116 3rd St SE
Cedar Rapids, Iowa 52401
Hot Lead — Cold Feet
Blanket of white snow give a puncher’s chance against edgy bunnies
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Was it too nice a day to go rabbit hunting? Fishing and golf weren’t options. I mean, a sunny calm day on a foot of snow is just about perfect for so many pursuits.
Without beagles, rabbits are a tall order in brown woods—pass. This blanket of white would give Joe and I a puncher’s chance against edgy bunnies who live their lives as a preferred menu option for so many critters.
The skunk carcass at the brush pile needed no call-out. Goodness, they were an interesting design choice by the Almighty. But as there was no risk of getting sprayed, it was safe to give the tangle of stumps and branches a couple of kicks in hopes of breaking the resolve of a lagomorph therein. No such luck, the rabbit in my gamevest would have to continue to ride alone.
This hunt was an experiment. In addition to the evergreen project of getting number 6 shot to match the speed and direction of my quarry, this outing was also testing my choice in footwear. I left my clunky knee-high winter boots at home. My radical choice was a tactical approach based on grip and sole flexibility in exchange for the warm and waterproof. Would my trail running shoes with gaiters pass the test?
As we were an hour into the effort, I was delighted with the traction and precise stalking. However, the gaiters were not keeping the snow away from the cuffs of the shoes and my toes were wet from snow settling on the non-waterproof uppers. This could not be an all-day affair.
We marched north through the woods until the picked cornfield and then swung west. I was ready as fresh tracks were aplenty and the scrubby undergrowth suggested every spot could be a lair.
Mr. Cottontail reminded us of his cleverness. A resolute rabbit waited until our skirmishers line passed. When Joe and I were about twenty to thirty yards past, the rabbit bolted in the opposite direction. I whipped my head and knew before my shoulders could catch up there was no chance. Instead of chilled lead, it got a tip of my cap: well played Peter. Now if only we’d had a beagle to chase that rabbit until it circled back.
A minute hadn’t gone by on our patrol west when baleful barks of hounds filled our ears. And then there was the neighbor, behind a woven wire fence at the west boundary with two beagles in tow.
Joe made the fence first. Soon we were three talking about this and that, and I had to wonder if this was the type of scene that Robert Frost had in his minds’ eye as he composed his rural rhymes.
Our interlude confirmed that without motion my feet, now plainly wet, were suffering for traction, an exchange that depreciated by the moment. The neighbor unclipped the dogs and the pair ran off, soon filling the air with excited barks and howls—on their side of the fence. Soon too Joe and I were off, on our side of the fence, with only our wits as we aimed to finish our foray back to where we started.
A couple more rabbits teased us with glimpses of fur flashing through the undergrowth, but no shots until the very last leg of the push. I saw it first, sprinting perpendicular from Joe and in my direction to a field’s edge brush pile. I called out and we converged.
Joe’s .410 pooped. A blur of gray scrambled north. I hustled in a semi-circle to intercept. By instinct my gun stock matched my cheek and the rabbit tumbled and then was still. “I got’em” I thought.
I yelled over to Joe about why he didn’t shoot, since he looked closer and with a better angle. Joe called back, “I did shoot…I got that rabbit. Why didn’t you shoot?” Ha! We fired at the same time.
In moments like these a friendship would surely be tested if the quarry was a 200 inch whitetail. But we had no such tension, only the joy of a uniquely shared experience and a dandy story to tell for years to come.
Sans a brace of beagles we managed a brace of rabbits, one for Joe’s pot and one for mine. I learned that light and lean footwear belongs on the racecourse. Oh, and maybe next time we’ll call the neighbor first to see if his dogs would like some exercise on the other side of the fence.
Looking up, looking ahead, and keeping my pencil sharp.
John Lawrence Hanson, Ed.D. teaches at Linn-Mar High School. He sits on the Marion Tree Board, and is a member of the Outdoor Writers Association of America
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