Lost Wives and Sporting Clays: A Wingshooter’s Vacation Tale

Beautiful trails, busted clays, and a surprise

grouse sighting—what could possibly go wrong?

“Pull!” I yelled. 

The clay pigeon thrower from the trap tower behind me sent a loud, sharp thwack as it released the orange target. It rocketed out overhead, simulating a flying rooster pheasant. I positioned “The Red— my forty-year-old Ruger Red Label 12 gauge over-under—up to my shoulder and fired. 

Boom!

The clay disc dematerialized into a mist of ochre. The cloud dissipated into the light breeze that flowed through the tall pines. Though it was a manmade scenario executed by a machine, that unpredictable feeling of a fast-flying gamebird had returned after a long hiatus. To say I am an avid wingshooter is an understatement; I’m more like a fanatic. From Alaska ptarmigan and desert quail to roosters and bobs from my home state of Kansas (and everywhere in between), I am always finding ways to make bird hunting part of my routine, no matter where I am or who I’m with—and this includes vacations.

*** 

We were on a three-couple vacation retreat at Snowshoe Mountain, located in the breathtaking Monongahela National Forest, in far eastern West Virginia. We were staying at my friend’s cabin and were in the heart of the soft, rolling mountain range, enveloped by a never-ending forest. The week was spent exploring on foot and by ATV, relaxing with a good book on hunting western grouse, and waking up to thundering turkey gobbles in the far-off distance.

We visited an off-the-beaten path museum where I was teased by bobwhite quail and grouse mounts. Throughout the eight-day trip, every time we ventured into the woods, I searched for ruffs silently walking the forest floor or perched motionless in the shadows of branches. The location and aura of my surroundings kept pulling at me. I was searching for a taste of the uplands on this trip.

My wife, sensing my “urge for the bird”, as she likes to call it, finally relieved my hunting itch. God bless her.

“You guys go shoot and we’ll go on a hike,” she said midmorning on roughly our third day in.

After twenty-seven years, she knows me all too well. She had read in a brochure of a spectacular enchanted forest trail across the mountain along a ridge. Lucky for me, I had planned for such an opportunity and brought my shotgun, as Snowshoe Mountain offered up a sporting clays course at the base of the mountaintop. 

The husbands and wives parted ways; they wished us luck with the faux hunting, and we told them not to get lost. Jason and I had bird hunted together for over twenty years across various landscapes, while Robert was new to shotgunning. But he was ready. We soon learned we would be the only shooters on the entire course, along with the two guides. After a safety briefing, we set off. 

As we made our way to the first station, I explained to Robert, our resident novice, that sporting clays are often described as “golf with a shotgun.” A typical course included walking 10 to 15 different shooting stations laid out over natural terrain, with each presenting a variety of targets from hidden trap machines positioned around a field or trail. 

“Sporting clays aim to reproduce the dynamic, unpredictable feel of upland bird hunting,” I said. “This offers participants a variety of target presentations and shooting scenarios.” 

The shooter stands at a predetermined location and when ready, yells “pull.” This command launches the clay target. The shooter must follow, track, and shoot the target before it gets out of range or disappears into the foliage.

Courses seek to mimic gamebirds in the form of breakable clays at variable speeds, angles, elevations, trajectories, and even target sizes. They mirror the challenges faced by wingshooters in the field, such as the flight paths of fast flying upland birds like pheasants and quail. On occasion, targets are thrown in pairs to replicate two birds flushing. 

***

From the onset we opted out of keeping score, as we wanted the experience to be fun and not a competition. We casually walked from station to station atop a mulch-covered path. The trail wound through a mosaic of towering 60-to-90-foot spruce, firs, and pine trees. Their immense height blocked out the sun, cooling off the lowland area where we walked. The strong, fresh piney smell encapsulated us, only to be overtaken by the sweet smell of spent gunpowder as it mixed with the crisp air of earth. 

We shot, and missed targets that crossed from either side, coming inward, going outward, flying straight up, or thrown from elevated towers. They presented us a variety of configurations of birds flushing—including quartering away and going away targets—similar to escaping woodland grouse. One unique station offered up multiple mini clays that replicated an explosive covey flush of quail. The small targets whizzed by overhead, leaving us perplexed. They easily got lost in the backdrop of trees. When it was Robert’s turn, he failed to even pull the trigger on the first launch.

“Those are faaast!” Always a good sport, he let out a bellowing laugh.

In between stations, we passed by trickling streams and moss-covered rocks that crisscrossed high-arcing shots. We each had spurts of direct hits and even a few “doubles” (two targets), along with gaps of nothing but air and broken branches and tree limbs that felt the brunt of shot strings of lead BBs. Presentations simulated the flight patterns of woodcock, snipe, and pass shooting doves. Being back among the trees, shooting imitation birds, I felt a familiar medley of anticipation and frustration - emotions from bird seasons past. I was glad to welcome those feelings back. 

We praised, joked, and prodded each other with our success, or lack thereof. When we weren’t shooting, we found ourselves mesmerized by our surroundings. The unique microclimate of the temperate forest created significantly cooler temperatures than we usually experienced in the Midwest in June—known for its blistering humidity and heat.

Throughout the course, we explained to Robert how each fake hunting scenario replicated a real-world scene in the uplands—from the type of gamebird to how high they would fly in the wild. We shared how sporting clays offered several benefits for wingshooters, primarily by providing a versatile way to practice shooting and simulating hunting scenarios. It also improved gun safety and handling, lead anticipation, and overall technique during the off-season. This included refined shooting techniques such as gun-mounting, and swing and follow-through. Shooting sporting clays is a confidence builder that can be transferred to the field and marshes.

We shook hands with the guides, still grinning, the scent of gunpowder still lingering in the crisp mountain air. As I steered the SUV down the mountain road-recollections of exploding clays, missed shots, and the absurd excuses we crafted to defend them bounced between us like spent shotshells being ejected from our shotguns. 

As Jason and Robert continued on about their hits and misses, I realized that sporting clays had added something special to this vacation - a challenging yet relaxing way to enjoy the outdoors. It offered more than just shooting; it had created a unique experience rooted in camaraderie, where we bonded through shared challenges and laughable moments on the course as well as filling a gap in my wingshooting pursuits. The takeaway was clear: going forward, sporting clays would be a part of every vacation.

As for our wives. Well, they got lost for hours and never found the Enchanted Forest Trail. Once we realized they had “gone missing”, we located the trailhead and set out on our rescue mission—which took us through jaw-dropping luscious scenery, reminiscent of some magical fairytale land. We traipsed over giant, mossy covered rocks; and soft, green carpeted floors. To my surprise, I found a set of fresh tracks from a ruffed grouse who had passed moments before. Our yelling had probably frightened him to vanish off the trail.  

Upon returning to our SUV after our complete mission failure, we found three exhausted, flabbergasted wives. They had traversed eight miles through the forest, most of the time focused on the fact they were completely lost; and less on their gorgeous surroundings. After trading stories, they didn’t want to hear about how beautiful our Search And Rescue operation had been.

On our way home, a lone ruffed grouse scurried across the road and flushed into the darkening forest. I had found the uplands on my vacation. 

***

About the Author

Edgar Castillo is a retired law enforcement officer of 27 years, where he worked for a large Kansas City metropolitan agency. He also served in the U.S. Marines for a decade. Edgar was born in Guatemala, and upon arriving in the U.S., he discovered his passion for wingshooting. His passion lies in the uplands, wherever the dirt roads takes him: hunting open fields, walking treelines, and bustin’ through plum thickets in search of wild birds in wild places.  He has written for over 30 outlets, including a variety of publications, digital/print magazines, journals, websites, and blogs across the U.S. and Europe.