Pennsylvania Game News - November 2013 - 21

made the retrieve. I had barely slid
the grouse in the game pouch when
Blackie started a rabbit. His excited
squeals marked progress of the chase
through the lower field and back to the
orchard. On his first circle the bunny
got by without being seen, but it was
not so lucky on the second.
As I worked through the aspen in
the lower field, avoiding the wettest
areas, a strange-looking bird fluttered
up almost at my feet. As I watched it
fly away the light came on. That was a
woodcock. Wow, wait till I get home
and tell my dad and brother, I thought.
Then I noticed that the dog was excited and flushed another bird. This time
I knew what to do, and Blackie handed
me my first woodcock. I smoothed the
feathers and admired the little bird
before it joined the grouse and rabbit
in the game bag.
We spent another two hours in
that five or so acres of cover, missing
birds, hitting a few and significantly
reducing my inventory of shells. We
ended the day with four woodcock in
the poke. As I recall, the limit was four
back then. That was also the first time
I noticed the splashes of white on the
black earth and gold aspen leaves and
knew the source.
Sun sinking and temperature dropping, we were homeward bound on
a route that would take us past the
cider mill. Since late afternoon I had
been hearing the cadence of its single
cylinder engine. The dipper hanging
on a nail, offering a free drink to all,
proved irresistible. The naked bulbs
lit the mill and Ted, the owner, as he
dumped apples onto the conveyor that

NOVEMBER 2013

led to the chipper hopper. I propped my
unloaded gun in a corner, spread my
coat as a bed for Blackie and helped
unload the wagon and dump the bags.
Chores finished, Ted filled two glass
gallon jugs for me to take home, after
getting a promise to return the jugs.
The walk home was cold and my
bare fingers through the jugs' rings
made it even more difficult. Cold as
I was when I stood on the hill above
home, food and warmth waiting, I
paused for a moment to savor the day;
a day that I somehow knew was special.
That cover was productive for years,
or at least long enough to see me hunt
it with pointing dogs and a good sideby-side. A subsequent owner changed
things, though, and the cover died out.
I found it depressing to see the change
and for years avoided driving past it.
Recently, in telling a friend about writing this account, I wanted to show him
the location of George's farm. I'm glad I
did. That lower field is starting to look
good again.
Blackie has been gone for many
years. I still have the bolt action shotgun, although sometime in the past I
cut a couple inches off the stock to use
it as a starter gun for my sons. The Esso
station and the resident ballistic experts are all gone. That's unfortunate.
I would like to get their opinion on my
28-gauge sidelock, and I could sure use
some advice on women. One thing that
has remained constant is the love affair
with woodcock that was kindled that
day. The boy had taken the first steps
to becoming a bird hunter.

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Pennsylvania Game News - November 2013

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