Bird hunting fills the void
Bird hunting fills the void
By Tyler Frantz
I love deer hunting- it’s my favorite. But it’s sometimes nice to encounter a change of pace as well. Blessed with the good fortune of filling a buck tag early this year, I’ve enjoyed the unique opportunity of swapping my bow for a shotgun in pursuit of winged table fare.
In fact, I’ve probably bird hunted as much in the past two weeks as I did all last season. Sure, I still possess antlerless tags for Pennsylvania and a chance to bag a New York whitetail in November, but I’ve had a lot of fun experiencing the autumn woodlot from a different perspective. Collecting a diversity of flavorful fowl for dinner is simply an added bonus. What follows are a few highlights from my most recent wing shooting endeavors- some more successful than others, but all fulfilling in their own way.
Tuesday, Oct. 20th
Upon securing permission to hunt a farmer’s privately owned stretch of water for ducks, my friend Ben and I head out to a small, lazy creek that flows near my home.
We don neoprene chest waders, which are a little toastier than necessary this time of year, and orange caps for safety while moving. Though waterfowlers are not required to wear blaze orange, we didn’t want to take any chances with muzzleloader hunters also pursuing deer on the property. Pausing at the creek bank, we briefly ponder our best options for a setup. Indecisive over walking upstream to a slow deep run or downstream to a plunging turn pool, we settle on the upstream option and position our decoys.
We place wood ducks near the bank of a sunken log and mallards out in the middle of the stream. Taking cover behind the gnarly roots of a logjam, we spend the evening quietly chatting, offering occasional hail calls and watching gray squirrels rummage for acorns. Quitting time arrives before the ducks do, but good friendship makes up for it. A relaxing night in the woods is never a failure.
Thursday, Oct. 22nd
After spending much of the past two days wondering what might have come from a trip downstream, I grab my shotgun, waders and three wood duck decoys and return to the creek in a spontaneous attempt to satiate my curiosity.
While wading toward the turn hole, I helplessly watch as three woodies spring from the water well out of range. Confirming my hunch that the birds would like it here, I continue on, hoping they might come back. As I round a turn, however, an unseen drake flushes from behind a dead snag; I reactively mount and shoot as he flies away, cutting his exit short. It’s my first male wood duck- a beautiful specimen.
I toss out my imitation drakes and hen to settle in for a gorgeous evening. Two doe meander along the opposite hillside, stopping by to drink a mere arm’s length from my decoys. It would’ve made for an easy bowshot, but I am equally happy to observe their casual, unsuspecting presence.
Just before sunset, another drake swims into my set. When I raise my gun, he flushes, and I drop him to the water before he can clear the bend. Friday’s dinner is maple-glazed duck kabobs. Saturday, Oct. 24th
My springer/setter hybrid bird dog, Cali, is crying with excitement the moment she hears me slip the bell on her hunting collar. Her nose is buried in my game pouch lying on the floor as I lace my boots.
We head to nearby public land for the first pheasant hunt of the year. The parking lot is loaded with vehicles. Two- and four-legged hunters scour the landscape for stock birds. I know the hunt won’t be easy, but we head out anyway.
Forty minutes into our brush busting, Cali freezes near a nasty pile of briars and old treetops. Her rapidly wagging tail sweeps low, indicating the scent of a bird. I take a step toward the jungle, and a vibrant rooster erupts from within. He crumbles at the crack of my 12-gauge, and Cali is on him. Dog praising and photo time ensues. 
My brother Travis, arriving from a morning bow hunt, calls my phone for a location to meet while I scold Cali for repeatedly wandering out of sight. Seconds later, she makes me eat my words, as she sends a woodcock careening my way. I shoot it and reload just in time to hear her anxious bark and the peet-peet-peet of another timber doodle taking flight. The second woodcock zips through the immature woodlot, and I haplessly empty my gun as it passes. My brother hears the shots in the distance and quietly chuckles as he works his way to us.
In short order, Cali finds even more pheasants. I call her off two because they veer toward the highway. She flushes two more. Travis misses one and kills the other. It’s an incredible day of hunting. Pheasant parmesan graces our menu, as does bacon wrapped woodcock sliders.
Monday, Oct. 26th
Eager to give it another whirl, Cali and I head to the local game lands after work, where we again find lots of hunters, but fewer birds. Most of the brush is already trampled, and we hear an occasional shot or two in the distance. The only pheasant Cali unearths in our widespread travels are the spoils of a predator kill in high grass.
With a full moon rising as the sun slips away, the splendor of nature’s painted canvas pauses our slow walk to the truck. “Gosh that’s pretty!” I think to myself as I absorb the colors of fall. Then Cali and I admit defeat for the night and retire- the scenery a fair consolation for our efforts. At times I find myself thinking, “Boy this would be a great night to be on a deer stand,” but at the same time, it’s kind of a great night to be chasing winged game as well. My return to deer hunting will resume soon enough. For now, bird hunting more than adequately fills the void.
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