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Fall is the time of year that gives the Pacific Northwest its moody, wet, and misty reputation. It’s also when some of the most coveted edible mushrooms arrive on the scene. Out here, mushrooms are as much a part of the landscape as the moss-covered logs, ferns, and towering old-growth trees. Fungi seem to be everywhere, and it’s easy to overlook them.

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“Woodcock are neither the hardest nor the easiest bird to shoot.” I am not sure I can sum up woodcock shooting better than those words of George Bird Evans, author of Upland Shooting Life. Over 35 years have passed since I shot my first woodcock, and I have learned from others and my own errors how to get better or at least improve my woodcock shooting skills. 

While the American woodcock can fly upwards of 30 mph through impossibly thick cover, they are also capable of some of the slowest flights recorded of a bird. Woodcock are an unusual bird to wingshoot; their erratic and unpredictable flight patterns have coined them the nickname mudbats. There will be moments where they seem to float to the canopy with their head turned, those big eyes looking back at you, almost convincing you to reach out and try to catch it with your hands. You may ask yourself, “How could I miss that shot?” 

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The venerable ring-necked pheasant, the most-hunted upland bird in America. Most of us are likely aware the bird hails from East Asia and, despite its popularity in the United States, is not native to our country. Nevertheless, hunters young and old, bird-dog fanatics or bird-dog-less, head afield in the hundreds of thousands each year to chase that unforgettable cackle.

Millions of these birds are plated each year, so logic dictates some general culinary info might benefit us orange-clad diehards that chase this bird’s iconic luminous plumage.

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I’m an adult-onset, first-generation hunter. Over the last five years, I’ve learned everything I can about upland bird hunting. This learning experience has been overwhelming. I looked at the obstacles I encountered as a set of parts to make becoming a hunter feel more attainable. With bird hunting, that challenge is all the greater since the parts are literally moving. 

During a disheartened phase in my second hunting season, I wrote a list of the moving parts for upland hunting. It helped clarify what I was doing well while highlighting the specific areas I needed to work on. I could tell myself, “You were able to find birds. Woo! Now, you have to figure out how to shoot at them,” instead of being frustrated that I hadn’t taken a single shot all day. 

Once I identified a problem, I would implement a solution. In time, my list of moving upland hunting parts has become succinct. I reflect upon it after every hunt. It has four parts: finding birds, maneuvering in the field, shooting, and bird recovery. 

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To my delight, my time spent on Duolingo, a popular language-learning application, came in handy while reading Craig Koshyk’s Pointing Dogs Volume I: The Continentals. Although I am an utter noob with hunting dogs specifically, I cherished a dog breed encyclopedia as a child. As a result, I was familiar enough with French dogs to know breeds like French Brittanies and Papillons exist. However, I had never heard of the gorgeous Épagneul Français (aye-pan-YUL fran-SAY) or French Spaniel.

“I don’t know what it is about the French Spaniel,” writes Koshyk, “but every time I try to capture that ‘special some-thing’ about the way they look and the way they move, I feel that I come up short.” It’s easy to see where Craig is coming from. His images depict gleaming, feathery-coated dogs with bright eyes, balanced features, and fluid movements. Although his photos are still, I can only imagine how visually pleasing this hard-working bird dog is when working in the field or bringing a bird to hand.

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I worked part-time at a gun shop during my college years, which offered me the privilege of handling hundreds of used shotguns. As I stepped behind the gun counter one day to start an afternoon shift, I spied a unique 20-gauge side-by-side on the rack. Etched on the side of the left barrel I read, “BROWNING ARMS COMPANY.” Stamped on the right barrel was “B-S/S SPECIAL STEEL 20 GA.”

I was instantly intrigued and, after breaking it open to be sure it wasn’t loaded, swung it on an imaginary covey rise of bobwhites. I was abruptly awakened from my dream by Paul the veteran gun salesman barking at me, “You’re too late, kid, your buddy Fritz already bought it.”

Fritz was the nickname of my colleague and friend who had, in fact, purchased it two hours prior to my arrival after it had been taken in on trade. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s bird gun. But covet it I did. More of that story later…

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A decade ago I wrote a book, The Urban Deer Complex. Growing up just outside of Boston, I was fascinated by the idea of whitetail deer being able to adapt so well to human environments. It inspired a whole section of the book I labeled “The Science of Fear.” Through rapid evolution accelerated by an encroaching urbanized environment, whitetails were able to pass down behavior that would allow them to distinguish between non-threatening and threatening human behavior. That ideology would subsequently put many a deer on my dinner table over the years, and although it is more complex than the summary here, I never thought it could apply to ruffed grouse. 

At the time, I had yet to read the classic New England Grouse Shooting, written in my hometown by William Harden Foster. Foster made a clear indication to the increasing evasive nature of ruffed grouse and their responses to human pressures. He even credits this intelligence to the reason ruffed grouse survived the early market hunting days of New England while their cousins the Heath Hen fell victim, unable to adapt.

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During my four-year stint at the Elk Public House in Spokane, Washington, I likely pounded out thousands of chicken breasts to prep for the grill. As line cooks—mostly greasy-haired, chain-smoking, beer-guzzling proletariat—we had our own terminology for such a process, which I’ll leave to your imagination. Nevertheless, taking a meat mallet to a chicken breast had a couple of distinct purposes. Yes, it tenderized the meat, but more importantly—for the purpose of short ticket times—it made sure that the meat cooked faster. With upland birds, both of these functions apply just as they do with chicken, but the tenderizing process brings with it a few additional benefits as well.

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Upland hunting, for me, is as much about enjoying the outdoors as it is about hunting. For this reason, I tend to hunt very quietly, speaking to my dogs only as much as necessary. I don’t run a bell for the most part, though I will on windy days to keep better tabs on them. 

Being from the northeast, wind storms can drive birds away from primary feeding areas towards more protected grounds such as conifers. Both woodcock and grouse rely heavily on conifers for their survival. On windy days, woodcock tend to tuck themselves under planted pines or protective thickets. They also are more inclined to run before taking flight, whereas grouse are quick to take flight, retreating to the security of the treetops at the first sign of trouble. Due to the dense covers we hunt, we depend on hearing wing beats to gain directionality on escaping birds. Wind can make this very difficult, particularly in the early season when the leaves are still clinging to their branches. 

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It was the same story each time we visited the Olathe Gun Shop in Kansas. As soon as he entered through the front door, my father would walk towards the over-under shotguns. There, neatly displayed upright, were a variety of stacked barrels. To the upland bird hunter shopping for a new shotgun, there were plenty to choose from. However, for my father there was only one that stood out: the Ruger Red Label. This time, his hands would carefully grab the shotgun’s forend to admire it one more time before taking it home. He had been saving for months. The time had come to purchase his first over-under.

It was the mid-90s and my father had a few options when it came to choosing his first “double”. After many years, he would tell me that the Ruger Red Label stood out against all the others. It was the lustrous metal receiver that had grabbed his attention. Its simple, yet sleek design set the 12-gauge apart from the others in my father’s eyes.

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