A photographic journal.
by Dale C. Spartas 

For some of us, woodcock are incidental additions to the game bag, needle-beaked bogsuckers potshotted while hunting the
king of gamebirds, the ruffed grouse.

But others are drawn to the wild wet swales for the same reasons as woodcock: their lonely impenetrability, their fierce resistance
to navigation, their sheer autumnal beauty.

When the flighters are in, these thick tangles of young alder and aspen, maple and birch can be veritable cities of woodcock. That’s
when you slip into your waterproofs and head for cover so wet and thick you have to pick your opening before the flush, and hope
the woodcock corkscrews your way.