Field & Stream December/January 2019-20

I ADMIT THERE HAVE been times when I wanted out. Like during that one hunt in Maine. It was the last morning of what had been a slow few days. We’d had our fun (and eaten more than our share of fresh lobster), but after hours of sitting in the bitter cold on an uncomfortable rock island, and without any ducks coming in to the decoys, I was ready to quit and grab a booth at the diner. More than once, in times like this, I’ve thought, What the hell am I doing out here? And every time, an answer ultimately comes; in this instance, it was in the form of a lone drake eider that flew in to the spread and died in the salt water. Right. That’s…

STEPPING INTO THE MIDdle of a tightly wadded covey of quail will do things to your heart that would concern a cardiologist. But when a ruffed grouse erupts from beneath a mantle of unblemished snow, the percussion all but drops you in your tracks. You see the snow begin to move, and you think, What the… Then the world explodes. At this point, you’re faced with two problems: The first is pulling yourself together so you can bring your shotgun into play and function as a hunter. The second is finding your target through the dreamlike crystal cloud hanging in the air between you and the grouse—which is exiting the scene at an alarming rate. That’s pretty much how things went down on a hunt in Wisconsin last winter.…

MY BUDDY MILES IS A Colorado guide, and we’ve been hunting together for a decade. Good friends have rituals, and for the last bunch of years, come nightfall in hunting camp—whether that’s on the banks of the Tennessee River or on some Rocky Mountain slope—Miles and I would have us a little liquor, cuss, and speak ill of the 6.5 Creedmoor. We’d mostly point out that the 6.5, by God, is no .30/06. Then we’d build a fire so as to have something to poke with sticks and spit on. Then one afternoon, Miles called me and explained with rehearsed diction that he’d become a pro staffer for a rifle company—and they wanted to send him a gun in 6.5 Creedmoor. When I asked if he intended to accept…

YOU CAN’T SHOOT ducks from the couch, but you can’t shoot them with the truck stuck in the road ditch either, so I waited until the plows cleared the roads and finally ventured out around sunrise. Now that I’m here, I can’t even seem to shoot ducks from my layout blind. The mallards trading up and down the river swing over the half-frozen pond I’m guarding and look down from a safe height, but that’s all. I know they can’t spot me. I dug the blind into deep, fresh snow at the water’s edge with a bank behind, and I tucked grass into the stubble straps of the hide’s snow cover. I even remembered to wear my white beanie and neck gaiter. I’m like the picture of the polar…

Although I often choose an inertia-driven semi-auto for hunting in bad weather, Remington’s V3 has impressed me as a gas gun that shrugs off cold and snow and keeps working. New this year is the Waterfowl Pro version ($1,195; remington.com), which dresses up the basic model for harsh conditions. The barrel and receiver are Cerakoted; the safety, bolt handle, and bolt closer are all enlarged to make them easier to use with gloved or numb fingers; and the loading port is milled out for faster reloading. All told, it’s a softshooting gas gun that will not fail you, even in the late season.…

FOR ONCE, I CAN SEE THE dog. I hadn’t yet gotten a good look at my pal Scott Wood’s almost-famous beagle, Bailey. I’ve heard about her for a couple of years now, how she lives high on steak and bacon—to steal a Jimmy Buffet line—and camps on the sofa for nine months a year. Then, at the strike of the rabbit opener, she transforms from a chubby city pumpkin into a bunny-hunting machine. And for the last hour, Bailey has been exactly that. She has run two rabbits in great, looping arcs through thick woods. Now I spot her, 5 feet away, nosing gingerly through a wall of greenbrier. She is literally suspended in air, having clawed into a wad of briers so thick, it holds her aloft. I…