Friends, hello. Its been a productive season and in the middle of it our internet connect had been shut.... Rural living.
For this I apologize.
Now that we have that stuff out of the way, (i feel better, don`t you?), I will continue as if this whole mess never happened to us. After all, I only want you to be happy.
The story of Michael Jordan is as follows:
We had seen this Rooster, (whom we named Michael Jordan due to his grouse like springing up to approx 12 feet when flushed) and by this trade marked move he had escaped our guns for two seasons, making him a fucking legend in our eyes... He had thwarted my in law from Montana when he came up against MJ, and even tricked the likes of my hunting buddy Donnie, (whom NEVER misses), upon a flush.
Always camping next to a thicket which is surrounded by a mowed walk-way and dense CRP meadow, MJ was a master of his territory. There had been many mornings when we would walk through this public ground, almost always getting in some gunning and bagging a rooster or two, no doubt from his past seasons off spring, but MJ always camped close to where we parked about 100 yards from the truck(s) and made a fool of our shot gunning skills as we were about to exit the field...always hard gripped on our guns ready for a final shot as often it would come, pushing the running roosters to the road. He had it down. The same scenario upon my exiting of this property.
On one particular morning, in true MJ fashion the usual happened: We came to the end of the thicket, dogs on scent..then: FLIP FLIP, a burst from this same roosters escape. This always draws nervous and unaware shooting. Most of which are parallel pointed muzzels,and trigger pulling that results in the end of anyones shotgun barrel pointing a full 90 degrees pointing at the slowly rising sun, burning away the morning chill and the cache of shells in our guns. We wipe our brows, every time mind you, and bitch quietly to one another at his escape. A true master was Michael Jordan....
BUT THIS TIME HE FUCKED UP.
Instead of flying across I-29 (his usual path), he slowly descended to our south approx 40 yards and plopped down into the section in which we started. Always thinking, this rooster. I know that he thought that we already hunted this patch and we would just call it "fair game" and walk back to the trucks, have a coffee and determine our next location of our Sunday hunt. How many times had he done this before?
Donnie, my mentor and uncle, motioned with a hand signal that we head back to where MJ landed; retracing the steps we walked when we entered the field an hour ago. With my heart beating and my legs warming up I motioned to Darlin (my GSP) to head for the section we started with.
Out of the south the breeze began to pick up. It was a small, small section in which MJ landed. I walked sooo slow. My dog pointed. Then stopped. Then pointed again. MJ was running. I selected the barrel of my Browning to the IC. I knew it would come soon. Closing in. Closing in. Darlin`s tail thwarted quickly back and forth, all the while with her left eye on me. Donnie closed in at approx 10 yards. I am so determined at this point. Thinking about the shots Dad and Donnie had taken on him in the past. I remembered laughing at them in the display of shot after shot and watching this Rooster escape. It had been true entertainment, all of this, in the past. Though, this time this was a REAL opportunity.
At the last minute, when there was no more ground for our hero Michael Jordan to tread he did it: That famous "I'm gonna slam dunk it": parallel jump into the sun. Bang! One shot ended his career. My shot. You are as surprised as I was.
It was truly a silver moment collecting him into my game bag. It was a straight and lethal shot. Donnie came over with his two Viszlas all wagging their tail and said "I'm glad he didn't fly over the interstate because you wouldn't have had a shot with the traffic and all". He was happy for me. Truly. It honestly felt good in the midst of this cold morning and my 5 hours of rest before all of this.
Getting home that afternoon I examined MJ thoroughly. His rainbow plumage and long beak... The usual as you would expect of an old rooster: long tail and spurs. I took especially great care in his cleaning, as respectful of an endeavor that I could manage. I thought about the shots I had seen taken at him, even imagined the ones I wasn't there for. A great bird. Possibly one of the best. "This is the reason I came here", I thought as the ever growing grey sky grew over my house here in the country. I love fall so much.
I don't want this to sound to weird or twisted, but I ate him that night. I used the best ingredients I had in my house: vegetables that my wife grew and harvested from the summer before all of this, a really good olive oil that I save for special occasions, and this was definitely such an occasion.
A day or so later I re-told this whole story to a coworker, and he inquired why I didn't just have him stuffed. He had a valid point. Honestly the thought never crossed my mind. Maybe, looking back, honoring this game by the most extravagant dinner I could have out here in the middle of chicken fried steaks and chewy sirloin steak dinners was the best honor I could have given old MJ.
I kept his spurs though.
The best to you though,
AP