(This is the end of day two on a hunt - this story starts there)
After the last Hungarian Partridge fell from the covey and crashed in the rocks I felt relieved. The physical preparation for the last two days did nothing to compensate for the effects of altitude on the ability to breathe. Living at single digit feet above sea level and then ascending to 7500 feet without a week's acclimation does not make for easy going. I could not get the little creek that pooled up in the cow pasture below out of my head. It brought back many fond memories of days in West Virginia and North Carolina purposefully hunting the snipe that inhabited areas with an almost eerie similarity. Thankful to be going down for a final time today, I crested the rocks and picked out a cattle trail. Overlooking this valley, there it was. The "snipe bog" below - way below in the far distance. As I picked my way down I mostly forgot about my host and my dog as I replayed various hits and misses of snipe from my past in my head. Some days 25 years seems like a long time and others it seems like a blink of the eyes. Near level now, I find the water's path and begin to follow it. As I just enter the soft, bright green bog my new friend and host and my dog catch up and join me. "Good shooting on those huns, I'm glad we got one last covey up there", my host enthusiastically states. I pause and look out over the bog. "Do you know what this is" , I ask? "Cow Pool", he replies. "Where I come from, we call this a snipe bog", I say to him. My 13 gauge SxS is empty. I haven't reloaded since the last two shots, thinking the shooting was complete for the day. I reach into my right pocket and pull out two small tubes of powder. One at a time, carefully I pour the contents, one down each barrel. I look out over the bog again and I am drawn to it. Some primal ping inside that is hard to describe with words. "What are you doing"?, asks Paul. "You got a limit and I don't think there are any other birds between here and the truck", he adds. I push a card down each barrel, pour and ounce of nickel plated #7 shot and dig around another pocket for more cards. Finally two shiny white cards are located and I push them down the tubes on top of the powder. Paul is now standing with a puzzled look on his face and his hands on his hips while still waiting for an answer. "I'm going to kill a snipe", I proclaim. Paul snaps back, " I think I flushed one on the way in so it's long gone by now. Besides, nobody has ever come all the way here to snipe hunt. Heck, I don't even know anyone who shoots them, or ever did". I look out over the bog again and then back at Paul. "I can tell you don't know much about them. There is rarely ever just one as they like company. And, if one flies away unmolested it is likely to come back to the same spot within a few minutes". "Yeah, right" is all he can think to say. The little creek pools up about 50-yards from me, and the big puddle is about 30-feet wide and 50-feet long. On the other side of the pool the water escapes down a one to two foot jagged line in the grass, just like the way it came down to this point. Past the pool there is another 40-yards or so of green grass before the yellow and straw colors take back over the landscape. "Stay here", I request of Paul. I call my little dog over to me. She has run sunrise to sunset yesterday and sunrise today until now, about 6:15PM and near sunset again in these North Western mountains. I tell the dog, "Take it easy and find a bird". She has been making casts of hundreds of yards in search of the hungarian partridge, but now I need her feet away, not yards. Tired but excited, she complies. The dog makes about a 30-yard half-circle. and stops. She begins to stiffen and established a point. I try to hurry there but the soft, lumpy, wet dirt is nearly as hard to walk on as the inclines of loose rock we've come from. As I pass the dog I catch movement and see a little brown striped body scurrying down the creek. Suddenly, three snipe pop up from the grass and flutter in different directions. I am shaken from my reminiscing of previous snipe when one is silhouetted against the mountainous background. No mountains existed in W. VA. or N.C. although the bog seemed vaguely familiar. The slight distraction delayed me enough that I did not attempt to mount the shotgun. A quick flash to my left draws my attention enough to look there just in time to see one snipe land on the bog. I go to the dog and release her from the point, but heel her back to Paul. "Please keep the dog here, I'll be right back", I request. Paul says, "You're crazy". I head to the spot where the snipe fluttered down. As I am sure I am very nearby, I pull back both hammers. One step at a time for safety. There he is, the snipe is airborne. The gun comes up easy even after all these miles. I shoot and visibly see an impact on the little bird. The bird jerks right, but is still flying. Perplexed, I bear down and pull the second trigger. The view is slightly obscured from the first shot's smoke hanging in the air. The bird turns hard to the left and then gains some altitude. I run forward about 3-bounds to get out of the smoke cloud. Fixated on the twittering bird that continues dipping left and right I concentrate. The bird is descending fast right at the end of the bog. Just past the green line the bird sets down, but I see a "roll" of white. "I got it", I say to nobody but myself. I motion to Paul who begins my way with the dog. As Paul nears, I go straight to the spot where the bird did it's summersault. Paul catches up and so does the dog. "It's gotta be right here", I say with uncertainty. Paul and I spread out with the dog between us. Doubt sets in. I am replaying this event in my mind and saying out loud "It has to be right here". Doubt starts to grow into a mix of panic and disappointment. I just know I got that bird. Paul breaks the silence that has lingered too long. "She's got it", he says referring to the dog. He take the little snipe and hands it to me. I brush its feathers and put it to my nose to see if I can smell it. "Thank you, Paul" I say, "We can head to the truck now". "You're crazy", Paul says once again.
After the last Hungarian Partridge fell from the covey and crashed in the rocks I felt relieved. The physical preparation for the last two days did nothing to compensate for the effects of altitude on the ability to breathe. Living at single digit feet above sea level and then ascending to 7500 feet without a week's acclimation does not make for easy going. I could not get the little creek that pooled up in the cow pasture below out of my head. It brought back many fond memories of days in West Virginia and North Carolina purposefully hunting the snipe that inhabited areas with an almost eerie similarity. Thankful to be going down for a final time today, I crested the rocks and picked out a cattle trail. Overlooking this valley, there it was. The "snipe bog" below - way below in the far distance. As I picked my way down I mostly forgot about my host and my dog as I replayed various hits and misses of snipe from my past in my head. Some days 25 years seems like a long time and others it seems like a blink of the eyes. Near level now, I find the water's path and begin to follow it. As I just enter the soft, bright green bog my new friend and host and my dog catch up and join me. "Good shooting on those huns, I'm glad we got one last covey up there", my host enthusiastically states. I pause and look out over the bog. "Do you know what this is" , I ask? "Cow Pool", he replies. "Where I come from, we call this a snipe bog", I say to him. My 13 gauge SxS is empty. I haven't reloaded since the last two shots, thinking the shooting was complete for the day. I reach into my right pocket and pull out two small tubes of powder. One at a time, carefully I pour the contents, one down each barrel. I look out over the bog again and I am drawn to it. Some primal ping inside that is hard to describe with words. "What are you doing"?, asks Paul. "You got a limit and I don't think there are any other birds between here and the truck", he adds. I push a card down each barrel, pour and ounce of nickel plated #7 shot and dig around another pocket for more cards. Finally two shiny white cards are located and I push them down the tubes on top of the powder. Paul is now standing with a puzzled look on his face and his hands on his hips while still waiting for an answer. "I'm going to kill a snipe", I proclaim. Paul snaps back, " I think I flushed one on the way in so it's long gone by now. Besides, nobody has ever come all the way here to snipe hunt. Heck, I don't even know anyone who shoots them, or ever did". I look out over the bog again and then back at Paul. "I can tell you don't know much about them. There is rarely ever just one as they like company. And, if one flies away unmolested it is likely to come back to the same spot within a few minutes". "Yeah, right" is all he can think to say. The little creek pools up about 50-yards from me, and the big puddle is about 30-feet wide and 50-feet long. On the other side of the pool the water escapes down a one to two foot jagged line in the grass, just like the way it came down to this point. Past the pool there is another 40-yards or so of green grass before the yellow and straw colors take back over the landscape. "Stay here", I request of Paul. I call my little dog over to me. She has run sunrise to sunset yesterday and sunrise today until now, about 6:15PM and near sunset again in these North Western mountains. I tell the dog, "Take it easy and find a bird". She has been making casts of hundreds of yards in search of the hungarian partridge, but now I need her feet away, not yards. Tired but excited, she complies. The dog makes about a 30-yard half-circle. and stops. She begins to stiffen and established a point. I try to hurry there but the soft, lumpy, wet dirt is nearly as hard to walk on as the inclines of loose rock we've come from. As I pass the dog I catch movement and see a little brown striped body scurrying down the creek. Suddenly, three snipe pop up from the grass and flutter in different directions. I am shaken from my reminiscing of previous snipe when one is silhouetted against the mountainous background. No mountains existed in W. VA. or N.C. although the bog seemed vaguely familiar. The slight distraction delayed me enough that I did not attempt to mount the shotgun. A quick flash to my left draws my attention enough to look there just in time to see one snipe land on the bog. I go to the dog and release her from the point, but heel her back to Paul. "Please keep the dog here, I'll be right back", I request. Paul says, "You're crazy". I head to the spot where the snipe fluttered down. As I am sure I am very nearby, I pull back both hammers. One step at a time for safety. There he is, the snipe is airborne. The gun comes up easy even after all these miles. I shoot and visibly see an impact on the little bird. The bird jerks right, but is still flying. Perplexed, I bear down and pull the second trigger. The view is slightly obscured from the first shot's smoke hanging in the air. The bird turns hard to the left and then gains some altitude. I run forward about 3-bounds to get out of the smoke cloud. Fixated on the twittering bird that continues dipping left and right I concentrate. The bird is descending fast right at the end of the bog. Just past the green line the bird sets down, but I see a "roll" of white. "I got it", I say to nobody but myself. I motion to Paul who begins my way with the dog. As Paul nears, I go straight to the spot where the bird did it's summersault. Paul catches up and so does the dog. "It's gotta be right here", I say with uncertainty. Paul and I spread out with the dog between us. Doubt sets in. I am replaying this event in my mind and saying out loud "It has to be right here". Doubt starts to grow into a mix of panic and disappointment. I just know I got that bird. Paul breaks the silence that has lingered too long. "She's got it", he says referring to the dog. He take the little snipe and hands it to me. I brush its feathers and put it to my nose to see if I can smell it. "Thank you, Paul" I say, "We can head to the truck now". "You're crazy", Paul says once again.
