 
      As if to emphasize the ruffled gents cleverness and salt the wounds of my defeat, a woodcock decided to join the fun. It flushed whilst I took a moments respite to extract two large and ornery thorns from my cheek and forehead respectively. The little russet chap had been hunkered down nearly at my feet, had I moved a step or two to my left I'd likely have stepped on him. His whistling wings triggered something in my psyche and I felt my gun instinctively snap to my shoulder in doing so further embedded the thorn into my cheek. Off balance and unprepared I fired twice aimlessly knowing with both shots that I'd missed before I'd even pulled the trigger.
    After ejecting the spent shells I finished removing the thorns. Then untying the crimson bandanna from around my neck I wiped my red face, the salty perspiration smarting in the new wounds as blood and sweat were wiped away. I took a breath then, and attempted to regain some semblance my rattled composure. It struck me then that this was the hardest I'd hunted all fall, the first time I'd not given myself the home field advantage of a path of least resistance. This is the only way to hunt partridge in my opinion, to meet them on their level was to make the game a battle of whits rather than luck and firepower. I've heard the sentiment many times in terms partridge hunting that if you're not cut up and bleeding you're not truly hunting. Needless to say I was finally hunting. It was in this moment that I realized how badly I wanted that win. These several birds and mother Nature had humbled me, but more importantly they stirred something me, a realization I was selling myself short. I wasn't going to get my bird by simply putting myself in the right place, and I certainly wasn't going to get it by luck alone. Surely a combination of these two elements are necessary for a harvest, but it was going to take something more today. I was going to have to be smarter, and quicker and more instinctive and decisive in my actions.
     I suddenly found myself in the nirvana known only by a certain few fortunate sportsmen. I was no longer a stranger in the woods, no longer a human in an unfamiliar place. I moved now through the woods taking in the layout of the land and interpreting it with a speed that didn't require excess processing time. My movements were measured and assured. I abandoned the first bird knowing now that I had been beaten for the moment. Accepting my defeat I made my way towards the first bird.
      The cover presented a rectangular clearing perhaps 75 yards in length 45 yards in width. It was open at the edge where I entered with a row of thick pines and thorn-apples bordering the length of the left side. On the right parallel to the pines was a stone wall slithering its way through thick brambles, beyond the wall, hardwoods thick and plentiful. On the far end of the clearing connecting the stone wall and the pines was a thick mess of alders. 
    I stepped cautiously into clearing slightly favoring the pines expecting the bird to have taken cover in the brush around the stone wall. Subconsciously and instinctively I knew that if the bird lay in the brush of the wall he would surely follow the trend set by his neighbor and seek the refuge of the pine bows. However if he lay among the edges of the pines his best bet would be a flight diagonally towards the alders. Either way he would have to cross the open space and face my shot. The cards had been dealt, now it was time to see whom fate had smiled upon and given the better hand. I took five cautious steps further when from the base of the pines he erupted flying low and away towards the alders. The muscles of my body snapped into motion without any conscious direction from my mind. Up my well loved side by side went in one fluent motion my thumb sliding the safety off, the butt settling neatly into that pocket of my shoulder reserved for her alone, my cheek pressing against the warn but familiar maple stock. Then in a moment that seemed like eternity and no time at all, I held. The partridge flew furiously but true towards the life giving cover the muzzle of my gun leading the way. Then I felt my frame lean forward to embrace the recoil and my finger pull the front trigger. In that one moment it seemed that the bird and I were connected by some form of supernatural track that my shot raced down solidifying the connecting in a cloud of feathers. The bird tucked it's wings as it began to plummet, it's body limp and dead before it hit the ground.  
     In a moment the thing was done. I walked over to the bird and picked it up silently. I caressed it's feathers and removed the leaves and debris from it's plumage all the while beaming. It's red tail feathers shone in a strangely unique and meaningful way. A prayer of thanksgiving was in order to the Universe, God, Nature, or whomever or whatever else might have played some roll in providing meeting me halve ways and gracing me this win. As I put the bird in my vest it struck me that was all a part of a greater metaphor and it's meaning was designed to teach. This bird hadn't been given to me, as with all good things in life; I'd had to work, be clawed cut and bruised, tempted by another, and knocked down more then a peg or two before I cut my losses and smartened up. I got my bird and that unique satisfaction of accomplishment though. I received that by taking the high road and deciding not to do the easy thing of cutting corners and hoping for luck. The way of integrity is sure to leave you with more than a few scrapes and hard knocks, and it won't always result in a win, but when it does my friends I assure you it is a feeling and an pride unparalleled.  

This past week I've been dreadfully sick, from head-ache and runny nose, to a lightheaded fever and extreme coughing (resulting in and asthma attack and ER visit). I have what turns out to be some sort of viral infection coupled with pneumonia, ie, I got to spend most of the week in bed. This was tough because this was a beautiful October week that while still a little too warm for my liking killed me to have to watch from inside a house. Sure enough the week went by and bed-bound me became more and more restless depressed and uneasy. I read books about fall and bird hunting to try and fill my eager spirit but my appetite was not completely satisfied. It was a week where I felt relatively unhappy and definitely not myself for most of the time.
    Finally Saturday rolled around, I woke up out of bed and actually felt good and like myself. I decided I was gonna take advantage of this feeling while it lasted, so I quickly started my morning routine, brushed my teeth, showered, shaved (for the first time in a week), dressed and ate breakfast. I then ran into town to do some errands. It was a cool day outside the thermometer read 45, the skies were gray and there was a slight slow drizzle. These are my favorite fall days, the ones when I really feel like it's autumn; the sun isn't nowhere to blind you, it takes but a moment during a walk to cool down, and the whole world smells like fall, damp and earthy and sweet with fermentation and decay.
   It didn't take me long to finish my chores around town and upon my return home. My plan had been to get immediately started in on the mountain of hw that had been piling up during my infirmity. However the day had other ideas. I stood in the driveway for awhile eyes closed simply breathing in fall (scent being a recently regained sense). I decided sickness or not I couldn't let this day pass without enjoying it. I entered my house briskly and whistled for my dog, whom upon hearing me beacon came tearing around the corner and coming to a screeching halt across the hardwood flooring to my feet. She looked up at me eyes full of expectation as if I'd never dissapointed her in my life! "Wanna take a stroll," I mused. She perked up immediately and emitted a small closed lipped bark of joy. I snapped the leather leash to her collar threw on my wool stetson (as the rain had begun picking up) and went outside!
   There is a nature trail some 50 yards from my driveway that was built about 5 years ago. During my childhood I spent many hours adventuring and learning woodcraft in the forest that the trail went through. It's now used everyday by runners, cyclist, family's with strollers and pets. It's not quite as wild now as I remember it being all those years ago but it still possess somewhat of the charm albeit nostalgic charm at this point. My dog and I took our time perusing the gravel trail through the red oak and white pike forest. We took a great deal of time stopping to smell a curious blade of grass or look at a squirrel, but my favorite stop was the woodpecker. Now seeing a woodpecker in the woods isn't a crazy occurrence, I've seen hundreds through the years, but this big pileated fellow let us get very close and say hello. I was nice reminder that a place you used to cherish for it's surprises still had one or two tricks up it's sleeve. I guess it just goes to show when the day is right you can't stay inside, especially when it's gray!