These Are the Good Old Days

Finding bird coverts like they used to be

When I was a kid, a day of grouse and woodcock hunting with my father began at the crack of dawn with a long drive from our house in the Boston suburbs to northerly and westerly parts of New England. It ended with a long drive back home in the dark. As the years passed, strip malls and highway cloverleafs and housing developments and golf courses replaced our treasured alder thickets and poplar hillsides, and the commute to bird-hunting country grew increasingly longer. So did the distance between productive coverts.

Do you like what you read? Subscribe to Shooting Sportsman»