Andrew Marshall Wayment's Blog, page 15

THE BLAZING SADDLE

Do you have any coverts that you dream about during the off-season when it’s freezing cold outside? I have many, but lately, I’ve been thinking about a special place in some mountains in Southern Idaho that I named “The Blazing Saddle.”

The mountains around Grouse Rock and the Blazing Saddle are beautiful.

I first began grouse hunting in the general area in 2001 when some family members and I miraculously discovered a covert we now call, “Grouse Rock.” I wrote an article about this very experience entitled, “Roadside Revelations,” which appeared in the Autumn 2010 issue of The Upland Almanac. Incidentally, this story is now the title chapter to my forthcoming book on bird hunting. Grouse Rock was so good for the first few years that we had no need to search elsewhere for birds.

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However, in 2004, we found very few birds when we hunted the wooded draws and fingers of Grouse Rock. So the dogs and I started to explore the steep hills and draws across the narrow valley. One day in November, after hiking up an extremely steep grade, the dogs and I fortuitously stumbled upon a shallow saddle packed tightly with quakies and a few interspersed Douglas fir trees.  Once I scratched my way up to the saddle, the slope lessened dramatically and the walking became much easier.  The moment I saw the place I knew we would find some grouse.  It just had that look.

In the chapter, “Dusty Boy: Perfect Memories and an Imperfect Bird Dog” in Roadside Revelations, I wrote the following about our first experience in this covert:

In November of that same year, we returned to Grouse Rock and again hunted the opposite side.  We came into this birdy-looking saddle and Dusty struck a nice point in a berry bush, but this time his tail was not flagging.  Remembering my lesson from earlier, I honored the point and a ruffed grouse got up in front of me.  I whiffed my first chance, not once but twice, but marked the bird down.  On the second flush, I missed again, swung hard, and caught the bird just before it tried to duck behind a huge pine tree.  Despite my poor shooting, I count this as a bird taken from one of Dusty’s points.  I named this covert, “Blazing Saddle,” because of all the powder I burned trying to harvest a bird over Dusty.

A red phased ruff is rare in Idaho.

Ever since this time, this covert has held a special place in my heart, but I have only been able to hunt it a few times during the last decade.

Dusty Boy is now flushing birds into the endless horizon of that great covert in the sky.  Rest in piece, buddy.

Most recently, I hunted the Blazing Saddle last October during my week-long hunting excursion with my brother, Shawn.  That week, the hunting was the toughest we had experienced since 2008, not to mention that I was suffering from a shooting slump.  On the last day, I took the opportunity to roam this covert once again.  Here’s my journal entry from this hunt:

Tom Davis, John Loomis, and Shawn Wayment hunt ruffed grouse behind Ellie.

For our last hunt, we went to Grouse Rock, but I wanted to hunt the Blazing Saddle for old time’s sake.  Tom Davis and Shawn hunted up a draw running parallel to Grouse Rock.  I offered to have Tom or John (the New York photographer) come with me, but when they saw the steep stuff, they wanted none of it, which honestly, was fine with me.  Admittedly, it was a bugger to get up there, but it was so darn beautiful.  Misty and I worked our way over to the saddle and it was in its full glory and looked as birdy as ever.  As we worked through the saddle downhill, I remembered my first time there and actually pointed out where I finally overtook that bird with Dusty and Sunny all those years ago. . . good memories!  When we stepped out of the saddle and into the service berries bushes on the bench, Misty swung around the edge of the big wooded draw and kicked up a thunderous grouse that flew right in front of me, which I missed twice.  I’m starting to think that lately Misty is pushing these birds to me on purpose.  However, those shots where the bird flies right at me or crosses directly in front of me are tough.  The unruffled grouse dropped back into the saddle and we pursued in hopes of another opportunity.  Once inside the saddle, we worked up to the top of the covert and Misty swung to my right and then pointed briefly and the nervous ruff blasted out of the cover quartering right to left.  With my confidence lacking, I tried to get on the bird, but ended up shooting behind it. . . .

This was my last chance at a bird for the week.  In my younger years, misses like these used to really eat at me, but not anymore.  I guess that comes with time. This is actually a great memory for me.  In my journal, I summed up my sentiments on this week of hunting:

It was good to be with my brother and Sterling in beautiful country with our dogs.  That alone, is worth the price of admission.

The hunt helped me to appreciate just how good we had it in 2010, 2011, and 2012.  We have been blessed!

We ate delicious food every day.  Any week you eat tacos/Mexican food four times is awesome.

I loved being in the outdoors during the best time of the year.  The colors, the lighting, the temperature, the taste of frost-ripened apples, are all good for the soul.

I got to remember hunts from years past and to tread the same paths my dogs and I walked in our younger days.

I was humbled by my shooting and realized that shooting slumps are part of the game and I learned to say: “This too shall pass.”

I realized that, even without birds, a hunt can still be a good experience.  As Sterling so aptly put it: “It’s just another birdless day in paradise.”

Birds or no birds, any day in the grouse woods with bird dogs is one to be cherished, especially in  a place like the Blazing Saddle.

Grouse Rock.  There’s grouse in them thar hills.

 

TOM DAVIS’ “BOOK LEARNIN’” AND OTHER ODDS AND ENDS

When I first started bird hunting and fly fishing, I subscribed to numerous magazines.  However, since I started blogging and publishing a few articles and a book of my own, I haven’t read much from magazines. That is not to say that there isn’t some great writing still out there.  Rather, for me, it’s simply of matter of not having enough time to do it all.  You have to pick your poison.

Readers of this blog may be interested to hear, despite my lack of contact with the magazine world, Shawn and I have been mentioned in two recent articles in The Upland Almanac and The Pointing Dog Journal.  In The Upland Almanac, Tom Keer wrote an article in the Fall 2013 edition about a group that Shawn and I started on Facebook a few years ago called “Bird Dogs & Fly Fishing,” which has now grown to 3,000 members.  This has been a fun group to share photos and to discuss our outdoor passions.  Many of those who have been actively involved in the group have made acquaintances and friendships they would not have otherwise.  Take a look at Tom Keer’s article and look us up on Facebook and ask to join.

Last fall, I mentioned briefly on the blog our hunt with author Tom Davis in Idaho in October.  While the hunting was tough, the scenery was beautiful and the company was great.  My brother and I can attest that Tom is not only good with the pen, but is also a passionate, skilled bird hunter, with a spit-fire English Setter named, Tina.    Although–as a funny side note–I question Tom’s taste in tacos.  Over the week, we took Tom and the New York City photographer, John Loomis, multiple times to our favorite taqueria in Burley, El Mirador.  Tom and John both loved all the tacos, but praised most highly the lengua (cow tongue) tacos, which piqued my interest.  Here is my journal entry regarding this experience:

Once we finished grouse hunting, we decided to call it a day and headed to Burley for round two of tacos.  Tom and John raved about the lengua tacos.  Tom’s description was “They melt in your mouth.”  John said, “They taste like a good cut of beef.”  With that praise, I sucked it up and bought my first lengua taco.  It was just okay.  When they asked me what I thought, my response was, “I thought it tasted pretty good, but they are a little mushy.”  Tom laughed and said, “That’s what I meant by saying, ‘They melt in your mouth!’” I get the impression they both thought I was an unsophisticated hick. I guess I’ll just stick with what I know and love: The pork carnitas and spicy pork tacos were killing it!!!

Anyway, I digress.

Tom Davis, John Loomis, and a hick from Idaho.

While there are not many  successful hunting stories to share from our week of hunting, I earlier posted on the blog about a fun conversation that Tom and I had while hunting forest grouse behind my Brittany, Misty. The conversation was about who Tom Davis thought was the greatest grouse-hunting writer of all time.  For those of you interested in reading my earlier post on this experience, here is the LINK.

Tom Davis cleans an Idaho ruffed grouse.

Of course, I was intrigued when Shawn called me a few weeks ago to tell me that Tom Davis had written an article in January/February 2014 Issue of The Pointing Dog Journal  entitled, “Book Learnin’” in which he writes about this same experience and our conversation from his perspective.  So I sucked it up and drove to Hastings this past weekend and purchased the new PDJ just to read Tom’s article.  In addition to Tom’s account of our conversation, which I enjoyed, Tom wrote about some of the best bird hunting writers of all time: Gene Hill, Charley Waterman, Robert F. Jones, Havilah Babcock, Ben O. Williams, and Steve Smith.

Author Tom Davis and Photographer John Loomis grouse hunting in Idaho.

During our walk in the golden October woods, one of things that I mentioned to Tom is that I remembered an article that he wrote quite some time ago in the PDJ about some of his favorite hunting books.  One book in particular that I purchased and read because of Tom’s article was Steve Groom’s A Pheasant Hunter’s Harvest.  I told Tom that I agreed with him that this was one of the finest books of the genre ever written and that it was far superior to the more popular book about pheasants (which shall not be named) that seems to get all of the fanfare. Recollecting this conversation, I was intrigued to read the following passage about this unsung classic:

Still, if there’s one book that seems to have fallen through the cracks, and one writer who’s never gotten the credit or attention he should have, that book is A Pheasant Hunter’s Harvest, and that writer is its author, Steve Grooms.  Grooms is remembered primarily as a “how-to” guy but there was poetry in his soul, too; and whether the tone is funny, poignant, or somewhere in-between, this collection of stories and essays always rings absolutely true. . . .

To sum up my thoughts on Davis’ ”Book Learnin’”, I enjoyed it.  It was interesting to read Davis’ take on what makes great writing and also who the writers are that he looks up to.  I think most would agree that Tom Davis deserves a spot among these greats.  Tom’s article alone is worth the cost of the new PDJ.  Go pick up a copy.

I like to think that our conversation last October inspired Tom Davis to write “Book Learnin’”, but don’t worry, I won’t let that go to my head.  All I have to do is remember how pitifully I shot the week we hunted together and I am once again humbled.

Thanks for stopping by!

  

GLORY DAYS

As the long cold sets in and the various hunting seasons have closed (or will shortly), I sit beside the fire and and reflect upon days afield with my birds dogs, friends, and brother, Shawn. Reviewing my journal entries of the hunt, I noticed that, undoubtedly, bird numbers were down this past year in Idaho and, as a result, we saw and took fewer birds. However, the scarcity of birds did not detract one bit from this season’s charm. Rather, each bird flushed, shot and retrieved, or missed altogether, was savored that much more. We have been blessed.

One journal entry from the beginning of the season regarding a forest grouse hunt with a good friend, Matt Tower, really warms my soul this frigid time of year:

Saturday, September 7, 2013.

I picked up Matt at 7:00 a.m. for our hunt. It was hard to leave Sunny Girl behind, but I didn’t feel I could take her because she fainted last week during a hunt.

Matt and I first hunted Grouseketeer Ridge and in the dark timber Misty bumped a number of grouse.  One flushed across the road, which Matt and I both missed. Another one got up and Matt thumped it. Misty located the big blue in some downed timber, but did not make a full retrieve. All said we moved 5 or 6 grouse on Grouseketeer Ridge. I wish Misty was a better pointer, that little bird bumpin’ turd!

Matt holds up his blue grouse from Grouseketeer Ridge.

Back on Dusty’s Nub, Misty located a ruffie in a thick quakie patch below the road. I should have paid more attention to her because I knew she was birdy, but because of her earlier bird bustin’ ways, when a bird did not readily get up, I figured she was dinking around. Of course, a ruffed grouse got up and flew into a nearby tree. Matt and I tried to get into position for the reflush and the crafty grouse presented only a brief shot, which I didn’t take because I hesitated. We could not relocate the bird thereafter. In my defense, I should mention that we have never seen any birds in that particular patch. I should have trusted my dog! . . . .

We didn’t find any more grouse on Grouseketeer Ridge that morning so we headed down to the Outhouse Covert for one final hunt:

Matt and I hiked way up to the old Outhouse, past the big guzzler where Sunny passed out the week before. Along the way Misty bumped a few birds on the right-hand hillside, but we never saw or relocated any of them.

We pushed all the way back to the top of the draw and Misty flushed a grouse.  I shot trying to catch the bird before it lit into a tree.  The shot felt good, but I must have missed low because the bird then changed course and began flying down the draw directly toward me.  I instinctively shot and dropped the bird.  I was totally surprised because I never make that shot.

I’m still amazed I made that shot!

Matt, who was behind me said, “I watched that whole thing go down and that was awesome!”

It was a gargantuan blue grouse.  I responded excitedly, “It’s amazing how a bird in the bag brightens the spirits.”

The bird was almost as big as my gun.

We decided to turn around and head back down the draw.  Matt opted to hunt the forested hillside to see if he could get up some more birds.  This was the ticket.  Within five minutes, Matt flushed a ruffed grouse and brought it down with two shots.

He yelled down to me, “Andy, there’s more birds up here.  I can hear the rest of the covey chirping.”

I then began the arduous climb up the hill to get into position.  I think one flushed as I approached, but I never saw it in the thick tangle.  When I got to within twenty yards of Matt, he stated, “I see the bird, but I can’t get to it in this thick stuff.”

So we decided to put Misty’s bird bustin’ to good use and sent her into the thicket.

Matt, who had a good view, exclaimed, “Misty’s onto that bird now, get ready, here it comes!”

The bird then ripped straight up through the canopy and I missed it on the first shot, but as it leveled off and flew uphill, it gave me a perfect straightaway, which I made good on.  Misty located the downed bird and retrieved it to hand.  It was a brown-phased juvenile ruffed grouse.  Simply beautiful!  The day had suddenly turned into one of my best days of hunting so far this year. It’s funny how that happens. . . .

A beautiful brown phased ruff.

By no means was this a “perfect” hunt, but they never are (at least for me).  However, the beauty of the scenery, the thrill of the flushes, the exultation of a good shot made, and the camaraderie of a good friend more than made up for any imperfections.  Every bird hunter has a cache of days like this stored in his memory that he draws upon on cold, winter days.  I call them “Glory Days.”  No doubt, they carry us through to the next season.

Man, I love those Glory Days.

Samples

Bird dogs are in my blood. The Colorado prairie, though, has gotten under my skin. The loneliness and endless sea of sand-sage, yucca, saltbush, prickly-pear, and cholla…called home to very few…mangy coyotes, desert tortoises, and horned-larks but also my beloved quail. The incessant wind calms in the eve as the shadows grow longer and the golden hews of the last days light hit the prairie.

I’ve been pursuing these birds of my affection for some 15 years now. My first encounter with scaled quail was on the Cimarron National Grasslands in southwestern Kansas in November of 1999. I had read Web Parton’s book on wing-shooting in Kansas and Tom Huggler’s book on quail hunting prior to moving to Colorado…both authors raved about the grasslands and its bounty of birds. I was fortunate enough to stumble into Lawrence Smith of Elkhart, Kansas while he was literally standing in the middle of a mixed covey of scalies and bobwhites…and be under his tutelage for a couple seasons. I learned much about scaled quail from Mr. Smith. Prime scaled quail habitat is short grass prairie with sand-sage, cholla, salt brush, yuccas and juniper/pinion. Of course they adore structure…junk yards and farm equipment long forgotten.

The other day, a graduate student from Oklahoma State University contacted me about collecting some scaled quail samples for him. He’s been studying relatedness of birds within a nest and within broods in bobwhite quail and wanted to expand his research in scaled quail. He wanted some samples from their northern and western ranges. Well, who am I to stand in the way ” In the Name of Science”? I told him I’d be much obliged to help his research…not that I need an excuse to lose myself on the Colorado prairie chasing pointing dogs and toting a Spanish double.

I spent the past few days collecting samples for the OSU grad student. The Comanche National Grasslands and prairie whereabouts was my laboratory. Yesterday was incredible…there was a dense fog with the trees in hoarfrost…an eerie feeling came over me as the fog dissipated from the morning sun as though ghosts from the past were watching me…Santa Fe Trail travelers or even Native Americans. I found a honey-hole in a juniper patch with dense cholla…a place probably never walked before by a smoothbore-toting quail hunter and his crazy grouse-woods English setter.

Here are some images from the past few days.

Setter Feathers…sometimes you need to lose yourself on the prairies and streams in order to find yourself. That’s exactly what the Colorado prairie and scaled quail does for me.

Happy New Year 2014

We wanted to thank all our readers and friends out there for following Upland Ways. We hope 2014 is a great year and that you all get to spend time in the fields and on the waters pursuing what we all live for. The season is just getting started here on the Colorado and Kansas prairies. I know many of you are knee deep in snow and the gunning season has come to an end. Pray that we make it in-between the crazies and onto the next golden gunning season of glorious September. God bless and happy New Year!

Setter Feathers…

Happy New Years 2014

We wanted to thank all our readers and friends out there for following Upland Ways. We hope 2014 is a great year…and you all get to spend time in the fields and on the waters perusing what we all live for. The season is just getting started here on the Colorado and Kansas prairies. I know many of you are knee deep in snow and the gunning season has come to an end. Pray that we make it in-between the crazies and onto the next golden gunning season of glorious September. God bless and happy New Years!

Setter Feathers…

PROGRESSION OF A BIRD HUNTER

When I first started bird hunting over 15 years ago, I preferred–over any other game birds–those gaudy, Chinese birds of the grasslands so colorful and beautiful that they would capture any young hunter’s eye and heart.  But like the mythical sirens of old, I soon learned that their beauty was only skin deep and they loved to prey upon the nerves and psyche of young hunters and their pointing dogs.  Fortunately for me, I quickly realized that there are less frustrating birds to hunt.

Matt and Andy pose with their trophy (birds of the year) roosters. It took me four years to finally get one of those darn river roosters!

 I’ve always had a tender spot in my heart for valley quail.  But when bird numbers are high, they can frazzle your nerves like no other.  If you’re up to it, there is no finer shooting.  I love it, but I could not take that intensity every day.  In 2011, I shot a limit of quail one day in Western Idaho and the next day, I could not connect.  I suppose it’s because I did not have the hyper-focus necessary to hunt those crazy, top-knotted birds two days in a row.

Farles on an epic day of quail hunting in November of 2002.

For many years, I raved about blue grouse and sharptail hunting, with the blue grouse taking the lead by a small margin.  Blue grouse hunting in September will always be one of my favorite hunts.  They are a grand, underappreciated game bird.  Hunting sharptails in Eastern Idaho during October, the very height of creation, is also good for the soul.  E. Donnall Thomas, Jr. didn’t call them “Soul Chickens” for nothing.

Blue grouse in September are hard to beat.

Tommy and Brandy with our first sharptail of 2011.

I must admit, however, that my preferences have changed over the years.  I have always loved the ruffed grouse, but they were never the first on my list, or even second for that matter. But now, suddenly, I prefer to hunt ruffies over all else.  In “The Education of Ruff” Ted Trueblood described his own similar experience in this regard:

Occasionally a single, or even a covey of blue grouse, wanders down into the ruffed grouse covers in the river bottom or along little streams.  When this occurs, we welcome the opportunity to collect some of the larger birds.  The time was when we gave them preference, but now we seldom climb the long slopes to find them.  We tell ourselves Ruff gives us more sporty shooting in his heavy covers–which is surely true–but maybe we are getting older, too!

So now the confession: I unabashedly admit that I love ruffed grouse and ruffed grouse hunting.  I love their habitat, the secret coverts in which they reside.  I love their skill on the wing and agree with Corey Ford that they are “the Trickiest Thing in Feathers.”  I love snap-shooting in thick cover. I love their tasty flesh.  

I love the rich history and literature of ruffed grouse hunting.  This bird has inspired some of the greatest outdoor writers of all times, Burton Spiller, George King, Corey Ford, Grandpa Grouse, William Harnden Foster, Bill Tapply, George Bird Evans, Ted Trueblood, Mark Volk, Ted Nelson Lundrigan, Steve Mulak, Harold P. Sheldon, and so many others.  

The pursuit of this bird has produced some of the most beautiful outdoor artwork ever.  Think of Ogden Pleissner, Eldridge Hardie, Lynn Bogue Hunt, Aiden Lassell Ripley, Ross Young, Bob White, William Harnden Foster, and many, many more. What’s not to love?

Old Gates Ruff by Ross Young is one of my favorite paintings which hangs on my wall beside my bed.

While I love and appreciate all upland game birds and my Falls are much richer because of them, there is only one “King of the Uplands” for me . . . Ol’ Ruff!  Such is the progression of this hunter.

A gray-phased ruffed grouse.

PROGRESSION

When I first started bird hunting over 15 years ago, I preferred–over any other game birds–those gaudy, Chinese birds of the grasslands so colorful and beautiful that they would capture any young hunter’s eye and heart.  But like the mythical sirens of old, I soon learned that their beauty was only skin deep and they loved to prey upon the nerves and psyche of young hunters and their pointing dogs.  Fortunately for me, I quickly realized that there are less frustrating birds to hunt.

Matt and Andy pose with their trophy (birds of the year) roosters. It took me four years to finally get one of those darn river roosters!

 I’ve always had a tender spot in my heart for valley quail.  But when bird numbers are high, they can frazzle your nerves like no other.  If you’re up to it, there is no finer shooting.  I love it, but I could not take that intensity every day.  In 2011, I shot a limit of quail one day in Western Idaho and the next day, I could not connect.  I suppose it’s because I did not have the hyper-focus necessary to hunt those crazy, top-knotted birds two days in a row.

Farles on an epic day of quail hunting in November of 2002.

For many years, I raved about blue grouse and sharptail hunting, with the blue grouse taking the lead by a small margin.  Blue grouse hunting in September will always be one of my favorite hunts.  They are a grand, underappreciated game bird.  Hunting sharptails in Eastern Idaho during October, the very height of creation, is also good for the soul.  E. Donnall Thomas, Jr. didn’t call them “Soul Chickens” for nothing.

Blue grouse in September are hard to beat.

Tommy and Brandy with our first sharptail of 2011.

I must admit, however, that my preferences have changed over the years.  I have always loved the ruffed grouse, but they were never the first on my list, or even second for that matter. But now, suddenly, I prefer to hunt ruffies over all else.  In “The Education of Ruff” Ted Trueblood described his own similar experience in this regard:

Occasionally a single, or even a covey of blue grouse, wanders down into the ruffed grouse covers in the river bottom or along little streams.  When this occurs, we welcome the opportunity to collect some of the larger birds.  The time was when we gave them preference, but now we seldom climb the long slopes to find them.  We tell ourselves Ruff gives us more sporty shooting in his heavy covers–which is surely true–but maybe we are getting older, too!

So now the confession: I unabashedly admit that I love ruffed grouse and ruffed grouse hunting.  I love their habitat, the secret coverts in which they reside.  I love their skill on the wing and agree with Corey Ford that they are “the Trickiest Thing in Feathers.”  I love snap-shooting in thick cover. I love their tasty flesh.  

I love the rich history and literature of ruffed grouse hunting.  This bird has inspired some of the greatest outdoor writers of all times, Burton Spiller, George King, Corey Ford, Grandpa Grouse, William Harnden Foster, Bill Tapply, George Bird Evans, Ted Trueblood, Mark Volk, Ted Nelson Lundrigan, Steve Mulak, Harold P. Sheldon, and so many others.  

The pursuit of this bird has produced some of the most beautiful outdoor artwork ever.  Think of Ogden Pleissner, Eldridge Hardie, Lynn Bogue Hunt, Aiden Lassell Ripley, Ross Young, Bob White, William Harnden Foster, and many, many more. What’s not to love?

Old Gates Ruff by Ross Young is one of my favorite paintings which hangs on my wall beside my bed.

While I love and appreciate all upland game birds and my Falls are much richer because of them, there is only one “King of the Uplands” for me . . . Ol’ Ruff!  Such is the progression of this hunter.

A gray-phased ruffed grouse.

OF HEARTH AND HOME

Every so often a hunter stumbles upon a place that really speaks to him, a place where he feels connected to Nature, to Nature’s Creator, and to the history of that area.  I found one such place this fall.  I first hunted this little valley in Eastern Idaho in the first part of November.  The small draw with its tiny creek feeding another small creek caught my attention in warmer days, but for one reason or another I never took the time to explore it before then.  With a grouse already in the bag from the Outhouse Covert that brisk morning, I was ready to explore.  I’m so glad I went.

A beautiful Ruff from the Outhouse Covert.

On the right hand, north-facing side of the draw are evergreen Douglas firs, or “Dark Timber” as we call it, and in the creek bottom are willows and quaking aspens.  Grazing cattle have taken out much of the cover in the bottom, but the left side of the valley still contains plenty of thick, broomstick quakies that will pull your hat off if you are not careful.  Up further on the south-facing slope are rocky spires surrounded by sage and buck brush.  I definitely liked what I saw.

The dogs and I made our way about three-quarters of a mile up the draw to what I thought was an old beaver dam that had silted up to the point where it no longer held much water.  Nevertheless, the earthen bank testified that in the past there was some sort of dam and pond there.  In my experience, beavers and grouse make good neighbors as grouse take advantage of the diverse-aged forests that beavers create by their industry, which made me like this area even more.

Although the little idyllic valley, its rocky spires, and the birdy-looking cover ahead called me onward, I had promised Kristin I would be home by noon and I intended to keep my promise.  The rest of this valley would have to wait for another day.  On our way back down, Misty bumped a grouse into a nearby quakie and when I pitched a stick for the re-flush, the bird used the cover to its advantage and burned my biscuits.  Of course, I gave it the two-barrel salute.  Oh well, one bird in the bag was plenty.

This past Saturday, I was able to return to this same valley.  I talked my good friend Scott Johnson and his son Cole into chasing grouse in the December cold.  A fresh blanket of about four inches of powdery snow covered everything except the steep south facing slopes and the creek itself was totally frozen over.  Although it was cold, we were dressed for it and the going was easy, although little Cole slipped and fell once along the way.

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Andy, Misty and Sunny at the mouth of my new covert, “Of Hearth and Home.”

Scott agreed with me that the cover looked birdy and was surprised that our dogs did not find any birds in the likely places.  We made our way up to the old dam site and kept going up the trail.  Just around the bend, we observed a small old cabin up against the mountain side.  For me, this site was totally unexpected.  Of course, we had to check it out and take some pictures. As a lover of grouse hunting literature, this site kind of reminded me of the old cellar holes, stone fences and apple orchards hunters stumble upon back east.

Brigham and Cole are standing where the old pond used to be. If you look in the background, you can see the rocky spires.

 

Andy, Cole and Gunner near the old Cabin.   

Although the metal roof still held fast, the wood siding had fallen off in one area.  Nevertheless, the inside was still mostly dry and protected from the elements.  The front door was no longer there.  Upon closer inspection, we noticed a stone fireplace inside with a metal stove pipe in the left corner near the door.  The cabin itself was pretty neat, but the hearth brought a new dimension to the rustic structure.  Whoever built this fireplace, took great care to create something that would last.  Whether it was their home or just the place they went to get away, the owner truly loved this place.  Scott and I commented that we could build a fire in this old hearth and still feel totally safe within the structure.

Scott Johnson and Cole and Gunner near the old rock hearth.

We left the place as we found it and continued up the draw.  Only twenty-five yards away, however, we came across a spring that came right out of the mountainside. Where the creek had been totally frozen over down lower, here it was free flowing and green watercress contrasted starkly with the snowy white back ground.  With the discovery of the spring, I realized that the cabin’s location was chosen because of its close proximity to this ever-flowing, pure water.  Soon I put two and two together and realized that the old dam a hundred yards down the valley was not a beaver dam at all, but was the handiwork of the same individual that built this cabin and its quaint hearth.  I wondered if he was a fisherman and if the now-gone pond once held Yellowstone Cutthroat, which are abundant in Trickle Creek downstream.  I wondered if the man ever walked the old trail along the creek with a double gun hoping for a grouse to fly or watched the south facing hillside or the pond with rifle in hand expecting a nice muley buck to come to water. 

Cole sits beside the fresh water spring.

I soon felt a kinship to this person, whoever he was. He must have loved the great outdoors for many of the same reasons that I do today.  Although he probably did not have much by way of material possessions, he had all that he needed.  In fact, to live in such a beautiful place, he must have felt like the richest man alive.  This was his little piece of heaven. As I’ve fished Trickle Creek and hunted my grouse coverts in this general vicinity, I too have felt extremely blessed to have such a place so close to home.

Gunner hunts the snowy cover.

Although we did not see any grouse this December morning, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.  As we headed back to the car, I commented to Scott, “I think I will name this covert, ‘Of Hearth and Home.’”  I felt like this was the only name that captured all of my sentiments on this place.  I will definitely go back next year to discover more of its closely-held secrets.

Andy and Misty admire the old stone hearth.

Winter Wonderful Land & Scaled Quail

Winter has finally descended on Colorado. This past Wednesday, the front range was blanketed in snow with a forecast of clearing the follow morning. I was supposed to be hunting scaled quail that morning, but a cascade of circumstances ended me up at the office seeing sick pets…don’t get me wrong, I love being a veterinarian but I also love being on the prairie with my bird dogs chasing scaled quail. I texted SSG Josh that morning while waiting for the vet-nurse to get me for the next appointment…my message basically taunted Josh about a banner day prediction tomorrow when the skies cleared, so he’d better fake the flu and go chase scalies with me. Josh readily excepted the taunting, and it was decided I’d pick him up in the morning.

The Colorado Prairie

The roads were fairly decent that morning until I got into Colorado Springs. I slid through a busy intersection while turning onto the road to Josh’s house…luckily the rest of the population was smart enough to stay off the roads and there was no one in the intersection. The rest of the trip was non-eventful. Josh and I were slightly disappointed at the lack of snow on the prairie when we arrived at our destination. We piled out of the Tacoma and were met with the blistering cold. Minus five can sure sting bare skin.

Grouse River Gretchen

It wasn’t long before the dogs were into birds…it wasn’t as glorious as we’d dreamt of the day before…fresh quail tracks in the snow everywhere…but the dogs were able to scent birds and point a few for the guns. The shooting was a little tough for the two of us because of the extra clothing and thick gloves…but it sure beat the heck out of being at work. Josh and I ate our delicious lunch as the sun set on the Colorado prairie…cold and tired…it doesn’t get much better.