Seasons change. It ends so it can begin again.
The sun sets on another hunting season. Kansas upland quail and pheasant ended yesterday, and the duck season closed last Sunday. Goose season is still open, but will be closing soon. This season has been kind to me. I was in the field a great deal and enjoyed every minute of it.
My season opened with a trip to Wyoming with my oldest son, Little Wild Man. We made our way across the Kansas prairie, through Nebraska and onto the high plains of Wyoming for an antelope hunt. The time spent in the pickup, just him and I on the road was beyond value. A boy and his dad on an adventure, heading across the west to hunt big game. We smiled and shared stories and jokes and coffee. We spent time with family friends in Wyoming, and the hunt was great. Connecting on an opportunity the first morning with a great antelope buck, we returned victorious with antelope meat for the family.
As the fall gained momentum, so did the hunting season. Warm afternoons turned into cold evenings and the season's first frost. Black walnut and oak trees turned yellow and red with the shorter days, and the clean fresh air after a frost fell across our home on the plains. The Kansas upland season opened, and with a Labrador pup in her first season it was much anticipated. Meg had spent last spring and summer in training; working to hunt birds, to stay close to the gun, and to retrieve. This was her first real hunt, wild birds and an open season.
Opening day was a family affair, with three hunters and Little Wild Man tagging along, five of us in total, counting the dog. The morning's long streaming rays of light and warmth glistened on the tall bluestem grass, and our pant cuffs dampened with the melting of the evening frost. Worn leather boots, old orange hats and game vests holding a scattering of feathers from past hunts are a welcomed image in my mind. Images like this take me back over past hunts and experiences, through years and seasons, all in an instant. We worked cover with Meg, around thickets and briars, along field edges and wood lots. Our first covey of the day was strong with birds, and Meg did not disappoint. With a firm flush through the tall grass off a small creek scattered with scrubbed brush the birds crossed one of our hunters and sat back down within sight. A large hill top banked to our west, and a slight breeze rolled to us out of the south. We brought Meg in from the north using the breeze and landscape to her advantage. We bagged three birds in all, after working the covey with Meg. Only slightly diminishing the group of wild birds, we never intend to ruin a covey. We hunted quail most of the day, stopping for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Our group thinned from four to three, and then three to two, and finally it was just Meg and I. We found several coveys that day, all healthy with birds. This was the first of many quail hunts Meg and I had this season. We hunted with friends, with family, and just her and I throughout the season. I can honestly say, I think Meg loves to hunt quail, it is her passion.
The days of fall slowly began to give way to winter. Warm afternoons seemed to struggle to hold on, and blue skies and sunshine no longer offered a promise of warmth. The season at hand was the rifle deer season, an annual event across the country. From Maine to California, folks anticipate deer hunts. There are so many traditions and so much heritage surrounding deer hunting it is akin to its own denomination. I am ordinarily a bow hunter, but with a growing family and a new pup to work at home, I opted to hunt with my rifle this season. Kansas rifle season opens on a Wednesday, and I was fortunate to be able to take a few days off from work. My experiences have proven that time spent in the deer stand is often needed time. The needed time is not necessarily time needed in the field, or in the pursuit of deer, but time for reflection, time to be alone in the quiet. Watching the sun rise, deliberately being quiet and staying still have a way of bringing you to your center, to see your own reflection. Slowing down and purposefully watching nature, the woods, the wind, the movement of a squirrel or little song bird brings therapy to a man. Time in the deer woods has always been a form of healing to me, often times healing for things I didn't know were ailing me.
I was fortunate to see deer every time I was out. I passed on a nice two year old buck on the opening morning. Watching the deer through the scope of my rifle, I couldn't help but think how much his antlers would grow for next year. Three young bucks cruised past me on the first evening of season, seeing only one at first, then the flick of two more tails. Deer are like that, look away for an instant and back, and they somehow appear like a ghost. On the second morning I watched the same buck that I passed on the morning earlier, thinking again about taking the shot, but reminding myself I had more time to hunt. Just like that, only minutes after watching a young buck with promise of growth fade into the tall grass of the prairie, a group of three nice bucks rushed into view. These bucks all carried heavy horns in their fourth or fifth seasons, and all their attention was on a single doe. Their pursuit of her was relentless, and I was able to position myself for a shot knowing I might be forgiven some movement because of it. My Weatherby 25-06 bolt action is a fine gun. I have taken many trophies with it over the years, and provided meat on the table for my family. The fine checkering of a walnut stock firmly gripped in my hands, and a deep breath of December air settled into the shot. The largest of the three bucks was broadside in my scope, standing still, his white antlers gleamed in the morning sun. Moments like this are what make sportsmen, moments like this are what sportsmen dream of. My Weatherby was true to form, and moments later I had filled my Kansas deer tag.
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| Modern Wild Man with a Kansas buck. |
December is my favorite month of the year. Deer season is open, along with upland and waterfowl. Most of my free time during the last month of the year was spent in the field. I was able to put considerable time in the duck blind and field this winter. Waterfowling can be bittersweet, birds move in and birds move out with the weather. Just when you think you've got things figured out, and a line on were the birds want to be, they change. All in all, this years duck season was good. I didn't have a banner year, but my dog made her first water retrieves, I made new friends in the blind, and ducks went into the freezer and onto the table.
Meg wasn't sure about her first water retrieve, after a few weeks hunting quail, upland had become natural to her. Our first afternoon duck hunt served us some comedy and a learning experience. Not long after setting up we had a nice group of three wood ducks work into the pond we were on. Shooting the three ducks had Meg excited, but swimming out after them was another story. Now, I have been working with Meg most of the summer on water retrieves, through decoys and with some gunfire, and she loved it. Here and now, in the moment she wasn't to sure. Thankfully, the pond was small, only a few acres of water and I was able to walk with Meg to the downwind bank and introduce her to our ducks, now washed up along the shoreline. Quickly she smelled the birds, and I allowed her to carry one back to the blind. The second group of birds to work that afternoon were American Wigeons or Baldpate. The wigeon is a fun duck to hunt, readily decoyed and cruising in fast like a fighter jet. We were able to work the group from a high passing across our decoys, banking quickly to my mallard hen call. Swooping around, their wings cut the air as they cupped into our decoys. There were four ducks, and three shooters in our group. Offering terrific shot opportunities, we were able to take all four ducks. Again, Meg was excited by the gunfire, and knew she was to retrieve. Hesitantly, she walked out into the water, only to whine and come back to shore. Quickly we circled around the bank again, looking to retrieve the birds winded up against the shoreline. This time, however, one of the birds was crippled and looking to escape. As we approached the wigeon drake with his neon green blaze across his eyes, set against a brilliant white top and gray cheeks, he flapped his wings and swam out into the pond. The birds action set Meg's instinct into overdrive. She lunged with all four feet and leapt, all her heart and soul went into the water intent on retrieving that bird. This was Meg's first big time water retrieve, and she passed the test with flying colors. Convincing her to retrieve a bird from the water since has not been a problem.
December turned into January, duck hunting turned into goose hunting, and as January ended so did many hunting seasons with it. That's the thing about seasons, they change. I know that a fall harvest requires springs growth and vigor. I understand that next year's wild game needs this year to replenish. I recently had a frank conversation with a friend over a cup of coffee. We spoke about seasons and plans for next year and so on. In that conversation, one of us and I don't remember which said "I've only got 30 or 40 seasons left, if I'm lucky". That struck me, the ultimate season I suppose. We never know what next season will bring, what turns our lives may take. For now, I think I will look forward to fishing, spring turkey and the morel season. I'm already thinking about next year's fall and winter, my two boys, Little Wild Man and Littlest Wild Man, and the adventures I hope to take with them someday. This season was a season of growth and contentment, a season of finding oneself and making friends, a season of learning and one of teaching.
I hope that you will enjoy the next season of Wild.
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