Photo Courtesy Cornell/Gerrit Vyn

Ringneck specialist that she was, my fondest memory involved the biggest flight of woodcock I have ever encountered and the absolute clinic she put on next day.

Dick, I, and our Britts, Hazel and Bess, had been hunting grouse and woodcock all day in a pouring rain. I can’t recall much about the hunting that day other than we each shot a couple woodcock and I think Dick killed a grouse. Anyway both dogs hunted hard but perhaps because of the downpour neither performed even close to their norm.  Soaked to the skin, in late afternoon, we slogged out of the brush to the car and decided to call it quits.

But about halfway to town it quit raining. As luck would have it we’d just passed the Ball Field—a pet woodcock covert. Dick said, “What the hell we can’t get any wetter lets give it a whirl.”

So we put the tired, wet dogs down and entered the alders surrounding the  Ball Field and five minutes into it Hazel locked up, Bess backed and Dick dropped the ‘cock. But that was it. Shooting hours ended,  we put the dogs at heel, slogged toward the car. But just as we emerged from the alders suddenly it started raining woodcock.  Countless birds were dropping in all around us and of course the dogs went nuts.

We finally got leads on both and dragged them to the car. As Dick turned on the headlights to turn around, the infield was wall to wall woodcock and still more birds were dropping in. Naturally we made plans to return at first light.

The morning dawned dark and gloomy with ominous looking clouds scudding overhead pushed by a strong north wind. Unlike the evening before no woodcock dotted the infield in the headlights.  It seemed to take forever until light enough to shoot.  Then, as quietly as possible we tugged on shooting vests and loaded our guns. For reason escape me we’d left Hazel in her kennel, so I belled up Bess and turned her loose.

She hit the ground running and about halfway through the outfield grass dropped to a crouch, cat-footed to the alders and disappeared.

We hurried along behind, ducked into the flooded alders, slipped and splashed to higher ground and just then somewhere ahead the bell stopped clanging.  It took a little searching but we found Bess locked up staring toward a head-high hemlock thicket.

Dick said, “Take ‘em.”

As I started to circle a little to one side up jumped three birds. I swung on one going high left and dropped it. While Dick dumped one winging through an opening to the right. I swung back on the third towering high overhead and missed.  Dick, who seldom missed,  swatted it down going away.

After fetching the birds Bess moved on, went about 50 yards and locked up again, this time all but hidden behind a big oak blow-down.

Dick said, “Get in the open and I skirt around and try to send  ‘em your way.”

He did and sent the single right at me. I ducked, turned and missed the easy straight-away both barrels.

Dick laughed, “Good shootin’ kid, better luck next time.”

To make a long story short, Bess pretty much moved through the covert going point to point. Dick shot three more times and was limited out (5). Doubtless you readers are dying to hear my shot count, but all you need to know is when we quit at noon Bess had pointed at least 15 times after Dick quit shooting and I had four woodcock total to show for her considerable efforts.

To Be Continued...