Every hunter has got all his antelope trophies, so now we are going to concentrate on upland hunting. This is the name Americans use for what is a typical Hungarian woodland hunt. Our guides combine forces and equipment, and we all set off together to find the birds. One jeep is towing a Polaris on its trailer and the other tows one carrying an aluminum kennel containing the dogs, each in its own separate compartment. They will be our main assistants for the hunt today.
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here are five of them, all so excited that they can barely contain themselves.
We set off in convoy, and this time we do not stop for gas but speed toward the bird hunting grounds. We are not going to the same place we hunted antelope, as our chances there would not be good. Apart from the already mentioned Hungarian partridges, we hope to bag another huntable species, the sharptail; and, to boost our expectations, we already spot our first three sharptails while on the way to the prairie. We stop at once, as these birds are not so plentiful that we can afford to ignore any that we come across. Our permits allow us to shoot three birds each per day. We stride over the stubble towards them, all in a line, because this time we have no blockers. This is probably because we are only five, so there aren't enough of us for that. We are not expecting to be successful, which is sensible of us, as then we will not be disappointed. The birds fly in the opposite direction, then two head towards the road. We follow after these, but can't get within range.
Finally, we get to the official starting place of our upland hunt. The land here is uncultivated, and, over the tens of thousands of hectares, nothing is growing except for coarse grass, about a foot high. This is where the birds are hiding. We leave the cars behind and, once more, the Polaris gets the starring role. We attach to it the trailer carrying the kennel; this contains everything that the dogs need. The Polaris will only take four people, and there are six of us. One guide stands on the platform, and I sit on a box on the trailer. I can't stand it for long because of all the dust and exhaust fumes, so I climb over to the platform as we go along. That's not much of an improvement, so I get up onto the roof. Finally, I return to the trailer, and get onto its roof. Here I can view the world from a height of 7ft., though when we go over some of the larger bumps in the track I'm almost thrown off my perch. I'll stay here, like a stunt double, climbing about and showing off, until I'm finally thrown off...
The method of beating we use in Hungary does not work over here. There are no areas of cultivation, no obvious borders, nowhere to position the line. The method we use is to place the Polaris in the middle of the line, like a flagship, and the dogs then fan out around us. When they raise a flock, we watch them with our binoculars until they land. They don't fly so far that we lose sight of them. Babsie then calls back the dogs, and we drive to their landing place on the vehicle.
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When we get there we all jump off - some from seats, others from the top of the trailer - load our guns, and form a line. This is how we stake out the landing area. The dogs are well trained; they know exactly what they have to do, and work as a team, rather than just chasing about together.
Between us, we carry a variety of guns. There is a Ruger Bock, two semi-automatic Brownings, and my 20 Remington. Nobody is using a strap on his gun. I read somewhere, perhaps in the writings of the great András Montagh, that, when pheasant hunting, a strap is superfluous to the hunter. This black gun of mine is a light weapon, and has very little recoil. Its four-cartridge magazine is quite big enough; I've never needed more. Its only serious defect is that the choke isn't firmly fixed, it has too much play, and my worry is that it will fall of in the bushes while I'm shooting. I take a better look; it is made by Charles Daly, part of the KBI Group, and manufactured in Turkey. I fire off a couple of cartridges with no result - sometimes I'm loading the gun when I should be shooting, and sometimes I'm so surprised by a bird that I forget to shoot -
but I do finally get the hang of it. I even manage to hit three sharptails, two in quick succession. A cloud of feathers floats in the air. This shotgun hunt is pretty good fun, especially in such great company. After each successful shot the line breaks, and laughing, we go and shake hands and
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congratulate the lucky hunter.
I'm by far the youngest here, so according to custom, I have the priviledge of going into the thickest undergrowth and climbing the steepest hills. Nobody wishes to challenge this priviledge of mine. I ford creeks, play with the mischievous dogs, and grab every opportunity to take a shot.
Once, just in hope, I even fire at a bird flying over 1800ft. away, but from that distance I can't even scratch it.
I can't deny that I love to shoot.
What I really mean is that I like shooting period, even without a reason or a target. Babsie encourages me with loud whoops, though it is his ammunition that is rapidly decreasing. Out here, in the middle of the uninhabited Montana prairie, everyone can fire off as many cartridges as they like. Back in Hungary I'm not allowed to do this, but here the gun-loving Americans don't mind in the least. I manage to bag some dried-up weeds as well, which I'm tempted to take back to Hungary as another trophy.
The dogs work in shifts. After a while they change over, and the tired ones retire to the kennel for a rest and to prepare for their next tour of duty. If one of them feels he has been working too long, he goes on strike. He won't go scouting anymore, and, instead, returns and runs beside the trailer, staring up reproachfully at his master.
Well, yesterday we weren't very successful hunting prairie dogs. (It's a misleading name, as they have nothing at all to do with dogs!) Babsie has taken it into his head that I must not leave Montana without a dog. So, later in the afternoon, we get into a jeep and go off to find the nearest colony. I'm using the same gun as yesterday, but weather conditions have deteriorated even more since then. Now, a crosswind is making even a well aimed shot difficult; it is so strong I can barely hold the Swaro steady. If we point ourselves in a direction where the wind is either in front of us, or coming from behind, you can be sure there won't be a prairie dog in sight. Babsie produces a three-legged gun rest, and we have to shoot using that. I don't like it, because I feel that if you shoot from a hard base the bullet goes in a completely different direction than if you had used a rucksack. We put the stand on the hood of the jeep, and this is how we make our search for any of the local inhabitants of the area. The Remington sits there like a mounted machine gun. Babsie is so considerate that he even aims the gun for me; all I have to do is pull the trigger. And I keep pulling it, but in vain, as the gun's accuracy has not improved since yesterday. I effortlessly miss the first four pests, but then I start noting where the bullets hit. It's not too difficult, as huge clouds of dust rise where the bullets land. To be honest, I was quite tired
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yesterday, and so didn't have the patience to carefully observe the shots. However, today I'm beginning to work out just how far off target the bullets are landing.
I aim the fifth and sixth shots at a rock, for a test, and then, with my seventh, the prairie dog keels over! Everyone has been supporting me, just like a Formula 1 racing team: one loaded my gun, another searched with binoculars for a dog, and the third handed me my drinks. Everybody hollers! Even the hunting dogs start to bark: they don't want to be left out of the general racket.
It's a good shoulder shot. When aiming, I also had to take the wind into account, as, overall, the bullets were drifting at least 8ins. to the left of the target, though some of that was down to the inaccuracy of the gun. No one is particularly keen to carry on, so we head for home.
But ... here is another colony of prairie dogs!
The rifle is not to hand, but there are several shotguns near. And one of the dogs isn't that far off
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The rest of the guys urge me on! I don't think the .20 will be enough, so I ask for the Bock. At my request its owner sets the gun so that it will first fire with the full choke barrel. I get ready, take good aim, and then a cloud of shot blasts away the nasty, burrow-living little pest. There is a positive storm of applause and congratulations. Hunting is such a pleasure when with such friendly, cheerful companions!
My arms have got burnt again in the strong sun.
By tomorrow night I shall be back in Alaska.
