Another post got me thinking about bird hunting. I used to do a good bit of it, but over the years it's kind of drifted into the background...not because I don't like it...just because of life's unpredictable schedules.
I used to hunt with a friend on his place in the Arkansas delta. It was 2,000 acres leveled rice fields and it was dynamite. We would hunt dove in the early season and ducks later in the fall/winter. Other times we'd hunt at a duck club in MS and it was also very good.
Hunting birds on those big, wide-open, delta farms is a neat experience. On opening day of dove season you'd be pouring sweat in a sweltering heat that's so humid it seems to muffle the sound of the guns. Fat gray birds dart like missiles over corn stubble and wheat, as shotguns thump and dogs sprint like heat seeking missiles. Waaay out in the distance, through the waves of heat mirage you could see a train crawling across the landscape and barely hear the sound of it's lonesome horn.
A few months later those same fields are being whipped by freezing wind and slashing rain. You're bundled up as best as you can trying to stave off hypothermia long enough to get some ducks into your decoy spread. High birds make a pass, well out of gun range, but looking at the spread. Without flapping they set their wings and ride the wind out of sight behind you.
Did they leave? Are they working back around? You don't want to move too much to look, afraid that they'll see you. Then they come back around from the right, a little lower. Silently they glide over, motionless except for their heads moving left and right as they study the "birds" on the water below them.
Three more times they make this loop, trying to decide if they want to land. The wind still whips, the cold still freezes you. You have a duck call in one hand and a frozen shotgun in the other. You call when they pull away and they return every time. Lower they work, until finally they commit. They come in low and fast from the right, when they are 60 yards out they cup their wings, slow down, then float and wobble in the wind like puppets on a string.
Time slows as they float past the edge of the decoys, they'll glide right past you as they try to land on the left edge of the spread. You're moving now, the gun is coming up despite your body complaining about the cold. The wood stock feels almost warm as it hits your cheek. Birds are cupped up, gliding, oblivious. You start your swing on the lead bird, the barrel is overtaking him smoothly. You've done it so many times that you don't even have to decide when to shoot, your brain remembers the picture, and when it's right, it sends the signal to your finger.
As the barrel passes through the bird, your trigger finger pulls back, initiating a sequence that can't be stopped. There on that cold field with no other person around, your trigger releases the seer, the hammer falls, the gun is still swinging and the bird is still flying. The hammer slams forward and strikes a freezing cold firing pin, it's a collision you don't hear as you watch the barrel begin to pass under the bird. The firing pin lurches forward and smashes into the back of the primer. Your barrel is just beginning to pull away in front of the bird. The primer explodes, creating the only heat for miles as spews fire into the load of powder that sits beneath the 170 steel balls that have just begun their one-and-only flight across 30 yards of flooded rice.
The gun recoils in the cold thin air, pushing the stock into your shoulder and filling the air with thunder. The barrel, the bird, and the dogs eyes are all following the same track. About the time the gun reaches maximum recoil on your shoulder the bird crumples. Speed returns to normal, the bird flips in the air, arcs downward, and then slams into the water. You hear the rest of the blast from your shotgun as it rolls away across the delta.
"Back!" you command the dog, and it dives into freezing cold water without hesitation. It will be an easy retrieve, so you sit back and enjoy the sight, and the warm, rich smell of gunpowder as it lingers and permeates the scene. This is what success smells like...burnt powder.
I hunted them as a poor young man with hardly any money for warm clothes, and I've hunted them later in life when i had the money for a duck club or guided hunts and nice lodges. No matter how I've hunted them it's always been fun.
What are your bird hunting stories?
I used to hunt with a friend on his place in the Arkansas delta. It was 2,000 acres leveled rice fields and it was dynamite. We would hunt dove in the early season and ducks later in the fall/winter. Other times we'd hunt at a duck club in MS and it was also very good.
Hunting birds on those big, wide-open, delta farms is a neat experience. On opening day of dove season you'd be pouring sweat in a sweltering heat that's so humid it seems to muffle the sound of the guns. Fat gray birds dart like missiles over corn stubble and wheat, as shotguns thump and dogs sprint like heat seeking missiles. Waaay out in the distance, through the waves of heat mirage you could see a train crawling across the landscape and barely hear the sound of it's lonesome horn.
A few months later those same fields are being whipped by freezing wind and slashing rain. You're bundled up as best as you can trying to stave off hypothermia long enough to get some ducks into your decoy spread. High birds make a pass, well out of gun range, but looking at the spread. Without flapping they set their wings and ride the wind out of sight behind you.
Did they leave? Are they working back around? You don't want to move too much to look, afraid that they'll see you. Then they come back around from the right, a little lower. Silently they glide over, motionless except for their heads moving left and right as they study the "birds" on the water below them.
Three more times they make this loop, trying to decide if they want to land. The wind still whips, the cold still freezes you. You have a duck call in one hand and a frozen shotgun in the other. You call when they pull away and they return every time. Lower they work, until finally they commit. They come in low and fast from the right, when they are 60 yards out they cup their wings, slow down, then float and wobble in the wind like puppets on a string.
Time slows as they float past the edge of the decoys, they'll glide right past you as they try to land on the left edge of the spread. You're moving now, the gun is coming up despite your body complaining about the cold. The wood stock feels almost warm as it hits your cheek. Birds are cupped up, gliding, oblivious. You start your swing on the lead bird, the barrel is overtaking him smoothly. You've done it so many times that you don't even have to decide when to shoot, your brain remembers the picture, and when it's right, it sends the signal to your finger.
As the barrel passes through the bird, your trigger finger pulls back, initiating a sequence that can't be stopped. There on that cold field with no other person around, your trigger releases the seer, the hammer falls, the gun is still swinging and the bird is still flying. The hammer slams forward and strikes a freezing cold firing pin, it's a collision you don't hear as you watch the barrel begin to pass under the bird. The firing pin lurches forward and smashes into the back of the primer. Your barrel is just beginning to pull away in front of the bird. The primer explodes, creating the only heat for miles as spews fire into the load of powder that sits beneath the 170 steel balls that have just begun their one-and-only flight across 30 yards of flooded rice.
The gun recoils in the cold thin air, pushing the stock into your shoulder and filling the air with thunder. The barrel, the bird, and the dogs eyes are all following the same track. About the time the gun reaches maximum recoil on your shoulder the bird crumples. Speed returns to normal, the bird flips in the air, arcs downward, and then slams into the water. You hear the rest of the blast from your shotgun as it rolls away across the delta.
"Back!" you command the dog, and it dives into freezing cold water without hesitation. It will be an easy retrieve, so you sit back and enjoy the sight, and the warm, rich smell of gunpowder as it lingers and permeates the scene. This is what success smells like...burnt powder.
I hunted them as a poor young man with hardly any money for warm clothes, and I've hunted them later in life when i had the money for a duck club or guided hunts and nice lodges. No matter how I've hunted them it's always been fun.
What are your bird hunting stories?
