Of Game Dogs and Gamebirds

The sun had been up for thirty minutes when we met the rest of the shooting party between Delmas and Kendall in Mpumalanga. The sunlight struggled to warm us as a thick blanket of mist still covered the ground. A light but cold breeze was blowing, and the air held a moist chill as we met the organisers of the hunt.
Our excitement grew as a couple of Egyptian geese flew over, soon followed by yellow-billed ducks, then a small flock of raucous guineafowl. A week earlier, this part of the country had experienced an unseasonal 50mm of rain, still evidenced by the early morning sun’s glinting faintly on surface water in the distance. Werner, Pieter, Jacques and his son, Liam, and I were here to meet Gary and Craig from GH Wingshooting. We were planning a day of francolin and spurfowl shooting with the help of Gary’s two spaniels, Holly and Leila, and Craig’s German shorthaired pointers, Fury and Rage.
Mpumalanga is known for the beautiful bushveld of the lowveld and stunning vistas of the escarpment. This area, however, comprised undulating plains where the view is interrupted only by high voltage power lines and power stations belching smoke into the otherwise clear sky. Apart from its coal production, it is an area where large farms support the local economy, and gamebirds flourish on these farms.

For the day’s first shoot we divided into teams: Pieter, Werner and I were shooting with Gary and his spaniels; the father-and-son team with Craig and his GSPs. The spaniels, Leila and Holly enthusiastically worked the strips of tall grass bordering the harvested fields. With noses to the ground and tails wagging, they worked at a forty-five-degree angle in front of Gary, while the guns walked on either side of him. With the mist and moisture, scenting conditions were not ideal, and the dogs worked hard to pick up the scent of their quarry.
Gary signalled us when the dogs began working a scent, and I watched as their zigzag running became more frantic and their tails oscillated as they found the birds’ scent. They flushed a pair of Swainson’s spurfowl which exploded from the short grass and Werner’s shot cleanly killed the trailing bird. Holly retrieved the bird to Gary’s hand; the first bird of the day was in the bag.
Evidence of the unseasonal rain was everywhere. The fields were wet, and thick cloying mud lay between the rows of harvested maize stumps. More than one area that should have been completely dry had turned into a virtual vlei with patches of shallow water and mud. We were stunned to flush a covey of birds comprising a hen and small chicks – no-one fired a shot. Gary showed us
a Swainson’s nest still containing eggs. And this was in August! Due to the good rains, the birds had bred throughout the year.

Progressing slowly, we entered a harvested maize field and endeavoured to stick to the contour lines where slight elevation made the going drier and easier. These areas were thickly grassed but we spent much time trying to stay out of the mud. Gary soon observed that his dogs were working a scent despite the challenging conditions. “Let’s get you onto this bird,” he said. I watched as the dogs’ lowered heads became more focused and their tails indicated their excitement. Suddenly a bird exploded from the grass before them. I swung on it and at my shot it crumpled in mid-flight. It fell out of sight in the sodden field, but the spaniels had no trouble finding and retrieving it.

“Orange River francolin,” Gary congratulated me as he held up my bird. Its rust-coloured breast, light brown back and distinct narrow black-and-white band running from behind the eyes down the neck, confirmed Gary’s identification of this beautiful bird which offers excellent sport. I could not have been happier. I had pursued the Orange River francolin over the Free State plains on two separate occasions and here I had finally bagged one in the old Eastern-Transvaal. It was a memorable moment for me. The Orange River francolin seemed to fly faster than the Swainson’s spurfowl I knew so well and loved to hunt. According to a few hunters I subsequently spoke to, this francolin also manages to outsmart working dogs more regularly than the Swainson’s.
We drove to a different part of the farm and entered an area with thick grass and tall stands of cosmos. The flowers were all gone but their dry stalks formed a thick hedge that made for tough hunting. The going was slow and at times the grass was so thick and the ground so wet, it was as tiring as walking in thick sand. At other times, the dead stands of cosmos made any visibility below shoulder height impossible.

This area was a dried up vlei that had been restored by the recent rains. In the distance a spurfowl flushed and Pieter pulled off an astonishing shot. I was convinced we’d be unable to find the felled bird among the matted grasses and dry reeds. Gary and his dogs worked tirelessly until he triumphantly held Pieter’s bird aloft. Once again, I was amazed by the spaniel’s ability. We then walked through a dried-up part of the vlei and found an abundance of birds. Holly and Leila’s noses tirelessly found scent and Pieter, Werner and I all bagged birds.
Tired, I was pleased when we broke for lunch next to a picturesque dam where a table had been set in the shade of tall Eucalyptus trees. We were treated to a wonderful meal prepared by chef Joyce with the help of Nelson. Rested and with full bellies, we swopped teams. Werner and I would now spend the afternoon with Craig and his two talented German shorthaired pointers, Rage and Fury.

We entered an area of short grass that bordered a harvested field, and immediately the two dogs were onto scent. First, the experienced Fury did a textbook point at a patch of matted grass. Rage honoured the point, and Craig told me to walk up the bird, approaching from behind the dogs. I drew near with heightening excitement as I scanned the grass ahead of Fury’s nose. A Swainson’s spurfowl burst from the grass and sped off with a whirr of beating wings. My first shot connected, but it took my follow-up shot to bring the bird down in an uncoordinated glide. I was startled by a s

hot going off to my side. At my second shot, another bird had flushed behind me, flying off to my left to fall to Werner’s shot.
Craig hastily sent his dogs to retrieve Werner’s bird before directing them to find mine. I was not optimistic, as my bird had landed a long way off and the dogs had been kept busy finding Werner’s bird, but to my surprise, Fury quickly found the dead bird in a thick patch of grass.

Next, we crossed a waterlogged strip of grass to enter some harvested maize fields. The ground was sodden; it felt as if we were crossing a marsh. Werner and I were amicably chatting away, confident that no self-respecting bird would choose to linger in this quagmire. To our surprise a single spurfowl flushed before us. My shot slowed it down, but it took Werner’s shot to bring it down.
As the sun set, we continued through the harvested maize, following the contour lines where the thicker cover sheltered multiple Swainson’s spurfowl. I was very tired by now, though Werner and the dogs remained filled with energy. It was like watching a symphony unfold as the dogs pointed, Werner fired, and the dogs retrieved.
I found it an interesting experience to shoot over two different breeds of dogs in one day. Having hunted over German shorthaired pointers many times, I found their body language easier to interpret, readily identifying occasions when they were working a fresh trail, rather than merely trying to pick up a scent. But once Craig had instructed me to watch the spaniel’s tails, I became more adept at reading their behaviour. Craig described Gary’s spaniels as vacuum cleaners: “They will clean a field of birds.” Coming from a GSP owner that’s quite a compliment. The German shorthairs are beautiful when on point, and approaching them, filled with anticipation, brings an instant adrenaline rush, a wonderful experience. When shooting over spaniels, which are flushing dogs, fast instinctive shooting is required, demanding more intense concentration. This suits some shotgunners. Following pointing dogs is more leisurely. I thoroughly enjoyed shooting over both breeds.
The sun had set by the time we said our goodbyes. As we drove off in the dusk, I imagined hearing the characteristic “kibitele” call of an Orange River francolin in the distance. I was exhausted, but could not stop smiling appreciatively.