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.