I Killed a Bird: Wing Shooting in Idaho

We use some words so often that they lose their meaning. Words like ‘amazing’, ‘awesome’, and ‘incredible’.

Was the salad you had last night really AWESOME? You found yourself in awe of that mix of spring greens, and olive oil and lemon dressing, with some shaved red onion and almonds? Delicious. Sure. Awesome? Maybe not.

For four days in September 2016, I used those words, and probably for the first time ever, understood what they mean.

I was in awe of what I was seeing, and doing.

I was amazed by what was surrounding me, what I woke up to every morning, and at how the dogs were able to find a chukar in the middle of a heavy-cover field.

Looking up at the mountains going down the river, I had to keep reminding myself that yes, it was real, and my eyes were actually locking at what I was looking at. It was incredible. I did not believe what I was looking at and actually had to think to myself, ‘Yes, this is happening right now and what you’re looking at is actually there.’

I had the privilege of visiting Flying B Ranch in Kamiah, Idaho for two days of wing shooting and an afternoon of sturgeon fishing. 

Welcome to the Flying B.

I’ve had the opportunity to do a lot of cool shit with my job at Hunterdon Distributors. I’ve gotten to travel, see countless breweries, and meet some of the most influential people in the craft beer and spirits world. This, though, takes the cake. It was, for most of us on the trip, a once in a lifetime experience.

So what is a beer distributor doing at a Ranch in Idaho, and what happens out there? Team building. What better way to connect with your colleagues that staying in one of the most beautiful spots in the US, eating wonderful food, and hiking through 5000 acres of ranch in the middle of 11,000 acres of the Nex Perce Reservation looking for game birds to hunt?

Wing shooting. I can honestly tell you this is something that never in a million years thought I would do. I’ve shot guns before. At ranges. At inanimate objects. The don’t move. They’re not alive. I was extremely nervous about my first hunting experience. I’ve never killed anything outside of a bug that was somewhere it shouldn’t be. I was pretty certain that I was going to immediately burst into tears.

We arrived Wednesday afternoon. First thing’s fist – skeet shooting. After an extensive safety talk, we split into groups, grabbed our shotguns and headed out to the stations to practice on some clays.

The guns deserve a moment of discussion. Beautiful, Fabarm Italian-made, over-under barrel shotguns. The Axis RS12 Sporting, for the my enthusiasts out there (or at least a model close to it). Even if you’re not into shooting, but you’re into craftsmanship - you would be able to appreciate the detail and quality of these firearms.

I stuck with a 20 gauge for the weekend. Not much kick back, not too heavy. I have to say, I surprised myself. Apparently I’m pretty damn good and shooting orange clay spheres flying through the air. My confidence was up. 8am the next morning was go time

We were working with bird dogs. They were fantastic. Moose, Dog (yes, the dog’s name is Dog), Ginger, Avalanche, Patty (Patricia when she’s got an attitude), Tank, and Gabby. They can barely contain themselves. All they want to do is get out, run, and find some birds. After a few sprints back and forth, they’re off into the brush. Last year, the ranch had a serious fire. Far more than what is typically burned. Thanks to that blaze, the regrowth, the ‘coverage’, was tall and thick. Ideal for birds to hide in. Pheasants, Hungarian Partridges, Chukars, and Quail. The dogs seem to be having the time of their lives, their heads popping up and down in and out of view, when all of a sudden - silence. Their noses intently pointing ahead, completely still. They wait. ‘Woah, Moose.’, our guide commands. He waits. Our group of three gets into position. Ready. BJ, our guide, gives Moose the OK and he darts forward, flushing out the Rooster Pheasant. I take a breath, aim, pop the safety off, and pull. Down the bird goes.

Now Moose is back on. ‘Hunt dead! Dead bird.’ BJ tells him, in a low, steady tone. Soon, Moose emerges from the tall, thick grasses, with a colorful (and large) Pheasant in his mouth. Clearly proud, he brings it over, dropping it at BJs feet. He receives his congratulations and he’s off again.

Let’s pause. Remember a few paragraphs back when I said I was pretty sure that I would burst into tears upon my first time actually killing something? I’m going to be real REAL honest with you here. I didn’t feel the deep guilt that I expected to feel. Truthfully, I didn’t feel much at all. Perhaps it’s because this is how humans have always survived. Hunting. Sure, not with trained dogs and $2500 shotguns. But it’s a part of our ancestry. Perhaps it’s that. Perhaps is that I know this bird that I had just taken would be cleaned, packed, and shipped to my home in a few days so that I could eat it. It was not simply for sport. It would be, in the end, for sustenance. 

I am a person who advocates eating properly raised and fed animals. In order to advocate that, I had always felt that it was important for me to insert myself into the process. I knew that one day, I was going to have to kill something. I think that this is a big part of the connection with our food that is missing. We go to the store, we buy a perfectly trimmed, skinless, boneless chicken breast. That’s it. That’s the extent of our involvement. So much so, that when I posted a picture of the final haul, I got a mass of unfollows on social media. People who had likely found me due to the paleo diet - were offended by hunting. In order to be a part of this cycle, I knew that I needed to actually be a PART of it. Maybe it was that, that saved me from the guilt I expected to wash over me. Also, maybe it was just because birds aren’t very cute. I may never know.

If you are eating meat of any kind and you are against hunting, made uncomfortable by it, or want to shield your eyes from it – that is a problem. You cannot shut out where the food you eat comes from. You cannot be against the thing that gets that chicken to your table. In fact, this time of ‘harvesting’ is much more peaceful and with nature than the feedlot that your factory-raised perfect chicken breast came from. The birds roam free, eating bugs, right up until the moment that a spray of pellets finds them. They have the opportunity to get away. If that fucker flies faster that I can aim, he’s free. In order for him to end up on my plate, I have to do something correctly. Something more than going to the store and picking out the first perfectly plastic wrapped poultry I see.

To cover your eyes, and say you ‘don’t want to see that’, is hypocritical. To say that hunting is inhumane is simply ridiculous. This is a major part of the problem we have with this vast disconnect with our food supply. It’s why giant corporations are taking over our food system. We’re too scared to look. We don’t want to look. But we HAVE to look. We have to understand. We have to be involved. We say that we hate how these factory farms operate. How poorly the animals are treated. How they are fed unnaturally for the goal of fattening them up by any means necessary. We can’t then also turn our nose up at the other options. The natural options. The options in our genes.

I don’t say that to be crass, to be shocking, ‘I killed a bird’. I say that because that’s what it is. Yes, it was ‘hunting’. Yes, I ended up eating it. I still killed it. It’s a fact. It wasn’t done for survival. I could’ve gotten dinner without it. It was done for food, yes, but it was also for sport, even though the meat as not wasted. That may sound terrible, but consider this: even so, that meat was 10 lbs of meat that I didn’t buy from the super market. 

I digress…

After lunch, our second hunt of the day was though what I later named ‘Jumanji’. Three foot high, lush green grasses and vines. It felt like trudging through six feet of packed snow. My hips were screaming and my hamstrings felt like they were about to burst. The dogs ran through it all, barreling past it, under it, through it, with seemingly no issue. They come out with cuts and scrapes, but can’t wait to go back. They’re remarkable. A few more hours and a few more birds and it was back to the lodge for dinner and a near instantaneous sleep. I don’t think I’ve every slept so hard and so well in my life. The level of exhaustion was astounding. Everything was drained. My legs we spent. My brain was fuzzy. My whole body was done.

Up again to head out for a day on the river fishing sturgeon. It’s all catch and release. Only Native Americans are permitted to keep and eat the tremendous, prehistoric fish. We drove nearly two hours, down a winding rod on the edge of a mountain, leading us to Pittsburgh landing were we hopped on a jet boat and sped down the river to our first spot. This is where I finally understood what the words ‘incredible’ and ‘unbelievable’ mean. Looking up at the huge mountains on either side of us, I found myself thinking how I could not believe my eyes. Reminding myself, assuming myself that I was in fact, starting straight up at magnificence.

As the day went on, we bounced to new sturgeon holes, in hopes that something would bite. Finally, at our last stop, the reel started to wiggle. Our Operations Manager, Rich, had his eyes on it all day. He acted quickly, grabbing the rod and giving it a yank to set the hook.

Little did we know we were about to go 13 rounds and two hours with this monster. We rotated through, each taking a few minutes with the fight belt. Reeling a little at a time. Slowly pulling up, then quickly reeling down - never losing tension so your opponent at the other end doesn’t have an opportunity to split. 12 times, he would be right under us. We would get into position to bring him near the boat for our photo-op. 12 times he would turn, and swim out back into the current, forcing us to begin again. Upstream, the dam lets water out in the late afternoon. Rusty, our captain, was beginning to worry about the rising tide. The higher the water, the higher the rapids and the more difficult our route home becomes. Then. Finally. Lucky number 13 - victory. We pulled him in to a roar of cheers. Nine feet. This son of a bitch was near 400 lbs and nine goddamn feet long. I had never seen anything like it. A two-hour fish fight is not something I think I will experience the likes of again in my life.

When lifting weights meets the reel world (see what I did there?).

Now we could head home. What I’m about to tell you is not a lie. It is not an embellishment. It is 100% true. As we headed back down the river, which was now significantly higher and rougher than when we entered, we saw a man in his 60’s who had been tossed from his raft. He was floating, alone, in the cold water, being pulled by the increasing speed of the water. He managed to find his way to a rock - all the while insisting that he did not need help. You know what they say - pride goeth before the fall. Rusty navigated the jet boat to him. We pulled him aboard and crossed the river, reuniting him with his party. Had the fish come in at any other moment in time - we would not have been there.

As we continued on the way, we saw a huge black ram. He stopped, and posed for us. “This is all going to sound like a lie when we tell people”.

We returned to Flying B for a dinner that featured a pork chop that cut with a butterknife and back fat that melted away. Again, I melted - like the back fat - into my bed. Instant sleep.

Our final day at the Ranch was back out on the property for more wing shooting. it was cloudy, cool, and a little rainy. Perfect for the dogs. The scent of everything is more potent when it’s cool and a little wet. We had high hopes. 

Our morning was a little rough lots of misses of easy shots. “If we’re going to be terrible, we have to make sure we’re not all terrible at the same time”, my boss declared. Good plan. We took 16 birds in a few hours, not including the one that was resurrected. See, sometimes the dogs get a little over zealous. Instead of waiting for the go-ahead, they will jump in and grab the bird. At this point, it’s injured. It can’t fly and is half dead. The kind, but unpleasant, thing to do is to quickly break its neck. The dogs got this one bird, and its neck was rung. Packed away in the back of a vest, we continued for another 30 minutes or so. Back at the truck to switch out the dogs and drop off the birds, I head my boss mutter, ‘We have a problem’. There, in the back of the truck -

the chukar.

Standing at attention. Before we could do anything, the thing hopped out of the bed of the truck and ran down the road - soon out of sight. We all just stood there. I hope he’s doing well.

Sunday morning, I woke up early, a little glassy-eyed. I had packed the night before so I could relax before it was time to be dragged off to the airport, forced to return to the real world. It seemed I was the only one awake. The ranch was silent. I grabbed myself a cup of coffee, and found a seat outside to enjoy the mountain view one last time. Slowly, bodies came out of dark rooms, with mugs full and steaming. Everyone seemed to do the same thing: Stretch, look out, and take a big, deep breath of the crisp, clean air. 

Sooner than we all would have liked, our shuttles pulled up, we loaded our bags, and began our 12 hour journey home.

It feels like those four days went by in the blink of an eye. I still can’t believe that I actually did it. What an adventure. I am extremely lucky to have been able to experience something like this, in a place like that.

It will forever be, one of my life’s cool stories.