When hunters don't shoot

We had started at the flower fields before they opened to the morning at a time of year when lupine is going to seed. It wasn't necessary to set out early, but the cold gave us a head start on the shadow side of the mountain before the sun rose between the peaks.

Our English setter, Winchester, cut across the hillside in a flash of white and black. He ran to the highest rocks and descended back to us with an athleticism beyond my human capability and even exceptional for an animal. We were hunting white-tailed ptarmigan, the smallest of the three ptarmigan native to Alaska. Whitetails (ptarmigan, not deer) are considered the "true birds of the mountains," as they live above timberline year-round in the mountain ranges of Southcentral and Southeast Alaska.

Years earlier, when Winchester was still a pup and new to hunting, he ran over birds and flushed others out of our view. His excitement and endurance knew no restraint.

Now, after many seasons, we trusted him to hold a point and admired the way he worked the rock-strewn slopes and faces in search of birds. It took him less than a minute to ascend. Soon after he disappeared over the ridge, his GPS collar beeped, signaling he was on point. We increased our pace, but it took us 20 minutes to reach him. My first sight of him on point 100 yards away was the exact image that haunted me in the offseason. There was no doubt he was pointing birds.

Hen and her chicks

The lateral moraine formed a ridge between us so that I couldn't see the birds. I cut across the edge toward Winchester while my partner, Steve, circled above us. At the top of the rise, I made out the shape of a single white-tailed ptarmigan ahead of Winchester on a rock. It was a hen, and she turned an eye to me as I approached. She blinked repeatedly, and I could see the beating of her heart pump her chest. It was evident she wasn't going to flush. Movement at my feet caught my eye where two chicks ran behind me. They stopped at 3 yards. I looked at Winchester, who held his point and did not return my glance.

[For Labradors and hunters alike, an Alaska waterfowl paradise]

The hen watched as I knelt down near her chicks.

"Whoa," I said as if Winchester or the hen needed my instruction. All three of the birds were motionless as well and communicated with each other in the secret language of tension and survival.

"I can't shoot these birds," I said. I could have picked up one of the chicks and held it entirely in my hand. They were half the size of the hen. The game bird season in Alaska coincides with the Aug. 10 opening of sheep season, set that way due to the need for game birds as camp meals. But when the hatch is late or there is a second hatch, they are too young to hunt.

Winchester hesitated to leave the birds on command. Steve herded them the opposite direction of Winchester.

"Go on," he said, "live another day."

Voluntary restraint

I took Winchester by his collar with me toward a lake at the front of the valley. When I let him go, he seemed to forget about the birds behind us as he skirted the lake and ranged up the slopes. We ascended to the next level and then toward the summit. The allure of seeing what was over the next hill forced us onward. It gave me time to reflect on my decision and the value judgments hunters often make when they don't take the shot.

[When the urge to hunt Alaska waterfowl is impossible to resist]

While game managers consider the overall population of a species, a hunter often makes decisions based on an individual animal or bird. The more time I spent in the field and around other hunters, I learned a variety of reasons for showing what some call "voluntary restraint." Many bird hunters I've hunted with have expressed their boundaries in words and actions. Waterfowlers will only shoot drakes, never shoot a bird on the water, or limit themselves to particular species. Many upland game hunters only shoot birds pointed or flushed by a dog and never take too many birds from a single covey. Even if there is not a given reason, it makes me curious when a proficient shooter doesn't take a shot that presents itself.

Winchester stopped at the edge of the flat mountaintop. The dark of the mountains across the valley contrasted with the way the light hit the lichen, so it glowed a pale lime and white. We seemed to float on an island above the rush of the world below.

The perspective took in everything behind me and placed it in front the way only a mountain can. Winchester sat down, and he seemed to enjoy the view in his way. I knew we were done hunting for the day. I don't know what a dog thinks or if he thinks. If he thought, perhaps he thought we'd lost our minds not shooting birds or understood the point of hunting so often is simply "to have hunted."

Christine Cunningham of Soldotna is a lifetime Alaskan and avid hunter. On alternate weeks she'll write about Alaska hunting. Contact Christine at cunningham@yogaforduckhunters.com