In case you missed the memo, hunting season is currently underway. Not that it affects my life much one way or the other. I’ve never been much of a nimrod.
But I have hunted, even killed, if you count birds or wayward deer straying across the highway after dark.
Truth be told, however, I’m really more of a maimer, whacking my first Hungarian partridge out of the Idaho sky with a buddy’s 12-gauge during a cast-and-blast adventure on the Salmon River last fall. We were hunting chukar partridge.
No matter, Huns were apparently in season too, and I dropped that chick with one crackerjack pop of the trigger as it blazed across the stark horizon of the steep-walled canyon.
Our posse of seven huntsmen and three hounds had split up to canvass the riverbank, and for the first time on our four-day pursuit I found myself without the assistance of a pointer or a genuinely qualified marksman when the covey broke. Up to that point, I could never be certain if it was my shot or someone else’s that dropped a bird in the chaotic discharge of firearms that erupted whenever a covey flushed at our feet.
Oh, sure, I had ample opportunity to establish my incompetence even with the assistance of others, but on at least a couple occasions I might make an argument for hitting what I was aiming for despite the repeated claims of my old pal Walt dropping an otherwise remarkable string of “doubles” every time two or more birds hit the ground.
It didn’t bother me much early on, since this was ostensibly a steelhead fishing trip as well and I was most eager to hook up with one of the notorious lunkers on a fly rod. But after a couple days on the river I began to notice an emerging trend away from the cast and toward the blast. In hindsight, the adventure might have been more accurately described as a blast-and-blast, given the amount of whiskey stashed in the tackle box.
So on this third day of gun toting, it suddenly seemed important to set the record straight. I didn’t need to shoot my limit, but it might be nice to walk back into camp with a couple birds in tow. When I heard the shot and ensuing expletive from the other side of the knoll I was hunting, I knew my chance had arrived.
“You gol-dang mother scratcher … COMIN’ YOUR WAY!” came the shout. I looked up in time to see a lone bird winging into my site.
There’s an undeniable flush of adrenaline that courses through your veins in the “now” of a hunt. You manage with little effort to disassociate yourself from the life-and-death reality of the undertaking, scoping your quarry with the keen focus of a batter honing in on a hanging curveball. The gun moves almost instinctively to your shoulder, tracking the bird’s flight as it soars into view until you realize the synchronicity of barrel and target and squeeze the trigger with a modicum of certainty. Like black magic, the explosion in your ear swats your target out of the sky – if not out of the ballpark – leaving it lifeless on the ground before you. Or so it would seem anyway.
As the rush of the hunt oozed from my body and I walked over to retrieve my prey, the bird managed to open its one remaining good eye, blinking slowly as if to say, “Dude, what did you do that for?” The other side of its head was littered with buckshot and I realized immediately that any actual killing would have to be done by hand. Nobody ever mentioned that part.
There is, of course, a rather effective and humane technique used by seasoned hunters to wring a bird’s neck. Alone and suddenly wracked with guilt for semi-deliberately maiming this beautiful creature of God, said technique never occurred to me. All I knew was that I had to break its neck to alleviate any suffering before I could start thinking about dinner.
Since I was wearing heavy boots suited to the grueling hike that is chukar hunting, my 220-pound body weight seemed to me an effective means of euthanasia. I dropped the bird on a rock and took a heavy step.
To my shock and dismay, the plan not only failed, but seemed to have an entirely opposite impact on the bird. As soon as my boot landed on its neck it sprang back to life, wings flapping, feet kicking, feathers rustling. The tough little guy wasn’t going down without a fight. After a few stressful seconds I decided to get my other boot involved, attempting to tweak its neck with an additional nudge. Soon enough, the headless bird got up and started running blindly in circles just like the chicken in the cliché. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
I looked on in disbelief at the partridge or whatever the mutant bird with the stump of bone protruding between its wings where a head should be might be considered.
After a couple short laps around the field, it toppled over and gave up the ghost.
I think I gave up hunting at about the same time.
Staff writer Scott Willoughby can be reached at 303-954-1993 or swilloughby@denverpost.com.
