It
was December a long time ago, just me and my wirehair, Chara, hoping to fine
some late season grouse. Barely a dusting of snow covered the ground in most
places, but maybe an inch hid in the shadows of the softwoods. The leaves and
the woodcock were long gone, it was ruffed grouse we were after.
Back
in October, every time we hunted the high side of that logging road the dogs
would find birds. For well over a mile we didn’t moved a one. A bit discouraged,
we took to the low side of the road, hunting down toward the softwoods that stand
along the river.
Chara
went on point and the day improved. More than a few birds hid in the edge of
the softwood stand. Down a little slope I noticed an iced over beaver pond and
headed that direction.
Chara’s
bell fell silent.
She
was off to the left beneath tall spruce and fir trees where the ground sloped toward
the pond. Hurrying toward her, a grouse exploded upward and another burst
toward the pond.
Reflexes
fired my gun. A grouse fell onto the thin ice of the beaver pond. The thought
of my dog running out onto that ice scared me to death.
Chara
had once been steady to wing and shot, but those days were long gone. Hunting
alone much of the time, it became impossible to enforce and I was no longer
doing hunt tests. This bird hunting was supposed to be fun.
Slipping
and sliding, I hurried down toward the pond. Chara hadn’t seen the bird fall
and worked the slope looking for a dead bird. What a relief.
When
she got down to the edge of the pond I hitched her to a tree. A small but long dead
fir tree reached the bird and slid it to firm ground.
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Chara nuzzling the bird.
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