September

       September brings the turning leaves and the first frost. The dogs can sense the changes, or maybe it is our frequent treks into the woods looking for birds that tips them off.
        The streams may be high or low, depending on rain. This year they are extremely low. Trout and salmon will be stacked up in the lakes and ponds, waiting for rising water and cooler temperatures before entering the streams. Nature is calling for them to preserve the future of their species.
        The birds and animals are shifting from their summer diet of fruits and insects to seeds, catkins, and buds.

        Frozen and then thawed apples are a favorite of deer, bears, and grouse. Mushrooms, ferns, and assorted greens create an interesting salad for grouse.
        We’ve been running our girls nearly daily. Colby, our oldest, stays mostly on the old roads and almost underfoot, but still surprises us with an occasional point. Maggie, who is four right now, covers the most ground, at times almost appearing to show off. Maybe she is. Then there’s a pup in the house. She’s great, checks back often to see where we are, hunts on her own most of the time, and backs the other dogs when they point. The older dogs always hate to be shown up, particularly Maggie, so she tries to cover much more ground than the pup. Unfortunately, this sometimes leads to bumped bird. But with Mollie backing the older dogs almost every time they point, it certainly makes life easier. Yesterday she backed Maggie on a skittish grouse.
                Sometimes Mollie charges through the woods on her own and we wonder if she really knows what she is after. I’m guessing that probably she does, it seems the dogs are usually one step ahead of us. Today she pointed where a ruffed grouse recently departed from and also a woodcock. Life is looking pretty good. 

Where’s the Woodcock?

The sun warmed the south facing slopes.

      It is that time of the year when bird hunters in our neighborhood start asking, “Where’s the woodcock?”

      It is nice to see the little russet birds arrive, because then you know spring has arrived. Usually the robins show up about the same time. Geese will be flying overhead or collecting in the fields. In the river, ducks will be paddling about in the backwaters. But woodcock? If you are lucky you might see one flying about dusk, but usually you have to go looking for them.

Maggie running ahead on a logger's skid trail.

      South facing slopes have bared up around here and near hillside seeps are a good place to look. I strapped on snowshoes and took Maggie, our younger German wirehair, out for a trek a couple of days ago. 

      On the flat of the valley floor a foot of hard snow made for easy snowshoeing and formed bridges over the numerous small brooks that appear every spring. The ground on the hillside that created the north side of the valley was almost completely free of snow. I hiked and Maggie hunted hard, until the valley dropped over a ledge into another valley thirty feet below. No way could a man get down that ledge except on his backside.

      We swung around to hunt the other edge of the valley, but no woodcock or grouse. I thought we might even find a shed antler, but no luck.

      It was one of those days. We will try again another day.

Water could be heard gurgling everywhere.

44 Degrees

     Two weeks ago we had four consecutive days where the temperature climbed well into the forties. That is rather unusual for February at this latitude. Of course it got everyone pumped up imagining spring right around the corner. Then we had about fourteen inches of medium density snow and temperatures below zero. So much for winter being over.

Snow fleas.

     Now we are into March and the weather is fickle as ever. Today the high was in the upper fifties and the roads looked like mud season was here. Maybe it is. Mud season is a mixed blessing and a sloppy harbinger of spring. On south facing slopes patches of bare ground indicate warmth. Looking at snow closely you might find snow fleas (yes, they really exist, google them). A robin showed up over a week ago and two mourning doves were pecking at sand in the road in town. Everything points to the arrival of spring weather, which is more than two weeks early.

     So where are the woodcock? That’s what every bird dog owner wants to know. For a week or two after their arrival it is great fun to hunt them with the dogs. Of course there is no shooting involved, but it is fun to see the dogs work after the long winter. Their excitement it infectious.

     Recent research indicates that the woodcock nest fairly soon after arriving and that a woodcock scared off her nest will re-nest, but she will have less than the usual four eggs to hatch. So this spring hunt of woodcock is a very short affair, and then the dogs must wait until both the woodcock and grouse young are hatched and grown before the dogs can hunt them again.

     Do you know if the woodcock are here?

Early Wet Snow

Snow on high bush
cranberries.

      Gray skies dribbled wet snow, which mixed with the soggy ground. The weeds that still stood readily soaked clothes. The dogs didn’t mind any of it. They were happy to hunt and loved the conditions.

      It was the last stretch before we turned the woods over to the rifle hunters and their search for deer. The morning temperatures had been down around or below freezing and the days were noticeably shorter than a few weeks ago. The hills bordering our valley looked soft, almost like supple gray fur.

      The grouse had scattered, the family groups broken up by hunters, human or otherwise. Woodcock were still around and a lucky hunter could find flight birds in numbers, or none. Soon they would all be gone. Depending on the year, grouse might be around apple trees or mountain ash or high bush cranberries. This year every fruit bearing tree produced massive crops, so the birds were scattered.

      With the season winding down we decided to spend the morning in a favorite old covert. The cover has changed from alders to poplar to mature poplar, but it was still a favorite covert that always has birds. A few ancient apple trees hid in the mix, always hinting of grouse..

The ground was soggy everywhere..

      The ground was soaked and almost immediately a woodcock fled ahead of one of the dogs. Down the hill we hunted and then turned northward when the ground turned to bog. On small hummocks covered with young maples each of the dogs pointed a woodcock. When Maggie points Colby always honors, I wish the opposite were also true. Some easy shots were miffed, but during the next hour two connected.

Colby pointing a woodcock hiding in a nasty thicket.

      Working our way back by a couple of old  apple trees another woodcock was found, but no grouse. Often they are there, but not that day. Near the truck bird scent aroused Colby’s interest, but after some serious tail wagging she abandoned it. Maggie trotted over and snapped onto point. On second thought, Colby decided to honor.

      It was a thicket impossible walk into. Kicking against the side, the woodcock almost smacked me in the face on the way by, then wove its way downhill through the trees.          

      Two shots never touched a feather.

      With clothes soaked it was time to leave. The dogs slept on the drive home while I sipped coffee.

      The bird season is just too short.

Ice On The Puddles

Morning fog usually means
nice weather.

     There is ice on the puddles now, at least first thing in the morning. At sunrise fog fills the valleys and the moisture freezes on the leafless branches of the trees. Golden or brown weeds and dead grasses have started to tilt or fall down. The fluffy seeds on the goldenrod look like cotton.

     Grouse hunters wait patiently for this time of the year. Temperatures are cool enough the dogs don’t overheat. Woodcock are still around to offer bonus birds. And, best of all, the leaves are pretty much gone from the trees. Green leaves may still cling to an occasional apple tree or the crown of a poplar may glow golden, but it is much easier to see in the woods.

High bush cranberries.

Young poplars.

     Gaudy red fruit hangs from both high bush cranberry and mountain ash this year. Apple tree branches weep under the load of their fruit. Now that the frost has softened the apples the wildlife love them. Find food and maybe you’ll find grouse, but this year there is so much to choose from the grouse could be almost anywhere.

     So we try to get out often. The dogs have firmed up their muscles and shed a pound or two. The hunters have too.

Maggie with a hard earned grouse.

Birds Be About

      It’s that marvelous time of the year. Grouse season opened a little over a week ago and we’ve been out almost every day. The dogs pointed like champs and a few birds have fallen to the gun. We are working on consistency.

      Apple trees, hawthorn, high bush cranberries, and mountain ash are all so loaded with fruit that their branches sag. Choke cherries are almost black by now. Birches and maples are loaded with seeds. Every creature of the forest is gorging on the smorgasbord. Any hunter trying to use bait to lure in game is suffering an uphill battle.

      We have found the ruffed grouse up high in the hills and down at the edges of the farmland in the valleys. Woodcock are wherever the ground is damp and not crowded with weeds. Our daily averages are slightly above the long term normal.

      Our old girl Colby doesn’t cover a lot of ground, but she never bumps a bird. Maggie, at three and a half years of age, still lets her enthusiasm get ahead of her wisdom and occasionally bumps a bird, but she finds a half dozen birds to her older sibling’s one. Watching them develop is at least half of the fun. 

     It is the most wonderful time of the year.

     

Mentoring

     The state of New Hampshire started a mentoring program this year for people who want to learn to bird hunt. I love the sport and worry about the shrinking number of hunters all over the country. With diminishing political clout we will lose our open lands and hunting as we know it.

Choke cherries are everywhere.

     Yesterday I met my mentee for the first time. We chatted a bit and then headed into the woods. He’s about a decade younger than me and has hunted most of his life, but never over bird dogs or for ruffed grouse in New Hampshire. Trying to explain to somebody what makes good grouse or woodcock cover sounds easy, but often it is just a feeling or hunch as you drive by a certain piece of cover. Travelling on a logging road, I pointed out things grouse love to eat and tried to explain the need for shelter in the softwood trees.

     I let my dogs out in a place I had found grouse before, but we didn’t have a lot of time and this time of the year grouse are widely scattered. Berries and seeds are abundant and everywhere in the woods this year, so finding concentrated birds seemed unlikely. I tried to be optimistic.

Maggie on a woodcock.

     The weeds were impenetrable in a small clearcut I had hoped to work around. Instead, we trekked to the north and found moist young forest. I mentioned something about good cover to find woodcock and almost immediately my younger dog went on point. That certainly made me feel good.

     Stepping past the dog, the bird launched straight up over the trees and then flew away. A couple of minutes later my older girl went on point with Maggie backing her. Maggie lost control of her manners and bumped the bird, but it still was nice to find a second bird in the little bit of time we were in the woods.

     I’m looking forward to spending a day in October with my mentee. Let’s hope it’s a day filled with birds.

Do you see him?

Maggie’s Day

     The day was planned in woodcock country, hoping to find steady birds for our younger dog to work on. Most of the time Maggie held point reliably, but on grouse she was far from flawless. There’s no better bird than woodcock to work a young dog on.

     We had no sooner entered the alders and Maggie locked up on point. A woodcock came up as I walked past her and she retrieved it after the shot. The day began the way I hoped it would.

     Weaving through the alders, we hunted hard and covered a lot of territory, but we found no more woodcock. Where could they be? A beaver had been busy and created a large pond. And then we found a second new pond made by another beaver. Moose had crossed through and deer had a trail parallel with the stream. Finally we turned inland to work our way back.

     Maggie locked up on point far ahead. I could see her, but getting there through the alders and blow down fir trees was a struggle. Finally stepping past her, I expected a woodcock…grouse never hold that long.

     Old mister grouse exploded skyward. I fumbled in the tangle of cover, never getting to fire a shot. Maggie had held that bird for an unbelievable length of time. I was ecstatic.

     After several minutes of praise we hunted on, walking a meandering course more or less following where the alders met the forest. Atop a bump on a knoll Maggie locked up again with Colby backing.

     Not sure what to expect, I hurried past her with my gun up. A grouse flushed twenty feet from her nose. It was an easy straight away shot, but the bird ducked behind a fat red maple as I pulled the trigger. The tree will live to tell about it, and so did the bird.

     Again I praised her. We had found three birds, two of which were ruffed grouse, all in an hour or so, and she performed like a wise old bird dog. Even without a ruffed grouse in the bag, I went home a very happy hunter.

From my log…

Maggie on point.

     October 27, Saturday.  Today was one of those days every bird dog owner waits for. I took the girls to woodcock country, hoping to get my youngster onto birds that wanted to hold for a point. Right off the bat Maggie locked up like a statue and when I walked in a woodcock flew up. I nailed it and she returned it, things couldn’t have been better.

     Of course I thought the whole morning would go like that, but we couldn’t find another woodcock anywhere.

     Hunting our way back, Maggie pointed again, I walked in, she relocated, and when I walked ahead of her a grouse flew. The shot was muffed, my fault totally, but I was very proud of her. Maybe five minutes later she points again, quite a long way ahead of me. I got to her and walked past. A grouse burst skyward and ducked behind a large cherry tree that absorbed a load of number eight shot. Two perfect points! If only I could have killed those birds.

     Entering some softwoods, another grouse flew out of a fir tree directly over my head. There was no chance for a point on that bird.

    An excellent two hour morning, with Maggie was a rock star. There weren't a lot of birds, but three solid points and no bumped birds. She is learning everyday.

Maggie with a woodcock.

An Expedition

What Makes an Expedition?

Merriam-Webster defines an expedition as a journey or excursion undertaken for a specific purpose. That definition covers a lot of territory. It could mean traveling to the North Pole to see what is there. Or flying to the moon. Or it could mean a hike into the forest, searching for a wilderness trout stream to see if brook trout swim in its water or if woodcock live among the alders on its banks.

Looking for a remote stream sounds better than the cold of the arctic and much safer than flying to the moon.

There’s a locally well-known stream that has no easy access and long has been an interest of mine. The logging road that parallels part of it is gated and the headwaters are more than a dozen miles from that gate. Hours have been spent pouring over maps and aerial pictures trying to find a reasonable way in.

Finally the pieces fell together. An accessible logging road leads to a grown in logging road that shows up in aerial photos. It should only be a few miles down a long grade to find the stream. What would it be like? The expedition was planned…lunch, fly rods, camera….

The hike in was uneventful. Icy cold water flowed over a gravelly bottom, in spite of the hot August weather. Alders covered the entire wide bottom of the valley until the land started to rise into hardwoods on the hills. The remote place felt like we were the only people on Earth.

And I am not going to tell you more than that.

Late August

October still seems a long ways off. Hot muggy weather makes each day pass slowly. Maggie, our youngest wirehair, spends much of each day in a cool depression dug into the earth beneath the deck. Colby, our older wire, doesn’t seem to mind the heat at all and sleeps in the driveway.

The best parts of each day are the cool hours in the morning before the sun climbs high and as the heat fades when the late sun disappears over the distant hills.

After dinner each day, we walk the hundred yards from our home to the vegetable garden to see how things have progressed. The dogs love the routine and Maggie usually runs big sweeps around the field, as if on patrol, while Colby will stay back near the house, as if guarding it in our absence. It is a routine we all enjoy. Lately, apples dropped from a wild tree have been tossed for retrieving.

But tonight, as Maggie trotted along the edge of the field, she was jerked to a stop as if tethered to a snubbed leash. I hurried over and walked into the woods ahead of her point. A woodcock tweetered upward and away thirty feet beyond her nose.

Isn’t life grand?

The Middle of May

The grouse are pounding, literally. Some days it goes on all day long, others less so. Seldom during the day can you not hear them for long. The leaves aren’t out, but the red maples are pink on the hillsides. Distant pale green patches mark clusters of poplars. Water seems to be rushing everywhere. Only during the past week has the ice gone out on the lakes and the streams are still swollen.

Most of the logging roads are blocked off and they feel none too hard when you walk on them. It is spring in the North Country, a time of waiting. Luckily, the last week so so the weather has been spectacular, with blue skies and bright sunshine.  Woodcock are already nesting and maybe some of the young have already hatched. The woods will dry out soon and the streams will settle and warm. Warblers are already singing from the trees. Soon the trout will be feeding on hatching mayflies.

From The Journal

    The opening weekend of the 2003 bird season I took my German wirehair pointer north for her second trip to the North Woods. Our first morning up there the woods dripped from a nighttime of steady rain and the sun hid behind a dark mottled sky.

      As Chara hunted down the slope ahead of me, I followed through alders and young poplars, trying hard not to brush against anymore wet foliage than necessary. We were searching for woodcock in those alders. Thirty years earlier I had hunted that same covert with my first bird dog, a boneheaded Brittany spaniel that taught me a lot. Unfortunately, I could teach that dog little.

       It’s funny how you don’t mind the wet woods once you find birds. At one point, before we had found any birds, I remember thinking that none of my friends would have enjoyed that morning, with soft mud sucking at boots and soaked cold clothes plastered to the skin.

      Near a brook that twisted down the hillside we chased two grouse in circles. It was like they didn’t want to leave their home territory and kept circling back. A few dozen fat fir trees along that stream broke up the yellowing poplars and still green alders, and provided excellent cover for those rotating grouse. Those stubborn leaves gave the grouse such an advantage that we finally lost track of them.

      But there were woodcock and Chara proved her worth. I shot as the first bird disappeared into the foliage and felt certain it was a clean miss, but my girl came bounding back with bird in her mouth. And the day kept getting better. When we walked out of the woods at eight-thirty a limit of woodcock rested in my game vest.

      Yet the best part of the morning was sitting on the tailgate of my truck and sharing cookies with Chara. 

      Parked on a logging road in the middle of nowhere, we watched the sun burn away the clouds to illuminate the reds of the maples and golds of the birches. As the air warmed, it smelled of sweet drying leaves and spicy grasses. The only sound came from far away in the hills, where a raven made his soulful cry.

Worm Soup

Alders

      The rain had finally stopped. It was time to get the dogs out hunting again. With the youngster in the house, Maggie, that meant looking for woodcock, because no finer bird was there ever for training a young pointing dog.

      The woods was soaked after three or four inches of rain in only a matter of hours. Winds had approached hurricane force and the power was out back at the house. Hundreds of trees were down everywhere. Logging roads would be impassible, unless one hacked their way in with a chainsaw. I opted for easier going and picked a covert next to a state road.

      Soft wet ground, like runny chocolate pudding, oozed down the hillsides. We pushed through raspberries and then blackberries into a stand of young alders. Maggie and Colby were in hyper mode, hunting hard, oblivious to the mud. Down the slope we sloshed. Then, where water puddled among alders, a bumped woodcock flew back over my head.

A rock pile left by a farmer.

      Clumps of young firs, growing on a series of hummocks the size of overturned bushel baskets, divided the alders from more poplars. We skirted an enormous pile of moss-covered rocks, left by a long gone farmer, and another thicket of blackberries. More fencepost-size poplars stood above bent and brown ferns, then into another cluster of alders we waded. Where were the woodcock?

      Far ahead, Maggie’s bell screamed silence. Colby’s still rattled off to my right. Then Colby’s fell silent too. Silence. Two dogs were pointing, what to do? How long would the young dog wait? I quickly stepped in front of closer Colby, knowing that if a bird flushed a gunshot would send Maggie into overdrive.

      No bird, I breathed relief, then hurried toward Maggie, while saying to Colby, “There’s no bird Colby. Where is Maggie? Let’s go find Maggie. This way girl, come on, this way.”

      Colby zigzagged through where she thought the bird was, but, finding nothing, she galloped ahead, disappearing into the alders. Ducking under and stepping over limbs and leaning trunks, I first saw the unmoving white of Colby’s coat and then Maggie’s brown silhouette, like a statue a dozen feet ahead of her. My heart pounded.

Soggy ground. How many dogs in the picture?

      Trying to approach through the tangle was frustratingly slow. And I needed to be able to stand to shoot, but the world was a jumble of limbs and trunks. As I stepped over a roadblock of tilting alders, the bird tweetered toward the sky. A shot is pointless, but tried anyway. The bird disappeared into the swamp.

      The dogs went into overdrive, fueled by bird scent and gunfire. We worked downhill to where thick grasses grew between the alders. Water was everywhere and the ground felt like stepping on a soggy pillows. Turning to the right, we followed where the saturated bare ground met the soaked grasses.

      In a spot wetter than most, puddles and pools dictated detours. Maggie pointed thirty yards ahead. As I tried to find a route towards her, Colby pointed to my right. White splashes covered the ground. A step toward Colby sent another woodcock aloft, but a shot was impossible. I hurried toward Maggie and a second one launched, offering an easy going away shot.

      After that the dogs were wound tight, with bird scent is in their nostrils and the taste in their mouths. Hunting hard and fast, they covered a lot of country, while I struggled to keep up. The scenario repeated three more times in the swampiest of places. Only one more bird fell to the gun.

      What were these birds eating? Drowned earth worms? Marinated in rainwater? How did the woodcock stay dry? Ducks would have swum happily between the trees.

     After we turned back toward the truck, I attempt to steer the dogs toward an old apple tree where ruffed grouse like to loiter. To my left, Maggie was up the hill further than I wanted and out of sight. Then her bell fell silent. I coaxed Colby in that direction, hoping she would find her for me.

      But Colby went on point where a small stream created an expansive quagmire in a flat spot. That woodcock flushed well ahead of me and disappeared into a cluster of firs. Colby dashed off toward the apple tree. Mumbling to myself, I headed toward Maggie and called Colby back.

      The young dog’s bell jangled again, then a woodcock weaved through the trees toward me, passed overhead, and disappeared down the hill. Impatient Maggie charged along in hot pursuit.

Wild apples and an abandoned field.

      The three of us followed the bird’s path into intertwined alders. Maggie’s bell went silent, then Colby’s too. I followed to the edge of a gully, where I could barely see both dogs locked on point not forty feet ahead of me. Stepping, twisting, crawling, and cursing, I pushed in. The woodcock tweetered upward and then down the hill, dropping like a stone beside a lone fir tree.

      We followed. The dogs hunted hard, tearing up the turf with water splashing. The bird seemed to have disappeared, but then took off next to my right foot. I never lifted my gun and neither of the dogs noticed it go.

      Hunting again toward the truck, both Maggie and Colby each found another woodcock where another tiny trickle wound down the hill, but in the tangled jungle both flew off without a shot being fired.

      Later that day we hunted across the street among ancient apple trees that the grouse love. We found no grouse, but, about to turn around and head home, I coaxed the dogs into a tiny patch of alders next to a small field. Colby instantly snapped into a point, then Maggie too. I marched into the alders and a woodcock twisted skyward through the branches. When it reached the treetops I fired.

Colby looking good.

      Colby made the retrieve and the dogs tussled harmlessly for a moment over ownership. 

      With wet feet and very happy dogs it was time to go home.

Across The Stream

     Across the stream the cover looked perfect. Isn’t that always the way? Mixed hardwoods towered over clumps of alders and softwoods stood in clusters, all on flat and relatively dry ground. Up in our neck of the woods, if you are not going uphill you are most likely headed down. Horizontal country is rare. And everywhere your feet seem to get wet.

      Ferns and grasses covered that oasis, with patches of wild hops, seedy weeds, or raspberries breaking up the forest floor. To an old bird hunter, it looked like the Garden of Eden.

     For years I had looked at it, across a rather formidable stream. It was property open to the public to hunt, but road access was for the privileged few or on foot around locked gates. Or across that unfordable stream.

     The past summer was as wet as any other up in this neck of the woods, but the last two or three weeks had been dry. Evidently the spring runoff had moved the stream's bottom around and changed the course of the stream a bit. Passing by the other day, I was surprised to notice a place to cross.

     After parking, we started to our collect gear and ready the gun. Instantly, the two dogs locked up on point about fifteen feet from the back of the truck. Ahead of them a nearly vertical drop fell to the water a dozen or more feet below.

     Stepping toward them with gun in hand, a grouse exploded across toward the far side. I never even attempted to bring the gun up. The youngest wirehair, Maggie, launched and landed mid-stream and I don’t think she even knew she got wet.

     The climb down to the stream was a challenge, followed by a leap to a gravel bar, then steps from rock to rock to rock, then another leap to a steep slippery muddy bank, all the while holding onto a very dear shotgun.

     The country looked even better up close.

A scraggy old tree.

No chainsaw had visited that plateau in decades. Three men together would not have been able to put their arms around one particularly fat yellow birch. Ancient alders lined the streambank and scraggy old cherry trees towered overhead. Fat white birches shed sheets of bark and an occasional red maple stood nearby. Further inland, scattered clumps of softwoods offered shelter and a zigzag of alders split the property.

     followed the stream edge, ducking under or stepping over alders. At times we took the easier way, weaving inland to push through weeds or dried grasses. A finger of slack water finally cut off our course.

     The rumble of the stream competed with the rattle of the leaves. Moose and deer tracks hid between the dried leaves in the soft moist ground. Dog bells jingled and it felt like civilization had to be far far away. Overhead, ravens rasped about something.

Hunting inland we followed another line of alders that wove back along an old crooked stream that had barely any water in it. In places wet ground called for careful foot placement to avoid disaster. Twice grouse launched off of the ground, startling us. One flushed low at my feet when I stepped last a cherry tree. It offered an easy going away shot, but the dog’s bells were ringing ahead of the grouse so I held the shot.

     The dogs pointed a woodcock under big old alders, but then the youngster, Maggie, attempted to catch it. Another was bumped, which was nobody’s fault, we’ll blame the wind. We followed to where it disappeared into a cluster of red twig dogwood that stood beside a dark stand of softwood trees, but never found it again.

Colby has been around long enough to know the tricks.

     Colby, the older wirehair, locked up on third one back at the alders. Maggie honored like a champ. That bird came home with us.

     I had to wonder when that land had been logged. Everywhere up in that neck of the woods had been cut over at least once. Could they have just taken the spruce or pine? An area I had logged as a young pup had been harvested that way. The big old yellow birches we passed had to be two hundred years old.

     In a clump of fir trees, Maggie poked around the base of one maple that stood among them, repeatedly coming back to its trunk. Her tail was just a blur. Finally, she looked up, which caused me to look up too, and sure enough a grouse sat hidden among the branches. I am sure the bird wished it were somewhere else, or that we were. Several pictures were taken and then the bird bolted, escaping unscathed without a shot fired

Do you see him in there?

     The string of alders led us through more beautiful cover, but we found no other birds. Eventually we came back to the stream, far upstream from where we had started. We hunted further upstream a bit, but the country turned to mostly softwoods and didn’t look as promising. We turned back downstream to find where we had crossed earlier.

      Crossing back was just as challenging, but we made it with dry feet. And climbing up the banking to the road was the most physically demanding part of the day.

     Sometimes the grass is greener on the other side of the stream, you just have to get there.

More New Country

So close yet so far...

     Across the river looked to be mighty birdy country, but the water was too deep to wade, so to get there meant many miles on logging roads. Mature alders, with pockets of poplar and clusters of softwoods, beckoned. Dozens of times I had seen it, but traipsing all over the country on the other side of the river, I had never figured out where to find it.

     Studying topographical maps and aerial photos, I finally unraveled it.

Beavers were everywhere.

     It took a hike through softwoods to get there, probably a mile. In places the sphagnum moss was so thick you could actually hear yourself think. Most of the spruce and fir trees were large, so the walking was easy, but in places thickets of smaller trees or cedars and water under foot made the going slower. When we could, we followed game trails. I wish deer were taller.

     Along the river ancient cherries stood over the alders. Dead elms desperately tried to hang onto their limbs and scattered fat fallen fir trees required detours. Fingers of water forced reconnoitering and alternate courses. But it was bird country.

     The dogs tore through the cover. Maggie, the youngster, shot about like a ping pong ball, almost immediately bumping a grouse. It looked like a cannon-fired turkey crossing an opening over tall grass. Colby, the experienced older girl, work methodically. Bells were ringing. Birds were pointed, birds were bumped, and, at the end of the day, the birds were luckier than we were.

Do you see him there?

     There’s more country to explore along that section of the river. We’ll be back.

Woodcock

     There is some encouraging news about the magical woodcock. In our area, their numbers have been steady the last few years because of local timber harvesting, which creates abundant early successional forests. Young woodlands are important to both woodcock and ruffed grouse. Nationally, the news is also encouraging too.

http://www.freep.com/story/sponsor-story/michigan-wildlife-council/2017/09/19/woodcock-making-impressive-return/105605460/

Getting Ready

     It is time to get ready for bird season. The young woodcock and grouse of the year are old enough to fly, so we have been running the dogs in the woods with their bells on. Maggie, our youngest, is showing her smarts and acting like a champion. The older girl, Colby, still likes to show off and finds her share of birds, but her older joints have slowed her down some. It brings great joy to see them pointing side by side.

     It is important to get the dogs in shape, and us too. One of the important things is make certain dog's toenails are ready for hard running. Here is an excellent link that shows proper trimming.

https://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F%2Fltp-cdn-endpoint.azureedge.net%2Fltp-test%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2014%2F06%2FNail-Trimming-Diagram.png&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.lovethatpet.com%2Fdogs%2Fgrooming%2Ftrimming-dogs-nails%2F&docid=NO5CaTQFUWsS6M&tbnid=-UMqtGuFHKql2M%3A&vet=1&w=960&h=606&hl=en-US&source=sh%2Fx%2Fim

Good stuff to revive boots.

     The shotgun needs to get some serious use too, to freshen up the muscle memory. It has been way too long. Boots are new and broken in, and there are plenty of shotgun shells on the shelf. Maybe the Filson pants need new wax.

     One of the nicest things about upland hunting is there isn’t a lot of paraphernalia needed. It’s time to start pouring over maps and plan the season.

Ripsnorter Magalloway Magic showing her stuff last year.

The Brook

     A woodcock fluttered up and away my very first time there. That was eleven years ago and it seemed like a pretty good omen. Barbed wire buried inches beneath the bark of softwood trees told it once was a pasture. In places, remnants of old fields still border the stream, but alders and poplar are squeezing the grasses away.

     Every year the brook changes when the spring runoff chews away at its banks and tumbles streamside trees. One favorite bend used to be around a narrow gravel bar, but has grown to nearly the size of a tennis court. The stream is a property bound and someday it will be interesting to sort out who owns what, but that isn’t a worry now.

     On the north side of the stream, softwoods cover the flat valley bottom. Soft needles and moss muffle footsteps, and moose and deer keep a path well trampled. 
      In places the ferns are waist high, easily tall enough to hide dwarfs, elves, and forest creatures. It is a magical place. Farther from the stream, the land abruptly climbs and the forest changes to mixed hardwoods. Along this edge is where the exploding ruffed grouse live.

     Brook trout hide in the stream’s shadows, beneath undercut banks and fallen tree trunks. In the fall they slip up some of the tiny feeder streams to reproduce, sometimes in places that are so shallow their backs are out of the water. It is best to give them some privacy then, so I stay away.

     Fishing downstream, sinking flies in the deeper holes or among the shadows along the banks, you will eventually come to the alder flats. In October, when the weeds finally lay flat, the woodcock will be found feeding in the soft soil beneath those alders. Some great memories linger in that tangle. But by mid-November the place feels as empty as a ghost town.

     Further downstream a bit, beavers keep trying to dam the stream, but always disappear after the dams get started. Possibly someone traps them out, but the abandoned barriers create lovely tranquil pools. There, a tiny dry fly often coaxes a trout into doing something stupid, or at least showing its location. The trusty old green woolly bugger usually catches the biggest fish.

     Most of the trout are gently put back into the stream. A whopper would be as long as the spread of a man’s hand, but those are rare. Occasionally, a couple medium sized ones will come home to be cooked in bacon fat for breakfast. A kingfisher might protest, but he can catch his own trout.