LITMIR.BIZ

      On September 30, Major Peabody and I flew to Wisconsin. I accompanied him because I was obliged to personally deliver his trust remittance on the first day of October at 12:01 a.m. - the date when he would be in a deep woods cabin, awaiting sunrise and a day of hunting the Ruffed Grouse.

      We went through customs in Milwaukee’s Billy Mitchell Airport. After signing an affidavit swearing we brought no oleomargarine with us and denying we had ever been members of an organization dedicated to the overthrow of the cow or advocating the abolition of beer drinking, we were allowed to enter and Peabody bought an out-of-State hunting license.

      The Major’s three friends, dressed in their hunting togs, were waiting at the airport. They drove us to a backwoods cabin in the Central Wisconsin Conservation Area. The Major called it a cabin. I’d call it a shack. I was being charitable. It was only one small step above a hut.

      On the following morning, I delivered the Major’s check, but couldn’t immediately return to Milwaukee for the flight to Philadelphia because “it was inconvenient”. All of the men planned to hunt together on November 1. No one found it convenient to take me back to Milwaukee before the afternoon of the second day of November. As a result, I had to spend a day and a half in the Central Wisconsin woods. As a result, I felt an overpowering urge to “go hunting” with Peabody and his friends.

      I am not a hunter. I’m afraid of guns and I’m afraid of dogs. They enjoy barking at me and snarling at me and threatening me. Before the Wisconsin Ruffed Grouse trip, if you mentioned the term Bonasa Unbellus, I would have presumed you were talking about the head of a New Jersey crime syndicate. Nevertheless I wanted to spend the day hunting with Peabody and his friends.

      If I didn’t “go hunting”, I would have to spend the entire day alone in the cabin, surrounded by wild animals. One look at that cabin convinced me snakes could easily crawl into it. They might have been in it at that very moment. I wondered if scorpions came that far north. I knew any sized black bear could easily knock the door down with one blow of its huge, razor sharp, clawed paws. When I heard the ominous sounds of distant drums, I decided I would be safer if I were surrounded by armed men. Hence my decision to “go hunting”.

      One of the men offered to let me use his back-up shotgun. I didn’t want to touch the thing and tried to refuse it on the grounds of not having a Wisconsin hunting license. The host claimed it was all right. He hadn’t seen a game warden in the vicinity for over ten years. Peabody said it was all right because I could afford to pay the fine and buy a replacement shotgun if one was confiscated. My objection was overruled.

      My first day of hunting was an educational experience. I learned about grouse and grouse hunting and grouse hunters. Peabody’s hunting companions consisted of a dentist, a publisher and a lawyer. (I understand it is usually necessary for grouse hunters to bring their own attorney with them.)

      These men were my professors. I learned the scientific name for the Ruffed Grouse was Bonasa Umbellus. I learned the male grouse attracts the female by drumming his wings against his chest. That explained the drumming sound I had heard and I was relieved to learn the bird seldom attacks a human being.

      That evening, in a poker game celebrating the coming hunt and substantially adding to the expenses of my trip, I learned grouse hunters are probably scoundrels and have to be watched when they deal the cards. I believe they were all trying to distract me from my game when they told me things like - on average, the grouse has 4,400 feathers - if you don’t count the down.

      Peabody describing the theories of the hunt. The dentist, nicknamed “Old Bang, Damn, Bang, Damn”, the Major told me, ascribed to the “shoot and shoot and never aim” philosophy. The publisher (they called him “Slow Motion”) had the reputation of swinging his gun barrel along a bird’s line of flight until it was far beyond gun range. He was an adherent of the “aim and aim and never shoot” philosophy.

      During the next day’s hunt, my instruction continued. Finding me walking at the end of the line of hunters, the Major taught me to walk between the two men who owned hunting dogs. He explained it by saying the dogs will hunt in front of their owners and you’ll get more action than will any idiot who hunts at the end of the line

      I learned about grouse. If undisturbed by a hunting dog, they are capable of sitting as quietly as the guest of honor at a funeral. You can walk up to them or even past them before they flush. When one unexpectedly exploded from the underbrush beneath my feet, I learned to drop my gun, fall to the ground in alarm and panic and throw my arms over my head in a protective fashion.

      The first time one of them erupted from beneath me. I found myself imploring Jehovah to please save me and promising, in exchange, to attend church every Sunday for a year. Five minutes later, when my heart rate was still a bit elevated and my palms still a bit moist, the bribe offered to Jehovah was reconstituted to provide for church attendance every other Sunday for six months.

      I also learned how to carry a shotgun in grouse covert. While the “port arms” position is favored by many hunters, I like the less popular “cross arm” carry. With the gun cradled in the crook of my arm, at the sound of an exploding grouse, I was able to jump and turn in mid-air without dropping the shotgun more than half the time.

      However, it was the “shoulder carry” that produced my success. With my right hand on the breech mechanism, I swung the two barrels of the shotgun up and backwards until they rested on my shoulder. At that moment, a bird flushed from right behind me and I panicked. I clenched my fist and inadvertently knocked off the safety. As I covered my head and reverently shouted out the name of deity, I squeezed the trigger and the gun went off.

      I was surprised when the dog named Pfizer (a Lab, of course) ran back past me, found the unfortunate bird, returned and executed a perfect hand retrieve - to Major Peabody. Since the other members of the party knew he hadn’t fired, he graciously handed the grouse to me and said “Nice shot”.

      I was proud of that Ruffed Grouse. Later, upon closer examination, I found it contained 4893 feathers - not counting the down. This was more than ten percent over the average for the species and, thus, a trophy specimen. I decided to have it mounted, but, after many hours of tedious work, I was able to replace no more than 2000 of the feathers. The

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