The Generosity of Nature: The Land Gives

By Stephan W. Papp

There is something about a familiar piece of land. It welcomes you back as if to say, "Good to see you. Where have you been? Come on in. Welcome!" Memories flood your consciousness as you trod familiar paths, traversing rises, skirting ponds, and trodding through the woods. There is a particular piece that has given much to this writer through many seasons.

I took my first grouse there from a small clump of poplar one fall. It provided my first deer taken still hunting through its pines one November long ago. Its many ponds have provided many a mallard and wood duck many an October. I've gone toe-to-toe with turkeys in spring. It also has given chase to many a pheasant. I had quite the experience yesterday morning, but the story truly began years ago.

One blustery November day, the Goof Troop decided they had had enough deer hunting. There was football to be watched with tasty chili simmering in the crock pot. This would never do, as I still had a tag to fill and daylight to burn. I pulled the car into the lot to the crunch of ice on tires. A fresh blast of wind from the northwest brought a stark contrast to the warm air of my vehicle. Perhaps I could slip up and jump a buck amidst one of the many ponds that dot the parcel. I had achieved just that earlier that fall attempting the same trick to mallards! That day I got within thirty yards of a buck before he left his bed. The wind was right and I was ready.

Still hunting into the wind, I ambled towards several ponds skirting a “future” oak savannah. That wind had bite! Slipping quietly amidst the northwest gusts, my eyes were ever-alert, hoping to spot a whitetail jumping from its grassy bed. Pond after pond produced the same results. Nothing. Pausing, the internal debate was whether to continue or head back to the Dane's for that hot bowl of chili. "A tag doesn't fill itself." I opted to poke around and explore.

Now, this piece of land doesn't look like much from afar. The DNR logged it several years back with hopes of converting it back to some form of oak savannah. It used to hold many more deer. Driving by, it looks uninviting... gently rising to a flat above. Not much more than grasses and a few oaks. I tell you what though, it is up and down walking all the way. It has rises and dips. There's nothing flat about it and that gives it character... an interesting topography. And in Western Wisconsin, those little variations make for fantastic hideaways for wildlife.

I climbed a steep rise abutting a piece of private property. An old barbed wire fence runs parallel separating the two. The oaks were to my right before the land lowered steadily into a sea of grasses. A pair of rockpiles, overgrown with shrubs, brush, and grapevine lay between me and the oaks. They were remnants of an old farmstead. A fresh gust of wind hit me as I stepped on a grapevine near the closest pile. Out exploded a trio of pheasant roosters. They were within five feet of me!

No venison that day, but the chili was tasty. The land had given again even so.

The following fall, late in the duck season, Calvin and I had been attempting some afternoon jump shooting of ducks. We had been coming back from a visit with my in-laws near Duluth and had a couple of hours of daylight to run a circuit before heading home. The first couple of spots did not produce, but the wind was gaining strength, again blowing from the northwest. I knew the ponds were frozen over, but those roosters near the rock pile beckoned.

Calvin and I headed almost directly to the rise but took time to dip into a few of the lower ponds. Perhaps he would strike a trail and kick something up. Nearing the hill, he got birdy. Working along the barbed-wire fence, I wondered if whatever it was would make its way to the private property. No. This critter veered to the right… on a beeline for the rock piles. I readied my Remington as I just knew we had gotten the jump on them. The wind had allowed us to slip in on them quietly.

Calvin worked the low side of the first rockpile, downwind, as I worked above. Nothing. My golden retriever was stalwart in his effort with nose down, tail wagging. We maneuvered towards the second pile. I just knew we'd get him. Again, disappointment. The bird was running. It veered right to the oaks. Calvin was gaining speed. I fought, struggling to keep up.

The bird whipped through the oaks and steered down along a line to the lower grasslands. Calvin moved quickly and steadily along its scent. He knew exactly where this bird was going. As we made it down, the bird meandered through grasses, shrubs, and all types of cover. He couldn't shake us. It was making its way towards another pond with cattails at its southern edge.

Calvin shifted gears, he had seen the bird. I now jogged to keep up being careful to watch my step and match pace with my dog. This bird was going to jump and I needed to be ready. We had run this bird a good half-mile from the rock piles. As we made the cattails, Calvin rushed in and a gorgeous rooster flushed fifteen yards ahead of me. I fired twice and watched him fly several hundred yards toward a lone oak across the plain.

The dirty look of absolute disgust my dog gave was warranted. I had flat missed. "They sure do fly pretty, boy. Don't they?" He snuffed his nose and turned away from me. That golden had given me the "evil" eye, "Sorry boy. Good job. My bad."

I remember working our way to that lonely oak, hoping we'd get him up again. Maybe it was a mixed blessing as it was much closer to our vehicle. The daylight was fading fast and the beauty of that sunset is one I remember with vivid clarity. The bright yellows and oranges gave way to crimson purples, violets, and deep blues. The evening was winning over the day.

We didn't get that rooster but were given another memory of this place. This land. Oh, this joyous piece of land gave again.

We lost Calvin this past January but picked up another puppy, Hazel, during his last months. We trained hard this spring and summer to prepare for her first hunting season. She wasn't ready for ducks but was having some success with pheasant.

My wife and daughters stole away to visit her parents up north, allowing Hazel and I to work on our hunting. The wind was supposed to be blowing out of the northwest and promising snow. I knew exactly where we would try.

As I pulled the car into the lot, the first flakes of snow fluttered down - a peaceful backdrop if ever there was one. The wind, unfortunately, was blowing out of the southwest. For a moment, I was stymied, but figured there were many places to drop in and out of. Perhaps the winds would shift and blow as forecasted before we made the hill.

I led Haze through the thicket where I had taken that first grouse. We went past the pond where I took a wood duck double. We meandered along the frozen slew I had taken my brother Eric to hopefully get his first duck. He missed as we jumped a flock of fifteen-plus mallards at ten yards! I'd managed to hit a hen. I still can feel its warm heft in my hand. The land gives.

Finally, we reached the rise. Our hill awaited. Watching Hazel pick her way through the grasses, I was overcome with memories of dear Calvin weaving these same patches. She scented something near the same barb-wire fencerow, pausing and working to figure out if she could get under it or not. Watching her solve this mystery gave me a quiet thrill. The falling snowflakes were in stark contrast to the yellow and brown hues of the grasses. It was a lovely scene.

The wind picked up and Hazel grew taut. She looked to the right and made her way to the rock pile. I gripped my Remington and went to walk the opposite side. Nothing flushed. Hazel followed the scent to the second pile. "Please get her a flush," I willed. Pushing through it... nothing.

Hazel picked up speed as that bird made its way directly to the oaks. It took us along the same path as Calvin a few seasons before. My young pup was giving chase and again I hastened my way to keep pace. Cresting the hill, Hazel worked along the familiar seam. Her eagerness was kept in better check than my own. Instinctively, I knew where this bird was going. In fact, in my mind, I willed it there. It could have been the same bird?!

The pheasant wove around for a time then shifted toward the pond with cattails. Hazel was gaining. I maneuvered into a position where I thought the bird would flush and readied myself. The pup twisted and worked her way through the thick, but It wasn't to be. Whatever we were chasing never came out of those cattails. 

Hazel continued to work weaving us toward the edge of the parcel and then back in the direction of the parking lot. That lone oak tree stood steadfast as the snow began falling harder. My mind flashed to that pheasant flying towards it as the sun set and Calvin worked towards him. Hazel was doing the same.

The land gives in abundance to those open to receiving. Although we didn't get that rooster to flush, we'll be back when the wind is right. We may never get him, but we'll give him one hell of a chase. Seeing Hazel piecing things together this first season has had its ups and downs. This particular chase, though, was something of a gift or salutation. Be it from Calvin, the land itself, or both, I don't rightly know. Getting back to the car, and giving the pup a scratch sure felt good and right. The generosity of the land is good and right, and I am sincerely thankful.