Hooked by Happenstance

This is a story for all sportsmen who have never experienced the terror of a woodcock’s wings slapping their legs as it flushes. It is a story for seasoned veteran’s who have forgotten their early days of discovery. For the days when dogs were a luxury and not a necessity, when small gauges, classic doubles, and open chokes are envied, even coveted. This is a story of freezing fingers and sweating palms. Open woods and briars so thick you walk on them instead of through them. It is a story of a happening, for in the short span of three hours, a lifetime was changed. A woodcock hunter has come into being.
We all have dreamed of those days, days when the number of flushes surpasses the number of shells we have in our game vest, days when easy shots outnumber the difficult ones, when there is no glare from the sun, no wind to speed up the game. We have dreamed of days when everything seems right---days when even the best storyteller has a hard time describing with clarity. Then, as fate would have it, reality steps in and even on the days when everything seems to be going our way, we do not follow through with our shots. We drop our for-end, snag our sleeves on everything in the woods when attempting to mount our guns. Days that begin as a day in nirvana quickly becomes a day we would as soon as forget. Ironically, for most of us the days of when flushes are few and shots even less, far outnumber days when every step produces an explosion of leaves and feathers. It seems as if never the twain shall meet, when accuracy meets with an abundance of game, days when the ease of getting into a covert, meshes with the ease of actually finding birds.
What happened to me last January was what I hope is not a once in a lifetime event, but what very easily could have been. The most ironic element of the whole process is that it was all by happenstance; it was a day to remember and a day to forget.
It all started during a cold snap, a lot colder than usual for the piedmont of South Carolina, Temperatures hovered in the mid 20’s and even for January it was cold, with a slight breeze out of the north. Woodcock season this far south, does not open until sometime around the end of December and runs through most of January. It varies from year to year. On this particular occasion I was not after woodcock at all, in fact I was going to try my hand at Coyote hunting, a relatively new sport in our area. I had heard rumors of Coyotes in the area, and although I had never seen one myself, it was as good an excuse as any to get into the woods.
The law in South Carolina only permits the use of small game ammunition for predator hunting, during the small game season. So I grabbed my pump shotgun and a couple of boxes of shells, (in case I jumped a rabbit, or squirrel) and I headed out.
Shortly after arriving at my destination, I walked the logging road towards the Broad River. As I got close to where I planned to set up and start my predator calling, I felt the flutter of wings slapping my britches. Jumping, falling and trying to regain my balance, I caught just enough of a glimpse to see what it was that just reduced me from the confident hunter to a terrified spectator. To my amazement it was a Woodcock. Then it dawned on me, it was the first week of January, and our Woodcock season runs in January. So right then I decided to forego the predator hunt and see if I might find a few more of these leg-slapping timber-doodles.
Little did I know that as I made this decision, I was at a distinct disadvantage, having never hunted woodcock before; I had no idea how big of a disadvantage I actually had. I learned some valuable lessons about future woodcock hunts, of which if I have anything to say about it, there will be many.
First, a pump gun is of absolutely no use in southern woodcock cover. There is not enough room to swing these typically long barreled heavy guns, and seldom enough room to work the action in order to send a second shell in the chamber without your sleeve getting caught on some type of briar, limb, sapling or other types of trash that frequent the feeding grounds of this little bird. Secondly, since I was intending on hunting coyotes, a full choke is about as deadly in woodcock cover as a slingshot. Lastly, #5 shot is entirely too much for a bird of this delicate size. After all an adult woodcock might tip the scales at a whopping 7-9 ounces and a twelve gauge pump carrying a full choke with #5 shot is a bit much, especially should the rare connection actually occur which would leave even less for the supper table.
Not that I am making excuses mind you, I am merely pointing out to future woodcock hunters what NOT to take into the field when in pursuit of these feathered lightning bolts.
But perhaps the greatest disadvantage was the fact that I was alone. No companion, either two or four legged, and while I love the companionship of a colleague when hunting, I would have much preferred the four-legged kind on this particular day. If you remember, I was coyote hunting, so why would I bring a dog with me? The greatest disadvantage of being alone on a woodcock hunt is that the woodcock knew where they were and I did not have a clue.
As I made my way down to the “riparian zone” (that area where logging is forbidden next to bodies of water) fighting my way through briars, and brambles. I jumped two more woodcock. Finally after reaching this riparian zone, I could actually walk. It was an area about 30 yards wide with planted pines on one side and the Broad River on the other. Slowly, I made my way through this riparian zone. After only ten yards, Woodcock jumped in front of me and headed straight away. Woodcocks-1—ill prepared hunter-0. Three more steps, I found myself stumbling backwards as two more woodcock flushed literally between my legs. Woodcock-3 – frustrated hunter -0. As I slowly moved through this area, I flushed 19, that’s right, 19 woodcock, and I fired 16 times. Now just for the record, I already told you that I had the wrong gun. I already mentioned that I had the wrong ammunition, and that my choke was too tight and my dog was at home sleeping and . . .well anyway.
By now I was completely frustrated and actually laughing at myself as I slipped through the woods with the shotgun mounted on my shoulder like a soldier wading through enemy territory, anticipating a sniper with every step. Finally, as luck would have it, after flushing a big female, I carefully marked where she landed. Slipping to where I figured her to be, she rose, the gun came naturally to my shoulder, I swung as smooth as anyone who was 0 for 16 and at the sound of the gun she folded. --- I discovered again why I needed a dog. These birds are almost impossible to find in the briars and thickets. And since I don’t smell very well, I resorted to crawling. I was determined that I had killed one of these woodcock, and I was going to find it. After a diligent search I found this odd looking little bird that now graces a well distinguished place in my house to remind me of the best day bird hunting I have ever had, or heard of. I was going coyote hunting remember, and I found myself completely enveloped by the woodcock migration.
I don’t know if I will ever find myself in that kind of flight again. When the weather is cold, the birds are thick and the shooting so often. I do know one thing is for sure. I will be out there again, and again, and again looking for those feathered bolts of lightning. Because until you have had a woodcock’s wings flapping against your legs, you haven’t bird hunted.
The bottom line is this. If you ever get a chance to hunt woodcock, it will be a trip you will long remember. It is a frustrating bird, but what game that we pursue is predictable? That is the allure isn’t it? Looking for the birds, searching the cover, hoping that this cover will produce again as it did last year. After all, a successful hunt is not measured by the weight of your game bag; it is just being there.