The Calendar

     Old man Autumn must have looked at the calendar Friday, because he roared in during the night, rattling the windows and dumping rain on the roof. At midnight, when one of the dogs had to go out, the temperature outside was sixty. But shortly afterwards the house shook and rain poured like pea-stone from a dump truck. By breakfast the temperature had dropped to forty-nine and the howling northwest wind started breaking up the clouds.

     Flannel shirts and added layers. Chores first and then off to the woods to run the dogs and find some grouse.

Ten More Days

     Soon Bird season will open. For the upland hunter, it is the most anticipated day of the year. Here at Camp Grouse, even the dogs know it is coming.

     Maybe it is changes in the weather, or that we’ve been going out to run with their bells on. I guess that is a dead giveaway. Perhaps they see the hints of colors on the hillsides too, just like we do.

     Whenever two or more bird hunters get together the conversation always comes around to how many birds they have been seeing. Birds in the roads are mentioned and maybe a woodcock seen flying at dusk. Of course, everybody is delightfully vague about where they’ve been seeing birds. It is fun to see the enthusiasm of new hunters.

    The trap is out to throw clay targets, set up on the side deck. We’ve thrown a few to refresh muscle memory. The gun comes up like it always did. It would be fun to shoot at a skeet or sporting clays range if one were nearby, but we’ll settle for targets thrown out beyond the drop-off beyond the house. If a target is missed, the dogs disappear down into the tall weeds to bring it back, sort of sticking the lousy shot in my face.

     New boots are broken in. The bird hunting pants will get a new treatment of wax.  The vest will be dug out and hung by the back door. There isn’t much more to get ready, which is one of the beauties of upland hunting.

     Tomorrow we’ll be out scouting for birds and running the dogs. There’s a ridge we want to explore. We have to get in shape too.

Remembering October, 2014

     Every bird season is good, just some are better than others. This past October was no different.

     Grouse numbers were down, way down, to the lowest flush/hour rate since I’ve been keeping records. Woodcock numbers were up some, but averaged together the total was still well below the norm.

     Probably many of the year’s young died from pneumonia, caused by the previous cold wet May. The hens, determined to perpetuate the species, nested a second time. Many of the grouse that we shot were very small, obviously not full grown.

     Good friends who’ve been regulars came up from the Vineyard, while some others who’ve been regulars couldn’t make it and were missed. Peter Corbin, the sporting artist (www.petercorbin.com), made a return trip and brought Jim Kline for two days of gunning. The best hour of those two days was the last, where the dogs did some excellent work and we moved seven grouse.

Georgia, pointing a woodcock

     Georgia, our borrowed sweetheart shorthair, had another spectacular season. She was the first to point and pointed as many grouse as any of the other dogs. For a dog that lives among non-hunters and comes up to hunt with us each fall, she’s a rock star with impeccable manners. It’s all in her breeding, because nobody has ever done any real bird work with her.

     Colby, the youngest of our wirehairs, was as reliable as ever, hunting diligently within a comfortable range. Her canine cruciate ligament problems of the past are a distant memory.

     Chara, my older wirehair, hunted an hour or so most days, and even took a day or two off, it being her fourteenth season. She solidly pointed three grouse, and I took some great pictures of her, but never managed to kill a grouse over her. I lost count of how many woodcock she pointed.

Chara, hard on a grouse

     Our youngster, Juno, pointed grouse several times. How long she would be steady was always an iffy thing, but she did great for only a little over a year old. For reasons that I’ll probably never understand, she seemed to point grouse more readily than woodcock, and I would have expected the opposite. She bumped dozens of woodcock.

     The first day all four dogs were put out at once to burn off steam, after the long five hour drive north. Clanging bells and dashing dogs created pandemonium, and it was impossible to keep track of everyone. Then Georgia went missing, but the new e-collar with the pager function found her. She was only fifty feet away, on the far side of a spruce, solidly pointing a grouse.

Peter Corbin 

     And the last morning, when most of the day would be spent closing up Camp Grouse, to be followed the next day by a day-long drive home, all four of the dogs were put down on the ground again. Of course the girls had a ball. We found thirteen woodcock, and managed to point over half of them, sometimes with multiple dogs pointing one bird. Chara made one spectacular point, right beside the logging road, after all the other dogs had raced by. Mayhem reigned though and only one woodcock came home in the bag.

     Every year there’s some bad weather during our two week trip, usually a couple of days of rain, and most years there’s enough snow to turn the ground white at some point, but it never stays. This year we only saw a few flakes, but almost every day either rain or mist soaked everything, and the cloud cover never wanted to go away. Only on the last day did blue sky poke through the clouds.

     Yet there were friends, dogs, birds in the bag, loads of laughs, and dozens of memories, with new country explored and fresh stories to tell. What more could one want? It was a very good year.

Adam Moran, making our lunches.

Barrel bands on a long-gone farmer's rock pile.

Juno bringing me a woodcock.

Juno, soaking up the sun.

Georgia and Juno, next to the heater.

Colby, nailing a woodcock

Heading toward next year....

Like the Days Before Christmas

The geese have been flying overhead, sometimes six or a dozen, other times fifty or a hundred, all honking and heading west late in the day. I’ve never figured out where it is they go. During the morning dog walk they fly east, creatures of habit, to feed in fields during the safety of daylight.

Non-hunting friends ask if I’ve been hunting, not realizing it is just a fall event. In the woods behind the house the ferns are turning golden or the color of rust. The air smells of dried grasses and hundreds of grackles sit on the power lines beside the street, contemplating their departure. In the mill pond down the road clusters of ducks feed, where a month or more ago clutches of young followed the hen mallards.

Hunting catalogs clutter my desk and I’ve printed out the “Bring to Camp” list from my computer. Additions will be penciled in and a few items crossed out. For the most important weeks of the year, nothing can be forgotten.

The dogs know what’s ahead, at least the older two. The youngest hasn’t made her first trip north during bird season, but she’s raring to hunt. This afternoon she cautiously pointed a planted pigeon from almost thirty feet away. That looks like the making of a grouse dog to me. They sleep at my feet to keep track of me.

Several times a day I bring a calendar up on the smart phone, trying to figure out who is visiting Camp Grouse when and how to line up all the opening days. Grouse season is the priority, but it’s nice to catch the opening of our two duck seasons too.

The gun safe is unlocked evenings, so the favorite gun can come out and be hoisted to the shoulder. It feels familiar and swings faithfully along the line where the wall meets the ceiling. Daily it brings back assorted memories, and then is wiped down to be put away. Usually a second or third gun comes along as a backup, and which one is a difficult decision that will wait until departure day.

Hours are spent searching Google Earth, looking for undiscovered logging roads and hidden coverts. It’s almost as much fun as being there. The hunting journal is reread, particularly the notes made at the end of each season, which remind me of what to do different in the future. Lists are made of places to hunt, both new and old favorites, and coverts to ignore because they are past their prime.

Time passes slowly, like the days before Christmas.