It’s already the third week of September. While several factors kept us from a Labor Day trip to Montana, we still pulled off our annual western North Dakota grouse trip, followed by several hunts since with Fischer proudly in tow.
The positives?
Fischer loves his carrying pack. He’s not always pleased with the process of getting into it and putting his earmuffs on, but once on the move you’ll either find him happily chattering or dead asleep, oftentimes through the loud report of shotguns. Weather permitting, I’m hopeful for the many miles ahead this season.
Fins, whose spoiled life was turned upside down when his “little brother” arrived in our household, has seemed more at ease and reassured that his life isn’t totally ruined now that shotguns and feathers have once again returned. His snoozes always come with more vociferous dreams once hunting season is here. And I’d be lying if I said my feelings weren’t akin to his. While adamant that starting a family wouldn’t end our outdoor pursuits together, part of me was also unsure what that would look like.
Sharp-tailed grouse numbers are up and there are plenty of forgiving, young birds on the landscape. All but one of our walks has held birds. And the shot opportunities that we’ve had, Scott made the most of those.
The negative?
Despite religiously shooting this summer, my shells seem to be BB-less. I’ve aired my frustrations to anyone who’ll listen, likely soliciting more advice than is helpful and ultimately leaving me even more frustrated, confused and anxious behind the barrel. One common theme from all the advice, is that it’s mostly mental.
I can’t argue with that. We’re shooting one at a time these days, not yet comfortable shooting with Fisch on our backs in his carrier, a different dynamic with only imaginary added pressure on my end. And parenthood has a way of taking up more mental space than I thought I had. This time of year, birds, Finley and onX pins used to consume my thoughts and suddenly I’m mid-hunt wondering if we should re-apply sunscreen. And with each miss, the pressure and frustration seems to only multiply.
To come clean, I’ve never been a good shot. Sporadically mediocre at best. And I’m intentional about questioning my motivations. Am I going hunting today to shoot birds or am I going because I want to? For some reason, after years of hunting, I tend to carry this weight that I have something to prove. That if I don’t shoot game today, I don’t deserve to identify as a hunter, to passionately live and work in this space, to chat in the Game and Fish hallways and certainly not to write this blog. And anyone who means anything to me tells me that’s stupid and not worth an ounce of my thoughts but some days it gets most of my thoughts.
Not this night.
The weekend was calling for rain, a total washout, but on this evening, the sun is shining, there’s a nice breeze and Fischer has slept through the night all week. I put him in his bouncer while I loaded the truck and gave him spoonfuls of avocado while I made dinner. When Scott got home, we shoveled down our food and hit the road. We had about an hour when we pulled into the PLOTS tract.
I packed my 20-gauge for the hunt, a youth pump action Remington .870 that I abandoned once I upgraded to a semi-automatic. My thought was the pump would slow me down, plus it’s always just felt right in my hands.
The prairie was buzzing with life, unfortunately, a lot of that buzzing was coming from mosquitoes, boy were they awful. But I felt at home. I didn’t have to focus on enjoying the hunt, I just was. Fischer was chattering away and Fins was panting in the heat as always, but grateful to be out there on a weeknight. The PLOTS tract got grazed pretty good since last year, I was happy it did, but it seemed a little light for birds. The only good cover is the snowberry patches.
While swatting my arms and neck, I look up to find Fins birdy in one of those patches and he quickly slowed to a point. My heart was racing, I took one more step and three adult birds flushed in front of him. I took a breath, intentionally slowed down, aimed at one and watched it fall. I turned to Scott and said, “I needed that.”
“Fetch buddy.”
I gave Fischer his bedtime bottle on the road, knowing he’d get a bath when we got home, backwards from our usual routine, putting him in bed about an hour late. I knew he wouldn’t remember these nights, but I hoped he’d forgive us for late bedtimes and mosquito bites. I hoped somehow the warm September sun and the vibrant sounds of the prairie will always bring him subconscious joy.
In the end, he doesn’t have to hunt, but if he does, I certainly hope he learns to shoot like dada and not mama. But most of all, I hope he finds whatever it is that makes him feel the way I feel right now.
