Andrew Marshall Wayment's Blog, page 11

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Omega-3 Fatty Acids in Sporting Dogs

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Spent the past weekend with a great guy on the Colorado prairie…chasing scaled quail (the birds of my heart) and enjoying the upland life…grateful for what God has created & point’n dogs. Scott Johnson (formally of frozen Minnesota) is a ruffed grouse and woodcock aficionado. He and his family uprooted and transplanted to Paonia Colorado and working for the forest service cruising timber. We’ve been threatening to get out on the prairie together and finally we did.

Here are some images from our weekend with bird dogs & scaled quail…

CHASING CHUKARS AND MEMORIES ON BLACK FRIDAY

Brother Shawn and I had the opportunity to get out and chase chukars Friday after Thanksgiving.   We first hunted chukars on Black Friday nine years ago and we have done this quite a few times since.

Shawn hunts Code Brown on Black Friday.

I jokingly call myself “The World’s Worst Chukar Hunter” and also have gone on the record saying that I “hate chukar hunting.”   The truth is, I enjoy it, although I feel it is super challenging and oftentimes frustrating.   My total number of birds bagged is anything but stellar and I have had some of my worst days of shooting on these difficult birds. Yet, I still go in hopes of creating wonderful memories.

Red-legged Devil.

Early Friday morning, Shawn and I drove to one of our favorite little diners and had a great breakfast. Afterwards, we drove to one of our best coverts to hunt chukars, an area of steep, rimrock crested hills with hints of snow from earlier this month, but mostly gone now. When we arrived the sun was barely rising to the east and cast a beautiful glow over the lunar-like landscape.

At my suggestion, we tried to drive up the two track climbing the steep mountainside in hopes of saving our legs for all the forthcoming hiking. However, we did not make it up the steep incline. In fact, when our momentum stopped because of the snow and mud, Shawn’s engine stalled and we began to roll involuntarily back downhill.

“Oh no, I don’t like this!” Shawn exclaimed in fear.

“Are we going to be okay?” I asked as we slid downhill.

“I don’t know!” Shawn replied as he stomped on the brakes.

After going about thirty yards down the steep ruts, the brakes finally caught and we stopped. We were both so relieved.

“Way to stay in control, Shawn! That could have been so much worse. That was a real Code Brown!” I stated emphatically. With the danger passed, Shawn laughed at my emergency designation.  I have now dubbed this steep covert as “Code Brown.”

We then decided that it was better to park at the bottom and hike up to the top. Nothing in chukar hunting is ever easy!

Once we parked, we readied for the hunt. Shawn let me borrow his sweet little Ruger Red Label 28 Gauge which we lovingly call “Brandy.” This gun just seems to fit me and it is my favorite gun to shoot. We decided to hunt all of our dogs, which included my Brittany, Misty, Shawn’s Cocker, Ellie, English Setter, Gretchen, and rescue Setter, Danny Boy.  We were interested to see if this rescue dog could hunt as he is new to the crew.

Shawn and Danny Boy, the rescue Setter. Danny actually did pretty good for his first hunt. We think he has hunted before.

When we reached the top, we hunted along the south-facing ridge in search of chukars. We saw tons of sign, but found no birds in the likely looking places. We did see a white snowshoe hare, which stood out like a sore thumb due to the recent melting of snow in this area. We then pushed across the sagebrush covered plateau where we continued to see a bunch of chukar sign. In one area, Shawn saw more concentrated chukar droppings than he had ever seen before for any game bird.

No filters.

My Brittany Misty soon pointed into a shallow sage-filled bowl.

“Misty is on point!” I called out to Shawn.

Misty Girl on Point.

As we walked in, she relocated and the bird got up in range. I shot behind it on the first shot. Shawn then shot, missed, and shot again. I watched the bird flinch at Shawn’s second shot as I swung ahead of the quartering bird. At my second shot, the bird finally dropped like a stone.

“Alright!” I exclaimed. “Thanks for slowing him down for me, Shawn. I finally got the monkey off my back!”

It had been a long time since I had taken a chukar, and this one was over Misty’s point, which made it that much sweeter. Shawn took numerous photos of me and the bird.

Thanks for slowing him down for me, Shawn!

Shawn and I worked the area over thoroughly and we continued to see chukar sign everywhere, especially in the sage flats up top. We even found more chukars, but they jumped way out of range. Shawn’s dogs eventually found a dead chukar. Given the voluminous sign, the birds’ jumpiness, and the dead chukar, we deduced that the area had recently been hunted by other hunters who had busted up the coveys and one had shot and killed a bird without even knowing it.

On the north-facing ridge of the same plateau, Gretchen pointed a huge, lone sage grouse which are out of season, but which was still neat to see.

We decided to hunt our way back over to the south facing ridge in hopes of relocating some of the chukar coveys that we had moved earlier. I hiked down the middle of this big draw and saw no birds, while Shawn hunted the outer rim of this bowl and got into three chukars. I heard Shawn shoot once, but later learned he missed the bird as it pitched over a rocky outcropping. All said, Shawn and his dogs found three birds but took none. One came up at his feet, but he did not shoot because he forgot to turn off the safety. Such is chukar hunting!

Back at the truck, we ate some candy bars and drank some Gatorade to refuel for one last hunt. We then decided to hunt another nearby rimrock range where we have had great success in the past finding both chukars and Huns. Over ten years ago, Brother Shawn had a banner hunt at this location with our Dad. In fact, Dad had shot a true double on Huns at this spot, which is no easy feat. Some hunt their whole lives and never accomplish it. Needless to say, this spot holds special memories for us, even more so since our Dad passed away last Spring.

Dad proudly poses with his double.

The hike to the top of the ridge was grueling, but once up top we immediately began to see sign. However, for our efforts, we only found one jumpy covey that flushed out of range. We then decided to hunt down the north-facing slope on our way back to the truck.

As I walked down the steep hillside, I thought about our Dad. Of course, I remembered the story of him hunting there and shooting a true double on Huns. Since I wasn’t there at the time, I wondered exactly where this had taken place. The thought crossed my mind that any sign of where this occurred would be totally obliterated by now due to the passing of the years.

Misty and I made it back to the truck before Shawn and his dogs. As he approached, Shawn said, “I have something cool to show you.”

He then pulled out his camera and showed me a picture of two empty 12 Gauge shotgun shells and explained: “As I was heading back to the truck, I was thinking about Dad and realized that I was close to the very area that he had shot his double ten years ago. I knew generally where it was because I was hunting above him when it happened. As I thought this, I looked down on the ground and I saw these two shotgun hulls right on the spot. These are Dad’s shells! I just about teared up when I saw them.” Shawn reported.

The very 12 gauge hulls from Dad’s double.

I was not so restrained as Shawn and immediately shed tears as he told me of this precious find.

“That is so cool, Brother. The last person to touch those shells was Dad!” I exclaimed.

“This is the first tender mercy I’ve had since Dad passed away.” Shawn testified.

“No doubt about that, Brother. Did you grab the shells to take them home?” I asked.

“I couldn’t. I wanted this special history of Dad to stay here where it belongs.” He replied.

I then understood his reasoning and agreed with his decision.

Misty Girl has turned into such a great bird dog and companion. She is a joy to be with in the field.

To sum up our hunt, we did not get a ton of shooting in or bag many birds. However, the weather was bluebird beautiful, the dog work was great, and the brotherly camaraderie was second to none. Chukar hunting (or any upland bird hunting for that matter) is so much more than the sum of its parts. It’s all about the adventure, the challenge, the beauty, and oftentimes the memories.

Not a bad view from No Man’s Land.

 

Tradition

Cool country, wonderful birds, tough dogs, soulful men…

These are the enlightened words of a fellow pointing dog (foremost), scaled quail, & Spanish smooth-bore aficionado who I spent the day with this past Saturday. Sinewy Dave Kruger, MD and his leathery brother Craig (both sadly plagued with Chukar-Hunter’s Disease) met up with me at 0’dark-30. We journeyed southeast to the windy Colorado prairie, not just in search of scalies with pointing dogs, but to revel deeper in our glorious Upland Tradition. What draws us to the water, woods or our mountain coverts? Or, in this instance, the Colorado prairie?

Upland gunners who wrote about their experiences afield have handed down our beloved traditions–lore steeped with echoing bells, the dank fragrance of autumn grasses, Hoppe’s No. 9 solvent, and gun smoke. (Side-note: Brother Andy just informed me, “There ain’t any scaled quail writers because no one wants to publish a bunch of swearing!” But I digress!)

The Colorado short-grass with its incessant wind blowing dust in my eyes and mouth and far-ranging pointing dogs were the setting and visage of Saturday past. Miles were covered, birds were pointed, and smoking hulls were ejected. But more importantly, friendships were created as we shared birddog-wisdom, blood (from the hellacious cholla), and dust and sweat from the miles covered.

This upland tradition rejuvenates us, creates friendships that last and memories that are emblazoned on our souls. We have so much to be grateful for!

Cranberry-Honey Crisp Apple Jalapeño Jam

Brother Andy double-dog-dared me the other day to make a cranberry jalapeño jam which I enthusiastically accepted.  I think he was trying to confuse me so that he could get out of our planned Black Friday chukar hunt.  Well brother, it didn’t work and we’re still going to chase those cantankerous phookars come Friday next!

I couldn’t find any recipes on-line that didn’t include distilled white vinegar so I made up my own recipe.  It’s delish!

Ingredients:

One packet of Ocean Spray cranberries washed

5 jalapeños washed, halved, and de-seeded

5 cups of white sugar

Zest of one whole lemon and the juice of the lemon strained to removed the seeds

2 large Honey Crisp apples peeled and core removed

One packet of liquid pectin

Combine the peppers, apples and cranberries into a food mixer then moved into your jam pan.  Add the sugar, zest and lemon juice to the pan.  Bring mixture to a boil then reduce heat and simmer for 30 mins.  Get your sterile jars ready at this point.  Place some jam-set-up test plates into the freezer.  I used a submersion blender to get the jam to a smooth consistency.  Bring the mixture to a hard boil then add the liquid pectin.  After one minute of hard boiling, test the jam on the freezer plate.  If satisfied, remove from heat and spoon into your jars.  Place in the hot water bath for 10 to 12 minutes.  This recipe turned out great and made 6 1/2 pints.

Bon appetite

Happy Thanksgiving to all our friends and followers of the Upland Ways!  See ya on the prairies…

Borrowed Dogs

I’ve been known to borrow some dogs.

The first offense was in October 2011. Gary Thompson was steelhead’n on the Grande Ronde River in eastern Washington and the plan was to meet up with Andy and I in western Idaho for a few glorious days of bird hunting on his way back to Colorado. I picked up Gary’s two young bird dogs (pointer Lilly and GSP Pepper) the week before and traveled west. Andy and I met in Pocatello and headed to a new covert (affectionately known now as Tommy’s Covey) our brother had told us about where he and his pals hunted mule deer the week before. They had literally bumped into loads of huns and sharp-tailed grouse. My best memories of that day are finding Pepper locked up on point in the chokecherries on an enormous coveys of huns. I snapped a photo of Pepper in the brush before the covey erupted. Pepper delivered the birds that I shot on the covey rise to hand. The second memory I have of that day is Gary’s warning to me about not letting Lilly run without a little Edison-Medicine persuasion…I didn’t listen. Lilly effectively chased every partridge and grouse out of the country. On a sagebrush ridge, the dogs were on point and Lilly finally caught back up with us…Lilly busted and laid chase to the largest covey of huns of the day. Andy and I agonized as Lilly disappeared across the horizon in partridge pursuit.

My only regret from borrowing Gary’s bird dogs: They were spent by the time Gary got to hunt with them. Sorry Gary!

The following year birds were thick. We had our annual October bird foray and the birds were so numerous, I decided to make a second trip to visit in December. A friend of mine had recently acquired a bearded lady….er, Brussels Griffon properly named Hazel. Glenn really wanted to get Hazel into some birds and I volunteered to borrow her for the week.

Hazel is a good natured canine cohort. The best memory I have of our trip is when I let her out of the dog box to do her business at 0′dark-30. After collecting up the dogs to head out to the next covert, I started to panic cause Hazel was no where to be found. I ran around the folk’s back yard hollering my head off to no avail. Andy and our friend Ryan went around the block whistling and calling for her. Forty-five minutes into the search I had an epiphany to check the dog box. There Hazel was sitting in one of the boxes next to Ellie with an expression on her bearded face as if to say “I’m here you idiots and have been here the whole damn time!” Hazel did have a very nice point on a male valley quail in the Big Uneasy and the bird hangs on my wall today.

Last fall, I retired my beloved Elhew pointer Gep. Two weeks of gunning is pretty taxing on a couple of bird dogs so I asked my Kansas principal friend (Bret McClendon) if I could borrow his English setter Jenny. Jenny is a gorgeous tricolor setter that is very reliable on birds and stylish too.

However, October 2013 was a tough year for birds in Idaho. This was the year that Andy and I hunted with author Tom Davis for a Field & Stream article. One of the best days we had that week was on valley quail. It was an unseasonably warm October day and Jenny came inches away from a juvenile rattler…close-call!

My favorite memory is finding Jenny on point on a ridge in the October golden aspens on a large covey of gray partridge. I missed the photo opportunity and whiffed the shots. The image of her tail tickling the wind and the roar of the covey with that annoying almost hazing rusty-metallic-gate-squeak they make as the covey sped to safety.

Even when I’m sitting in my recliner drooling and reeling in the years of upland memory…borrowed dogs will be there.

TWENTY REASONS WHY I HATE CHUKAR HUNTING

[Author’s Note: Before any of you diehards get upset, this post is written all in good fun].

Chukars live in the most inhospitable no-man’s land you can imagine, where no other game bird with half a brain would live. To sum it up, their country is impossibly steep, rocky, slick, or all of the above.

Matt Lucia and Darby scale a rock face in search of chukars

Chukars are not gentlemen. I’m sure God made them wear black masks because he understood their devious tendencies. They rarely hold for points and usually run straight uphill and up cliff faces. And when they finally fly, they dive downhill presenting near impossible shots.
Have you ever wondered why a chukar’s favorite food is CHEAT grass . . . think about it folks. Coincidence? I think not!

Masked Bandits.

Chukar hunters are nuttier than the birds they pursue. They are usually skinny as a rail with one leg shorter than the other from walking steep hillsides. They sport unkempt hair, unshaved faces, and have a crazy look in their eyes from pursuing the little red-legged devil birds.
You ever see those trail runners that run straight up mountain trails at full speed in tennis shoes while you suck wind slowly trudging along thinking you want to smack that guy? Well trail runners are to hikers, what chukar hunters are to other upland bird hunters.
No bird exploits your weakness as a shooter better than the chukar. But, in our defense, who can shoot straight when you’re off balance, winded, pissed off, and at the point of tears when a covey of chukars flushes totally unexpected? Wait, did I say tears? Strike that!
You know you’re a terrible chukar hunter when you are hunting with other hunters and your dog abandons you for another skinny hunter who hikes like a mountain goat and because he knows you are the world’s suckiest chukar hunter (true story!).

Darby, the Wonder Lab.

The chukar’s call, chuk, chuck, chuk, chuk, sounds strangely like they are laughing at you from their perches high above. They are probably saying: “This moron has come back for more punishment!”
Never go chukar hunting with others when you are the only gunner and others come along for fun. You may just end up putting on a show of total ineptitude with an audience chuckling the whole time over your shoulder. I’m not saying this happened to me, but theoretically it could happen.
Chukar seasons are way too long in Idaho. The season does not close until January 31st and hunters who focus primarily on other birds (like me), usually venture out into the hellish winter cold to chase chukars only because everything else is closed and they don’t want their season to be over. Talk about an exercise of frustration. Stay home, my friends, stay home!

January Chukar Hunting.

If you have been hunting chukars for over ten years and you can count the birds bagged on two hands (or even worse, one), you probably should take up a different sport.
If you are lucky enough to shoot a chukar, you better hope that you kill it or that you have a good retriever because not only are chukars notorious runners, they are also burrowers like gophers. Many a bird hunter’s hopes have been shattered when he drops a chukar only to have it disappear without a trace.
If you chukar hunt, you have to use a P.O.S. gun because there will come a time when you fly head over heels while your gun stock clankety-clanks all over the rocks like a pinball machine.
January chukar hunters never know what to wear. One minute they are freezing and look like Ralphy’s little brother in “A Christmas Story” (“I can’t get up!”). Then as they hike uphill, they must shed layers because they are dripping with sweat.   Then the birds fly down to the bottom and the clothing cycle must be repeated ad nauseum.
Regardless of how good a chukar hunter’s boots are, chukar country will burn through boots like a Siberian death march.

Siberian Death March.

Chukar hunting makes one use those lame lines that losers say like, “It was just good to get out” and “I like to practice catch and release wing shooting” and “the birds are just the bonus.”
You know chukar hunting sucks when the highlight of your day was stopping at the Sinclair station for a hot chocolate and a Ding Dong.
It’s sad when a blogger has to use someone else’s chukar photos because he has none of his own to illustrate a blog post. Hmm, Hmm. . . I won’t mention any names.
Seriously, they should pass a law in Idaho making chukar hunting illegal unless you are a convicted criminal and you are sentenced to chukar hunt as punishment.
Only chukar hunting the day after Thanksgiving could fully supplant and replace the negative connotation of “Black Friday” . . . kill me now, Shawn . . . Kill me now!

Shawn, Karen and Ginny Girl on a banner chukar hunt in 2005.

Chukar hunters say that “You go chukar hunting for fun the first time, and every time after it’s for revenge.” But you know what I think? Chukars always get the last laugh. Sure, I’ll take any of you chukar hunting . . . Hehehe! Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Signing off,

The World’s Worst Chukar Hunter.

P.S. Feel free to commiserate below.

EASY PICKINS AND BUTT KICKINS

Every hunter loves Easy Pickins: You know, those banner days where the birds are plentiful, the shots are easy, and the ol’ shooting eye comes through. Last Saturday, I found two brand new coverts in a general area I have hunted in the past. I simply located a few tiny creeks aligned with willows near quaking aspens and decided to explore.

The view from Butt Kickins.

In fact, when I arrived at the first creek about 8:30 a.m. in the morning, I let Misty and Sunny out of their kennel and Misty instantly ran up to this quakie patch only twenty yards from the car and squatted to pee while looking at me with this goofy grin. No sooner had she finished, than she turned 180 degrees and froze into an intense, solid point.

Are you kidding me? I thought to myself.   Sunny quickly moseyed on up behind her and honored, as if to answer my question. What a sight to behold! Taking a ruffed grouse over a point has to be the pinnacle of outdoor sports.

“Woah!!!” I commanded as I quickly stuffed two shells in my Ruger Red Label 20 Gauge and closed the gun.

With the gun loaded, I walked slowly toward my two Brits with high hopes. The nervous ruffie flushed hard straightaway giving me a perfect opportunity which I centered on the first shot. Misty retrieved the grouse, but took it to elderly Sunny Girl, who finished the job.

In hand, the beautiful bird was an interesting, intermediate phased ruffed grouse which is a true mix between a gray and a red phased grouse. I honestly don’t recall taking a grouse with such unique colors in Idaho. And all of this within the first five minutes of the hunt.

An Intermediate-phased Grouse, which is a mix between a gray and red phased bird. These are pretty rare in Idaho.

On such occasions, one cannot help but feel a sense of pride, a feeling that you are a competent hunter. On the other hand, I was tempted to call it a day because I felt that things could not get any better and I understand that “pride goeth before the fall.” But my curiosity was piqued when Misty flushed another grouse in the same small quakie patch only moments later.  Of course, I had to hunt this area out to see if this day would bring more Easy Pickin’s. One of the things I love about bird hunting is that you never know what a day afield will bring.

Every single Ruff is beautiful.

I won’t give you the play by play, but I will say that the two creeks bottoms and the surrounding side draws were loaded with grouse. Misty had some awesome points, one in which she nailed this grouse in a thick willow cluster between me and her.   I missed that grouse twice. I missed some other tough shots and I missed some real easy groaners. I had birds flush so unexpectedly that I could not shoot at all. Up the second creek, Misty struck a point so stellar that I was able to look down and see the frozen ruffed grouse sitting beneath a pine bough, betrayed only by the gleam of its eye in the bright sunlight. Sunny Girl quickly backed her kennelmate. Man, how I wish I had taken a photo! But I so wanted to take this grouse over this beautiful point by my dogs. When the grouse realized the gig was up, it hopped up, ran to the far edge of the small pine and dipped down toward the creek bottom and then up the opposite hillside. To my dismay, I missed it twice.

I shook this grouse out of the tree and missed him twice. It was all downhill from there.

I honestly saw more ruffed grouse in one morning than I can ever recall seeing before. However, after that first successful shot of the morning, I put on a show of total incompetence, like I had never picked up a shotgun before in my life (i.e. “What is this strange thunder stick I hold in my hand?” asked Dudley, the Schizophrenic Wing Shooter). To sum it up, rather than Easy Pickins, these grouse gave me a thorough Butt Kickin and I was definitely humbled.

But you know what? Despite the pummeling, I loved every second of this hunt. I found two new coverts with numbers of grouse that Brush Worns only dream about in the dead of winter. My dogs’ performances were not perfect, but they had some unforgettable moments. And last, but certainly not least, this hunt confirmed for me why the ruffed grouse is my favorite game bird; their ability to burn my biscuits never ceases to amaze me. I fully realize that every successful shot on a ruffed grouse is a lucky shot. Any day in the grouse woods is a good day.

Ol’ Ruff.

So guess what I named the two small-stream coverts? Of course, the first is “Easy Pickins” and the second is “Butt Kickins,” both for obvious reasons. I hope to make it back there this month for a chance at redemption. Wish me luck, my friends!!!

I love a good apple on a grouse hunt.

EYE OPENER IN THE BEAVER MEADOWS

“The question is not what you look at, but what you see.”

–Henry David Thoreau

I have been hunting a covert I named “Grouse Springs” for over ten years now. I usually visit once or twice a season and it has almost always been productive.   Grouse Springs consists of sage and buck brush covered foot hills leading up to a pine-crested ridge. The face of the mountain is interspersed with shallow quakie-filled draws that usually hold ruffed grouse and sometimes a blue grouse or two. There was a time when I preferred to hunt the blues, but not anymore. Over the years, Ol’ Ruff has given me plenty of good sport.

Last Friday afternoon, I went to hunt this beloved covert for the first time this year. Its quakies had recently dropped all of their leaves, which makes for better shooting opportunities at fast-fleeing ruffs. However, I did not find any birds in Grouse Springs. I was also surprised when the dogs and I came up with a goose egg in the next draw over, “Grouse Alley,” which has also been consistent over the years. Due to the lack of birds, the dogs and I pushed through other little patches of quakies that we would usually overlook with nothing to show for our efforts.   I thought to myself: Hmm. . . where are the birds?

Misty and Sunny Girl drop into Grouse Alley.

When I made it back to the car, I glanced across the road at the old, battered beaver ponds, which have been pounded into the ground by the numerous cattle that graze the area. Despite the poor shape of the cover, I noticed that the willows along the mostly dry creek were tall and healthy. Out west, ruffed grouse are sometimes called “willow grouse” because of their affinity for eating the buds. I had never even thought about hunting the willows across the road from Grouse Springs because of the usual sad shape of the cover.

On a whim, I cast the dogs toward the creek and the beaver ponds. The dogs and I first pushed downstream along the edge of the quakies on the other side of the ponds. The cover was marginal at best because of the extensive grazing in the area. Not finding any birds there, I decided to hunt my way back to the car right along the tall willows growing from the dry creek bed near the road. My hunter’s sixth sense kicked in and I felt I was about to find a ruffie, despite the fact that the willows are about thirty yards from the thicker quakies.

Within five minutes, I heard a grouse flush and I waited for it to make for the trees before shooting. Of course, I missed. The dogs and I followed the grouse, which soon flushed up into a tree. When I shook the tree to make it fly, the bird bolted and I missed miserably. Despite my poor shooting, I was pleased that I had guessed right about a grouse being in the willows. To paraphrase Paul Maclean from A River Runs Through It, I almost felt to say: “All I need is three more years till I can think like a grouse.”   Admittedly, I will probably need an eternity before I can shoot ruffies consistently.

Having found a grouse, I just had to follow the beaver ponds upstream to satisfy my curiosity. The dogs and I worked our way up and found a series of mostly dry beaver ponds, which had been obliterated by cattle. As we pushed upstream, my Brittany, Misty, slammed on point on the edge of the quakies. As I walked toward her, a ruffed grouse flushed hard in the blinding sunlight. At the sound, I rushed my first shot and then flat out missed the second straightaway shot. I call such poor shots and missed opportunities “groaners,” for obvious reasons. As I tried to reload my gun, another grouse flushed close by presenting what would have been another easy shot. I followed the second bird, shook the tree it had landed in, and it blazed out of the cover so fast I could not even get off a shot.

Ruff in a tree just before the shaking.

The dogs and I walked another twenty feet up the creek bottom and another grouse flushed right beside me without presenting any shot, but landed in a nearby tree at about eyelevel. Misty ran to the tree, barked excitedly, and the grouse flew up to a higher branch in the thick quakie patch. I will not shoot a sitting grouse, but I have no problem with trying to make them flush for a shot. My attempts at shaking a tree and getting off a shot, however, had not panned out so far that day. So I told Misty to shake the tree. She jumped up, but could not quite reach the right tree due to the thickness of the broomstick grove. Without another solution, I grabbed the tree, shook it and the bird flushed.  I quickly raised my gun and dropped it. Though I was pleased, I would have much rather taken the earlier bird over Misty’s point. Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers!

The dogs and I did not find any other birds in this area. By the time I made it back to the car, it was 4:00 p.m. so I really did not have enough time to drive far to get in another hunt. As I drove out to the main dirt road, I decided to continue to hunt this same creek, but higher up the drainage. I drove as far as the creek paralleled the road. When the creek veered away from the road, I decided this was a good a place as any and parked the car.

The Beaver Meadows is a succession of beaver ponds.

The dogs and I headed up the left-hand side of the creek as the sun began its descent in earnest. Within two minutes, Misty flushed a grouse at a spot where the quakies almost reached the willow-lined creek. This bird flew harder, higher and farther than any ruffed grouse I had ever seen. I then walked quickly toward the birdy area and watched another beautiful, red-phased grouse flush quietly across the creek to get away from us.   Smelling the bird, Misty ran around excitedly, but could not pinpoint its source.

I briskly walked upstream hoping to get across the creek for a chance at this grouse.   About fifteen yards upstream, I came to an old beaver dam and easily made it across. The dogs quickly followed me. When I reached the right area, Misty circled around and went to work. One grouse got up and flew back across the creek and I made a quick shot on that one. As I shot, another grouse flushed unexpectedly up into a nearby tree. Misty made a nice retrieve of the first grouse.

After bringing the first bird to hand, I picked up a stick and threw it at the grouse sitting atop the willows. The stick hit the branch upon which the grouse sat and it flushed hard back over the creek. I raised the gun and connected on probably the toughest shot of the day. Misty again made a nice retrieve, but instead of bringing the bird to me, she took it to elderly Sunny Girl, who then brought the bird to me. I’m not sure why Misty did that, but I thought it was interesting behavior. It was the mature, red-phased grouse I had seen.

The red-phased ruff is one of God’s most beautiful creations.

With the sun setting, I followed the chain of beaver ponds up another hundred yards and looked for a good place to cross over and hunt the other side down. Once across, the cover on this side was even better. As I walked, another grouse unexpectedly got up at my feet and flew straightaway. I promptly blew two holes in the sky: Another groaner, for sure, but a perfect way to keep this grouse hunter humble and to end the hunt.

The view from the Beave Meadows.

As I drove home, I was struck by how many times I have driven past this battered creek and its chain of beaver ponds over the years, never once considering it as prime grouse habitat or taking the time to explore. However, on this day, I looked a little deeper and followed a hunch and it paid off. The great French novelist, Marcel Proust wrote something that captures the essence of this hunt: “The real voyage of discovery consists of not seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.” My eyes were definitely opened this day. While my shooting left much to be desired, this was the best day of ruffed grouse hunting I have ever experienced. I can’t wait to go back to the Beaver Meadows to learn what other secrets it hides.

WE ONLY GET SO MANY OCTOBER DAYS

“I never lost a moment’s time in hunting: . . . I counted only that time lost which I spent working.”

-Burton Spiller

It’s Friday morning and I am tired or working. Any week in the practice of law always carries with it the attendant negativity and stress. So when noontime rolls around, I call it good and sneak away for the rest of the day. After a Mexican feast with an old friend, I run home to change into my hunting clothes and pick up my dogs, Sunny and Misty.

We head east toward our grouse coverts listening to good tunes and enjoying the grandeur of Fall’s beauty. With the warm sun shining, it truly feels like a day in late September rather than mid-October. To be sitting in an office on this glorious afternoon would be a crying shame.

October is the height of creation.

The dogs and I first head to a covert we have not yet tried this season. I hope to find a ruffed grouse or two along the old logging road. We soon find where a ruffie had recently been ambushed by a predator, but find no living grouse. No problem, we still have plenty of daylight.

Our next stop is Grouseketeer Ridge. I do not expect to see any blue grouse, but hope to find the ruffies that led me into the Hornet’s Den back in September. As we approach the area where we found the ruffs in early September, a grouse flushes and lands in a tree. Surprisingly, it is a blue grouse. I have never seen blues on this ridge in Octobers past. I walk briskly toward this wary grouse and it flushes straightaway giving me an easy shot, which I make on the second try. As the dogs retrieve the downed grouse, another one flushes unexpectedly. I think to myself: What are blues doing on this ridge in October?

As we walk up the logging road about 25 yards, Misty points on the edge and another blue grouse rises straight up and I shoot under it both times cursing myself for missing an easy shot over a nice point. At this point I realize that something special is happening on Grouseketeer Ridge. I leave this blue sitting in the tree for seed, believing that we will get some sportier opportunities.

Ahead of us on the trail, I see two more blues on the edge of the logging road. I command Misty to heel and we walk quickly toward them, but they flush before we can get into shooting range. Man, there is a pile of birds on Grouseketeer Ridge, even more than on the day it earned this name!

As we walk up the steep incline to where the logging road forks, we take the left fork up to Rock Heaven. Somehow, I just know we will see birds up by the Mountain Ash thickets. Sure enough, I spy one grouse standing on the road’s edge right above the Mountain Ash. I command Misty to heel and we walk towards the big grouse. It flushes hard downhill and I swing hard and catch the bird before it makes it behind a tree. To my surprise, another grouse flushes only nanoseconds after the first and I swing on it too, but miss the chance for a double. We struggle through the thicket to locate the first downed grouse, which is only winged. Misty makes a nice retrieve, but will not bring the bird to hand. When she drops it, Sunny Girl swoops in and finishes the job. With two grouse in the bag, the day is already a stellar success. We follow the road through Rock Heaven up to the overlook and the view is stunning as always, but we find no more grouse.

A fine braces of blues from Grouseketeer Ridge.

So we head back down to the Fork and along the rest of Grouseketeer Ridge. As we walk, two more blues flush wild offering no shots. I again leave birds sitting in trees hoping for better opportunities. Fifty more yards up the road, Misty flushes a few more blues out of range. At the big switchback leading up to the Gap, patient Sunny Girl finds and points a grouse.  I am pleased as a peach and walk toward her.  However the grouse flushes behind her and I miss behind it with both barrels. I tug the trigger a third time to no avail thinking: Darn it! Now I’ve missed two birds over points! We find no more birds on Grouseketeer Ridge, Dusty’s Nub or the Steps, but I can honestly say I’ve never seen more birds on this mountain, even in September when it really shines.

For our last hunt, we drive down the road to the Outhouse Covert, which has been one of my most productive coverts for the past two seasons. The entrance to this special covert is decked out in a blaze of fall colors which would put a smile on any grouse hunter’s face. The dogs love it too. With two blues already in my bag, my goal is to find a ruffed grouse.

At age 12, Sunny Girl has not lost her passion for the hunt.

About a hundred yards up the road, Misty flushes a few blue grouse out of range. I take a poke at one, but miss. We reach an area where a downed tree blocks the road, and a grouse flushes hard straightaway from under the downed tree and I miss it twice as it disappears up the road. I am certain that we can find this grouse again. Another seventy-five yards up the road, Misty gets birdy and then follows scent into the thick chokecherry thicket on the hillside above the road. I know she is on a bird and when it finally flushes in the thicket, I shoot at the blur passing through the timber feeling like I am behind when I pull the trigger.  To my surprise, the grouse drops and then rolls head over heels down to the roadway I am standing on. Sunny retrieves it, and I notice it is a beautiful, mature, gray-phased ruffed grouse cock. I am so stoked by the dog work, my lucky shooting, and my good fortune.

Sweet success.

Even though I do not yet have my limit of four birds, I decide that three is plenty. I turn back down the road and head for the car with a smile on my face. The only thing that would make this day any better is to catch a cutthroat out of Trickle Creek and that is exactly what I plan to do with my new Badger Tenkara Rod. Once back to the car, I load up the dogs and drive up the road to fish a favorite stretch of the creek.

Misty hunts along the roadway in the Outhouse.

After stringing up the rod, I tie on one of Shawn’s Chubby Mormon Girls and start fishing the familiar water. In a deep hole, I have a large fish rise and I miss it. I cast the fly into the hole again and the same yellow cutty rises again. I stick him, but he is off in a flash. This has to be the biggest fish I have ever seen on Trickle Creek.

Yellowstone Cutthroat and my Badger Tenkara Rod.

In the skinny water, the fish are skittish, but I manage to catch four or five beautiful Yellowstone Cutthroats, none the likes of the one that got away, but special nonetheless. My love for this special canyon, its birds, its little creek, and trout abounds.

As I drive home, the song “Little Wonders” by Rob Thomas comes on the radio. I’ve always loved the song, but at this moment, the lyrics seem to capture my sentiments exactly:

Our lives are made in these small hours

These little wonders, these twists and turns of fate

Time falls away but these small hours

These small hours still remain

I think to myself: If I would have stayed at work today, I would have missed all of this beauty and excitement. I truly feel grateful that I did not. After all, we only get so many October days.

We only get so many October days.