Yes my friends, it is nearly hunting season once more! Those of you who know me personally know that I a bit nuts about guns and try to take up every opportunity to head to the range or into the field for a shot. There’s something so relaxing about being out on a hunt, the way your concentration become absolute, your senses heighten, and all of the problems of the world melt away as you wait poised for your quarry to make its presence known. Hunting to me is meditation and I can’t find anything quite like it for that feeling of pure, uncomplicated oneness with my surroundings. Plus I get to shoot things, which is fun.
In honor of that most wonderful time of the year I’d like to share with you some of the stories of hunts I’ve had while here in Ireland, the highs and the lows and the funny things that happen when afield.
My very, very first actual hunting experience in Ireland was an interesting one, some years back, knowing that I had a fair appreciation for the finer arts of firearms Regina’s father said we should wander out across the fields behind the house and see if you could scare up a pheasant. First went on the wader boots, up scaled wellies that reach up to your thighs and are fastened up with a belt, then there was the ammo belt itself, lined with dozens of shotgun shells-enough to hold off a small army- of varying loads, finally there was the gun itself, a well worn and traveled side by side 12 gauge that was probably made around the same time I was. We let the gun dog, Shadow, out of her pen which may or may not have been a poor decision as her training had gone a bit lax as of late. Off like a shot she bounded into the field and proceeded to run and root with no sense of restraint. It was obvious that my experience in Ireland was going to be much different from the States.
When pheasant hunting in the states you could easily wear sneakers if not a sturdy pair of sandals on a good day, the terrain is largely flat and often cultivated into rows for easy navigation, wheat has been planted specifically to give the birds cover and attract them, and since in most places in the Midwest game birds have been hunted until they’ve practically disappeared most of what you actually hunt is farm raised and planted before you set out. The first obstacle we faced that day was the electric wire used to keep cattle from roaming, placing the butt of his shotgun against it and stepping over Basil warned me that I’d get a mighty shock if I inadvertently touched it. Not enough to do me permanent damage, hopefully, but certainly enough to put a damper on the day. After that we had to take a short hop across a water-filled trench and into the marshy, uneven, shrub-filled areas adjacent to the river that we’d be hunting through. It quickly became apparent that the biggest challenge I was going to face was not in hitting a bird but rather in simply navigating the ruts successfully and not ending up face first in some dirty water.
In retrospect the challenge of hitting any birds was non-existent as Shadow, the gun dog, did her best to run a good 50 or 60 yards ahead of us in a completely unpredictable pattern while ignoring any commands we futilely barked in her direction. What she did manage to scare up was thus well out of our range and was probably not even aware of our presence as it took wing towards the safety of the far treeline across the river. We saw no pheasant that day despite the numerous occasions when I’d seen them in local fields, crossing the road, or startled them bursting out of hedges while I walked by, we did, however, kick up snipe during our safari. Snipe are one of the odder birds I’ve happened across in my travels, although I did not get a very good look at any of them that day I estimate that their bodies are about the size of a baseball and they move like a combination of hummingbirds and electrical currents. When disturbed they immediately shoot up to shoulder height and dart in an erratic zig-zag pattern away from whatever is perusing them before disappearing back into the bush like Vietcong. About three quarters of the way through the hunt I decided to take a shot at one of the snipe just to be able to say that I had, I think my chances of hitting it would have been the same as if I’d discharged my shotgun directly into the ground in front of me but at the end of the day taking a walk where you fire a gun beats taking a walk and not firing a gun any day.
I think Basil knew that we weren’t going to actually get any pheasant that day but just wanted to see how I handled myself in the field and for myself it was a good opportunity to try out a new experience even if it was nothing more than a trial run. This year has been the first one that I’ve been in country for the entirety of bird season and with my entry into the family in a official capacity I’ve been brought out on a couple of hunting excursions that have been a bit more formalized. I haven’t done much (any) duck hunting in the states but my understanding of it is that the common method is to build a duck blind-a camouflaged shack in the water- set out decoys and use specialized calls to bring the unsuspecting targets in for a landing. You are welcome to watch some Duck Dynasty for a more elaborate run down. Duck hunting here involves a Jeep (truck) apparently and I found myself riding in the back seat next to a pair of 12 gauges in the predawn hours one morning.
The method for duck hunting we employed was based around driving to different locations, ponds, rivers, flooded fields, where ducks could be expected to be resting, getting out of the truck, sneaking up on them, and opening fire at will. I’m not sure if this is more or less sporting than sitting in a cold metal box employing subterfuge but I will say it was a bit more entertaining, especially as it allows you to see some more exotic sights of the country. The sun was just coming up as we drove down a back road adjacent to a farmer’s field when we spotted it, a fox, the first fox I had ever seen in the flesh in my whole life. I had expected a small and somewhat adorable animal, I expected it to have a nice red coat and perky ears and a fluffy tail. The animal I saw was big, I’ve seen many coyotes in my time and this animal rivaled them, for the first time I understood how one could kill a sheep as I’d been told they do frequently. It was black as well, or at least predominantly so as it seemed patchy and mottled, a wild animal in every sense of the word it must have sensed our intention as it bolted across the field away from us. Basil mashed the gas pedal and we lurched forward into pursuit.
Even with the engine at full rev we barely kept pace as the fox had the better line towards cover, we bounded around a corner and it was explained to me that foxes are considered a pest and it is always open season on them. Pulling to a stop we piled out of the jeep and took up positions on a small stone wall, even though we had the whole of the briar patch covered it was neigh impossible to get a bead on the beast. At most I would glimpse a set of ears and a second later a swish of the tail could be seen some feet away, it’s cunning and guile was evident as it flitted between hiding spots with the ease of an apparition, we called out to each other to little effect trying to anticipate its movements and designate who would have the best sight should an opportunity present itself. Evan, my brother in law, had perhaps the best chance but it was gone in the blink of an eye and within the span of 30 seconds our window was passed and we saw the fox bolting back up the field making time in a way we could not hope to match. It was for the best, Evan said, he wouldn’t have felt right shooting it. If we had gone out hunting fox that would have been a different story, but we were there for ducks and it seems as though nature itself shared his sentiment.
The fox eluded us that day and if he stayed cagey he may still be out there today in his den or out causing trouble, and if our spirits are up to it we may meet him out lamping one night and we’ll truly test his luck. That’ll be a story for another time though, as the one I want to finish up on is a story from the end of the season, the story of the last duck of the year. It was, in fact, the very last day of hunting season and we resigned ourselves to one more attempt at the fowl as it would be many, many months before we’d get another crack at them. Basil, Evan and myself loaded up into the jeep once more for an evening hunt and motored our way off to an isolated field which was reasonably flooded and in many places impassable. Somehow I’d drawn the short straw and was suited up in the standard issue, mid-calf wellies while the more senior partners were clad in the two pairs of functional waders we possessed and thus at a reasonably stranded spot out in the swamp I was told I would have to wait there alone while they went ahead across a deep drain and into the more secluded sections of wetland.
Sure, no problem, I perched myself upon a protruding hill of mossy earth and waited for them to start shooting, the plan was for them to locate a flock and start the assault, theoretically the birds would circle somewhere in my vicinity and I’d spring a secondary ambush on them. It seemed like a solid plan, or at least a solid explanation as to why I shouldn’t feel bad about being left behind. I heard their first shots some ten minutes later after they’d walked out of my view and waited patiently for my first chance at a kill, in short order I saw a pair of mallards winging my way. I pride myself on being a crack shot and with confidence I unloaded my barrels in quick succession, but to my dismay the birds kept flying and as I ejected the shells and fumbled for replacements they first two birds broke away and were out of range in seconds. Birds kept coming sporadically as shots rang out from my hunting companions at odd intervals, yet time and time again my aim was untrue and I managed to miss birds coming at me from all angles and altitudes. On more than one occasion it seemed as though the drakes knew I only had a double gun and would cut directly towards me as I tried desperately to reload after throwing up ineffectual volleys. It was a chronic case of “I should have hit that” that played out over the next couple of hours.
Darkness began to settle upon us and the efforts of targeting took on new dimensions, what had been dark silhouettes of game outlined against a grey sky became undefined shapes out the corner of my eyes. It was thus that as the light faded I relied less on my eyes and more on my ears to track inbound ducks, an exercise which was chaotic at best. The sound of a large bird in flight is quite distinctive, the whooshing of wings on the beat can be heard at some distance, combine that with the gentle, low quacks they emit regularly and you have a reasonably sure sign of ducks nearby. What makes tracking them difficult is the fact that they fly two or three at a time in unpredictable arcs and trajectories. So what you perceive is less “Aha!” and more “Huh?” as your mind figures out: A, If that really is a duck I’m hearing; B, Which way is it heading; C, How fast; and D, Is it worth shooting at? All of that before trying to aim and shoot passably, which I mentioned before I had been struggling with all day so far.
The light kept fading and I soon found myself thinking that if a duck didn’t make itself obvious in the next five minutes my chances for the season were effectively kaput. I crossed my fingers and hoped, shotgun in one hand, flashlight in the other, like an air raid marshal during the blitz on London. Seconds turned to minutes, I willed ducks to come my way, so many had seemed to swoop by almost in arms reach, I was sure a small flock had landed nearby yet across the insurmountable drainage ditch. If just one more would give me a clean line I would take it and be satisfied that I had tried my all and the odds simply were in the birds’ favor that day. The five minutes passed, it became impossibly dark and I resigned myself to failure. Yet I couldn’t head in until Basil and Evan returned and I was sure they had given up hope just as I had. Five more minutes passed and somewhere off in their general direction I could hear a faint slogging of boots possibly heading my way, it was then that I heard ducks incoming.
Heading straight for me I did my best to track them without any sight whatsoever, I poised myself to trap them between myself and the only slim hope of light left to me, a weak glow of streetlamps coming from a distant hill. I could hear they were just a few yards from me, coming in low and oblivious to my presence, putting everything else out of my mind I focused in on my target zone. In a single instant I saw them, three perfect black outlines of ducks against the hazy orange glow on the horizon, I moved my barrels by inches to mimic their flight pattern and pulled both triggers in quick succession because there is no reward for bringing home the most ammo. I cannot say today which shot stuck home, I could not say then either for all I cared about was the solid splash of a dead duck hitting the water. I whooped and hollered and danced on my little dry mound as I reached for my flashlight, the duck had fallen across the way and I could do nothing to reach it but I diligently focused a beam on where I heard it fall so that Basil or Evan would be able to collect it for me.
They come to me after a time, apparently their eyes are better than mine or they are simply more stubborn in their habits, but they did no shooting after me, and after they picked up my duck presented to me their only success of the evening, a woodcock Basil had shot with great skill and luck. I suppose our take that night was not so impressive and by rights I should have made half a dozen shots that went wide, but I felt confidant that no hunter out later than us could have made a kill without the aid of night vision goggles, so when that bird was roasted and basted I took extra pleasure in knowing I was eating the last duck of the season.
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