Camp Grouse

    Camp Grouse is a dream perched on a knoll. Around this knoll the land rises, creating a nearly empty valley, where a stream constantly serenades and a breeze funnels regularly between the hills. Clouds of warblers swarm the trees in June and dragon flies patrol the yard on August evenings. Grouse drum in the woods come March and the forest becomes a riot of color come September. During the winter months there is a pristine silence, as the snowy world sleeps before repeating the cycles.

Dreams of spring.

    About the time the snow disappears and the streams swell, dreams turn to trout fishing. The mighty river, a mile or so away, holds larger trout, but the small stream down the hill from Camp Grouse is full of native brook trout. Every spring the brook is different, with the snow’s runoff carving a new course and recently fallen trees always crisscrossing the stream. The new logjams and undercut stream banks will create deep dark holes where the brook trout will hide. Hopefully, a few will be coaxed out to fry in bacon fat for breakfast.

Dreams at the vice.

    Upstairs at Camp Grouse, inside the big pine desk, is everything imaginable to tie trout flies. Books on patterns and trout sit atop that desk, and the hours slide away there, tying and dreaming. It really is as much fun as fishing.

    Hiking books and maps, stored in the bookcase by the stairs, help plan our short expeditions. When the weather is nice during the summer months, our daily hikes keep both the dogs and us in shape, and so far we haven’t run out of new places to explore.

    In stormy weather, or even with the morning coffee while waiting for the sun to climb higher, there is usually a jigsaw puzzle in the works on a card table beside the sliding glass doors. Bookshelves are filled with hunting and fishing lore, along with favorite novels and books on New England history. Upstairs a guitar waits to be picked. A rainy day certainly isn’t a hardship.

Friends helping.

    As September winds down clay targets are launched from the deck to be turned to dust as they sail out over the alders at the bottom of the knoll. Come the first of October the dogs will lead us into the vibrant fall foliage, their bells ringing and enthusiasm never wavering.

    And when the leaves drop and the bird hunting is at its best, friends shuffle through Camp Grouse, and all of us hunt until our legs hurt. There are so many coverts that we never get to them all. Memories are made and stories are told while tired dogs sleep in front of the heater.

Dogs warming.

    And all too soon winter blankets the land again as the world readies itself for spring again.

A place to dream. 

Juno Points Her First Quail

The recall house loaded with Quail

Sometimes the best lessons aren’t planned. After work today I took the dogs out for a walk. It had been a week of awful weather, so little time had been spent working the girls. Juno, our seven month old GSP pup, bolted out back past the barn. Her new joy in life has been the quail recall house that I loaded with quail a little over a week ago. The older and wiser wirehairs trotted along with me.

By the time I reached the barn Juno was racing about stacks of new bricks on pallets. I thought there might still be a quail out, but it had been a week of bitter wintery weather since I had released any. Juno squeezed between two pallets of bricks and stuck her nose in a hole left for a forklift. I looked in the other end and, sure enough, there was a quail hiding inside the pile of bricks.

I got Juno off the scent and we walked out back into the fields and woods. Returning, the dogs bolted ahead to the quail house and hunted the area hard.

Chara, our wise old German wirehair who’s turning thirteen in June, shuffled about with her nose to the ground, plowing through leaves beneath stunted white oaks. The two younger dogs were like ping pong balls, all over the place. Chara locked up on point thirty feet from the recall house.

Colby, my five year old wire, noticed and faithfully honored. I could see the quail hunkered down about three yards from Chara’s nose.

Juno ricocheted all over the place, twice passing close, but tuned into her own little world. I so wished she dragged a line so I might control her. The two wires trembled, but didn’t budge. Juno finally bounded toward the older girls and then stopped like a statue right against Chara’s side. Her head was up as she inhaled the bird’s heady scent.

I praised her and stroked her shoulders, and then took two steps toward the quail.

The bird bolted as if shot from a canon, with Juno hot on its tail.

Where are the Woodcock?

It is that time of the year again, when the snow has retreated to hide in the deepest shadows. The ground finally feels soft and is spongy, like a mattress beneath the feet. A sweet mustiness hangs in the air and soon, we hope, will be replaced with the smells of things newly green.

I walk the dogs hoping to find woodcock. The little wanderers should be here, passing through on their migration north. There are never many on our island, but we usually find a few. Last year they arrived in mid-February, but this winter has been one of the nastiest in a long time.

It is easy to imagine the woodcock’s preposterous proboscis (love saying that) pushing down into the recently thawed ground, which feels only slightly firmer than pudding. The dogs race about on the newly bared ground, plowing through the underbrush. Robins and doves flee ahead of the youngest. None of my three girls find any game birds, but the blue sky stretches between the horizons. Life doesn’t get much better. We’ll look again tomorrow.

So home we go, where I’ll wipe down my guns that have been sitting in my safe through the winter. It’s time to start counting the days until fall.

Chara pointing a March woodcock a few years ago.

Picking a Shotgun

Some decisions are agonized over....

    Picking a shotgun is perhaps a more difficult decision than choosing a spouse.  It is best to try several different types before settling down with any one in particular.  Do you prefer a wide shooting plane, or perhaps a slender one?  Do you shoot better with a little weight forward, or maybe butt heavy suits you better?  Most seem to enjoy a balance somewhere in between.

    For many, the first experience is with a pump action, but later they discover the beauty and smooth handling of doubles.  Some enjoying side by side, while others like one on top of the other.

    A stock of high figure often brings a higher cost, but many find the expense worthwhile.  High-priced guns often have lots of glitter and even gold trimmings, and, although pleasing to the eye, don’t necessarily perform any better than unadorned ones. 

Older ones may be missing a screw.

    Older ones are often appealing, particularly if they have not been abused.  Nothing detracts from their appearance more than dings and bulges, and nothing is worse than one that just sat somewhere and became rusty.  Many enjoy wondering about the storied history of the older ones while using them.  You must remember though that the dimensions preferred years ago are quite different than those of today, and some may feel awkward when mounted.

A wide plane catches the eye. 

    Older models in pristine condition are often expensive, and you may not even want to use them.  They are sometimes referred to as “safe queens”, but I’m not sure what they are safe from.  It is best to admire them with as little handling as possible, to wipe off with a soft cloth any fingerprints that you may have left behind, and then to leave them where you found them.

    Perhaps you have friends with different types, and you could ask them how they like them.  Maybe they will even let you try theirs, but that is not common.  Some may not want you to take theirs out into the woods, but most will at least let you look at them.  Be sure to ask their opinions, whether they prefer side by side or over and under, ejectors, wide or narrow fore end, and straight grip.

    Large bores are becoming less popular in the upland woods, with the slender twenties becoming quite common.  As many men get older, they look for a twenty-eight with a properly proportioned frame, which they feel makes for a more appealing look. 

   Their light weight feels nimble in the hands and is a delight to experience, but a proper mount must be practiced, or the motion is too jerky and may cause a miss.  Practice mounting is the key, and can even be done in almost any room at home.

    Remember, practice safe shooting.    

A favorite, leaning against a tree.

  

Old Things

I like old things, and things made like old things. And I guess that means old timers too. Back when I was a young pup, nothing suited me more than spending time listening to old hunters or woodsmen. They had seen so much and lived in exciting times. Now there aren’t many of them left.

A couple of Christmas’s ago I was given a L. L. Bean waxed cotton rucksack. It brings me great joy just to see it hanging on a hook in my office. It looks like it should have been made in 1912, not 2012. I know the same exact one, made out of modern synthetic materials, weighs half the amount, but it wouldn’t look or feel the same. I’ll carry the extra weight.

And I love an old Marble’s brass compass, even if I do have trouble reading it, pinned on my vest. It’s just too close there. It needs to be pinned on my wrist for me to focus on it, but we know how well that would work out.

I don’t own any plastic boats, but a couple of wood canoes, a wood duck boot, and a wood Rangeley guide boat. In my shop sits my grandfather’s canoe, with its canvas stripped off and waiting for restoration. That was built in 1906, when he was fifteen years old. Show me a fifteen year old that can do that today. I still have both of the paddles he made. It’s amazing how a hundred plus years of drying can lighten a spruce paddle.

Up at Camp Grouse, we have an old pack basket hanging on the wall. It’s great for hauling things on canoe trips, not that we take many, but it looks super hanging there. Once a year I turn it upside down to dump out the dead flies.

I do have an old cane fly rod, but seldom use it. It is in mint condition, but I’m spoiled by the quicker action of graphite rods. The traditional New England fly patterns, like the Parmachene Bell, Gray Ghost, and Edson tigers, fascinate me, and I use them periodically, but catch little. Another old New England fly, the Black Ghost, serves me well though.

Most of my guns were made a long time ago. The only new ones are both doubles, which is, of course, a long time proven type. There’s a couple of old pumps and even an early Model 1100, but, other than for deer hunting, none of them come out of the safe often.

The first gun I ever bought was an old Ithaca side by side, and the next gun an even older Parker. That Parker, born in 1902, still sits in my safe. Every once in a while I take it out and wonder at the stories it might tell. I know there’s a few that involve me.

The last firearm purchased was an old Savage Model 99, in 250 Savage, a time tested rifle that shoots an almost forgotten cartridge. It is a pleasure to just look at it and also enjoyable to fire, with very little recoil. I’m too old to get beat up by repeated punching in the shoulder.

I own Gor-tex lined clothing, but all of my favorite coats are waxed cotton or wool. Slipping on any one of them, I can feel the adventure starting. Filson waxed brush pants are the best in my book. But I will admit, Gor-tex lined leather boots are one of the greatest inventions of all time.

There’s only one old grouse hunter that I see with some regularity. He isn’t doing too well and his days in the woods are done. Usually I hear the same stories over again, but the details are jumbled and not always the same. I can see the twinkle in his eye though, as he remembers the good parts, and he’s always asking how the birds are. There is still lots to learn from his tales.

As we become the old timers, and there is more time spent tending our gear than actually using it, there had better be a whole repertoire of stories in our heads. Every year there seems to be a young hunter or two coming long, and they all expect to hear a few.

Never Promise

The young fellow showed up at grouse camp and right away said, “I might have made a big mistake. I promised my sister a grouse.” We’ll change his name to Red, to keep his identity a secret.

Breakfast sausage

Now, it was his first trip to our big woods. I know he’s shot grouse before, because there were pictures. Those can never be faked, right? He settled in and we looked at his guns and got reacquainted.

In the morning, while I cooked breakfast, my long time hunting buddy, Don Pouliot, showed up. The weather threatened rain, but the three of us rode to a favorite area about forty minutes away and far up in the woods. The birds were few, but I managed a grouse in my bag. With the weather turning wet, we spent time in a local sporting goods store.

Don Pouliot, out in the thick of things.

The next day we drove up into another big chunk of wilderness and found a ton of grouse. We even saw four sitting in the logging road in one spot, which we drove past to stop a quarter mile down the road and let the dogs out. The older wirehair locked up right at roadside, and on our approach three or four flushed into the woods. Not a feather was touched. A late launcher on the other side of the road made the fatal mistake of offering an easy straight-away shot for me.

In spite of our best efforts and giving Red unsurpassed opportunities, he never shot a grouse during the entire day.

Chara on point.

The third and last day of his stay, we hunted two more areas and found plentiful grouse, but again, none came home in his game bag. As the afternoon waned, the pressure was on.

I took him to the one spot I always could count on a pile of birds. It is tough gunning there, with thick softwoods in damp terrain, but the birds are always present. The dogs found birds and made some points. Just finding the dogs can be difficult in that spot.

A grouse leapt up into a softwood and watched us all approach. We discussed the direction it might fly, put Red in the optimum spot, and then Don and I tossed sticks at the bird. It flew. Red shot. Shot again. The bird flew safelyaway.

Red, sizing things up

The dogs, who had watched the whole event, went into overdrive, shaking their heads, but at least laughing silently. Immediately, it was their turn to screw up and they bumped a grouse that flew up into another softwood tree.

Colby giving Red the evil eye

Again, we played through the same scenario, discussing where it might fly, putting Red in the best possible shooting spot, then kicking the tree and tossing sticks until the bird flew.

And with the same results.

I did feel bad. Red would leave without a grouse for his sister, but we had a lot of fun and it will be a day I long remember. I think Red had fun too.

Pandemonium

Four year old Colby honoring Chara.'s point.

Now I have a confession to make, I enjoy hunting with a pile of dogs. I know, it makes little sense. It’s difficult to keep track of them and there are only so many birds to find. I run two a lot, three sometimes, and even have done four fairly often. In the thick grouse woods, four is over the top and I can’t hope to keep track of them by myself.

Three bells ringing is all that I can hope keep track of, and you had better not be distracting me. So far I have resisted the beeper collars.

Twelve year old Chara backing Colby.

What man’s heart doesn’t skip a beat when two or three dogs are all locked up on point simultaneously? And if one bell falls silent and I’m a little vague on where I heard it last, I guide another dog, or dogs, in the general direction of where the missing bell last sang. In short order they always finds the missing dog pointing.

My oldest wirehair, Chara, walks along sorting out scent, never in a hurry at this stage of her life. The younger dogs race about, particularly the youngest, Georgia the German shorthair, all of them covering many times the ground. Yet Chara points as many grouse as either of the youngsters, often in areas that they have barreled right through. What’s the story of the tortoise and the hare…slow and steady wins the race?

Of course Georgia may find a bird sixty yards away that Chara never would have found. That’s reason enough for me to keep up the insanity.

Can you find the third dog pointing that grouse??

Civilized

My old girl Chara

The other dogs stayed back at the house, where they could recover from a long day afield. The last hour of the afternoon I had saved for just Chara, my old German wirehair in her thirteenth bird season. It was just going to be the two of us. We parked down near the metal gate where the road has the dog-leg in it. As I opened the truck door a grouse thundered away unseen, and I took that as a good omen.

Chara slipped her head into the belled collar as I offered it, and then I dug my gun out of the back.  With her leading the way we walked down past the tilting gate.

Ahead of us the grassed in logging road sloped into an empty valley. The hills on the far side had been logged hard, and their tops appeared ragged, like a decrepit picket fence. The next paved road in that direction is over twenty miles away in the neighboring state. It’s big country, but we planned to hunt only the cream of it.

Ancient apples.

A few apple trees on the left bore an abundance of fruit, so we poked around, hoping to find a late day grouse, but found nothing. In her old age, Chara walked rather than ran, her nose sifting the air and sorting scents that I would never imagine. It was easy to keep up with her senior pace, a pleasant treat after three days of hunting behind big running youngsters.

The forest turned to poplar, maple, and birch, all the diameter of a grapefruit and as tall as a four story building. A few years earlier it was dynamite woodcock and grouse country, but those days were gone. Chara searched hard, but we found nothing.

Where an intersecting logging road cut us off, we crossed the grassy road into alders to start back up the hill. Beyond chin-high raspberries, Chara’s bell went silent.

Chara pointing the woodcock.

Carefully I waded through the thorns, and then ducked or stepped over alders until I found her statue-like and facing my direction. Approaching and wondering…. Where?

The woodcock leapt skyward, then spiraled behind a young fir. I swung and fired over the top of the tree as I expected the bird to appear, but evidently she was a local and knew her way out the backdoor. 

We tried to find that woodcock again, but never did. After walking past a recently cut area, we strolled into a long abandoned field. Almost immediately Chara pointed toward a squat apple tree growing among low bush blueberries. As I approached a grouse rocketed out of the back, flying close to the ground and not offering a shot.

Chara on point among wild apples.

As if pulled by a string attached to her nose, Chara followed that grouse’s scent to where it disappeared into a thicket of alder and wild apples. While Chara worked her way through the tangle I followed on the outside, hoping to get a shot. But the bird bolted low across the field and then rose up into the tree line far beyond.

We continued to hunt up the hill, bouncing between apple trees, alder patches, and clusters of firs. Nearing the crest, Chara locked up rigid under a particularly large apple tree that grew against three or four old fir trees. Before I got there the partridge exploded out of the back and followed his cousin into the trees beyond the field.

By that time we were almost back to the truck and the sun had slipped behind the hill. That late day chill had settled in so it was time to call it a day. I said, “Chara, come, let’s go back to the truck.”

 That’s when I realized that during the entire hunt I had never said a word to my favorite girl, only whistled softly through my teeth to turn her when needed. And I never had to walk faster than a leisurely pace.

It was the most civilized ruffed grouse hunt that I have ever had, and I didn’t even have to clean birds afterward.

A Great Idea

I wish it was an original idea on my part, but most of us have seen the gun storage boxes in ads in the backs of the bird hunting magazines. A gentleman that I hunted with a few years ago had one in the back of his SUV and the concept of firearms safely stored yet with easy access was impressive.

I have priced the things and none of them are cheap, so being a thrifty (read: cheap) Yankee I’d thought about building one. Now I have an advantage over most because I’m a cabinet maker by trade with my shop only a hundred feet from our home. Materials left over from jobs accumulate in the attic of the barn and by poking around there certainly would be all that I needed.

So only a couple of days before my annual two week trip up to the grouse woods, I spent an afternoon putting together my gun box.

The outside of the box itself is ¾ inch marine grade mahogany plywood (yes, at almost three hundred bucks a sheet it was left over from a job). The bottom I left long enough to reach the front of the truck’s bed, so the thing wouldn’t slide forward when I avoid a moose or stop suddenly somewhere for a coffee. The drawer itself is ½” prefinished birch plywood, and the face of the drawer is made of butternut. Between the drawer front and the box I put weather stripping to form a gasket and keep out dust. Cheaper materials would certainly provide just as serviceable until, but, being a cabinet maker, the box had to look nice so that it looked like I knew what I was doing.

The drawer slides came from a pull-out pantry and are rated for 500 pounds. That is overkill. The drawer is 47” long, but the slides are only 28” full extension, yet they provide ample access. Long drawer slides are expensive and I didn’t want to purchase them if they weren’t needed.

I put a hasp on each side of the box that can keep the drawer shut when the truck is parked on a slope and also allow padlocking. Inside are four slots, two sized for twelve gauge side by sides, and the other two fit over and unders, pumps, or twenty gauge side by sides. The slots were all lined with terrycloth (an old towel) to protect the guns. Next to them I made three lift out boxes to hold shells, gloves, dog first aid things, and whatever.

During my trip the storage unit made life easier than I ever imagined, and the guns had never been so well protected. The truck’s tailgate when shut just touches the pull on the drawer’s front, securing the box when the tailgate is locked.

Now I wonder why I waited so long to build the thing.

Starting Cold

A couple of weeks ago I received an email from someone wanting to know where to locate good grouse cover. They had recently acquired a German shorthair pointer and thought grouse hunting sounded like fun. That certainly sounded like a backward way to come at the sport. On the plus side, they had joined local chapters of the North American Versatile Hunting Dog Association and Ruffed Grouse Society, both excellent organizations.

Typical old cutting in the Northeast.

There probably is no better way to start than joining the Ruffed Grouse Society and a hunting dog group. At least then you will meet likeminded people who are bound to share some of their bird hunting knowledge. Whether you can get them to open up and share their favorite coverts may be another matter though. Grouse coverts are hard earned and shared sparingly.

State fish and game departments usually have experts that can point you in the right direction. When you are up in bird country, if you should happen upon any fishermen, hikers, and loggers, it doesn’t hurt to ask if they’ve seen any grouse. Most aren’t bird hunters and will gladly share what they know. And it doesn’t hurt to talk to sales people in local sporting goods stores, although dyed in wood grouse hunters aren’t all that common and salespeople are…well, salespeople, and likely to tell you what they think you want to hear.

The nearby softwoods provide shelter.

Other than that, I would pick a part of the country where there is still an abundance of timber harvesting and study it on Google Earth. Logging roads and activity such as clear cuts show up readily. Soft woods are easy to see, which provide shelter. An hour spent studying the images on Google Earth and the topographical maps of the area can save you days of walking.

The next step is to go to the locations that you’ve picked and to start walking. You are looking for shelter for the birds and a food source. Remember that available food changes with the seasons and what you see in the summer may not be there in the fall. A nearby stream is a plus. Logging roads can provide grit for the birds. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to find a drumming log. Maybe you’ll even bust a large covey of grouse.

And then plan to come back in the fall with your dog. If you’ve done your homework and hit pay dirt, you’ve found your first grouse covert. It is up to you whether you want to share it or not.

Making a List

Making a list,

Checking it twice.

No, I’m not singing Christmas carols. It’s that time of the year when I’m dreaming of my BIG trip up to Camp Grouse, and I want everything perfect for the whole two weeks. That means not leaving anything behind.

Our visiting star, Georgia.

I’ll bring extras of the important things, like guns and boots, even dogs, not that any of my buddies can ever be replaced by a substitute. There’s been a non-hunting friend’s shorthair tagging along the last couple of years, to “experience the things that she was bred for”. By the way, her performance has been spectacular, all from good breeding, not any serious hunt-training on anyone’s part.

Plenty of shotgun shells are already at camp, probably enough for the next six or eight years. Extra boots too, but I’ll bring more. Ditto for jackets and warm shirts.

Working on trashing that truck.

The truck will get a good cleaning before I head north, even though I know it will get totally trashed. In my notes from the end of last season last there’s a comment about coming home a day early to clean the truck because it was such a mess. I’m not certain I will give up a day of bird hunting for a clean truck, but maybe.

Dog food, dog first aid kit, kennel, maps and books, lots of books in case there’s a rainy day or two…it’s a pretty extensive list.

Inside my smartphone there’s a list of things to add to the list on my desk, which I printed out from the list inside my computer. At some point I’ll start piling things up in my office, and in no time I’ll forget what’s already in the pile and have to pull the stack apart.

Colby bringing me a grouse.

Groceries I’ll buy up there. The dufflebag of hunting paraphernalia will get dumped out and sorted. You can almost bet there’ll be an old sandwich in there along with fir needles, partridge wings, empty shotgun shells, and assorted twigs. I’m not prone to neatly sorting and putting things away at the end of the season. The season’s end is just too sad to do that.

Brush pants will receive a new coat of wax and hopefully all my shooting gloves will have mates. My old orange hat won’t look as bright as I’d like, but maybe there will be one for sale up in grouse country somewhere. The dogs will get excited when they hear the bells, as I’m sorting out their collars. They already know what time of the year it is and follow me about the house.

I'm ready.

Now, where is the list that’s supposed to be on my desk?

Such a Deal

This book is one of my favorites and a great classic, and when I went searching for a copy years ago I had trouble finding any for less than a hundred dollars. I know that in the free market system prices fluctuate, but this is such a deal. 

If you’ve thought about buying a copy of New England Grouse Shooting, by William Harnden Foster, now is the time.  I just checked the prices on of used copies on Amazon.com and I’ve never seen them lower.

Check it out at http://www.amazon.com/gp/offer-listing/0684124130/ref=dp_olp_used?ie=UTF8&condition=used

There's a bird in there somewhere....

Waiting

It is raining outside. A long stretch of unbearably hot weather has come to an end. I truly hope summer’s backbone is broken.

The rain has been steady, not the rumbling downpour of a summer thunderstorm, but rather the light steady rain that often comes in the fall. My German wirehairs are asleep at my feet, they must notice the change in the weather. I put on long pants after cleaning up from work, the first time in weeks.

Sometime during every day I think about bird hunting. The dogs are always under my feet and come to hang out in my cabinet shop most days, so they are a constant reminder. On our morning and evening walks they point rabbits and then watch them run away as I approach. One of these days, as we get into fall, it might be a woodcock rising and then I will be very excited too.

Another Rabbit!

    For now I sit in my office and watch the rain, surrounded by books. The gun safe is open, so the doubles can keep me company.  I’ll have to count the days again until October first.

Manners

Shared grouse country is a treasure.

It was something that I read in Gene Hill’s Shotgunner’s Handbook that got me to thinking about bird hunting manners. It is seldom spoken about, unless introducing a youngster to the sport, or even an oldster I guess, but manners are extremely important.

Gun safety is at the top of the list, keeping track of where that muzzle is pointed. The way grouse explode into the air and reflexes take over, it is easy to imagine horrible things happening.  Most of my hunting used to be done alone, and much still is, which eliminates that concern.

Game hogs can’t be tolerated, but with the wily grouse of today it is almost impossible to be a game hog. I guess it is more of an attitude thing. Hunting is about a lot more than the number of birds killed.

Guests hunting with me are always encouraged to take most of the shots. I’m not sure if that is me being gracious or maybe me trying to hide my so-so shooting. Enthusiastic newcomers are fun to watch, even if the ruffed grouse is usually long gone by the time the trigger is pulled. Seasoned hunters, who actually kill birds with some regularity, are like watching magicians.

Woodcock pinned

Most of us could not imagine hunting without a dog, and I’m sure our opinions of our own dogs are like those of our children, a bit tainted. Never ever should a hunter make a negative comment about someone else’s dog, and please leave the directing of the dog to its owner. If you are not sure of the proper protocol around another person’s dog, ask.

On occasion, in a large alder flat or grouse thicket and when we’ve been gunning over two dogs or more, I’ll tell the trusted friend to split off and take my older dog along. The oldest girl is what I call bullet-proof, with good habits so well ingrained that I know she’ll be fine, no matter what is said to her. Besides, she’s basically a whore and will hunt for anybody.

Training together

I love dogs and enjoy the pandemonium of hunting over multiples. I’m sure a lot of people think this is insane, and I don’t claim that it puts more birds in the bag. I guarantee it is never boring though and what person’s heart doesn’t flutter at the sight of three or more dogs pointing simultaneously.

In the field most of them seem to get along and tend to business, but it certainly is more fun if they all honor each other’s points. Occasionally, some dogs, often who’ve spent their lives hunting in preserves, are clueless out in the big northern forests. Most will put it all together in short order though, particularly if they are hunting alongside experienced dogs, but, if after a day or two they still haven’t, I don’t know if they ever will.

The right friend can add a lot of pleasure
to a day afield.

And definitely, to avoid the biggest faux pas of all, you must assume that when someone takes you to one of their favorite coverts it is not yours to share unless the privilege is specifically granted. And, quite frankly, I’ve never heard of that happening. Productive grouse cover is just too precious and hard to come by to casually spread around. Sleeping with another’s spouse will get you into no more trouble than stealing their coverts—it is that serious.

So a gun shot a little too close to me or my dogs, a frantic attitude about bagging birds, an unruly dog, or a shotgun’s muzzle that wanders casually all over the place—any one of those can take the fun out of my day and you need not be hunting with me again.

Hot Weather

It has been really hot, so hot that when I am outside there seems to be bacon sizzling somewhere. At least my mind hears it, if only my nose could find the aroma.

Early morning walks, out back behind the house, are still possible, but by eight o’clock the woodland strolls are out of the question. They are not fun for me and the dogs suffer in the heat. Back at the house the dogs dig for cool soil to lay on, and I can’t blame them, but we try very hard to discourage it. Parts of the yard are starting to look like the No Man’s Land of World War I, all pot holes and bones. Taking the dogs down to one of the ponds is tempting and sometimes we get there, but other times the dogs and I just hunker down.

If I can avoid the persistent chores on the “to-do list” I’ll read, which is easily my favorite pastime in hot weather. Find me shade and a good book and I’m quite content while I wait for fall.

I just re-read Gene Hill’s book Shotgunner’s Notebook and enjoyed it immensely. I’m not sure if I learned anything new, but it brought a lot of things back that maybe had been filed in the foggy recesses of my brain. Some of the reviews of that book haven’t been the kindest because it was different than his other books, but you can still hear Gene’s voice and read his humor, plus learn something along the way.

I’ll have to rout around my bookshelves now to find something else to read. Or, while it’s really hot, it might be a good time to take my guns out, haul them down to my workbench in the cool basement, and give them a good cleaning, at least until the sun goes down.