A Tough Year

Taking a break on a hot day.

    This year has been warmer than normal and extremely dry, and where are the grouse?  

    So far the bird season has been frustrating. Early on a few grouse were found around apple trees, perhaps for the moisture in the fruit, but many of the usual coverts are empty or nearly so. Our daily average has been the lowest in years.

    A great number of the little streams that usually wind down the hillsides dried up. In the past woodcock could often be found in the moist ground along them. Alder flats that are usually wet and muddy became easy walking. In spite of the lack of rain the apple trees had a bumper crop of fruit, and blueberries, raspberries, highbush cranberries did the same. Did the abundant fruit cause the birds to scatter?

    The spring weather wasn’t unusually wet or cold, so I expected good brood numbers. Wet cold weather right after hatching can wipe out much of a year’s young grouse. The entire year has been unusually dry, and since the spring particularly so.

The usual wet lowlands were just low.

    But the weather has turned now and the migrating woodcock have showed up. The grouse are still sketchy and hard to find, yet we keep trying. Almost all of the leaves have dropped and it is a great time to be in the woods. When a bird goes up at least we can see it.

   We’ll keep trying and perhaps figure out these grouse yet.

Magic

A point during training.

     Nothing matches the magic of having a new pup in the house. Old dogs create comfort, new dogs bring wonder. The pup’s excitement and curiosity generate the same in us. Every trip afield becomes an adventure.

     There is laughter sprinkled with frustration, but most of the latter is usually brought on by our own unreasonable expectations. The difference between flustered and amused is attitude.

A woodcock point.

     Hopefully, the pup is trying its hardest to do what we want…but it’s just so hard to stand still when that bird is four feet from the nose!  I constantly remind myself that a bumped bird is a learning experience, and hopefully the young dog is smart enough to put it all together

     An older experienced dog is a great teacher and the pup will learn much. Of course, it is important to teach the younger dog to honor the older dog’s point, then hunt them together as much as you can.

     So this is our autumn to teach a pup, but Maggie seems to be teaching herself. On her own she knows to stay close in thick cover yet ranges further where the country is open, always quartering nicely to search every corner. Somehow she learned we are all part of the team, for she checks back often to know where I am. If only my shooting were better the process would cement in her mind quicker.

     When she comes upon the older dog pointing the brakes are applied. When she finds bird scent on her own Maggie’s hind end wiggles in overdrive until the bird is pinpointed. Now we are working on patience to just hold that point longer.

I walk ahead of Maggie pointing a woodcock.

     I am certain most of our success comes from good breeding, for that the credit goes to Ripsnorter Kennel in Ohio. Maggie’s manners were taught early and she loves to please.  

     Life is looking pretty good.

The Old Guy Next Door

    The old man next door always has a bunch of dogs, sometimes three, sometimes more. I’m not sure if they all are his or if he’s just taking care of them for somebody. Somebody once told me he trained dogs for people, but I don’t know nothing about that.

    When I stop over there he’s always laughing. Don’t know what that is about. One time I even pointed out the flat tire on the back of his truck and he said, “Well if that don’t beat all,” then chuckled a bit. If it were me I would have been pissed. He just went about fixing the darn thing while his dogs got in the way.

    Behind his house he grows a big garden, more than two people can eat. His missus is the one that takes care of that. Most of the day he works in his shop, making things for people that pay him enough so he can take most of Octobers off to hunt birds. His missus is a pretty woman and I like to stop over there to chat with here whenever I can. 

    A few weeks ago the old man invited me over to shoot skeet with him. It wasn’t anything formal, like down at the club, but shooting skeet right behind his house. His dogs go crazy with the shooting, thinking that dead birds must be falling I guess. He laughs and keeps them out of the way when we launch the targets, but then they go dashing off into the weeds looking for dead things. I missed more than I broke, but he didn’t miss any.

    Twice his dogs brought back intact clay pigeons that we’d obviously cleanly missed. It was sort of embarrassing in a way, but the old man just laughed and took the targets from the dogs, then flung them out to shoot at again. Recycling he called it.

    Deer hunting is my favorite kind of hunting, but the old guy mostly hunts birds. Oh, he does hunt deer and other stuff, but every day in bird season I see he is out. Last year he invited me to go with him and it was fun to watch his dogs. It’s like they live to hunt birds, but then maybe the old man does too. You should have seen the smile on his face.

    Three times the dogs pointed, like quivering statues, and I got to walk in and flush the grouse, but I never hit a one. A woodcock flying straight away dropped when I shot, but that was an easy one. The grouse were impossible.

    This year he says we’re going to go again. I can’t wait.

Stonewalls

    The forests of New England are littered with stonewalls. Different regions have different walls, in the southern areas the stones might be rounder and bigger while in the northern regions the rocks might be smaller and more angular. In some areas the walls are wider or neater, while elsewhere they are hardly walls at all but more long piles of rocks. Sometimes I wonder if the walls were made as a convenient place to pile stones out of the way or as barriers to segregate the newly created opened pastures. Maybe both. A hundred or so miles to the south of Camp Grouse the walls divide up the forest with unbelievable regularity every few hundred feet, many left behind by sheep farmers centuries ago. Up here, way to the north, they walls are more scattered and hard to find, often buried in forest where once pastures were cleared.

    Here the walls are often with miles apart and finding one is significant. Well over a century ago the loggers moved through this country, stealing the timber before moving ever westward. Farmers followed, after hearing stories of green intervals and free land, but the summers proved too too short and the brutal winters extremely long. Giving up after a few years the new farmers left for greener pastures to the west and let the forest reclaim what was hers.

    When we find stone walls out in the middle of nowhere I have to wonder who the farmers were, how long they fought the land and climate, and where they went after throwing in the towel. Mentally I measure the distances to the towns and ponder the lonely lives they must have led. Visiting with neighbors must have been such a treat. Usually the walls are few and if a foundation is found it is tiny, making me think they did not stay too long.

     Openings in the forest often have apple trees around the edges, left behind by those lone gone settlers and often the trees are full of fruit. Grouse love those trees, but so do deer, bears, and other bird hunters. I always poke around, hoping a cellar hole can be found, or maybe even an old door or other remnant. Most often there are only the stone walls almost buried by moss and leaves. The forest tries to hide the tales of the early settlers.

    Hunting those abandoned old homesteads often brings on spooky thoughts of spirits left behind, enough so to interrupt one’s shooting. Any grouse or woodcock flushed is usually pretty safe as they fly straight away. I laugh about the  missed shots but they are real. 

    The old cellar hole…was that where the main house was? Sometimes it seems incredibly small by today’s standards. Was that big old white pine tree there back when the house was built? Or did they plant that pine…imagining that someday it would shade the house. Could an herb garden been planted next to the house? What about vegetables? Which side had the  front door?

    Sometimes a “dump” can be found nearby. Finding those was easier four decades ago than it is now, but still treasures hide among the leaves. 

    The smell of rotted leaves drifts up as I kneel down. A rusted barrel band, maybe a rotting stave, a chunk of unidentifiable cast iron, an ancient bottle….

     The dog’s bell brings me back to the present. She is down the hill where the alders meet the hardwoods, close to where the brook flows into the larger stream that rushes to the north.

    Then sudden silence reminds me of why I am here. Picking up my gun I traipse towards the quiet. 

Chara

       

A special pup.

 June 3, 2001 - August 12, 2016

     Sometimes we are really lucky and in 2001 I certainly was. Stumbling around looking for a German wirehaired pointer, I came upon a breeder in New York who introduced me to Weidenhugel Chardonnay, a predominately white German wirehaired pointer pup. It was love at first sight.

          By then more than a dozen years had passed since a bird dog had been part of my life. Chara was smart, learned quickly, loved to hunt, and became more than a dog, much like a best friend. When I worked in my shop she hung around, always ready for a two or five minute lesson. Heal, stay, whoa all came easily to her. Pigeons and quail became part of my life, for without birds you will never have a bird dog.

          The first hunt, at five months of age, was in a state run wildlife management

Learning together.

area. She pointed a pair of quail and brought back the one that fell to the shot. I never felt prouder. And throughout her entire life, her hunting enthusiasm never waned.

          I could go to the post office in our busy town and ask her to sit outside by the door and know she would be there when I came back out. Walking unleashed, she would heal through the sidewalks as people passing patted her head. I beamed.

          Exiting the post office one day a car’s tires screeched. A scared young golden retriever dashed across the street not twenty feet away, narrowly dodging the skidding vehicle. Good Samaritans tried to catch the dog, but it was too scared to trust anyone and dashed hither and yon, eyes big as golf balls. I walked to my truck and let out Chara. She trotted over to the frightened dog and the two sniffed noses. Slipping my finger into the collar of the golden retriever, then I walked the dog back to its owner. Never did I feel prouder of Chara.

   

As a young dog.

       On our first trip to grouse country she never actually pointed any of the skittish grouse, but she performed perfectly on woodcock. It was the beginning of a partnership that lasted her life time. We hunted old coverts that I had hunted as a younger man with an overly eager Brittany spaniel. Chara’s performance made that Brittany look like a fool. Together we stomped all over the north woods.

          Our first duck hunt together confused poor Chara. Why weren’t we walking and looking for birds? After all, we had a gun with us? Forcing her to sit, we sat in the weeds behind a few decays that I had carved years earlier. If it wasn’t for my hand on her neck and finger inside her collar, she would have dashed off looking for upland birds. Not long after legal shooting time a pair of mallards fell out of the sky and I stood to shoot, causing one to tumble into the water.

          About to give the retrieve command, she was already in the water and halfway out to the duck. Duck hunting was a piece of cake after that. One cold January she even retrieved a golden eye.= that fell a hundred yards from our duck boat.

          I learned to trust her nose and never doubt when she worked bird scent. Sometimes it wasn’t pretty in the classic sense, but with the nose to the ground she always found the bird. Grouse have always walked and now woodcock seem to also, but with Chara it didn’t matter, she would always find them. Point, think, wait, re-point, think, move, re-locate…it would continue, and I could always tell when the bird was pinned.

            The memories go on…the day where we must have found a hundred woodcock,

Hard on a point.

or the woodcock that fell into the river, or the crippled Canada goose that paddled out over a hundred yards from shore. Or the grouse pointed on opening day one year while her fourteen month old sibling honored, only to have the each retrieve one wing of the bird while the breast stayed where it fallen. Or the time she pointed straight up at the bird in a softwood tree? Or the day we hunted all day from the house and moved so many birds, but none really offered a shot. When I broke open my gun back at the house I had forgotten to load it. We laughed, at least I think she did too. Those things will stay with me.

          So many times, when her bell went silent and I knew she was on a point yet I couldn’t find her, I would call her name. It’s a mystery how she figured it out, or even how she did it, but Chara would move just enough that her bell would ding once, letting me know where she was without frightening the bird.

          So many other dogs passed through Camp Grouse, but Chara was always the Grande Dame. In the alder thickets or grouse coverts, she never seemed to notice the other dog’s presence. Dogs hunting with her learned a lot, of that I am sure, and I wish our young pup had had a season or two with her.

          But that wasn’t to be and last week Chara left us. It was her time, with fifteen hunting seasons behind her. It was more than I could ask and a life that most dogs would dream of, never tethered and in the woods almost every day.

In her last years she loved the cool stream.

         The last few bird seasons were easy hunts, but some that I will remember forever. Hunting over an older dog is very civilized, with a slower pace and avoiding the nastier thickets. She stayed determined and hunted hard until the end. We hunted the cream coverts the last couple of years, flat with few thorny thickets.

         Now she is buried beside the apple tree behind the house and I hope the grouse come out to visit her. I am sure they can share stories and have a few laughs. Come spring time she certainly will be able to hear them drumming.

          Chara, I will never forget you.

As I will always remember her.

What is Good Enough?

    Years ago when I had more energy my dogs had better be perfect, or pretty close. Steady to wing and shot, retrieve to hand, with perfect manners around the house were expected. My oldest wire was a struggle with the honoring of another dog’s point, but the steady to wing and shot came without too much trouble. Life looked golden.

Maggie on the run.

    But achieving something and maintaining something are two different things. I hunt alone much of the time and enforcing the steady to wing and shot turned out to be difficult when she had a different mind. I would get frustrated and the dog would dig in her heels. During one December hunt in her fifth or sixth year I threw in the towel and stopped reprimanding her when she broke on the flush. Bird hunting has been more fun since then.

    But I understand and admire owners who demand dog perfection and can maintain it. We all set our own standards, whether bird hunting, trout fishing, or maintaining our home or vehicle. Life demands much and time is finite, so each to their own priorities.  

    A dog’s intelligence is the most important thing and that probably has more to do with the breeding than anything else, but we can do a lot to stimulate a puppy’s brain. I love a dog who figures things out on her own and learns relocate on a moving grouse. My oldest always knew more about where the bird was than I ever would, at least until it flushed. So I let her move, head down sniffing foot scent if necessary…stopping, starting, and pointing whenever the bird stopped.. She almost never bumped a bird, her patience and determination certainly surpassing mine. If I waited long enough we would certainly find and pin the bird for a flush.

    Manners around the house are a must, after all, dogs in our home live pretty darn well. Honoring another dog’s point is also a must, because visitors often bring their dogs along and nothing frays friendships quicker than one dog stealing another’s point.

Georgia working her magic.

    One thing I have learned over the years is that breeding has more to do with how a dog turns out than any training along the way. Georgia, a German shorthaired pointer from Hedgehog Hill Kennels in Vermont, taught me that. With no bird hunting training at all, only the basic manners that every dogs should be taught, she was a gem to hunt over. For four seasons I had the pleasure of “borrowing” her for bird season and she truly was a rock star, repeatedly pointing and retrieving ruffed grouse and woodcock.

    Right now we have a seven month old German wirehair in the house from Ripsnorter Kennel, named Ripsnorter Magallow Magic Snapshot. She seems smart and constantly watches the older dogs to quietly learn. Her lineage goes directly back to my oldest wirehair, who has been a brilliant hunter. Young Maggie hunts hard when we are in the woods, points song birds and butterflies in the yard, and watches with fascination the birds flying overhead. The manners required for civil living are pretty well ingrained and soon we’ll be looking for woodcock to train on.

Chara with her great, great, great, great, niece last March.

    So far she is more than good enough. I am very hopeful.

Gunning for Trout

   

    Grouse season is months away. The new pup’s attention span is measured in minutes that can be counted one’s fingers, so training seasons take up little time. Heavy foliage takes much of the fun out of scouting for new grouse cover. What to do?

    The stream calls as it winds through the valley below Camp Grouse. Sometimes it’s a whisper, others it’s a roar, but most often the sound is a constant chortle that never ends. Alders line much of its banks, in other places tall softwoods blot out the sky. Where it winds through old pastures there are glimpses of farm country turning back to forest. Yes, it is grouse country.

    The water tugs at ankles protected by Lacrosse boots. Pesky deerflies dart in around the edges of a tired hat. Mosquitoes whine while downstream a kingfisher rattles a raspy tune. The stream sings softly as it riffles to the west.

    A trout dimples the surface for a third time.

    Dobson flies bounce across the surface. A large stonefly struggles to break free of the water’s grasp, finally swimming amazingly well to the bank where it climbs a blade of grass to freedom. Pale green caddis struggle to stay aloft then kiss the water to lay their eggs.

    The trout makes a splash.

    He is inches ahead of a washed in log whose stubbed branches provide shelter. Alders lean low directly over it from the left bank. Closer, head-high alders reach of from the right. The bony stream bottom is impossible to walk quietly on, so waiting and plotting are in order.

    The kingfisher flies downstream, protesting all the way.

    A cast cocked to the right weaves between the reaching branches, straightens out, and gently sets the caddis imitation three feet upstream from the log. It drifts back atop the inky current.

    Anticipation.

    The surface dimples and reflexes snap the rod aft. The trout dives free of the hook. It’s same rush as walking in on a pointing dog when wary old grouse flushes wild. Usually that is no fault of the dog or the gunner, but this might have been a slow set. But it’s just nice to know the quarry was there.

Tween Seasons

    The snow went, but never quite all the way. On the north sides of the hills and hidden in the shadows of the softwood stands it lingered for what seemed like eternity. Bare fields waited for the robins and on walks in the woods the dogs searched for woodcock. Early in the mornings and late in the day grouse drummed in the woods above the house.

     In a drainage ditch next to a logging road, which leads into an enormous wilderness valley, a woodcock fluttered up in front of the pup’s nose. It was the first of the year and the first of the young dog’s life!

    Spring would come after all. On the way home a hundred robins rested in a pasture that hadn’t yet greened. For the next couple weeks the girls would hunt hard.

    One day a sudden snow blanketed the garden, then left as fast as it came. Down by the brook, in the murky shade of spruce and firs, frozen puddles refused to leave and refrigerated air. Across the stream a grouse drummed a challenge to the one on the hill. The water was cold and high and trout fishing would wait. At night the coyotes howled.

    On a sunny afternoon walk, well up on a hill in a deserted field, a stand of maples no bigger than my wrist beckoned. Coaxing the dogs over, the seven year old wirehair locked up on point where the grass met the young trees. Rushing ahead with her camera, my daughter hoped to spot the woodcock in front of the dog, but the bird spiraled up from beneath her feet, leaving its nest behind. Three eggs waited for her return. The dogs would spend less time in the woods for the next few months.

    Now it’s early May. The grouse still drum. Streams are still too cold and a quarter of the way through the month snow mixes with a cold downpour. It’s time to train the pup and get the garden ready for warmer days.

   And wait.

More on Canine Health…

    The controversial subject of spaying/neutering and the harmful side effects has been more in the news lately. Here’s another good read.

http://www.dogsnaturallymagazine.com/spay-neuter-and-joint-disease/

Spring is Here

Maggie running back after flushing the woodcock.

    A cool wind blew from the east under a blotchy gray sky. Small mountains to the east showed the scars of logging and patches of white lingered near the tops of the highest. The two older wirehairs dashed ahead, familiar with the old logging road, having walked it dozens of times over the years, both hunting and just to be outdoors.                 

    Maggie, our twelve week old pup, stayed closer, walking in the drainage ditch and fascinated by the flowing water as only a puppy can be.

    Up from under her nose tweetered a woodcock, the first one seen this year!

A new beaver pond flooded the road.

    Maggie dashed back to sit by our feet and watch the bird fly away.

    After hoots of laughter and praise for the pup, we carried on. Further down the hill a grouse flushed wild, twisting like a calendar painting through the barren poplar and birch. Life felt pretty good.

    Further on, up in a cutting, Chara, the older wirehair soon to turn fifteen, pointed with Colby backing, but no bird was found, yet was still a delight to see.

    Later, almost back to the truck, Chara shuffled around inside a thicket of alders. Pause, snort and sniff, pause, point, shuffle and sniffle…no style, but with determination, and up went a woodcock. That made two!!!

Lounging at Camp Grouse while listening to the grouse drumming.

    On the way back to Camp Grouse, the sun poked through the clouds and the subject of a beer came up. Later, sitting on the deck, we clicked the necks of two bottles together in a toast to spring, and almost immediately the season’s first drumming from a grouse drifted down the hill.

     

Waiting For The Woodcock

    Snow lingers in the woods. Pockets of white hide in the shadows of trees and rock-like ice fills the hollows. Beneath blankets of white, north facing slopes still sleep where the air remains icebox cold.

    But the slopes facing the sun are welcoming her warmth. Swollen streams rush down the hills, creating a rumble that seems to be everywhere. Songbirds chirp and flit about, shyly hiding in the softwoods, busy with courting and spring tasks.

    The bare fields have been invaded by cackling geese, cackling about whatever geese cackle about. Soon after dawn, high in the sky, a pair honked their way up the valley, causing even the dogs to stop and listen. Blue skies and warm breezes make promises we hope are true.

    A walk down along the stream finds the ground cement hard in the shadows of the softwoods. Even amongst the sunlit alders it is the same. Undaunted, the dogs make the effort, searching the ground thoroughly. No woodcock or grouse in a covert that often has both.

    Circling back, up the bank where the sun warms the earth, the bare ground is soft. Eager noses search for the scent of returning woodcock. Optimism grows with the heat of the sun, but too soon the cabin comes into view.
    We’ll have to try again tomorrow.

Waiting for the Drum Roll

   Rain falls and snow melts. It is early and perhaps winter is not over, but shrinking snow and song birds chasing each other in lust says it is. The last snowfall had the heft of spring snow, not the downy consistency of a winter storm. Enough bare ground exists for the woodcock to have returned, but the ground is still frozen hard and the likelihood of their proboscis poking into the soil to find the necessary protein is unlikely.

     The dogs sleep. Waiting is easy when you sleep. Soon the woodcock will return and during the early weeks, before their nesting season, the dogs will search them out to point a few, which is great early spring fun.

    Melting snow causes hurrying flooded streams. Trout fishing will come as the water slows and returns to the confines of its banks. Flies can be tied in the meantime. Down by the stream below the house a grouse flushed a few days ago, leaving behind tracks in the snow. Fly fishing passes the time between bird seasons and gives an excuse to search for grouse and woodcock cover.

    The rain continues. Neither dog has moved for hours, even when a log shifted and clunked in the woodstove. It is easy to envy them.

    When the rain stops and going outside is again a possibility, maybe a grouse can be heard drumming.

More on Dog Health….

It’s time to rethink some of the things we’ve been taught.

http://www.dogsnaturallymagazine.com/spay-neuter-and-joint-disease/?utm_campaign=shareaholic&utm_medium=facebook&utm_source=socialnetwork

Winter

    Eyes the color of winter sky look up questioningly. A rubbed ear brings her chin to rest against my knee. Eventually, she settles to lay on the rug by the desk, curled up in slumber. Soon, her legs twitch in a dream.

Chara in her fifteenth winter.

    What a long life she has had, hunting fifteen seasons, and most of those in some of the finest ruffed grouse country found anywhere. The dreams must be shaped by memories from those fifteen autumns. What stories she could tell.

    Daily walks in the woods keep our weary legs in shape, but the winter, with its deepening snow, makes the going impossible for dogs. Plowed logging roads are the only place for them to run. There she can still sniff the air along the sides, searching for grouse. Her loping trot rocks her along, but the occasional slippery spot causes the hind legs to fumble. Up and on again, her spirit is unfazed.

   In a little over two months the woodcock will return. Let’s hope we both see our way through Mother Nature’s next cycle. Do we dare dream of one more fall together?

Chara with Colby backing.

Good News…

Good news for those that live in the Northeast. Habitat is the most important ingredient for healthy game populations…

 http://archive.mailermailer.com/view/19651233e-18c30642%2a1167087x-a8c7714f

December Ends….

    The ankle-deep snow muffles the sound, our feet fall silently. Up the hill the dog’s muted bells ring. Everything looks different, blanketed by six inches of white, and the usual way is lost among the softwoods. Steeper terrain over dozens of deadfalls finally leads to the old tote road cut into to hill.

     To the left leads to favorite country where memories have accumulated over the last decade. Who would have dreamed that Chara, my older wirehair, would still

be hunting the last day of her fifteenth bird season? Colby, younger and with longer legs, is unfazed by the snow. Chara works harder, in a rocking horse motion, but appears to be having the time of her life. How many years have I wondered on the last hunt of the season if it might be the last hunt of her life? What a life she has had.

     The trail leads past softwoods and a small cutting to a gurgling brook, which is a likely place to turn around and head back, but the softwoods beyond beckon. Beneath them the snow is less deep and covered with rabbit tracks. Colby hunts further toward the edges while Chara scours the sides of the old way. A deer walked that way earlier and dozens of tiny tracks create a puzzle. Beside the lane a moose has scarred up dozens of maples, probably the same moose that Colby startled in the driveway a couple of months ago. Further up, where the old road forks, the top of a giant wild apple tree had been broken up by a bear. Not a partridge track had been found.

    Chara seems fine, but I worry about her. After I clear the snow from her bell, we head back. Downhill is always easier. The dogs hunt just as hard as they did on the way up.

    A different path leads back the final stretch to Camp Grouse. Still not a grouse track to be found. The dogs don’t seem to mind, they love the sound of the bells and the rituals of the hunt as much as the kill I think.

    I do too. 

Something to Think About….

I’ve been down that sad road with blown CCLs in my spayed German Wirehair. Dogs play a big part in the life of bird hunters and become part of our families. It is time to reconsider neutering, even though some of the veterinarians are dragging their feet….

http://www.dogsnaturallymagazine.com/three-reasons-to-reconsider-spayneuter/

Rain

    Little is good about hunting grouse in the driving rain. Even dressed in the best foul weather gear, the thick cover, which grouse love, gets heavy with water to make walking difficult. Soon, struggling hunters soak through from perspiration, no matter what the maker of the rain gear promises. And it is possible to sweat profusely while your hands freeze, if the temperature is close to freezing.

    Seeking shelter, the grouse sit tight among the boughs of softwood trees. The rain flushes away scent, making the dog’s work nearly impossible. In the country we hunt, the puddles form quickly making the ground a soft sponge. Grouse hiding in the branches of spruce and fir trees are mighty hard to find.

   The best thing about hunting grouse in the rain is a bowl of chowder or chili at the diner down the road. Or maybe it’s the dram of amber liquid back in the camp at the end of the day.

A Secret Place

In the shadows of the softwoods a small stream twists though the valley. On the east side of the narrow basin a four year old clearcut promises young buds, plenty of cover, and abundant seeds and fruit for grouse and song birds.  To the west a slightly older cutting provides shelter for nesting birds, with a forest so dense that marauding goshawks would have a difficult time weaving through the pole-sized young stems.

The song of the water is constant.

During a hot day, in a bird season a few years ago, that little ravine provided an abundance of partridge. The weather had been unusually warm for days and elsewhere the grouse hid in places the dogs could not find. Blown down firs and spruce slowed the hunt and clothes heavy with perspiration stuck to the skin to make walking a chore. The oldest German wirehair shared that special spot that day. Thundering wings wiped away the heat, lightened the sticky clothes, and provided a path through the fallen crisscrossed logs.

That cold tumbling brook is narrow enough to leap across in several places, yet deep enough to hide colorful brook trout that live amongst the shadows of spruce and fir roots. During hot summer weather the shade provides relief and the water cools the air. Tiny trout flies worked through the watery shadows can catch tiny wild brookies, but the canyons and caverns between the roots will break off the fine leaders required to fool them.

It’s a hidden place, visited by few. Sometimes, on a hot day summer day, I’ll let the dogs splash about to their heart’s content in the shadows of those softwoods. And if it is hot enough, one larger pool, with a bottom of fine gravel, is inviting enough to tempt me too.

But it’s October and it has been warm, so it’s time to visit that secret place again where the grouse like to stay cool.

My Old Girl

Chara sleeps at my feet, the old dog’s body twitching in a dream. The Lord knows she has plenty to dream. Her life has been a full one.

We learned to hunt grouse together, each of us in our own way. I supplied quail and pigeons and made certain to spend plenty of time in the field, but it was hours in the grouse woods that made her a great grouse dog. There is no way I could have taught her to track and point, then relocate as the grouse tried to sneak off.

She learned where the birds were, then searched the cover they preferred and the places they hid. Weather never fazed her, except when it turned hot, but I never liked hot weather either. Often I’d call it quits on a cold rainy day long before she wanted to go home.

Those snotty setter snobs might cringe watching the way Chara followed foot scent, but I learned a long time ago to be patient. Just as the Royal Canadian Mounted Police used to always get their man, she always found her bird. Bumped birds were rare because somehow she sensed the bird’s temperament and skittish birds she would sometimes point from sixty or even a hundred feet away.

A friend and I were following Chara through some softwoods in a valley that shall remain anonymous. Climbing up on an almost shoulder-high boulder, she pointed upward. The conversation went something like, “Do you suppose there is a bird up there?” with both my friend and I craning our necks to see up into the limbs of a fir tree. We kicked the tree’s trunk, yelled and hollered, and sure enough a grouse flew away, unscathed of course. Chara went right back to hunting with a very smug look on her face.

Chara learned to love duck hunting.

She’s retrieved geese and more than a few ducks. Her love of water seems unfazed by temperature. Often she’s broken ice to lay in the water for no reason other than to get wet. Hunting the alder bottoms for grouse and woodcock during duck season I often loaded with steel shot, knowing Chara would readily retrieve any ducks I lucked into.

Her first real duck hunting excursion confused her. Why were we sitting and waiting with those carved wooden ducks out on the water? She fidgeted and fused, not at all happy. Shortly after first light a pair of mallards flew in like rockets and one fell to the gun. I looked down to say “Fetch”, but my girl was already in the water to retrieve that dead duck. After that one retrieve she sat still as a statue and waited patiently, her eyes ever searching the morning sky.

Dapper at five months.

My mind’s eye can still see her as a puppy pointing what turned out to be a pair of quail in a wildlife management area. It was her first hunt and at only five months of age. One of the quail fell to the gun and Chara instantly pounced on it. What a way to start. Steady to wing and shot would come later and then fade as she got older stubborn.

Last fall she hunted her fourteenth season. A week of gunning had been planned with multiple dogs, but when her turn came up it was just the two of us on a short hunt. Her hind legs are not strong anymore, but those easy hunts gave her the opportunity to point a couple of grouse.

Chara trailing a grouse.

Her last was a wanderer, which she trailed through a raspberry patch, across an alder flat, and up a slope through young maples. She locked up solid at the base of a knoll and I scurried ahead with leaves scrunching under my feet, only to have the bird thunder off as I crested the rise. I’ve replayed that hunt over and over in my head, and I think she has too.

Pointing a grouse in her 14th fall.

We are getting close to bird season again and physically she is exactly the same as last fall, so I’ll plan a few more of those short easy hunts in some of the best cover. I owe her a fifteenth season.

Chara at her finest.