Fall is for the birds
Fall is for the birds
By Tyler Frantz
Cool air sweeps across the landscape, daylight wanes, and autumn leaves reveal their masquerade of colors. The winds of change foretell a tale of seasonal transition – perhaps a story best told by the beating wings that bring the season to life. For avid sportsmen, days afield in these magical autumn months divulge one absolute truth… fall is for the birds. It begins in September, when Mother Nature holds fast to her sultry summer ways. Farm fields retain some greenery, but thirsty soils and tawny brown corn stalks hint at harvests soon to come.
Mornings are passed in dew-covered alfalfa hides, freshly cut silage and waterside haunts pursuing resident honkers taking claim to this land. The young of the year are gullible and naïve, while older, wiser sentries steer family flocks clear of dangerous decoy spreads slightly out of place.
Humid evenings bring mourning doves to waste grain, water and grit, where perceptive, perspiring hunters await. After several errant passes, their barrel beads eventually catch up to this speedy target’s dip-diving patterns. Bacon-wrapped dove breasts simmer on a barbecue grill as a fine reward for weathering oppressive heat.
With the flip of a calendar, October arrives: the wing-shooter’s month of glory. The early weeks come and go with mounting anticipation for the opening day of multiple bird hunting seasons. Like many things in life, the wait is well worth it.
First to strike is the early-season waterfowler, hunkered down along the shore of a muddy creek bank. Shrouded by fallen timber and waist-deep in water, he awaits the early-dawn arrival of squealing wood ducks.
With the glimmer of a new sunrise casting light upon his meager trio of fakes, the sounds of fluttering wings suddenly emerge from downstream. He mounts his shotgun as two majestic drakes materialize, dropping the brace before they even hit the water.
He wades out to retrieve his bounty and admires their stunning beauty. From chestnut breasts and butterscotch flanks to the iridescent swoops of their long flowing hoods, they are truly the most striking ducks known to man.
Next comes the mountain trail grouse hunter with pointing dog by his side. Hunting with his faithful four-legged companion makes the quest all the more satisfying, as this hunt is more for his aging dog than it is for himself.
Mile by mile, the pair battles laurel, thicket and pine cluster, yearning for the thrill of a flush and a chance shot through vibrant hardwood branches. Though these hills don’t hold the grouse they once held, the marvelous fan of a gray speckled drummer rightfully appoints him royal king of the woodlot- and that alone makes the eternal pursuit worthwhile.
In the rolling valleys below, dog and master bear down on another quarry- one known for its cackling calls. As canine bounces through tall swaying grass fields, carefully quartering into the wind, a boisterous burst of purple, rust-red and auburn explodes from the foxtail without warning.
The hunter instinctively pulls up and fires, dropping her first pheasant of the year. By mid-morning, she’ll add a second long-tailed rooster to her game pouch, as well as a bonus woodcock ousted from a tangle of low-lying underbrush. Many praises befall upon her hardworking pup, as both delight in a job well done. 
November greets fall turkey hunters like a dear old friend. Only the oaks still cling to their leaves, and even they now show crispy and brown. Among the barren leaf litter, the seasoned woodsman locates fresh scratching sign. With dirt cast aside indicating the direction of the flock, he optimistically sets off for a distant ridgeline. With any luck, he’ll locate and break up the flock, settle in by a tree trunk and begin coaxing them back to his pleading calls. One well-placed shot will seal the deal and secure the savory centerpiece of Thanksgiving dinner.
Several weeks later, inaugural snowfalls signal the closing of another chapter. However, blowing in with the storm come migrating mallards and foreign geese from sprawling tracts of the North. This is the time for bold moves and vast spreads, for the last hurrah of autumn grows increasingly near. Under bleak and dreary skies, the clouds let loose a winged bombardment of hungry travelers. Flock after flock they arrive, and after several hours of enduring the raw bitterness of fall’s final stand, hunters’ game-straps hang low with heavy harvests.
For the outdoorsman at heart, fall provides a diverse window of opportunity. It arrives reluctantly and departs in a fury, but many cherish that sweet spot in the midst of it all. It is a glorious season of change, excitement and natural wonder. No one appreciates it more than a hunter. Indeed, fall is truly for the birds.
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