- Joined
- Jan 30, 2002
- Messages
- 7,269
Today is the last day of rabbit season, the only game animal season still open. Young Bert, the not-right-dog, and I went out with the single shot 12.
It is grey, windy, and bone-chilling, face-freezing weather around here. The snow has a crust that doesn't quite support your weight and gives new meaning to the concept of "old legs."
I drove a couple of miles over to a friend's property and let YB,t n-r-d, out. The nice thing about weather this cold is that the swampy ground has frozen. Of course, Young Bert was of the opinion that this was absolutely PERFECT hunting weather.
We spent a couple of hours hunting. I shot at a rabbit and missed. I saw another one run on the other side of a hedgerow.
But while we were out, I saw a dozen or so deer, filing along a hill-side a couple of hundred yards ahead, tails down, but moving along. They must have heard or scented me, because they picked up their tails and pace, but still were only moving moderately as they went down a slope and into the thicketed brush across the field.
A hen pheasant got trapped by Young Bert, frozen for a moment, then flushed up and away. I suspect I'll never stop getting the thrill of seeing the tension of a bird dog locked on point.
And in the frozen swamp, I heard a noise...crouched and listened...and there, by gawd, came two Canadian geese, honking away, flying low enough to pick out great detail, and not swerving as they flew over. They must be year-round resident geese, maybe from the Mississippi, or possible the Wisconsin river, up near the power generator. I've only shot one Canadian, and felt great sorrow when I had it home and went to clean it.
I can't imagine that the Northern Migration has started yet. The skeins of geese going back North always stir my heart, I don't know why. They speak to me in an almost spiritual way.
We spent two hours or so out there, Young Bert at virtual full throttle, returning often enough to reassure me, and then making me laugh as he lapped up snow and then rolled in the dusting of snow from last night...over and over. That dog ain't right.
Within about ten yards of the car, a rabbit bolted, but I had a hard time cocking the hammer of the old Hercules 12 with the thick gloves. The rabbit went around some trees, I managed to NOT cock the gun a second time. Finally the rabbit went up a hillside, I got the gun cocked and fired. I hurt it, and Young Bert came over and went up and brought it back to me.
With a 1942 PAL USMC knife (almost as big as the bunny), I dressed it out, putting the meat in an old bread bag, and that into the game bag I carry.
So the season(s) are over. But what a lovely day to remember. I wish I could capture days like this the way a digital camera captures images, and replay them in my lonely days, or infirm nights, or even have as a last memory.
Even without the lucky shot at the rabbit, it was a perfect hunt.
Enjoy every sandwich.
It is grey, windy, and bone-chilling, face-freezing weather around here. The snow has a crust that doesn't quite support your weight and gives new meaning to the concept of "old legs."
I drove a couple of miles over to a friend's property and let YB,t n-r-d, out. The nice thing about weather this cold is that the swampy ground has frozen. Of course, Young Bert was of the opinion that this was absolutely PERFECT hunting weather.
We spent a couple of hours hunting. I shot at a rabbit and missed. I saw another one run on the other side of a hedgerow.
But while we were out, I saw a dozen or so deer, filing along a hill-side a couple of hundred yards ahead, tails down, but moving along. They must have heard or scented me, because they picked up their tails and pace, but still were only moving moderately as they went down a slope and into the thicketed brush across the field.
A hen pheasant got trapped by Young Bert, frozen for a moment, then flushed up and away. I suspect I'll never stop getting the thrill of seeing the tension of a bird dog locked on point.
And in the frozen swamp, I heard a noise...crouched and listened...and there, by gawd, came two Canadian geese, honking away, flying low enough to pick out great detail, and not swerving as they flew over. They must be year-round resident geese, maybe from the Mississippi, or possible the Wisconsin river, up near the power generator. I've only shot one Canadian, and felt great sorrow when I had it home and went to clean it.
I can't imagine that the Northern Migration has started yet. The skeins of geese going back North always stir my heart, I don't know why. They speak to me in an almost spiritual way.
We spent two hours or so out there, Young Bert at virtual full throttle, returning often enough to reassure me, and then making me laugh as he lapped up snow and then rolled in the dusting of snow from last night...over and over. That dog ain't right.
Within about ten yards of the car, a rabbit bolted, but I had a hard time cocking the hammer of the old Hercules 12 with the thick gloves. The rabbit went around some trees, I managed to NOT cock the gun a second time. Finally the rabbit went up a hillside, I got the gun cocked and fired. I hurt it, and Young Bert came over and went up and brought it back to me.
With a 1942 PAL USMC knife (almost as big as the bunny), I dressed it out, putting the meat in an old bread bag, and that into the game bag I carry.
So the season(s) are over. But what a lovely day to remember. I wish I could capture days like this the way a digital camera captures images, and replay them in my lonely days, or infirm nights, or even have as a last memory.
Even without the lucky shot at the rabbit, it was a perfect hunt.
Enjoy every sandwich.
I have spent literally months in the boondocks and not seen a mountain lion, then see one almost in town. WTF, over.
