Cold Days Bring Warm Memories

November 28, 1990|By John Husar.

Let the wind howl at 30 m.p.h. Be cold and underdressed. The day after Thanksgiving remains the best time for a bird hunt.

Still wobbly from the feast, you plunge into pre-winter`s tawny fields. It feels so good to stretch the legs, to work off the turkey. Inhale the fragrant air, watch an ambitious dog plow through heavy grasses, be awestruck once again at the sudden thunder of wild wings beneath your feet.

Even if the forceful wind keeps you from hitting some birds with a punt gun, it`s good to be outdoors, reveling in nature`s bounty.

In the old days of family farms, the day after Thanksgiving was a time when fathers and uncles imparted to boys and girls the ways of the field. Kids got to walk with the big people, who carefully watched their progression.

You learned to spot likely cover and you looked out for each other. You searched nooks and crannies for fallen birds and learned the farm`s secret places. Your heart was filled with the abundance of nature.

Nowadays, most city folk are disassociated from farms as well as nature. Those with a farm to visit can have futile hunts. They must search hard for suitable habitat beyond the endless rows of weedless crops. Today`s farms just aren`t as diverse and brushy, maybe not even as pretty, as farms used to be.

Already, most Midwestern farmers have cut their crops and plowed the land barren. Not a single ear of stubble is in sight. Most fence rows now are gone, too, the land squeezed for every row of productive crop, every dollar toward continued existence. On many farms, kids and uncles no longer enjoy the family hunt after Thanksgiving. That ``game`` is over. There aren`t enough gamebirds and rabbits for food or sport.

It`s a telling reflection on our times that some of the most picturesque places left for upland hunting near urban areas are artificial game farms and hunting preserves. They exist to provide cover for hunting, so released birds can hide and dogs can perform according to their instincts and hunters can simulate the old days. They contribute islands of woodlots, tufted grasses and food plots near cities for all species beyond the ones that are hunted. They join golf courses and greenways as the breathing holes of encroaching suburbia.

The modern hunt club is a nostalgic amusement park for men and women with country hearts who never grew up enough to stop playing in the mud. That`s what the outdoors is for some of us. For years and years, our mothers nagged us to keep our feet dry, so now as adults we get to stomp in the mud. Paying big dollars for the privilege, no less.

And the atmosphere. Enter the hunt club and brushy rows stretch to the horizon. Trees rise from still-lush fields. Rustic fence rows lend a flavor as powerful as cinnamon in pumpkin pie. Birds still rise plentifully before the gun. And if you`re truly lucky, the clubhouse has a big stove or fireplace and a pot full of hot, strong coffee.

We savor the illusion of being close again to Grandpa`s farm. Plenty of men and women need that earthy relationship, even citybreds whose Grandpas never had a farm.

I played that kind of game last Friday with John Madigan, a refugee from the North Shore, at Max McGraw`s old place near Dundee. We knew fresh pheasant were in the fields, along with Hungarian and chukkar partridge. The black lab was young and willing. The blocks of cover were stiff with corn, milo and amber cane. Most importantly, time was on our urban hands-long, free minutes to stomp a likely clump of grass, pursue a fleeing bird across a field, pause now and then to sniff the sweet air and suck in the glory of nature. It was a rich day even with the blasted wind at our backs.

Trailing winds may be fair for golfers, lifting balls another 30 or 40 yards. Sailors live for the high adventure of pulsating wind power. Bird hunters prefer gentler airs. Their game can`t be played well if shot loads scatter like confetti.

``The shooting`s gonna be tough,`` Madigan understated just before the first cock swung behind him. This time the wind worked favorably. The pheasant hit the air, stiffened like a billboard and he brought it down. That may have been our easiest shot all day.

The dog worked bravely, hurrying to the end of the strip then plunging back, fighting for a whiff of scent.

The birds had no trouble hearing us and running. Two cocks rose before me and darted low, squarely behind a tree. They emerged a very safe 50 yards away.

We were treated to impressive aerobatics. Birds leveled off low, gliding hundreds of yards. Patterns on crossing shots were as effective as

broomstraws. I had to learn again how to lead birds in the wind. One pheasant literally flew upside down. Huns and chukkars met the wind and zig-zagged above the corn.

Madigan had some pretty good hits for a North Shore guy, downing four of his first five. I got my licks when we marched against the wind in a row where we`d pushed several birds. Huns and chukkars that rose too high were plastered by the wind against the sky. Even my hated left-to-right quartering shot worked pretty well. Altogether, we enhanced our holiday menus with almost a couple dozen tasty birds.

That`s another nice thing about game farm hunting. You don`t have to bother counting . . . as long as someone pays.


(For a list of Illinois commercial hunting areas, call the Department of Conservation at 312-814-2070.)