FINAL FLUSH
The last flights of woodcock were trickling through the Wisconsin north country, the flaming brilliance of a few weeks earlier having faded to somber gray. My friends had pulled out at first light, leaving me to do a “soft” close on our hunting cabin. Sometime after Thanksgiving, we’d reconvene to drain the pipes, shut off the propane, and close it down for the season. Geese were moving ahead of a brisk northwest wind, and bands of dark clouds scudded low. One minute, the landscape would be thrown into shadow as volleys of snow rattled down; the next minute, the brightness of the sky would be blinding.
I’d budgeted an hour for our final hunt. Endings are always bittersweet, but no matter what happened, my English cocker spaniel, Rumor, and I had enjoyed a good season. The birds hadn’t come easy; there were days we hunted long and hard to bag one or two. But it felt as if we’d hunted well, making the most of our opportunities.
We drove to a sprawl of brushy popple studded here and there with towering white pines. Another squall arrived just as we did, rudely peppering me as I let Rumor out of her crate. I was hoping for a lingering woodcock, but after 45 minutes of bouncy, industrious hunting, my little dog hadn’t flushed a bird. We were nearly at the turnaround when she made a quick move to my right. A woodcock twittered up, and, just like that, the skunk was off.
Soon Rumor flushed another, and with two