It Shouldn't Happen by Kevin Robertson

Author:Kevin Robertson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Hunting/Sports
ISBN: 9781571572967
Publisher: Safari Press
Published: 2012-03-17T04:00:00+00:00

It is said that the quality of our lives can best be measured by the friends we have and the memories we cherish. If this is so, my memory of Mashomak was nothing but five stars!

The “great shot!” compliments were appreciatively and graciously received, and soon I was holding to hand my first-ever ring-necked pheasant. A more beautiful game bird I have yet to see, and so sporting to boot. I was immediately, and still remain, highly impressed with how well these game birds get up and fly. Right there and then, in the cold and crunchy snow, I decided that one day I would have, in my office, a suitably mounted specimen to forever remind me of that moment. It was simply that good!

All the birds that we flushed out of the cornfield had flown on to settle in what John called the swamp, a wide marshy area thick with what to me looked like bulrushes and what he called cottontails.

“It’s so cold,” said John, “that the swamp’s frozen over. Let’s follow those birds in. Be careful, though, the ice will be slippery as soap, so just go slowly. The birds should hold in there, especially where the cottontails are thick, so be ready for some action.”

And so that’s how I got to walk on water for the first time: very slowly and carefully! Initially, I was unsure. Would it support my considerable weight? Well, there was only one way to find out, and hold me it did—for a while, that is.

“Birds over, BIRDS OVER! Come on, you guys, SHOOT!” shouted John.

He had maneuvered around to the side of us, and with the help of his dogs, pheasants were flushing ahead of him by the handful. A good number of them came straight over or in front of us and all were within shotgun range—jet propelled, long-tailed rockets they were, heading for the stratosphere and in numbers sufficient to make even the most discerning sportsman happy.

There followed for me yet another comedy of errors: two relatively easy shots missed well behind, holes blown in the sky, and then some frantic fumbling as 12-gauge shotshells bounced on the ice. To make matters even worse, there was the darn “automatic” safety catch that wasn’t really automatic, made specifically, I’m now convinced, to spoil that memorable occasion. That, together with some classically amateurish head-up shots, left me thankful that my shooting partners were too preoccupied to notice my pathetic performance.

Come on, Robertson, keep your head down and shoot instinctively, damn it! I told myself. Then a cock folded, well in front. That’s better, I thought as I bounded forward prior to swinging on another.

Too late I realized there was a bloody great crack in the ice, and then the ice splintered below me. In that one pace I went from shooting ace to floundering fool. With my right leg plunged crotch deep into the swamp’s cold, clear water, I waved my arms and shotgun aimlessly in the air hoping to right myself, all the while vainly praying that I was not being watched.

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