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The Feather

A South breeze brushed the side of my face and swirled down through the tree branches lifting the edges of oak leaves on the ground below. Like tiny red and yellow ballerinas, the leaves twisted and jumped before settling on the forest floor. In front of me a beady eye reflected sunlight like a glass marble. Fine, sharp claws rattled leaves with a dry crackle. The abrupt sound cut the dusk. A squirrel was making racket.

Thump thump, thumpthump. My heart jumped. I closed my eyes and imagined a monitor screen. Green line spiking upward against a black background. Beep, beep, beep, going faster. Like a metronome from presto to allegro. My ears were pricked, searching for any sound in the forest that would signal the approach of a whitetail deer. Dusk was setting. All senses were alert, adrenaline seeping into my system, sharpening everything. Fight or flight. Vision narrow, breath shorter.

I inhaled as far as I could. Then a slow exhale through my nose pushing the last air from my lungs.

There is a flat white rock, polished by a thousand years of wind and rain, like those in the bed of the Colorado River over which rainbow trout rise to stoneflies. The rock is perfectly level in the center of my chest. A small white feather rests on top. Like fine down from the breast of a Canadian goose, the cashmere soft barbs are light as air.

I inhaled again.

The feather shivers and floats upward in a perfectly straight line, hovering above the center of the rock.

I pushed the air from my lungs.

The feather is falling. Slow, linear, timeless. Until it touches the hard stone.

Thump thump. Thump thump. My heartbeat slowed.

When the feather is motionless on the center of the rock, my hunter’s energy is harnessed. It flows outward in symmetry. My muscles relax in a state of readiness. I am a coiled snake, a crouching wolf.

My fingers were curled around a long piece of birch. Slender and flexible, joined with bamboo. Southern craftsmen formed the wood by hand into a 58 inch recurve hunting bow. A black widow is burned in the grain. The bow arrived at my doorstep last spring. On summer mornings while coffee brewed I stepped into the backyard. Cedar arrow on the string. Right thumb wrapped around the slim wood grip. Three fingers curled under, a loosely clenched fist resting against the bow handle. Pulling back slow and smooth. Tension centered between the shoulder blades. Pulling until the twisted black and red strands of the bowstring are at the corner of my mouth. Now focusing on a red golf tee stuck in the center of a foam target. Narrowing my vision to see only the tee’s radius, the tiny dimple in the center, through the tee, through the target, releasing the arrow. Soft swish, arcing for a moment in the morning sun. Orange turkey feathers on the shaft rotating.

The white feather is settled on the center of the rock. The target ceases to exist. There is only time and space and a tiny red circle suspended in the morning air. Bamboo and birch reflex. The arrow floats. Its steel tip crashes into the center of the golf tee, splitting it into many pieces that fall to the ground.

The sensation of a perfect instinctive archery shot is much like throwing a tight sixty foot loop of four-weight fly line and watching it hiss over flat glassy water, long leader unfurling until a size twenty blue wing olive drops almost imperceptibly above a feeding trout. Or like standing on a tee box early in the morning when there is dew on the fairway. You burn a hole through a golf ball with your eyes and have a crisp, clear head as you start the backswing. There is no thought, only solid peaceful awareness as the driver comes forward. When you hear the click of the club face against the ball it seems so soft. There is no strength required. How can it happen so easily? Your brain registers this question as your hands rotate and the club face releases and the ball rockets skyward as if from a cannon. Straight and true it climbs up and up. Into the heavens and away, landing on short green grass and rolling. Impossibly far. These feelings are like flinging a cedar arrow with instinctive precision. Eventually, as with an instrument or sports equipment or tool, the bow feels so natural in the hand that it is in harmony with the spirit. The object creates no anxiety when you grasp it. The purpose for which you chose it seems inevitable. To see the small spot on the target and place an arrow there is like a breath drawn and released.

This is true when the feather is undisturbed in the center of the rock.

The feather is easily disturbed. Consider that standing with gray-haired bowmen at a target competition can send the feather sailing like a seagull in a hurricane. In this moment I am uneasy. Breath comes short. Muscles tense. I fight the bow.

Where is the rock?

Before the string touches my mouth the arrow is gone. It will strike the target far from the mark. Or worse, clatter through the trees. The bow feels foreign and unnatural in my hand. I try desperately to find the feather. Words of encouragement from the bowmen seem hollow and far away. My temples throb and a tight feeling spreads across my chest. The rock and feather are no longer inside me. They are drifting about the universe. I fling cedar arrows after them. Precision is unattainable. Despair builds.

Then a deep breath reveals the shadow of the rock. I exhale with unhurried force. The rock did not move. It is there. I could not see it. I breathe again. In and out until the white surface is sharp and clear. Until I feel the thousand years of water and wind that has made it flat and smooth flowing through me. Until at last the white down wisp drops to the center and is still.

I stand relaxed and observe an arrow. A bowman sent it to the bullseye a moment ago. I see the target, then just the arrow, and release. Swish, then a loud crack. I have struck the bowman’s arrow. There is a gash in the cedar. A feather hangs from the carefully crested shaft. But the bowman smiles. His arrow is ruined and he pounds my back with enthusiasm. He knows the journey I have taken.

I dove to the murky depths of my subconscious to retrieve the rock. I trekked far up a mountain to reclaim the feather. In harmony again, the birch and bamboo feels natural in my hand. The result is certain when I bend the bow.

Whitetail deer too have great power over the feather. A twig snaps. A horizontal line appears in the trees. An ear flickers and suddenly there is a buck. It looks small at first. Then walking closer it becomes large, very large, so very close, and impossibly large. Thump thump. Thumpthump. Heart beating too fast, mouth dry, hard to breathe, desperate, trembling.

Where is the rock? The feather has blown away.

The arrow is gone. Everything is in slow motion. Orange turkey feathers rotating, sharp steel flashing in the sun, swish into eternity, no thump. Deer bounding, disappearing, gone. Arrow in the dirt, under the leaves, over the deer. The woods deadly silent after. I have known this failure.

The South breeze wafted again through the oaks. I watched the squirrel crouch, front paws holding a nut, cracking with yellowed front teeth, cheeks fat. The sun glided toward the tree tops and a long shadow fell from where I perched. A chickadee flickered through the branches. A leaf rustled and the squirrel leaped onto the base of a tree and evaporated into the dusk. No chirring bark or flickering tail. I saw why. A buck was standing, ears forward, watching where the squirrel had been. The waning rays of sun made a dappled pattern on its brown flanks. White forked antler bone contrasted with dark leaves. The deer lifted its nose and stood motionless.

The rock is white and smooth, in the center of my chest. The feather wavers above it, drifting on a breath of air.

The buck had three points. A fork on one side and a twisted spike on the other. He walked slowly, pausing behind an aspen tree.

The feather is starting to shiver. Inhale, floating up. Exhale, dropping slow, steady, not fluttering, now still on the center of the rock.

The buck stepped forward and I saw the front shoulder, then a small tuft of hair, the shadow of its heart beating . Bow up, tension between my shoulders, string back, on my mouth, brushing the side of my nose. Arrow gone. Slow motion again. Orange feathers rotating, arcing through the November sunlight, sharp steel flashing. Deer bounding. Left arm back, bow still up, birch and bamboo natural in my hand. The hunter’s spirit radiated from me. I knew without seeing that my cedar arrow had pierced the heart. An antlered buck pulled down for the first time with a traditional wooden bow.

I waited then walked. The white forked antler rose from oak leaves. I was on my knees, placing fingertips on soft hair. Passing them over antler bone. Then sweating, relishing with joy the labor of pulling the buck from the forest.

Later, I stoked wood from the forest where the buck lived and died into a crackling bonfire. The moon was high. I looked Southwest. Three bright stars blazed in a line, Orion Nebula, a constellation embodying the hunter. I spread glowing coals and placed a fresh venison loin over the fire. It sizzled and I breathed the cold November air. Heat radiated from the embers. I was warm and gazed into the flickering flame and let out a long slow breath.

A flat white rock, polished by a thousand years of wind and rain was sharp and clear. A small white feather rested on the center of its smooth surface.

A Small Rifle

My first rifle was a .22 caliber Savage single-shot. I saw it behind the counter of Menomin Sport Shop when my dad was buying minnows. I think I was ten. I had to have it. It cost 40 dollars, so I started squirreling away bills and coins in an empty pickle jar that I kept in my closet. I don't know how long it took to save the money. It seemed like forever. I checked the pickle jar regularly. Pulling out the dollar bills and laying them side-by-side on the floor of my bedroom. They smelled like pickle brine. The day that I had 38 dollars I told my best friend Adam that I was only two dollars away from buying the coveted weapon. That afternoon Adam's father called and asked if I was available to work at their house. A few hours later I had stacked some wood, helped organize the garage, and eaten a few of the homemade cookies for which Adam's mother was particularly known by the neighborhood kids. I received five dollars in consideration. The rifle would be mine. The details of the purchase are less clear in my mind. I gave my dad the contents of the pickle jar. He went to the sport shop and brought the rifle back.

I spent hours polishing that .22 with an oiled rag. I kept it in my bed at night sometimes. Its sharp report put many squirrels in the crock pot. My dad still keeps the rifle in his basement. Budding Wisconsin hunters and family friends have used that rifle for their hunter safety test at the local armory. So, when my kids were ready to graduate from their Daisy BB guns to a .22, I thought about retrieving the rifle and passing it along. But I decided that they should have their own small rifle experience.

I looked at various youth .22 offerings. They are named after cute animals like crickets and chipmunks, and are available in various bright plastic colors. None of them have the allure of my old Savage. That elusive pull that made me stare and hold and imagine and beg my dad to go squirrel hunting. One day I went into a local hole-in-the-wall gun shop to buy shotgun shells. It's the kind of place that caters mostly to the military surplus crowd. There are old Enfields and Springfields and Kalashnikovs on the racks. As I scanned the ammunition, a rifle caught my eye. An old Remington single-shot .22. It was a little rusty and the wood was dried out. It was too big for either of my kids to shoot comfortably. When I picked it up, the old walnut and blued steel made we want to go squirrel hunting. 70 dollars later I had a box of 12 gauge Nitro Pheasant loads and the .22 rifle.

The perfect starting-point for a small-rifle project.

I decided that we would turn it into a miniature copy of my favorite deer rifle. The first step was to cut it down to size. I trimmed three inches from the stock and two inches from the forend using a miter saw. Then I stripped the wood finish with CitrusStrip and sanded it with 220 grit paper. I steamed out the dents with a damp rag and iron. I used a hacksaw to shorten the barrel by 5 inches. Then applied Birchwood Casey blue and rust remover and polished the metal with steel wool. I beveled the muzzle with a whetsone and re-crowned the barrel by hand--turning a Dremmel polishing bit until the ends of the rifling looked sharp. Finally, I re-cut the 3/8" dovetail with a file.

I worked on the wood next. First, I installed an 870 Wingmaster grip cap that I bought for two bucks on eBay and filed the pistol grip flush. Then I re-shaped the stock with the files--slimmed down the pistol grip and narrowed the butt-section. I also rounded out the forend tip where I had shortened the stock. I debated modifying the butt-plate to fit the shortened stock. In the end I decided to install a thin rubber grind-to-fit recoil pad. Then I used painter's tape and a jet-black stain to create a faux ebony forend tip. I burnished the stock to an 800 grit finish.

I applied a dozen coats of thinned Tru-Oil to the stock. The character really showed up at this point. But what rifle is complete without checkering? I'll confess that I almost lost motivation at this point. I have never checkered anything. I ordered a DemBart starter kit and screwed around during the evenings for a week practicing on scrap wood. I didn't feel ready to take on the project, but eventually held my breath and jumped.

Teddy helped me with the checkering.

After checkering, I used Birchwood Casey cold blue to finish the metal. As an afterthought I added sling swivels and shortened a Remington rifle sling to fit the small rifle. Here is the result. Ready to pot some squirrels.

Walking Ditches

December in Minnesota is usually a frozen blur. Thanksgiving fades into free-falling mercury. After the third or fourth shoveling it gets hard to walk anywhere and especially in thick pheasant cover. These are the days when sportsmen feel attracted to football. One more log on the fire and another drink. Remote in hand and a quick glance out the window at blowing drifts kill motivation to put on boots and summon the dog.

El Nino does weird things though. Last Saturday morning the dog was whining and pacing at 4 a.m. I hit the mental snooze button once and then crawled out of bed. If I waited another five minutes she would leave a puddle on the kitchen floor. When I opened the back door the breeze didn’t feel anything like Midwest December. It was more like Northern California. A damp, chilly push. Not the razor sharp blast that cuts through your boxers and makes you turn your back to the door. While the dog did her business I stepped out in bare feet onto the cement sidewalk. It must be 40 degrees. A guy has to walk ditches on a day like this.

I went inside and started the coffee maker. Ten cups is enough to get me going and fill the green Stanley thermos. The dog went back to her bed but kept one eye open. Even though I was moving around instead of ascending the bedroom stairs her demeanor was more suspicious than enthusiastic. While the coffee was brewing I went downstairs and opened the gun safe. I slipped my old Remington 12 gauge into a camouflage case. I pulled on Carhartt jeans and waxed cotton chaps that are crisscrossed with thorn scratches. I dumped a couple handfuls of high-brass number fours into the pocket of my game vest. Even the gun case wasn’t enough to get the dog excited. She eyed me with her chin on the floor. How many times in November had I slipped out the door before dawn, gun in hand, to chase deer? Leaving the dog on her bed with the dreaded two words: “Ruby stay.”

I filled the green thermos and headed for the door, pausing on the threshold to whistle. Ruby exploded from her bed. All of her 40 pound body was shivering and dancing. Her toenails clicked on the hardwood floor like a tap dancer. I looked at her and uttered the words she wanted to hear: “Bird Ruby?” Her doggy grin was as wide as a clown’s. She pressed her shoulder against my leg until the truck door opened. Ruby assumed her spot on the passenger seat.

We drove away from the urban glow of Minneapolis, through the suburbs, past the ethanol refinery and south on the state highway. When dawn started showing in the Eastern sky we were passing through small towns. Slow down, gas station, church, tavern, speed up. Just before nine a.m. we pulled off a county road into a state wildlife management area. A couple minutes later a blue Chevy truck pulled alongside my gray Ford. Jerry was in the driver’s seat with Doug next to him. Jerry’s 12 year old son Ted and their dogs were in the back seat. These men are cousins and grew up on nearby farms. Jerry carries a worn Winchester pump and doesn’t ever miss a rooster. Doug has a fancy Benelli automatic. I saw him miss a bird last year.

We started walking ditches. There is a lot of agriculture cover in this part of Minnesota. Not as much as there was before corn prices went through the roof. A lot of fence lines were trimmed back. Bulldozers pushed tangled groves into piles where they burned under watch of volunteer firefighters. Pheasant cover turned into tillable soil one honey hole at a time. But the price of corn is back to earth and there is still plenty of pheasant cover. We trudged through it one patch at a time. Everyone moving at a quick pace. Four guys, three dogs. Enough disruption to move the birds. Hit the cover, back in the truck, hit the next one.

Jerry and Doug’s dogs are pheasant connoisseurs. They know fine details of how the late-season wild rooster game is played. You have one option: keep up. Lucky is a Brittany--a little white firecracker and a canine feminist. No man with a gun tells her what to do. The radio collar just pisses her off. Jerry finally broke down and bought a GPS unit this year. Increases the odds when Lucky throws a 200 yard point. Molly is a German shorthair. Her aggression in the field rivals a young bull running at Pamplona. She hunts with the finesse of a matador. Mid-morning I watched Molly run a hen to the edge of a field. Crouching and creeping. Feigning angles until the bird was pinched into cover that shouldn’t hide a mouse. If she had a red cape I think that bird would have charged. Doug walked in to flush. Molly’s evil eye when he yelled “no bird” turned my blood cold.

Ruby is a Vizsla. She’s my first pointer and we are in our third season together. Hunting with Molly and Lucky was better training for Ruby than anything I’ve done. All morning she was on Molly’s heels or darting in to steal a point from Lucky. It was almost noon and Jerry had a rooster in his vest. Doug had two. I shot at the same time he did on the second bird. His dog pointed it and retrieved it. By any hunter's code it was his bird. But I tried to take some satisfaction in being certain that we both hit it. Ruby was working close, sometimes breaking into a sprint to keep up with Molly. After hours of playing second-fiddle to the older dogs a light went off in her little red head. She struck out on her own. When it comes to covering ground, Ruby has no equal. Her youth and agility are a thing of beauty. Long legs stretch out like a Cheetah. Her 40 pound frame has not an ounce of fat. She melts miles with the ease of a fast marathoner. Ruby angled across a sorghum plot into the grass beyond. She was 100 yards out and I put the whistle between my teeth. Instead of issuing a series of sharp tweets I decided to act like she knew what she was doing and closed the distance at a trot. When I was thirty yards away, Ruby turned on a dime and started to creep. She lifted her head, gave me a sideways glance and took off like a lightning bolt. I followed suit and sprinted seventy yards to where she cast left. I was almost on her heels when she locked up. Not the nose down tail wagging grin on her face point that means she’s on a mouse or rabbit. This was a head half sideways trembling every muscle taught as a stretched guitar string point that means a bird is damn near under her nose.

I flicked the safety and was about to take a step when a rooster exploded in full technicolor cackle from the cover. It flew straight away. This is the kind of easy shot that I tend to screw up when guys that never miss are watching. So I took an extra split second to be sure that my cheek was tight to the stock and focus on the back of the bird’s head. I tapped the trigger. The Remington barked. The bird dropped like a stone. A handful of feathers drifted in the wind. Ruby had the rooster in her mouth and brought it to hand. She skipped the stop five feet away and pull tail feathers routine in which she expresses great canine joy. This was a legitimate performance. A real, wild, skittish rooster that she outsmarted. I felt great pride.

The sun was setting at 4:30. I had a second rooster. Jerry looked at his Fitbit and announced that we had walked 13.75 miles. There was cold beer in the truck 100 yards away. My mind already was at the tailgate. The guns would be cased and cans would pop and dogs would curl in tight balls on the seats. We would watch the sun go down and tell hunting stories. Ruby trotted to the fence twenty feet to my left. The soil was tilled almost up to the posts. She eased into a point. I walked up in time to see a rooster streaking like a rabbit down the opposite side of the fence. Ruby saw it at the same time and uncoiled like a spring. When her nose was three feet from the long tail the bird decided to make his bet in flight. I snapped a shot into the sunset. Fifty steps from the best happy hour in the world, Ruby dropped the last of my three-bird limit at my feet. The Michelob in my hand five minutes later was one of the finest drinks I’ve ever had.