Upland Autumn Read online

  Also by William G. Tapply

  Brady Coyne Mystery Novels

  Death at Charity’s Point, Scribner, 1984

  The Dutch Blue Error, Scribner, 1985

  Follow the Sharks, Scribner, 1985

  The Marine Corpse, Scribner 1986

  Dead Meat, Scribner, 1987

  The Vulgar Boatman, Scribner, 1987

  A Void in Hearts, Scribner, 1988

  Dead Winter, Delacorte, 1989

  Client Privilege, Delacorte, 1989

  The Spotted Cats, Delacorte, 1991

  Tight Lines, Delacorte, 1992

  The Snake Eater, Otto Penzler Books, 1993

  The Seventh Enemy, Otto Penzler Books, 1995

  Close to the Bone, St. Martin’s Press, 1996

  Cutter’s Run, St. Martin’s Press, 1998

  Muscle Memory, St. Martin’s Press, 1999

  Scar Tissue, St. Martin’s Press, 2000

  Past Tense, St. Martin’s Press, 2001

  A Fine Line, St. Martin’s Press, 2002

  Shadow of Death, St. Martin’s Press, 2003

  Nervous Water, St. Martin’s Press, 2005

  Out Cold, St. Martin’s Press, 2006

  One Way Ticket, St. Martin’s Press, 2007

  Hell Bent, Minotaur, 2008

  Stoney Calhoun Mystery Novels

  Bitch Creek, The Lyons Press, 2004

  Gray Ghost, St. Martin’s Press, 2007

  Dark Tiger, Minotaur, 2009

  Brady Coyne/J.W. Jackson Mystery Novels

  First Light, St. Martin’s Press, 2001

  Second Sight, St. Martin’s Press, 2004

  Third Strike, St. Martin’s Press, 2007

  Nonfiction

  Those Hours Spent Outdoors, Scribner, 1988

  Opening Day and Other Neuroses, Lyons and Burford, 1990

  Home Water Near and Far, Lyons and Burford, 1992

  Sportsman’s Legacy, Lyons and Burford, 1993

  A Fly-fishing Life, The Lyons Press, 1997

  Bass Bug Fishing, The Lyons Press, 1999

  Upland Days, The Lyons Press, 2000

  Pocket Water, The Lyons Press, 2001

  The Orvis Pocket Guide to Fly Fishing for Bass, The Lyons Press, 2001

  Gone Fishin’, The Lyons Press, 2004

  Trout Eyes, Skyhorse Publishing, 2007

  Other Works

  The Elements of Mystery Fiction, The Writer, Inc., 1995 and Poisoned Pen Press, 2004

  Thicker Than Water, Signet, 1995

  A Brady Coyne Omnibus, St. Martin’s, 2000

  Tap’s Tips, Introduction, The Lyons Press, 2004

  Upland Autumn

  Birds, Dogs, and Shotgun Shells

  William G. Tapply

  Copyright © 2009 by William G. Tapply

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 555 Eighth Avenue, Suite 903, New York, NY 10018.

  Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 555 Eighth Avenue, Suite 903, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

  www.skyhorsepublishing.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Tapply, William G.

  Upland autumn : birds, dogs, and shotgun shells / William G. Tapply.

  p. cm.

  9781602397835

  1. Fowling--Northeastern States--Anecdotes. 2. Tapply, William G.--Homes and haunts. I. Title.

  SK313.T36 2009

  799.2’4--dc22

  2009024309

  Printed in the United States of America

  DEDICATION

  This book is for my bird-hunting companions ...

  Rick Boyer

  Tony Brown

  Marty Connolly

  Art Currier

  Skip Rood

  Jason Terry

  Keith Wegener

  ... with thanks for all the stories

  Table of Contents

  Also by William G. Tapply

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Prologue - WHY I HUNT

  Chapter 1 - PLAYIN GUNS

  Chapter 2 - THESE ARE OUR GOOD OLD DAYS

  Chapter 3 - BURT AT 10

  Chapter 4 - SPILLER COUNTRY

  Chapter 5 - FIVE ACES

  Chapter 6 - LITTLE RUSSET FELLERS

  Chapter 7 - CAMP TIMBERDOODLE

  Chapter 8 - HOW TO MISS FLYING GROUSE

  Chapter 9 - THE WORLD ACCORDING TO GRAMPA GROUSE

  Chapter 10 - FRANK WOOLNER’S LOVE AFFAIR WITH RUFFED GROUSE

  Chapter 11 - WOOLNER’S TIMBERDOODLE!

  Chapter 12 - T′AIN′T FAIR

  Chapter 13 - WHAT’S THE POINT?

  Chapter 14 - THE OLD COUNTRY

  Chapter 15 - THE CHIPMUNK HYPOTHESIS

  Chapter 16 - OUR POET LAUREATE

  Chapter 17 - VIRTUAL HUNTING

  Chapter 18 - OPENING DAY

  Chapter 19 - WILD PHEASANTS

  Chapter 20 - LAST HUNT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I had the rare good luck to have a bird-hunting, outdoor-writing father, H. G. “Tap” Tapply, who for 35 years wrote the “Tap’s Tips” and “Sportsman’s Notebook” columns for Field & Stream. Dad claimed that his job required him to hunt and fish whenever possible, and he took his job seriously. And lucky me, he wouldn’t think of going into the woods without inviting his son to tag along—to help with his research, he said.

  Most of the men Dad (and I) hunted with were also writers, among them some of the most eminent of their era: Burton L. Spiller, Gorham Cross, Corey Ford, Frank Woolner, Lee Wulff, Ed Zern, and Harold Blaisdell. These men, like my father, hunted for stories as well as for grouse and woodcock. Conversations in the car on the way to and from a day of bird hunting, and in hotel lobbies and at breakfast tables and around campfires, were always literate and witty, bound to rub off on an impressionable kid. I was, I know, fortunate to be shaped by my environment, both as an outdoors person and as an outdoor writer. The spirit that pervades this book harkens back to those days when I walked the upland autumns with those men, and it reflects the values and philosophies of my old mentors.

  Most of these stories and essays were previously published in Field & Stream, Shooting Sportsman, Gray’s Sporting Journal, or Upland Almanac, and they all benefited from the scrutiny of these publications’ excellent editors: Slaton White, Ralph Stuart, James Babb, and Nancy Ainsfield.

  This is an appropriate place for me to say good-bye to Burt, my Brittany, who was my bird-hunting companion for 13 memorable upland autumns. Vicki and I had to put the old boy to rest on December 3, 2008, after a lifetime of mostly spectacular—although occasionally incomprehensible—bird work. Burt always blessed us with his expressive affection, his constant companionship, his unquestioned loyalty, and his joyous playfulness. His spirit ghosts through all of these pages, quick and thorough, the way he worked a woodcock cover. He is and forever will be missed.

  Chickadee Farm

  Hancock, New Hampshire

  January 2009

  Prologue

  WHY I HUNT

  I hunt because my father hunted, and he took me with him, and we built a bond that has endured past his death, and because his father hunted, and his father’s father, and all of the fathers in my line and yours, as far back as those fathers who invented spea
rs and axes and recorded their adventures with pictures on the walls of caves.

  I hunt because it links me with the boy I used to be and with the young man my father was then.

  I hunt because it keeps my passions alive, my memories fresh, and my senses alert even as my beard grows gray, and because I fear that if I stopped hunting I would become an old man, and because I believe that as long as I hunt I will remain young.

  I hunt because I don’t buy futures, sell cars, swing deals, negotiate hostile takeovers, or litigate, prosecute, or plea bargain, but because I am nevertheless, like everyone else, a predator. So I go to the woods where I belong.

  I hunt because I love ruffed grouse, woodcock, pheasants, quail, and ducks, and because I can imagine no more honorable way for them to die than at the hands of a respectful hunter. As Thoreau understood, “... the hunter is the greatest friend of the animals hunted, not excepting the Humane Society.”

  I hunt because the goldenrod and milkweed glisten when the early morning autumn sun melts the frost from the fields; because native brook trout spawn in hidden October brooks; and because New England uplands glow crimson, orange, and gold in the season of bird hunting.

  I hunt because when I stumble upon overgrown cellarholes and family graveyards deep in the woods, it reminds me that I’m connected to the farmers who cleared the land and grew their crops and buried their wives and children there, and who in the process created ideal grouse and woodcock habitat, and because I like to believe that I am the first man in a century to stand in those places.

  I hunt because Burton Spiller and Gorham Cross hunted, and so did Corey Ford, Ed Zern, Lee Wulff, Harold Blaisdell, and Frank Woolner, and because they invited me to hunt with them, and because they were men of my father’s generation who treated me like a man when I was a boy, and because they were writers who knew how to tell a story, and because they inspired me to try it for myself.

  I hunt because Art Currier, Keith Wegener, Jason Terry, Rick Boyer, Skip Rood, Tony Brown, and Marty Connolly hunt, and because these are generous and intelligent men who don’t take themselves too seriously, and who are saner than most. They love and respect the out-of-doors and Nature’s creatures, and their friendship has made me a better man than I otherwise would be.

  I hunt because the ghosts of beloved companions such as Bucky, Duke, Julie, Megan, Freebie, and Waldo prance through the woods, snuffling and tail-wagging, making game and pointing, and especially Burt, my beloved Brittany, who all loved to hunt more than to eat, and whose enthusiasm and indomitable spirit will forever inspire me, and because hunting dogs make the most tolerant friends. They are smarter in many ways than we are, and they can teach us things we otherwise wouldn’t understand if we’d just pay attention.

  I hunt because I believe Thoreau was right: “Fishermen, hunters, woodchoppers, and others, spending their lives in the fields and woods, in a peculiar sense a part of Nature themselves, are often in a more favorable mood for observing her, in the intervals of their pursuits, than philosophers or poets even, who approach her with expectation.”

  I hunt because I’m convinced, as many anthropologists argue, that prehistoric man was a hunter before he became a farmer, and because this genetic gift remains too powerful in me to resist. I do not need to hunt in order to eat, but I need to hunt to be fully who I am.

  I hunt because it teaches me what it taught our earliest ancestors: the benefits of cooperation, inventiveness, division of labor, sharing, and interdependence. These are skills that bird hunters must master. Without these derivatives of hunting, our race would still be primitive. As the psychologist Erich Fromm observed, “[Humans] have been genetically programmed through hunting behavior: cooperation and sharing. Cooperation between members of the same band was a practical necessity for most hunting societies; so was the sharing of food. Since meat is perishable in most climates except that of the Arctic, it could not be preserved. Luck in hunting was not equally divided among all hunters; hence the practical outcome was that those who had luck today would share their food with those who would be lucky tomorrow. Assuming hunting behavior led to genetic changes, the conclusion would be that modern man has an innate impulse for cooperation and sharing, rather than for killing and cruelty.”

  I hunt because if I didn’t, I would have seen fewer eagles and ospreys, minks and beavers, foxes and bears, antelope and moose, and although I do not hunt these creatures, I do love to enter into their world and spy on them.

  I hunt because I love old 20-gauge double-barrel shotguns, and scuffed leather boots with rawhide laces, and canvas vests with a few old breast feathers in their game pockets.

  I hunt for the scents of Hoppe’s gun oil, camp coffee, wet bird dog, and frost-softened, boot-crushed wild apples.

  I hunt for the whistle of a woodcock’s wings and the sudden explosion of a ruffed grouse’s flush, for the tinkle of a dog’s bell and the sudden, pulse-quickening silence when he locks on point, for my partner’s cry of “Mark!” when he kicks up a bird, for the distant drumming of a grouse, like a balky engine starting up, for the high predatory cry of a red-tail hawk, for the quiet gurgle of a deep-woods trout stream, for the soft soughing of the breeze in the pines, for the snoring of my companions, human and canine, in a one-room cabin, and for the soothing patter of an autumn rainstorm on a tin roof.

  I hunt because it is never boring or disappointing to be out-of-doors with a purpose, even when no game is seen, and because taking a walk in the woods without a purpose makes everything that happens feel random, accidental, and unearned.

  I hunt for the keyed-up conversation, for the laying of plans and the devising of strategies, for the way memory and experience spark imagination and expectation as we drive into the low-angled sunshine on an autumn morning, for the coffee we sip from a dented old Thermos, and for the way the dogs whine and pace on the way to the day’s first cover.

  And I hunt for the satisfying exhaustion after a long day in the woods, for the new stories that every hour of hunting gives us, and for the soft snarfling, dream-whimpering, and twitching of sleeping dogs on the back seat as we drive home through the darkness.

  I hunt because it reminds me that in Nature there is a food chain where everything eats and is, in its turn, eaten, where birth, survival, and reproduction give full meaning to life, where death is ever-present, and where the only uncertainty is the time and manner of that death. Hunting reminds me that I am integrated into that cycle, not separate from it or above it.

  I hunt with a gun, and sometimes I kill. But, as the philosopher Jose Ortega y Gasset has written, “To the sportsman the death of the game is not what interests him; that is not his purpose. What interests him is everything that he had to do to achieve that death—that is, the hunt. Therefore what was before only a means to an end is now an end in itself. Death is essential because without it there is no authentic hunting: the killing of the animal is the natural end of the hunt and that goal of hunting itself, not of the hunter. The hunter seeks this death because it is no less than the sign of reality for the whole hunting process ... one does not hunt in order to kill; on the contrary, one kills in order to have hunted.”

  I hunt to prevent myself from forgetting that everything I eat once lived, and that it is important to accept responsibility for living at the expense of another life, and that killing is half of the equation of living.

  I hunt because it is hard, demanding, and sometimes dangerous work, and because performing difficult work well gives me pleasure.

  And I hunt because it is fun, an intense kind of artistic game, and I like to challenge myself to do it well. As Aldo Leopold wrote: “We seek contacts with nature because we derive pleasure from them ... The duck hunter in his blind and the operatic singer on the stage, despite the disparity of their accoutrements, are doing the same thing. Each is reviving, in play, a drama formerly inherent in daily life. Both are, in the last analysis, esthetic exercises.”

  I hunt because, in the words, again, of Ortega y Gass
et, it gives me “a vacation from the human condition,” which, all by itself, is a full and satisfactory reason.

  Chapter 1

  PLAYIN GUNS

  I grew up in a little New England village surrounded by fields and pastures, woods and swamps, ponds and brooks. In those days half a century ago, before television and Little League and way before computers and virtual-reality games, we boys had to invent our own fun.

  We spent our days wandering through the fields and woods and wading in the brooks and ponds, seeing whatever there was to be seen. We caught butterflies, frogs, and crayfish; we fished for horned pout, yellow perch, and eels; we collected rocks, arrowheads, and petrified wood; we learned the names of insects, wildflowers, and birds; and we spent whole days poking around in the outdoors. Sometimes we just lay on our backs smoking the cigarettes we’d filched from our parents and looking up through the trees, and we made up stories about the shapes we saw in the clouds.

  Nowadays such aimless and unstructured behavior is called “wasting time.” When kids waste time, it worries adults and inspires them to organize clubs and teams and to raise money for uniforms in order to channel the kids’ energies into more constructive and less worrisome activities.

  When we neighborhood boys got together after school, we liked to play guns, a variation on hide-and-seek in which the winner shot the loser with his cap pistol, water gun, or index finger. It was a game of scattering through the woods, of hiding, stalking, and ambushing, of seeing without being seen. We skulked through the underbrush, hiding under bushes and hunkering behind boulders and tree trunks, trying to get a fair bead on some other kid before he spotted us. Then we aimed our make-believe guns and yelled, “Bang! Gotcha.”