When I first heard about the new 12-gauge A391 Xtrema back in 2001, I assumed Beretta had followed the lead of other manufacturers by simply modifying an existing shotgun to handle 3 1/2-inch shells. But as I discovered during my first waterfowl hunt with the new gun, it was totally new from butt to muzzle.For starters, its receiver measured 9 3/8 inches long and 2 3/4 inches tall compared to 8 1/8 inches and 2 5/8 inches for Beretta's AL391 Urika, which is chambered for 3-inch shells.
I have yet to meet a game bird that I did not enjoy hunting. But if someone twisted my arm long enough and hard enough, I might eventually confess to the Hungarian partridge being my favorite. The Hun is about twice the size of a bobwhite quail, just as good to eat, capable of flying about as fast, is just as difficult to hit, is more difficult to kill and sometimes holds quite nicely to a pointing dog. Flush as many coveys as I have through the years and you will likely agree.
I grew up on a small farm in the Deep South at a time when bobwhite quail hunting was still quite good. Decent bird populations could be found on public hunting grounds, and it was not too difficult to get permission to hunt them on private farms.I started hunting quail with my father at the age of twelve, and despite the best of his efforts to make me a good wingshot, I started out by making all the common beginner's mistakes.
After my shot, the woods would sigh. This time, though, it held its breath--in shock or disbelief, I couldn't tell. Something was different; the woods knew before the feather sifted down.The sky was cloudy that day, decades ago, when I killed my first grouse. Even now, I could take you to where it fell, in a central-Michigan bottom draining what was then a dairy farm.We called them wild grapes, the vines that writhed 'round the poplars and alders and grabbed your gun barrel when wing-thunder called for instant response. The best grouse hunting was in those grape tangles.
Today's waterfowl aren't the same birds we hunted twenty years ago. With innovations like anatomically perfect decoys, spinning wings and calls capable of sounding more natural than the ducks or geese themselves--well, let's just say the birds are much more educated. No more paper plates for snows, recycled radials for Canadas and misshapen mallard dekes. Today, waterfowl hunting is about realism both in sight and sound. It's about becoming invisible, and once things do happen, it's about you being able to capitalize on each opportunity.
A strange call echoed off the rock walls along the river's bank. I was surprised at how loud these beautiful sea ducks talked, their yodeling carrying a quarter-mile to our drifting boat. It was soon drowned out by the noise of a fishing vessel running the Canadian shore, however, which prompted the feeding oldsquaws to take flight in our direction.Ignoring Customs, they made a beeline for our drifting spread. The six-bird squadron turned in unison at fifty yards, skirting our dozen dekes, just out of range. The drakes' beautiful white heads and long pintails were mesmerizing.
Down Stuttgart, Arkansas, way, not far to the south and west of the famed "Mallard Capitol of the World," lies an area known by several names--Public Shooting Grounds, the Welfare Hole, Wabbaseka Scatters, or simply, The Scatters. The Bayou Meto Wildlife Management Area is, regardless of what you call it, a waterfowler's dream.At slightly more than 33,000 acres, Bayou Meto is Arkansas's largest public-hunting property, and one of the largest in the nation.
A friend of mine is easily rattled by the flush of a quail covey, therefore he misses a lot more birds than he hits. Perhaps it's because I grew up quail hunting, but I'm just the opposite and usually hit more bobwhites than I miss. On the other hand, when it comes to passing shots on waterfowl at long range, my friend is a much better shot than I am. In that case, what is easy for him is difficult for me.
"How far are we from the gravel road?" I asked Matt Koob, my host, on a warm, clear, early October morning in southwestern Minnesota. "Oh, maybe 100 yards," he said as he set out the last of six wood duck decoys fifty feet from shore."You're sure we won't be hit by flying rocks when the cattle trucks go by," I asked. "And you're sure six dekes will bring in the birds to this end of a half-mile-wide lake?""You'll see," he said, stomping down a clearing in the chin-high vegetation where we waited.
The old timer shook his head in disbelief or disgust--I was not sure which--and spit into a plastic cup. Leaning forward in his seat at Wooten's Barber Shop, it was obvious the old boy was about to grill me like a big-city prosecutor closing in on the accused in a big-time murder trial."You did what?" he asked pointedly and spat into his cup again."I dumped my turkey vest and put the sneak on him," I said. "He just wasn't coming any closer and I was out of options. I crawled through that tall grass right up to him and gave him a load of No.
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