Carpe diem

I remember the first time I hunted woodcock. It had rained most of the morning and threatened to continue for most of the afternoon. My hunting partner and I had talked about shooting woodcock for the better part of a year before we pulled into what we hoped was a likely-looking place to hunt.

We had pondered over maps we hoped would help us locate the russet migrants as they made their way south to our small part of the world on what was the western limit of their range. We debated the merits of 20 gauge shotguns and loads versus 28 gauge guns or those in hard-to-find 16 gauge. We narrowed our choices to a few American-made 20 gauge shotguns and loads recommended by woodcock hunters in other states. However, that particular day I ended up shooting a 12 gauge over/under made off-shore and my partner used his waterfowl gun. Go figure.

We found woodcock that day, but we also found our upland field boots leaked, our pants got soaked and the "greenbriar" thorns penetrated or tore everything we wore...including our skin. By the end of the afternoon, I doubted I would ever hunt woodcock again, much less shoot one.

I was wrong.

I saw the little 20 gauge side-by-side on the rack at a local pawnshop and decided its cracked stock and tarnished exterior did not justify its price tag. A little dickering brought the price down to a more reasonable amount and the next time I swung the little shotgun on an imaginary bird it was mine.


My woodcock hunting improved that year. I even shot a bird or two and found they made great table fare. My hunting partner and I discovered hunting boots with rubber bottoms and leather uppers that kept our feet dry and brush pants that kept our bottom halves dry and turned even the meanest of the briars we encountered in woodcock habitat.

We both graduated to side-by-side shotguns and we haunted coverts throughout the Midwest we hoped would hold woodcock. We were woodcock hunters. Yes, siree. Make no mistake about that. We had the clothing, we had the guns, we had the dogs and we thought we had the know-how. Yet, something was missing.

The little 20 gauge side-by-side just didn't "fit" as I thought it should. Its 28-inch barrels bored full and modified were choked too tightly for woodcock, but there was something right about the shotgun. It seemed to have a character just made for woodcock hunting. It just needed a little work.


After my third season chasing woodcock I could truthfully say I'd made some outstanding shots on the long-billed birds, and I'd also had some pitiful misses. My Labrador retriever (OK, I hunted waterfowl, too, so I needed a dual purpose dog. You pointing dog purists, don't get your undies in a wad) had turned in some truly phenomenal work on the little migrants and made several retrieves and finds I talk about only among those who were there. If I told you about them, you probably wouldn't believe me.

Yes, I was  enjoying woodcock hunting, but something was still missing.

A beautiful blank of Triple A grade fancy American walnut turned into an English-style stock from Bishop and Sons in Warsaw, MO, made the little 20 gauge side-by-side point where I looked when I threw it to my shoulder. Built to match my measurements, the new straight-grip stock kept my head  down and allowed for consistent mounting. Fifteen coats of tung oil brought the burl in the walnut to life.

My shooting diary helped me remember my days afield. The diaries helped bring to life the rare days when I shot a limit, legal or a smaller, self-imposed one; days when dog work, shooting and camaraderie were what I lived for; days when I felt bad about a missed shot, not for me, but for my dog - after all, he did most of the work.

For years, my hunting partners and I had discussed woodcock dogs. But our need for waterfowl retrievers surpassed the need for pointing dogs. Our Labs worked well on the russet birds and flushing the birds seemed very sporting to us. A Brittany became a family pet instead of the woodcock dog I'd hoped for. A beautiful orange-ticked, Ryman-type English setter with a great nose was added to the kennel, but due to my ignorance turned up gun-shy and got violently ill when in a moving vehicle.

A gunsmith opened the chokes on the little side-by-side making the right barrel skeet and the left barrel modified when shooting Double A skeet loads with No. 9 shot. I felt the little shotgun was finally ready.

That Saturday afternoon was a perfect woodcock afternoon: sunny skies, temperatures in the upper 40s, brilliantly-colored leaves on the trees and ground. The dogs were anxious and rested for the hunt and we knew dog work that day would be good. We could feel it. Good dog work and good company were, indeed, the order of the day. The woodcock flights were in and the shooting was good.

"Carpe diem" (Seize the day) the ancient Romans were famous for saying.

We did.

And, nothing was missing.

The Tin Cup

My grandfather was a rather large man. He stood 6'4" and when he went to the kitchen sink to get a drink, he filled an old tin cup he had purchased at a hardware store for less than a dollar and drank from it. Since large men usually require a lot of water, my grandfather's cup was enormous, well, at least in my eyes.

He used the cup for the last 15 to 20 years of his life. When he died many years ago, the only item among his possessions that I really wanted as a keepsake was that old tin cup.

It's really is just an old tin cup; not very pretty to look at. It has a red rim painted on it and some funny-looking peaches painted on the sides to add appeal to would-be purchasers like my grandfather. If you could buy one like it at a hardware store today, it probably wouldn't cost you more than a couple dollars - if you could find one. That's my way of saying this cup really isn't worth much to anyone but me.

But since the cup belonged to my grandfather, and because I'm rather sentimental about such things, I value this old tin cup.

My grandfather, like his father before him and mine before me, was an outdoorsman in his own right. Continuing that tradition has been a lifelong goal of mine and I feel it only right to keep a small token of those men with me when pursuing my outdoor passions.

You see, I have plans for that old cup.

Somewhere in the northern half of the Rocky Mountains, on a little-known mountain range, in a quiet,  uninhabited area, there is a bull elk with my name on it. Not just any bull elk, mind you, but a special one whose path and mine will cross one day. After he and I have looked each other in the eye and I have made the decision to squeeze or not squeeze the trigger on my rifle or bow, I'll hike back to camp, dig out that old tin cup and celebrate that bull.

I'll sit around the campfire, drinking slowly from that old cup, remembering that bull and toast my grandfather, who never saw an elk in his lifetime except in the pages of outdoor magazines.

In a harvested field in eastern South Dakota where the pheasants are thick as flies in a barnlot in July and they fly slower than I can type (which is pretty slow), I'll celebrate with that cup again.

After the day is over and the guns are cased, I'll sit by the fire and drink from that old cup. I may even call Gus, the shorthaired pointer, and take a walk, just the two of us, down the field road, slowing just a bit when we reach the spot where the double flushed, and I missed, twice. Somehow those misses will seem unimportant and the shots that connected will be all the more sweet as I drink from that old cup.

Other, less sentimental persons might say that my old tin cup really doesn't heal any of the hurts or make the joys any sweeter. And, they might be right. But I don't think so. Somehow the rack on that big elk will grow bigger, the pheasants' flights will be more erratic just because of that old tin cup.

Maybe there isn't any magic that makes that old cup special. But I like to think there is. And, if you are anything like me, you think so, too.