With another year winding down, I’ve been thinking about an annual custom among our group, known as “The End of Season Hunt.” We haven’t celebrated it in a few years, but this hallowed event traditionally took place between Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve and marked the official farewell to the hunting season.
That late in the year, the woodcock and pheasant seasons were closed, so ruffed grouse were the focus. Actually, that statement isn’t accurate. Bird hunting took a backseat. If we found a few birds, great; if we didn’t, that was fine, too. Either way, the emphasis centered around tradition, camaraderie, and remembering the outgoing year.
We’d always pack the treats we’d received in our Christmas stockings — delicacies like dark chocolate, salted black licorice, homemade beef jerky, signature pipe tobacco, and specialized cigars. From there we’d pile into a truck and drive a few hours north, where the tamarack and white pines mingled with aspen clearcuts.
It’s sobering to say, but by now I’ve been hunting enough to notice some significant changes in the Midwest landscape. For starters, the weather has shifted significantly, and the seasons ain’t what they once were. For instance, there was a time when snow was almost guaranteed by mid-November. Nowadays, temperatures have warmed and it’s a crapshoot whether we’ll have rain or snow.
What’s more, grouse populations have dwindled steadily throughout the Lower Peninsula, especially where I live in the southern third of Michigan. I wish habitat was the issue, but there’s a lot of clear cutting out here and forests are healthy, so I’m suspicious when folks insist that’s the problem. I may be wrong, but I’ve developed some strong opinions after spending the last 35-plus years chasing birds across the region.
Honestly, there seems to be some correlation between the warming weather and plummeting bird numbers. Maybe this pattern is just cyclical, as some people insist, or maybe those few extra degrees have allowed some parasitic plague to attack gamebirds via ticks, mosquitoes, or something else. I don’t understand the specifics, but the downturn in numbers is undeniable.
Times have changed, but as I mentioned, the End of Season Hunt was never about bag limits. In fact, some years we never marked a single flush. The cold, dry conditions of December aren’t great for scenting, so the dogs often struggled to find birds. In addition, ruffed grouse have a sneaky habit of riding out winter weather high in the evergreens.
If you randomly pick the right pine tree, and IF you stand beneath it long enough, sometimes a bird will catapult from the upper branches. Normally, however, they simply sit tight, and you walk right past them without ever realizing anything’s up there.
That’s a lot of “ifs.”
When the weather cooperated, it was always exciting to follow a meandering set of grouse tracks through the snow. When you finally reached the end of the trail, you often heard the distant thunder of wings or found a disturbance in the snow where an unseen bird launched silently into flight.
But if the powder was deep enough, Ol’ Ruff sometimes exploded like a landmine from a snow roost, and when that happened, you’d slap the trigger and send an ounce of sevens screaming after him. If a few lucky BBs found their mark, you’d bag a plump winter bird. (Notice, again, the string of “ifs.”) In any case, there was always something solemn about the smell of nitro powder hovering in the winter air and feathers drifting over the snow.
Speaking of guns, vintage arms were the flavor of the day for the End of Season Hunt. I usually carried an ancient L.C. Smith, while other guys in our group toted old Remington pumps or archaic Lefever Nitro Specials. Regardless of weaponry, it was the perfect time to honor all the wingshooters who came before — and part of that process involved carrying scatterguns with a story.
Our pace was slower than usual, and we’d pause often to smoke pipes or cigars at the tailgate and snack on whatever food we’d brought along. When the hunt was over, we’d break out commemorative tumblers (the ones with pewter grouse on the side), pour a dram of whiskey, and raise a toast to the birds, the dogs, and the departing season.
I’ve logged a lot of End of Season Hunts over the years, but one I remember best occurred on a snowy December afternoon about a decade ago. Rest assured, the passage of time hasn’t dulled the memory at all. Even from the crowded coffee shop where I’m writing this, I can smell the faint aroma of woodsmoke and hear the muffled shush of snow falling from evergreen boughs.
That year, the powdery drifts made for quiet walking. At one point our four-man party was working through a thick stand of pines when a grouse flushed from one of the trees and glided across the two-track. Who fired isn’t important — but someone shot, and the bird spiraled into the snow — a single, hard-won grouse to commemorate the passing season.
By then, the sky was blushing pink and lavender, so we opened our doubles and headed back to the truck in the falling light, another season fading into the rearview mirror.