tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77563389572215054632024-03-18T19:56:09.251-07:00Ruffed Grouse, Drumming on a blogThe Ramblings of a long time Grouse Hunter…Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.comBlogger281125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-49156623057130240272023-04-30T08:20:00.000-07:002023-04-30T08:20:27.407-07:00Big wind, Rain, and Drumming Grouse<p> Spring in the Northwoods sort of sneaks in an inch at a time. There's a hint of warm weather, then snow swirling in the air. Rain will soak everything, then wind will dry it up. Gravel roads will turn to mud a foot deep and streams are swollen. It is best to have firewood ready for the stove.</p><p>This morning we ran the dogs on an old grassed-over logging road. It felt good to have firm dry ground under the feet, even though it had rained during the night. Home now, wind is rocking the trees now. It will be a good afternoon to sort out flyfishing gear and tie flies. Rain will come again with the night. </p><p>But as we walked earlier, grouse drummed on the hillsides. There is no finer springtime sound in the Northwoods. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS1gtouoRngE-4w28GHDxvKd45yWXTdqw0k_3quIvjlEwcO-KPwomh23vW_IeH_po8gutaLyrGt47rFcQgfMXUfOx5YzD5V8KfLjyTLS9L4i11IUM-shbFQ3HKbK2oDjtR408aDFSkluMvds3XwtxcdSbhED-Q_EgNKA1q4bJkpVWiquJN4m7SLy2iZg/s2241/IMG_2993.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1730" data-original-width="2241" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS1gtouoRngE-4w28GHDxvKd45yWXTdqw0k_3quIvjlEwcO-KPwomh23vW_IeH_po8gutaLyrGt47rFcQgfMXUfOx5YzD5V8KfLjyTLS9L4i11IUM-shbFQ3HKbK2oDjtR408aDFSkluMvds3XwtxcdSbhED-Q_EgNKA1q4bJkpVWiquJN4m7SLy2iZg/s320/IMG_2993.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-45870913244488003102023-03-19T08:03:00.001-07:002023-03-19T08:03:43.933-07:00Grouse in the Northern Hardwoods<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmrbNx0HtbnsuaBmaeiCeTdiY-mEeVG1NJW9CbqwTPV7lANiYfQwLrwNUZDtzvwYhHmvRKIcc0K_zJm89lLI5NxdaV433DtvK5DYRb8mkx_kPBnYI-c9KsGC4KhGo2Ljqf4G2efHLz5tfU5iJMjRxf_pA9eEtrpErPhcnhAgMqbzYNY4nVpWdquy9s2g/s2048/DSCF0399.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmrbNx0HtbnsuaBmaeiCeTdiY-mEeVG1NJW9CbqwTPV7lANiYfQwLrwNUZDtzvwYhHmvRKIcc0K_zJm89lLI5NxdaV433DtvK5DYRb8mkx_kPBnYI-c9KsGC4KhGo2Ljqf4G2efHLz5tfU5iJMjRxf_pA9eEtrpErPhcnhAgMqbzYNY4nVpWdquy9s2g/w200-h150/DSCF0399.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>The
northern hardwood forest runs from Ontario and Quebec down into northern New
England, New York, Pennsylvania, and west to Minnesota. It stands between the
southern oak and hickory forests and the boreal forest to the north. It is
primarily made up of sugar maple, yellow birch, ash, and beech. White pine and
hemlock mix in, but as you go further north spruce and fir become the dominate
softwood trees. Almost none of this vast forest is virgin, nearly all of it having
been logged for timber or paper making or cut to open the land up for farming.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>Much
of the country cleared for farming was abandoned when farmers heard about land
easier to farm in the Midwest. That mostly meant less rocky, as the stonewalls
left behind attest to the rockiness of New England soils. The deserted pastures
and fields started to return to their natural state. This early successional
forest provided near perfect habitat for ruffed grouse, woodcock, and white
tailed deer. Often the deserted farms left behind apple trees that spread wild apple
trees. Blue berries and raspberries came up in what were once pastures, along
with a smorgasbord of weed varieties. Alders popped up. Poplars soon followed. Insect
life abounded and provided important protein for young newly hatched grouse.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>Perhaps
the best ruffed grouse hunting that ever was and ever will be came along shortly
after the farmers abandoned those New England farms and headed west. Today those
early successional forest have matured and much of the prime land has been sold
into house lots or other uses. The grouse cover that William Harnden Foster and
Burton Spiller wrote about has almost disappeared.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>Ask
any deer hunter if he finds deer in a stand of mature northern hardwood and they
probably will tell you that if he does it is headed somewhere else. There isn’t
much for a deer to eat among all those hardwood trunks. The same is true for
ruffed grouse.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>Today,
if you are going to hunt ruffed grouse in the northern hardwood forest, you
start by looking for openings, either natural or manmade. Beaver ponds and
beaver meadows are one example of natural openings. Natural disasters, like
forest fires, ice storms, or even a big windstorms can create openings in the
forest. Manmade openings can be logging roads, snowmobile trails, power lines, logged
areas, and agricultural areas.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYVWIegDoP-_55Dj2ImMU48Oh59Ab9OibMoAiRCdQX5bQtbSNy35use6rqqerXgs7mQQW0fqED064r4P1qoWR-EqSSMiAVxeuubHsc96SgQavrhjgLJG5cephoFugPKo1gdLIth6cTO0AV5_s-SHe1yDqzGkHX2kkl45_9VMPWoNcWNgP7HZMzlPitQQ/s300/Grouse,%20pic%20by%20Peter%20Corbin,%20ss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="300" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYVWIegDoP-_55Dj2ImMU48Oh59Ab9OibMoAiRCdQX5bQtbSNy35use6rqqerXgs7mQQW0fqED064r4P1qoWR-EqSSMiAVxeuubHsc96SgQavrhjgLJG5cephoFugPKo1gdLIth6cTO0AV5_s-SHe1yDqzGkHX2kkl45_9VMPWoNcWNgP7HZMzlPitQQ/s1600/Grouse,%20pic%20by%20Peter%20Corbin,%20ss.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><span> </span>Today,
logging creates some of the best grouse habitat, providing dense stands of
young trees where the grouse and woodcock can safely nest. Small tree trunks
spaced only a few feet apart make it very difficult for avian predators to
strike. Weeds pop up where sunlight hits the forest floor, providing seeds,
berries, and insects. Those insignificant little bugs crawling about are an
important source of protein for the newly hatched grouse.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>A
huge clear cut that is coming back pure hardwoods will not offer the
opportunity that a smaller cut with softwoods nearby. Ruffed grouse seek
shelter when the winds are cold or the rain is falling. It doesn’t take many
softwoods to provide shelter, a few will do.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>A
little grit is necessary for ruffed grouse digestion. Logging roads, or the
sides of almost any road, will provide grit. Have you ever noticed how often
you encounter grouse where there is a stream nearby? The edges of streams are
also a source of grit.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>Follow
a stream and you are likely to find changes in forest type. Down in the bottom
of the valleys softwood trees are likely to predominate. Beaver ponds will
create openings. Add food sources, like weeds or alders, and you are likely to
find grouse. Woodcock may be attracted to the same area for the moist soil. <br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>Satellite
images, like Google Earth, will show logged areas and beaver dams. Sometimes a
cutting is hidden behind a stand of roadside softwood trees. A favorite covert was
discovered that way, and, even better, across from where we parked was an alder
flat beside a stream that always has grouse and woodcock in it.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>When you find ruffed grouse, look around and
try to figure out why they are there. Food? Shelter?</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Grouse eat such a wide variety of plant
material that narrowing down a food source might be impossible. But there have
been years when the mountain ash were heavy with fruit and consistently there
were birds nearby. High bush cranberry, which is actually a member of the
viburnum family, is another food source that may draw in number of grouse,
particularly late in the season when other fruit has disappeared.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>On a really cold day, a sunny open hillside in
a cut over area can provide some spectacular shooting. Grouse will walk a long
way from where they roosted for the night to find warmth in the sun.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>You will enjoy the sunshine too.</span><p></p>
<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; text-indent: 0in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiabLQJTKfjzgN8BfGBxS0cj32k_X3UAWY-Lrc5ebsR9GknxZBEuNj3c1XB6QpHBjgpcGwIWqEKZnSJBuzMkaZarDf4P5RBu9RMuVEMK-WRCIKRGJImKzW9432OoHCzWDFl_n1Hgc6TvobNYAqzSgzORQMsoZ8bW68qlr-NrDb9J5QhAbJxkidpCVl4wA/s300/IMG_9906%20ss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="300" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiabLQJTKfjzgN8BfGBxS0cj32k_X3UAWY-Lrc5ebsR9GknxZBEuNj3c1XB6QpHBjgpcGwIWqEKZnSJBuzMkaZarDf4P5RBu9RMuVEMK-WRCIKRGJImKzW9432OoHCzWDFl_n1Hgc6TvobNYAqzSgzORQMsoZ8bW68qlr-NrDb9J5QhAbJxkidpCVl4wA/w400-h300/IMG_9906%20ss.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><p></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-55844519507682644302023-01-01T08:57:00.007-08:002023-01-02T04:07:17.760-08:00Another Season Ends<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnON2x7jCZVdtO4bJuw4Vy-Jgv0e1AyO2Tc2Q8PZPzJzrTJ_W7q96-1ylaPENYPZjEp4bri7mOGldmr_LCGP87qe9LIQbckjdXzr2jryEQqWx6uahqtDTlyuvAXalqH9BfN4n-23DKnwotjLbdtUDeKnBtlk2Te_CK0x71D2SJkVO-RpX-OOzXTz0NOA/s4000/20221231_094021.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnON2x7jCZVdtO4bJuw4Vy-Jgv0e1AyO2Tc2Q8PZPzJzrTJ_W7q96-1ylaPENYPZjEp4bri7mOGldmr_LCGP87qe9LIQbckjdXzr2jryEQqWx6uahqtDTlyuvAXalqH9BfN4n-23DKnwotjLbdtUDeKnBtlk2Te_CK0x71D2SJkVO-RpX-OOzXTz0NOA/w320-h240/20221231_094021.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Yesterday, I
took our two German wirehair pointers to one of my favorite out-of-the-way town roads to hunt. The road usually is unplowed during the winter, but this year the
town is keeping that road plowed. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px;">We hunted on the uphill side in familiar country, <br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span>The woods starts out as spruce and fir trees, but then gives way to young hardwoods coming up in an old cutting. A storm earlier in the fall uprooted or broke off dozens big softwood trees. Scattered clumps of softwoods remain, left behind by the loggers and creating what I consider excellent cover for ruffed grouse. Red twig dogwood and an occasional wild apple tree grow in many of the openings. We
worked through the cover up to my favorite little clearing, where there’s a field with several ancient apple trees. The previous fall my last bird of the season fell there in front of my Maggie's point. <br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span>We then dropped down into a steep gulley beneath huge softwood trees to cross a swollen brook. The plan was to hunt across the top of the field. and then down the other side of the brook. In the unusually warm weather, the
woods looked much like it would in April, with eight inches of snow in places
and bare ground beneath softwood trees. Melting snow had raised the brook, but not enough that it couldn't be waded in my Muck boots. Wearing long johns, I was overdressed for the forty degree temperatures. Just above where we crossed large fir tree trunks crisscrossed the stream like giant pickup sticks.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCrYTsqmulVkRdqzPhfzhcjjvwVP5Bvu74lJpklcxGynl9kZOVs7KWO0GOwwlLLc_kkLWwn7qx3OLJvuAAHoJzC-2d7CRsKGM-SrIhHsu_kABE79peavuneTtn5vbCwpV-9M1rZZ_LZ7jXRjCnTfQdVTwbhM1_vDg7r8jGzp-fTsdniOVGk1NuLvuDpg/s4000/20221231_094502.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCrYTsqmulVkRdqzPhfzhcjjvwVP5Bvu74lJpklcxGynl9kZOVs7KWO0GOwwlLLc_kkLWwn7qx3OLJvuAAHoJzC-2d7CRsKGM-SrIhHsu_kABE79peavuneTtn5vbCwpV-9M1rZZ_LZ7jXRjCnTfQdVTwbhM1_vDg7r8jGzp-fTsdniOVGk1NuLvuDpg/s320/20221231_094502.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span> </span><span> </span>On the other side of the stream the cover started out much the same, but at the top of the field the woods changes to old field-grown softwoods with apple trees spread out between
them. Further up the hill is a ten year old clear cut. where we had found woodcock on other hunts, but they had long gone by the end of December. Maggie, my older wirehair, had a grouse flush wild ahead of her and she went into her usual
high pitched excited yip-yip voice. It looked like great cover to hunt next fall when
there still may be apples around. Rather than turn down the hill we continued to the east.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span>When
we intersected a logging road that runs uphill into a large piece of private property, we
headed down it. Nobody had been up the road since the last snow and the few inches of heavy wet snow remained unplowed.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span>While
the dogs were working cover ahead of me and to the left, a gray phase grouse bolted from beneath two tall poplar trees on my right, disappearing into the forest to never be seen again. The droppings
on the ground indicated the grouse had been eating buds in those poplars. The dogs
worked the scent and I thought they might find another bird, but no luck.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span>When we reached the town road, I
took the dogs across to the low side, but someone shooting a
twenty-two not far away made me decide to call it a day. The snow and soaked squishy ground made difficult walking and I had enough. I’m sure the girls
would have hunted longer, but they had a pretty good workout by then too.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span>The
day ended with no shots fired, no birds harmed.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi42HvCqRD8JJVbaf9oyKpMiQ9XQqFwb8S7x6hp-U9tEkuOvaYX1kWLwkhEZvACAMY89DAaljRAGOsteA4HsN6la6jZ2GvqtQVBXonJKiJGn3PK1WMeHoTGf-Mjj718XZ5K98OgfOxOhdv9PKCPL6gqoIFQCjvNK6ja7jiceiGmsOkasUz_u-uVVgHPfQ/s4000/20221231_102717.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi42HvCqRD8JJVbaf9oyKpMiQ9XQqFwb8S7x6hp-U9tEkuOvaYX1kWLwkhEZvACAMY89DAaljRAGOsteA4HsN6la6jZ2GvqtQVBXonJKiJGn3PK1WMeHoTGf-Mjj718XZ5K98OgfOxOhdv9PKCPL6gqoIFQCjvNK6ja7jiceiGmsOkasUz_u-uVVgHPfQ/w300-h400/20221231_102717.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-77625678522331778142022-12-26T12:40:00.000-08:002022-12-26T12:40:28.384-08:00Coyotes<p><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span>The
coyotes are howling again tonight. It always sounds like they are trying to
outdo one another in rather unorganized turmoil...yips and barks between the sorrowful
howls. Some nights multiple groups compete with each other across the valley
and it is fun to listen to them. The calls make the night darker and the forest
forbidding.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span>Well
over a dozen wild turkeys wandered through the yard this afternoon and I wondered
how many turkeys become meals for coyotes. An adult turkey would make a feast
for a coyote, but the big birds easily take to flight ahead of our dogs. Would
they be so lucky with a hungry coyote?<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span>Surely
some grouse end up on the coyote’s menu, but I think it is few. Probably more
baby grouse are eaten by turkeys. Turkeys will eat nearly anything and eggs of
ground nesting birds must be a treat for them. A few-day-old grouse is just
like a big insect to a turkey. Adult grouse have few enemies other than the
northern goshawk.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span>It
is easier to imagine a young adult grouse flying fatally into a tree as it
flees some peril, whether four footed or airborne.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDK2_HpuQ7iJ5xmsOqIKBwa5iyDIjF3GEmKJz_aYpzqj7BgN3HGLL9uiEhRorsq21eePPpIO2uKn2MCRV03F6tsV-49YOceuAywap8mdk3WGJV7WcLH29HAJcM6X6nYbmjwwk3ysGGig2Fvr03frK5ThhAmQ2E0n3MMwr7pfN1bPhYGrD4E3yFw6p-w/s2688/IMG_0023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2688" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDK2_HpuQ7iJ5xmsOqIKBwa5iyDIjF3GEmKJz_aYpzqj7BgN3HGLL9uiEhRorsq21eePPpIO2uKn2MCRV03F6tsV-49YOceuAywap8mdk3WGJV7WcLH29HAJcM6X6nYbmjwwk3ysGGig2Fvr03frK5ThhAmQ2E0n3MMwr7pfN1bPhYGrD4E3yFw6p-w/w400-h225/IMG_0023.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trail cam picture of a coyote below Camp Grouse.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-18558006760246142582022-12-24T09:08:00.000-08:002022-12-24T09:08:14.219-08:00Fishing Small Streams<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span> In
the North Country, small streams mean wild trout. Few things are more fun than
poking around the back country looking for small streams to fish. In the
hottest weather of the summer those back country streams may be the only places
cold enough to keep trout active and healthy.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> But
those small streams can be a challenge.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSipraRFGJyHo4y7hgLFNVXQphM7kGgGin7O7sm2u72bIiUnqDGS23fn1Zm8vkjN5ZNLoT_1lZanTy7kl-ZW4AjqpBZLRsSJIVXnhsu9yEQ-beHAnRH0y_Uvj0glMVWQ1_JjOgwcnKnq0TkqDgpryLJoWJ64seAURxBLAmnKmC753-tchPTPboD7kc8w/s4032/20180915_163118.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSipraRFGJyHo4y7hgLFNVXQphM7kGgGin7O7sm2u72bIiUnqDGS23fn1Zm8vkjN5ZNLoT_1lZanTy7kl-ZW4AjqpBZLRsSJIVXnhsu9yEQ-beHAnRH0y_Uvj0glMVWQ1_JjOgwcnKnq0TkqDgpryLJoWJ64seAURxBLAmnKmC753-tchPTPboD7kc8w/s320/20180915_163118.jpg" width="240" /></a></div> Below
our home is a stream filled with brook trout. Spring freshets sometimes move
the stream, not just the bottom but the whole stream may find a new course. Storms
any time of the year can raise havoc with the banks.<br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Where
the stream twists through a softwood forest, fallen trees crisscross over the
water. Some of those trees, after the stream has chewed at the bank where it
grew, left huge cavities when they no longer had earth enough to hold onto. The
water then carves away at the newly exposed soil and before long is nibbling
away at the roots of a neighboring tree. The process is endless.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> <span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Parts
of the stream weave through meadows and alders. The fishing may be easier
there, but the trout have less protection from avian predators. And the biggest
trout get the pick of the cover.</span><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Sit
on the bank and spend some time trying to figure out how to drop a fly among
the tangle of logs and you may fool an outsize trout from that small stream. Hooking
him is one thing, landing him is another.</span><p></p><p><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-47070446652689237102022-12-16T10:27:00.000-08:002022-12-16T10:27:29.232-08:00Beaver Dams<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">One
of our property bounds is a trout stream. The state Fish and Game Department
dump some trout in that stream every year, but there are more wild trout
swimming about than stockers. Every summer I fish it and occasionally bring
home a few trout to eat.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Fishing
it upstream last summer, I came upon a large beaver dam, nearly waist high on
the downstream side. Upstream, water was backed up as far as the eye could see.
My dogs were with me, as they usually are when I’m fishing that stream, and,
rather than stay on the banks as they usually do, one decided to swim across
the beaver pond. I called them both in and skedaddled. Beavers around dogs make
me nervous ever since I read of a German shepherd killed by a beaver while
swimming.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNWRpX-5hl-5PJzJYT0MFOBtzRpTdGxcOaTFi5rUgfR57lJrHoRoK2R4jWfUyzMo8NyXNwHxEMgSKscYzOHKPCu1hfhcMu_7I40PZ2KEOGfuMn67d-TChj6tSf8GXxggmT6eMm-umZldlggkIg4zMI1loc9m_vJuaGQn1zouv8N3Ua2b0c_PkGtKBdgg/s4000/20221216_103351.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNWRpX-5hl-5PJzJYT0MFOBtzRpTdGxcOaTFi5rUgfR57lJrHoRoK2R4jWfUyzMo8NyXNwHxEMgSKscYzOHKPCu1hfhcMu_7I40PZ2KEOGfuMn67d-TChj6tSf8GXxggmT6eMm-umZldlggkIg4zMI1loc9m_vJuaGQn1zouv8N3Ua2b0c_PkGtKBdgg/s320/20221216_103351.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The dam in December</td></tr></tbody></table> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I had planned to trek back there to fish the pond without the dogs for company,
but never got there. It looked like a difficult place to fish, with alders
leaning on from the banks on both sides. From our home, whenever the stream is
up, we can hear the water tumbling through and over that dam, a frequent
reminder that the pond is there.<br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOZXisIcyXOYGxlLbD1ImSSkhzmy_Yqir92fOqe_5PkfIHYqOLCErxJYJpiayQxOtMzLC81G9pYUhoIbTqxMgYNkXP3O_gZiH7b-WV_HsFV9QcrJ6hSv7zsRoNBXd5YawFiahOMGjs4H0Rg3yi6OgFjAHyHoZO2kzVuh_kl6E1OD0L5Wmbj34YnNOAcw/s4000/20221207_082837.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOZXisIcyXOYGxlLbD1ImSSkhzmy_Yqir92fOqe_5PkfIHYqOLCErxJYJpiayQxOtMzLC81G9pYUhoIbTqxMgYNkXP3O_gZiH7b-WV_HsFV9QcrJ6hSv7zsRoNBXd5YawFiahOMGjs4H0Rg3yi6OgFjAHyHoZO2kzVuh_kl6E1OD0L5Wmbj34YnNOAcw/s320/20221207_082837.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The new dam is flooding the field. </td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Now
the beaver has another dam upstream that is flooding an old pasture. It is
easily visible from the road into our place. It will be interesting fishing </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">next spring. <br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> In the slow moving water of old beaver ponds, silt settles out of the water and eventually fills in the pond. Sometimes these filled in ponds create meadows and these openings in the forest are always fun to find. The flat bottoms of valleys were created over the ages by beavers and the filled in ponds they left behind. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-33166893369368571632022-12-06T13:15:00.000-08:002022-12-06T13:15:37.446-08:00A Change in the Weather<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQEllg6dMn1M1tgddogHR5ZupZtR1BjBJ69EIYxljtPWAHbJ3hwgHv5NT6rqQl4cQabKGt8FWJjdVc2tYlP7eTu9acm8tOrSM8eZax2gWoofx9LcX6ABRZqN4BQjxMtqL5Y6PlY0ve6IDXNyO9xoVttLlQHdc2j5thZZPV2rm_tAQ2t7BqVHnGS3X9Vw/s4000/20221206_085006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQEllg6dMn1M1tgddogHR5ZupZtR1BjBJ69EIYxljtPWAHbJ3hwgHv5NT6rqQl4cQabKGt8FWJjdVc2tYlP7eTu9acm8tOrSM8eZax2gWoofx9LcX6ABRZqN4BQjxMtqL5Y6PlY0ve6IDXNyO9xoVttLlQHdc2j5thZZPV2rm_tAQ2t7BqVHnGS3X9Vw/s320/20221206_085006.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> The
weather during October and early November had been particularly warm and
windless, possibly a record setting warmth. Warm weather makes for uncomfortably hot hunting
and overheated dogs. Gamebirds don’t burn as many calories during warm weather,
so they don’t move about feeding. And the windless October, with almost no air movement, created tough scenting
conditions that were not ideal for the dogs. A change was finally forecast.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> The
abrupt drop in temperature would startle the young-of-the-year grouse. It would
be something they had never experienced, which would be to our advantage. And a
promised breeze would move bird scent around, helping the dogs find the birds.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> We
hunted a cutting that loggers had been picking away at for several years. The
land sloped gently to the south with small hills and gullies breaking up the
terrain. In some of the hollows the ground was damp and filled with weeds. Unmerchantable
slender softwood trees remained in clusters while scattered small hardwoods stood
widely spaced everywhere. Skid trails made for fairly easy walking.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> As
we started down the slope, the thought was the birds would seek the warmth of
sunshine on the south facing slopes. Shortly, Mollie found the first bird on a
southwest side of a knoll and locked up on point. Upslope a short ways stood a
cluster of softwoods for shelter. A hundred feet downhill a small stream
trickled, providing water and a gravel source. What more could a grouse want?<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> In
an area of not more than four or five acres the two dogs moved eleven ruffed
grouse. What a morning. <br /></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimiIUTV2TgXyLHDi6MT-i3kQcnDFguth4NPsPBDj3jUARxcYU_8WgoxJZhNJpg-nDGTiWvQwMNdDUprPbq1V8Zk-soXDFSFsYfT64An0AjTGRYTlLwNSv7svKujeeBADuoo0V1QY_AUDKkw6d0PWaOERzJPAHey2Slkxzmd7eug-VDxKsw-4K9pNTGIA/s4032/20211109_133703.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimiIUTV2TgXyLHDi6MT-i3kQcnDFguth4NPsPBDj3jUARxcYU_8WgoxJZhNJpg-nDGTiWvQwMNdDUprPbq1V8Zk-soXDFSFsYfT64An0AjTGRYTlLwNSv7svKujeeBADuoo0V1QY_AUDKkw6d0PWaOERzJPAHey2Slkxzmd7eug-VDxKsw-4K9pNTGIA/w300-h400/20211109_133703.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-46013073120031957122022-12-04T05:55:00.000-08:002022-12-04T05:55:06.804-08:00Stock Fit<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Volumes
have been written about shotgun stock fit. Most of us bumble along with factory
fit stocks. Certain guns, like the Remington models 870 and 1100 series seem to
fit a wide verity of shooters. Others not so much. In our land of mass
production, the manufacturers try to produce guns to fit “the average American”. But every manufacturer has a different idea of what size and shape the “average
American” is.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> My
first gun, back when the only thing I knew about shotguns was that I wanted one,
was an old Ithaca side by side. I couldn’t hit a barn with it, so I sold it to
my brother. My second gun was an old Parker 12 gauge. Birds just seem to fall out of the
sky wherever I pointed it. After reading a bit, I figured out the Ithaca was
cast for a right-handed shooter and the Parker for a lefty. I am a lefty.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Cast
is when the stock is bent at the wrist to accommodate the shooter. A left-handed
shooter wants the stock bent out to the left of the centerline and a righty
wants it the other way. The amount the stock is bent depends on the shooter’s physique
and a person trained in stock fitting can tell you how much it needs to be.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Some who measurer gunstock fit have fancy try-stocks that
are adjustable in every imaginable direction. Cast for a right-handed shooter
is called cast off, for a left-handed shooter cast on. Almost no American
single barrel shotguns are cast and very few over-and-unders or side-by-sides
are cast. In Europe things are entirely different.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> An
early Browning Citori I owned wanted to shoot to the right. Bending the stock
only a small amount corrected that. My go to shotgun for the last few years has
been a Connecticut Shotgun Manufacturing Company RBL. It has a straight stock and it too wanted to shoot to
the right. I first noticed this with birds crossing to the right almost always fell,
but to the left was a different story. My tendency is to shoot behind fast
flying birds but with the gun shooting to the right if gave me an automatic
lead on birds crossing in that direction.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Repeatedly
I tried to teach myself to mount the gun with my left eye centered between the
barrels. I thought I was getting better at it. But it is tough to teach and old dog new tricks.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGra7MclzKc08lGHtM6o87BVqPmhzFgMzZibREqgu-ptl4bY47bfLUmdPLI99oTbVl3D8l-0F9_kTvY2X7V_1D9YcOE1pKae2bmiy1SfztlKhg6oPvU6FunhwjC_Pmv7QDjPYi5nhFrLC1yNt4YuWjmxx4OIeKSupnF6gHlfGlp0iYYKSBkl58s1iDnA/s3218/Parker%2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1470" data-original-width="3218" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGra7MclzKc08lGHtM6o87BVqPmhzFgMzZibREqgu-ptl4bY47bfLUmdPLI99oTbVl3D8l-0F9_kTvY2X7V_1D9YcOE1pKae2bmiy1SfztlKhg6oPvU6FunhwjC_Pmv7QDjPYi5nhFrLC1yNt4YuWjmxx4OIeKSupnF6gHlfGlp0iYYKSBkl58s1iDnA/s320/Parker%2020.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> But
then this past winter I dusted off an old Parker 20 gauge with no cast and stock dimensions that are identical to the stock of that RBL.
The one difference was the thickness of the stock. Birds dropped this past fall
as if by magic. When I bring the gun to my cheek my left eye is dead center looking
down the barrels. The RBL came up to my cheek with the barrel centerline just a
smidge off to the left. It was obvious that I needed to take a rasp to my RBL’s
stock.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Before
starting, I made a template of the stock’s shape where the stock came to rest
against my cheek. Using a rasp, I started to take away wood, checking with the template
to see how much was gone. With an eighth of an inch taken away, the gun came
up to my cheek exactly the same as the old Parker, my left eye looking straight
down the rib between the barrels. The stock was then sanded smooth before
refinishing it. Even when I explain what I have done to the stock, people cannot
notice the missing wood.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> And
what a difference it made to my shooting.</span><p></p>
<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMwGfgy6QNBjXkobUvkGPetwoTrPO61mt9jU0IZwr03VPGfpmuJI0wHyR8q5Or5D2mnzj7DVVEINjE9ePgiJEUwj4LdlQ3XHoveqt3jz-Ejiv3V5mqekgs_2XjqmWh0y9AwVgom6sqYSBg3a2wpWFlNy34USTa0Ss4ohObiJhslbeqhdiI3hT7xHOAA/s2816/DSCF0143.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2816" data-original-width="2112" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMwGfgy6QNBjXkobUvkGPetwoTrPO61mt9jU0IZwr03VPGfpmuJI0wHyR8q5Or5D2mnzj7DVVEINjE9ePgiJEUwj4LdlQ3XHoveqt3jz-Ejiv3V5mqekgs_2XjqmWh0y9AwVgom6sqYSBg3a2wpWFlNy34USTa0Ss4ohObiJhslbeqhdiI3hT7xHOAA/w300-h400/DSCF0143.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The RBL next to a dead grouse.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-90457218821854385402022-10-14T12:02:00.000-07:002022-10-14T12:02:10.129-07:00Where are the Woodcock?<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Every
spring we wonder where the woodcock are. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Are they headed north yet?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgps3-xTtlCgbLNZwCpbHmyHBOONfaWI0sTgx6oAJXSSQbbSA2HqO7z-A5hNky-D6hLLTuFHoqBzPYeGXD5U-jAJRnAbE89gc8Hic0QlCLZc16Qb4kJjZ_7E4-EglVBfQ60ypfi6pKn6U7wvti3qZ_rjTC-sVYILAmyM2dFqkPmsIAQbZocqwPWRa1t7w/s4000/Woodcock%20splash.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgps3-xTtlCgbLNZwCpbHmyHBOONfaWI0sTgx6oAJXSSQbbSA2HqO7z-A5hNky-D6hLLTuFHoqBzPYeGXD5U-jAJRnAbE89gc8Hic0QlCLZc16Qb4kJjZ_7E4-EglVBfQ60ypfi6pKn6U7wvti3qZ_rjTC-sVYILAmyM2dFqkPmsIAQbZocqwPWRa1t7w/w200-h150/Woodcock%20splash.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Woodcock splash, <br />A sure sign they are <br />around.</td></tr></tbody></table></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Then come bird hunting season we wonder if “the
flight birds” are in?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> <br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> In
the spring the old timers will tell you the woodcock arrive about the same time
as the robins. “They eat the same thing” is what I have always heard. That means
earthworms. And usually that is about right. The woodcock arrive early, while
there is still snow on north facing slopes and in the shadows. So do the
robins.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> About
a week ago our yard was inundated with robins. A dozen cluttered the lawn over
by the woodshed. Twice that number were in the field toward the vegetable
garden. Leaves still cling to one tree in our yard, a weeping crabapple, and constantly
the robins were flying in and out of its thick foliage. It seemed they were
everywhere,<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> The
next hunt, in the old cuttings up high on a hill, I found an abundance of
woodcock.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs3i8QlOjY3j8TXuVZGVetyrfiveYY2EF7Ybk4rEqzPNXRFIgKzkgGksb6LaLdX0qrwwIQHHMbHwl4kE9HLt9qI3kl3jqTHaMskbUiEX4LIDMNAsay1QUxawCI-L8JisWX-HjdMNFzm1Uohjkq2skNApTi1rMDO0TIFyg8zYCaMmpjal7w6u5HT31x8w/s1976/DSCF0328%20(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1361" data-original-width="1976" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs3i8QlOjY3j8TXuVZGVetyrfiveYY2EF7Ybk4rEqzPNXRFIgKzkgGksb6LaLdX0qrwwIQHHMbHwl4kE9HLt9qI3kl3jqTHaMskbUiEX4LIDMNAsay1QUxawCI-L8JisWX-HjdMNFzm1Uohjkq2skNApTi1rMDO0TIFyg8zYCaMmpjal7w6u5HT31x8w/s320/DSCF0328%20(3).JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-38434298906087943502022-08-09T13:29:00.004-07:002022-08-09T13:29:57.934-07:00Blueberries<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> There
is an abandoned field a few miles from our home that has sat for twenty years
or more without attention. It is up high with views that go for miles. Friends
of ours live across the valley and we can see there home. The place is spectacular.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Blueberries
grow wild in this field, the lowbush variety. Weeds compete for space and trees
are slowly creeping in from the forest edges. The blueberries established
patches in the grass, but trees are trying to poke up through. Someday the trees
will win and the land will return to forest.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> For
years we have picked blueberries in this field. Blueberries grow on our own
property, but somehow it is more fun to pick were the view goes on forever and
bears and birds compete for the fruit. On one side a manmade pond is tucked
against the woods. It has a footprint about the size of a small home and the
dogs love to swim in it when the weather is warm.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Today
they barely swam at all. The temperature struggled to hit seventy and clouds
hid what would have been a hot sun. A gusty west wind kept the deer flies and
mosquitoes at bay. It turned out to be a perfect day for picking blueberries.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Two
grouse flew into the woods while we picked. Obviously, their nerves couldn’t
take the dogs and humans in their blueberry patch. Mollie, our younger dog,
stopped to point in one of the patches, but no bird was found. It had to be residual
bird scent from before the bird walked off.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAG167cawh8oZ7elGpm8mykqkfQ6DSVcTiy-lU4xLoEyb39kw_BJDhOHcCSrBznlecoSCDTYZEOm9FI3hF6HoSfr-tH9s1FXABE0s-Q1uwumo9_aAidUZdVo5_treKFenTgGNH6uCGtcJi7sjRlGJ39iTWsotv3vruVqJa_yQ_3BHDYRfe9qtamCfi6A/s4032/20210716_162415.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAG167cawh8oZ7elGpm8mykqkfQ6DSVcTiy-lU4xLoEyb39kw_BJDhOHcCSrBznlecoSCDTYZEOm9FI3hF6HoSfr-tH9s1FXABE0s-Q1uwumo9_aAidUZdVo5_treKFenTgGNH6uCGtcJi7sjRlGJ39iTWsotv3vruVqJa_yQ_3BHDYRfe9qtamCfi6A/w400-h300/20210716_162415.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>The
blueberries are pretty popular. <p></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-48968157811922823762022-07-30T14:13:00.000-07:002022-07-30T14:13:04.126-07:00Rain<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Few
things are as soothing as the sound of rain. Without rain the world would be
nothing but a ball of dust. And why is it that the dogs sleep so soundly every
night when rain falls on the roof, even when they’ve been wound up all day?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">And so do I.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> The
rain has been falling for hours now. It is time to tie flies and dream of streams
filled with trout.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Woolybuggers.
Maybe it’s because I’m not much of a nymph fisherman that I use woolybuggers so
much. They don’t look like any particular life form, so there is no wrong way
to fish them. A fish might mistake one for a leech or a small fish or a
stonefly or a dragonfly. A few weeks ago a trout came to hand with a hellgrammite
in its mouth almost the same size as the number twelve woolybugger beside it.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> My
woolybuggers don’t have much flash, not like the ones I see in fly shops. Drab green
body of shaggy wool is my favorite, with black marabou tail and wrapped with
black hackle. Fine black wire keeps everything tidy. Wet the fly is a very dark
fly. I tie other colors too, some with bead heads and some without, but green catches the most fish for me.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> If it doesn't stop raining soon the pile of woolybuggers will be a foot high.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI1CNdXhYKkcHdJcroD8Y8LbB9xiorx2YdBWhADFtgyJGpsQc7iqUrQikb_3_9l_h9t2qsed5VvRY0eTG-lrwlFVbtLWw7ydZhYUHBDL3hhMKeHrhgOKDVVDxcYrvVJOxqeMkMcGSq4CHuFZDEWYT_tluP9hx90X96zn-5HX-NuOwcTouy4xHG24Eqxw/s4000/IMG_0842.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI1CNdXhYKkcHdJcroD8Y8LbB9xiorx2YdBWhADFtgyJGpsQc7iqUrQikb_3_9l_h9t2qsed5VvRY0eTG-lrwlFVbtLWw7ydZhYUHBDL3hhMKeHrhgOKDVVDxcYrvVJOxqeMkMcGSq4CHuFZDEWYT_tluP9hx90X96zn-5HX-NuOwcTouy4xHG24Eqxw/s320/IMG_0842.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-1316857978169349042022-07-18T15:34:00.000-07:002022-07-18T15:34:01.019-07:00The Hole<p> <span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;">The
water shoots from a tangle of fallen softwood trees that fell into the stream,
rattling down a riffle into a sharp left-hand bend, where the water has carved
a hollow out against the streambank. From there the water eases through a long
deep pool guarded by fallen tree trunks. It possibly is the longest pool on the
entire stream. Tall spruce and fir trees shade the riffle and pool.<br /></span><span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> There
had to be a big trout in there. Only a few pools in the stream are deep enough
to hide the bottom and this was one. But fallen trees and sagging limbs </span>shielded<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> the fish.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> Stealth!
It cannot be overstressed when fishing small streams. A stony outwash created
space to work from, but the stones underfoot were noisy. Crouched low, to
remain unseen, line was stripped from the reel.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> The
flow of the riffle carried the leader and fly into the shadows. Overhanging
softwood trees blotted out the sunlight. Patience. The bead-head woolybugger danced unseen in the
current. Mending the line would let the fly sink, tightening would raise it up.
Moving the rod tip out over the stream swam the left and right.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> It
felt like an automobile snagged my fly.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDmc-0QvdBKIx6vDt6FkC629jYqiJSa6gCzx-aMimO0V5DZMMp4Mz9MuRsG9l5g_6SuHy9oSchlzSl8vqRKrv4inkkzSvlRAW2RlDfqI0i2frADPijSDNGjqUhp3BxDchxi4y4RvgJ2BAj10Hm8pq_OAVbP0KGFAZU8QxfLDve63nSqwiqhRlVcbK9Gw/s2597/20220718_182006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2597" data-original-width="2259" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDmc-0QvdBKIx6vDt6FkC629jYqiJSa6gCzx-aMimO0V5DZMMp4Mz9MuRsG9l5g_6SuHy9oSchlzSl8vqRKrv4inkkzSvlRAW2RlDfqI0i2frADPijSDNGjqUhp3BxDchxi4y4RvgJ2BAj10Hm8pq_OAVbP0KGFAZU8QxfLDve63nSqwiqhRlVcbK9Gw/w348-h400/20220718_182006.jpg" width="348" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-73000974550894042292022-07-15T16:57:00.001-07:002022-07-15T16:57:30.655-07:00The Stream<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSXtr1PurCVIsrX2mgaDSvji4Y6FEX-lj3u4g2SvUz9-_yxJEzHO8DVhafk0YlqPAARsCmtajbOWnqZTtmk62Ud_mZ363uwxRTPJcMPBFLVbv3g5kAz4fTfbTW-3hBPEEzBevdKfGHsHqx-s6oP9N-ltqIV36-bdGBOiMtk9Gs614dh8VHVb1mas6xQA/s4032/20190623_085734.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSXtr1PurCVIsrX2mgaDSvji4Y6FEX-lj3u4g2SvUz9-_yxJEzHO8DVhafk0YlqPAARsCmtajbOWnqZTtmk62Ud_mZ363uwxRTPJcMPBFLVbv3g5kAz4fTfbTW-3hBPEEzBevdKfGHsHqx-s6oP9N-ltqIV36-bdGBOiMtk9Gs614dh8VHVb1mas6xQA/s320/20190623_085734.jpg" width="320" /> </a></div><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> During
the summer months a fly rod always leans the corner of our screened porch, rigged
and ready to go. It is a three-weight rod and the fly on the end of the four X
tipper is usually a green woolybugger, if not a woolybugger then a red tag coachman.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> A
week ago I caught a seven inch trout with an inch long hellgrammite in its
mouth beside my #12 woolybugger. That is described as gluttony, I think. Dry
flies are always fun, but the fish are usually smaller.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> Now
there is a beaver pond just upstream from our property. What fun. It must have
been built this past winter. The dam is nearly four feet tall and thirty feet
wide. I will be back.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> Today
the wind funneled right up the valley, making accurate casting impossible, but
fish were still caught. Walking back towards the trail that leads to home, the wind
rocked the trees on the hellishly steep hill to the south.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> The
path along the stream has grown in and needs some trimming. During the past
winter dozens of softwood trees blew down, some across the stream and others landed
in the old path. That kind of work, cutting up trees and moving logs, is fun
when accompanied with our dogs, almost as much fun as fishing.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> A
woodcock flew across in front of me as I walked the trail to home.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgds65DUpuobOEqZM4P2-hFQ7sFFm0LLoY74hAUhDSJs3SXL3oB3dvKj0ur0q_4PGHeW0dM0y8v4HqSNitLxfwhYk-vHNrMekinHuz3ZIfoA7Y9YM5NuWCwOBiRwl_rXIMQ7R-1lwIeQ5eH30kqMIK7ZJmEEqUWA6UuHh64qLXqzPnuraseP4tgLvWIzA/s4000/IMG_0854%20-%20Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgds65DUpuobOEqZM4P2-hFQ7sFFm0LLoY74hAUhDSJs3SXL3oB3dvKj0ur0q_4PGHeW0dM0y8v4HqSNitLxfwhYk-vHNrMekinHuz3ZIfoA7Y9YM5NuWCwOBiRwl_rXIMQ7R-1lwIeQ5eH30kqMIK7ZJmEEqUWA6UuHh64qLXqzPnuraseP4tgLvWIzA/w320-h240/IMG_0854%20-%20Copy.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Red
Tag Coachman<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Hook:
Dry fly, #16 to 10<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tag:
Red wool<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Body:
Peacock Herl<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Wing:
White calf tail, tied down-wing caddis style<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Hackle:
Brown<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Thread:
Black<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Think
of it as a down-wing attractor pattern. It can also be tied and fished as a wet
fly <o:p></o:p></span></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-18592760825890540652022-07-01T17:24:00.002-07:002022-12-01T04:39:05.864-08:00An Adventure<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> It doesn’t take a lot to make an
adventure. How about a spot on a map and time to go find it? That’s what we
had.<span> <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> T</span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;">he spot was a stream that drains a mammoth softwood bog before joining another</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxpEGUhwOb52dXq6cUs5ejC5ZgK5QfQlacg6oLQ1c-qnVfY6uRYTRFM42pUW7QY951lezE05RouZIrJ5r1-kJEDw4tXXMpzFVchkVB0H7Ccu9mZfPGEFuKWgMByN60Fuj7g2pGN71ytKDdip6g1WshRNa6Nl11e6m3scdakm7zb3fK7cCEtZzWSHd28A/s4032/20220625_080042.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxpEGUhwOb52dXq6cUs5ejC5ZgK5QfQlacg6oLQ1c-qnVfY6uRYTRFM42pUW7QY951lezE05RouZIrJ5r1-kJEDw4tXXMpzFVchkVB0H7Ccu9mZfPGEFuKWgMByN60Fuj7g2pGN71ytKDdip6g1WshRNa6Nl11e6m3scdakm7zb3fK7cCEtZzWSHd28A/w155-h200/20220625_080042.jpg" width="155" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;">stream to flow together into a lake. In satellite images of the upper reaches there appeared to be white water or rapids where the stream tumbled from the large swamp. And a complete lack of easy access made the goal so much sweeter. The quarry was wild brook trout.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> Early morning rising means wet foliage, so with pants soon-to-be soaked we headed off, trekking generally northeast. After only a short distance we heard the stream off to our left.</span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> It wasn’t easy following the stream. Over the eons it had carved what was more or less a canyon or gulley. Approaching the banks, it was often ten or fifteen feet below us, so following the stream bank closely was</span></p><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7T_FJe_T6vEYLvLDAacLgjxjnco4GRbh7-ie4LM2gt282twTJ9fI3ANPBzPuXMxAt-ypyTQF4-Yu-ZBpXixnkXBuSRwCHCWba8PWmZJQ0k16lPP3wpi-XwCPsS_ybd7XfPZz8dY3sXPFvY-yEnr63RT7uNlhFLZ8UPZAVWRCdZqXIhOg8HkNQJ_izEQ/s4032/20220625_071538.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7T_FJe_T6vEYLvLDAacLgjxjnco4GRbh7-ie4LM2gt282twTJ9fI3ANPBzPuXMxAt-ypyTQF4-Yu-ZBpXixnkXBuSRwCHCWba8PWmZJQ0k16lPP3wpi-XwCPsS_ybd7XfPZz8dY3sXPFvY-yEnr63RT7uNlhFLZ8UPZAVWRCdZqXIhOg8HkNQJ_izEQ/s320/20220625_071538.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maggie was guiding the way.</td></tr></tbody></table>impossible. The land parallel with the stream contained small plateaus divided up by rocky ridges and narrow valleys created by feeder streams, all in the shade of softwood trees. For a while an ancient logging road made easier walking, but then it disappeared in a ravine. Occasionally there were small openings in the forest, where tall green grass covered the ground. Walking through those really soaked one’s pants. We preferred the silence of soft ground under the spruce and fir trees.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> Eventually the land started to flatten so we followed along the stream’s edge, trying to find a place that looked “fishable”. The water was almost as dark as coffee, stained with tannin leached from the softwood bog upstream. In places the water squeezed between rocks or rattled down riffles. As the land leveled out it started to slow and meander. Soon after a hard zigzag in its course we found a pool half the size of a tennis court. Along the right-hand side three rocks protruded from shore, creating an easy place to cast a fly from. Beneath the glassy center of the pool the water looked dark and deep.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> A bulging dimple in the surface grew into an expanding ring…trout were there. </span><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8K-8bV2VLKnZXxAQZOkrL-2qwMrjrzvV4xtjgAxurjJtL943MGcTXYlxtoDlq1l1vpfjJdIYWdTZMG8d1lQeUW3vwPOoEqPpa34cfdCfJee2BCdiyhwMYjHfV56iea4IyCw212IX-Ly_X4UA5n15C5bGtTN4fVpejCIbnf-Irpv6eAlwGlgY7bk0T7w/s2340/20220625_195836.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2340" data-original-width="2124" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8K-8bV2VLKnZXxAQZOkrL-2qwMrjrzvV4xtjgAxurjJtL943MGcTXYlxtoDlq1l1vpfjJdIYWdTZMG8d1lQeUW3vwPOoEqPpa34cfdCfJee2BCdiyhwMYjHfV56iea4IyCw212IX-Ly_X4UA5n15C5bGtTN4fVpejCIbnf-Irpv6eAlwGlgY7bk0T7w/w581-h640/20220625_195836.jpg" width="581" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-53954051655624666752022-06-28T13:15:00.004-07:002022-12-06T13:17:13.930-08:00Living the New England Upland Life<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Before we can talk about a New England
Upland Life, we had better decide what an Upland Life is. I supposed to different
people it can mean different things. Among those who hunt birds, it means a life
based around hunting upland birds, preferably with dogs. Of course, other activities
are allowed, but bird hunting and bird dogs come before anything else.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> In New England, bird hunting means ruffed
grouse and woodcock. Pheasants are an invasive specie and a poor substitute. Boy,
that last sentence will bring some hate mail.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> An upland shooting life in other parts
of the country might be very different. The charm of riding horseback through a
quail plantation is appealing. The wide-open grasslands of the West look intimidating
to someone used to the thick cover of New England. Desert quail sounds like
fun, but it is rattlesnake country.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> I’ll stick to the shallow mountains of New
England.</span></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-68007809326612622052022-04-08T12:47:00.000-07:002022-04-08T12:47:01.911-07:00Running Water<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Step
outside the door of Camp Grouse. The sound of running water is everywhere. Snow
is melting. Spring rains made certain the remaining snow contains an abundance
of moisture. Streams are swollen. <br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> Almost
every night the temperatures have dipped below freezing, but the sun, with its
higher declination, rapidly warms the air each day into the upper thirties or
even forties. And even more water is added to the spring freshet.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> Woodcock
are about. The dogs accidentally found one and pointed it. That certainly made
their day. I’m not sure about the woodcock’s. Grouse are probably drumming, but
it’s been too cold to sit out in the evenings to listen. The first evening that
the temperatures are a bit warmer we’ll sit on the deck and sip our evening
cocktail to listen. It’s a sound that reminds us that all is well in the woods.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEkwDdqi5ni_KVMfjiAzQCCWmMocoegFQMLdQ05z13mLSgvgLlFkDXDn30UxL4J0gkgYk5rD3AbsoLjC60ZsXXp7CUU7p-DqsT7gqJkCOIt5h9GTBClZ9cFzIHKEjFLN_InZq0oP43AOczYNzwhr4TB8GxELOAr5hpAwU4r-EvOPCReh9bxEQYqVULUA/s3648/DSCF0328.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEkwDdqi5ni_KVMfjiAzQCCWmMocoegFQMLdQ05z13mLSgvgLlFkDXDn30UxL4J0gkgYk5rD3AbsoLjC60ZsXXp7CUU7p-DqsT7gqJkCOIt5h9GTBClZ9cFzIHKEjFLN_InZq0oP43AOczYNzwhr4TB8GxELOAr5hpAwU4r-EvOPCReh9bxEQYqVULUA/w300-h400/DSCF0328.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can you see him?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-64176058699456612052021-12-31T10:56:00.003-08:002021-12-31T10:56:40.818-08:00High Bush<p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPHs4GD86qWb_rGZ7nkhQYZY0olE4Hb05YSMd_ZimRzPcds3fWc9hhK0H0iA9zaqMjiCcqAlCq6rd9L1YVLm9dO54Xlwz1Fsr-0mcrendV33C8YjV2woQnC9uNYXr245JWdydpoq6qC0BE7iYqVCJj9Jj2dg-6Pq11V_iWiJmcpj5S-3u9TGXaVtVAGw=s640" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPHs4GD86qWb_rGZ7nkhQYZY0olE4Hb05YSMd_ZimRzPcds3fWc9hhK0H0iA9zaqMjiCcqAlCq6rd9L1YVLm9dO54Xlwz1Fsr-0mcrendV33C8YjV2woQnC9uNYXr245JWdydpoq6qC0BE7iYqVCJj9Jj2dg-6Pq11V_iWiJmcpj5S-3u9TGXaVtVAGw=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cranberries earlier in the fall.</td></tr></tbody></table> <span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0in;">A friend mentioned that a few years ago visiting
bird hunters had found a parcel of grouse in windrows that divided several large
rectangular fields beyond his home. His story went on to mention that the birds
had been feeding on high bush cranberries.<span> <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span> </span><span> </span>Driving
the rough town road that bisected some of those fields I noticed the bright red
of high bush cranberries and made a mental note to give those windrows a try.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> My
opportunity came along on a windy cold day when frozen snow covered the ground.
My two wirehairs were wound up and oblivious to the wind chill. Big fields meant
run big. A hundred yards from the first windrow I could see the red of the
cranberries and headed toward it. The younger of the two dogs was two hundred
yards away scouting a different line of trees.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> The
windrows were made up of all sorts of weeds and trees. Some softwoods stood
thirty feet tall along with maples and birch and alders and poplar. In the
spaces between the larger stems grew raspberries, blackberries, and all sorts
of tangles. <br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> A
ruffed grouse hopped up onto a branch while I was still forty or fifty yards
away. My older wirehair had worked around the other side of the bushes and obviously
the bird was aware of her. Then the dog froze. I hurried.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXZo9_iaHHPmDyUjekSJtlvWXiKRBerW8-PGa8zNN8Xt18vDJVKtRKyGhX5DTu6GLibJm2eZoGwVkNbKX_GXWsnQ-zRxMt_ll9gbQGzWl_1vmyY1xsjOluu2N4-tCJLvKRQtmkvbsM1OizCegrl3aidyhg68O6tgOH7bZWT9UUGX6qOoIjJj58QUzUIg=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXZo9_iaHHPmDyUjekSJtlvWXiKRBerW8-PGa8zNN8Xt18vDJVKtRKyGhX5DTu6GLibJm2eZoGwVkNbKX_GXWsnQ-zRxMt_ll9gbQGzWl_1vmyY1xsjOluu2N4-tCJLvKRQtmkvbsM1OizCegrl3aidyhg68O6tgOH7bZWT9UUGX6qOoIjJj58QUzUIg=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maggie inhaling grouse scent.</td></tr></tbody></table> A
grouse exploded out of the weeds over the dog and the one on the branch shot out
right over my head. I twisted like a corkscrew, trying to mount the gun and see
the bird. A late shot saluted the grouse as it disappeared into the trees.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> Breaking
open the gun to replace the spent cartridge was timed, of course, with another
grouse leaving out the back of the line of trees. It would have been an almost
impossible shot anyway.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> By
then the two dogs were working the windrow a bit downwind and I was about to move
on. It was much too cold to stand still. Thinking there might be another bird hiding
among the shrubbery, I took a couple of steps toward where the grouse had
launched.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> A
third grouse burst out the back of the trees and another twisted out over my
head. Again, I gyrated and missed!<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> I
can shut my eyes and still see those birds flying over the wide open field,
just like a painting.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjeOkKjVjjC74BCGv9wLLQFFKiSJxOjTe8TTgXENOJ827Yzc3KZbIbN2TsTgV5BJErFSkjOM6j-t6-F3_pzqEHFWZ85QebZpnGavn5N33KRjOp0lEkBUqriwtEUg8Bmucn6LX8UYne8qCpgTVBMbQWSt87b4_EE6HF3fmc_h6pFQlBCoUf8cHsSuBjJDA=s4000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjeOkKjVjjC74BCGv9wLLQFFKiSJxOjTe8TTgXENOJ827Yzc3KZbIbN2TsTgV5BJErFSkjOM6j-t6-F3_pzqEHFWZ85QebZpnGavn5N33KRjOp0lEkBUqriwtEUg8Bmucn6LX8UYne8qCpgTVBMbQWSt87b4_EE6HF3fmc_h6pFQlBCoUf8cHsSuBjJDA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-80381215609138656862021-11-10T16:42:00.000-08:002021-11-10T16:42:48.655-08:00Weather<p> <span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;">Bird
season stayed hot for far too long. Usually there are frosts and cold mornings,
often an inch or two of snow that never sticks around. Not that there aren’t ever
warm days, but just not so many of them as this year.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> The
past summer was dry, actually the drought started almost two years ago. As
happens every year, people started talking in August about what the fall
foliage season would look like. Some said the leaves would just turn brown and drop,
others said the colors would be brighter than ever. Every year it is the same
arguments and, honestly, nobody ever seems to know.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> What
happened was the leaves turned late and then refused to drop. And the WIND
NEVER BLEW to help loosen them. Two weeks into the month of October the leaves
still clung to the branches, but then reluctantly started to fall.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> During
the summer an unusually high number of grouse broods were seen along the roads.
This excited the bird hunters and made us all optimistic. The dry spring may
have wreaked havoc with the gardeners, but it certainly helped the hen grouse
raise those broods. We could not wait to get the dogs in the woods.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> And
in October, those birds that seemed to be everywhere in September, just disappeared.
The warm weather made the dogs miserable. It made us miserable too.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> Fortunately,
in the middle of the month the weather changed and the grouse came out of their
hiding. About that same time the migrating woodcock showed up. Hunting became
fun again. The birds were in their usual fall places.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> Where
had they been the first two weeks of August? Sitting in trees watching the hunters
and their dogs? It certainly was easy to imagine that. I wish I knew.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkUAdAFneuZ3aiFohq6ZS7exECG1hmcKycreaQywgleG8ptWWIJrGB4-B-8RbblSgz_R4oCc-5K64m10AjJfXcrAIWZ49NusvtIBuWblw5frwQBK8qbriBckotODQWCS3YKihdjDRindfq/s4000/IMG_2923.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkUAdAFneuZ3aiFohq6ZS7exECG1hmcKycreaQywgleG8ptWWIJrGB4-B-8RbblSgz_R4oCc-5K64m10AjJfXcrAIWZ49NusvtIBuWblw5frwQBK8qbriBckotODQWCS3YKihdjDRindfq/w400-h300/IMG_2923.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><span style="font-size: 37.3333px;"> </span></span></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-82104963498698136652021-07-18T11:57:00.000-07:002021-07-18T11:57:07.693-07:00July<p> <span> </span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;">Hot
weather, isn’t that July? We had some up here at Camp Grouse, but most of the
weather has been cool. Many mornings there has been a fire lit in the woodstove
to take the chill out of the house. Today it is near seventy and much needed
rain is falling.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>Early
in the month ruffed grouse were often seen along the sides of the road, usually
hens with their broods. Sometimes the young were as small as sparrows and the
next day a brood might be seen as big as quail.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>We
keep the dogs out of the woods to prevent chance encounters with young grouse or
woodcock. Soon the birds will all be big enough to start running the dogs on
them.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>October
still seems a long ways off.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfeGQ-XoB3CEnvp8UKPJf8BGfEq4_X3hKCKp0wqI0mpD_fk2salPqzm8jswO_F09UmWWbPGmopjWaFi66Hjhgo8gMDEP1gXdvgMwXEVQb3rOxxaNLxE0IYKiDu5EINk4Vk-fBMPmPZJyhU/s338/Ruffed+grouse+in+the+road+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="269" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfeGQ-XoB3CEnvp8UKPJf8BGfEq4_X3hKCKp0wqI0mpD_fk2salPqzm8jswO_F09UmWWbPGmopjWaFi66Hjhgo8gMDEP1gXdvgMwXEVQb3rOxxaNLxE0IYKiDu5EINk4Vk-fBMPmPZJyhU/s320/Ruffed+grouse+in+the+road+%25282%2529.jpg" /></a></div><p></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-40218178075590667192021-06-27T11:20:00.000-07:002021-06-27T11:20:53.251-07:00The Young Ones<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span> </span>It
is June, the time for young grouse to climb out of their eggshells. It actually
started at the beginning of the month and maybe even in late May in some
places.<span> <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>We
spotted our first brood the second week of the month. Momma grouse slinked
across the road, so we stopped to watch. When she safely crossed, she called
the young one. Not much bigger than bumble bees they crossed the road as singles
or in pairs, eleven all total.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>A
few days later I spotted another brood crossing on our own road. On the
approach of my truck they all stopped in the street. The hen had two near her
and three more stood frozen near the tall grass along the side of the road. I
waited and waited and finally crept closer with the truck. Mom herded the crew
back where they came from.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>A
day or two later we spotted a hen beside the road. On our approach she flew
into the woods accompanied by four or five young the size of quail.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>Not
long after that I spotted another cluster with their mother, all much smaller,
about the size of sparrows.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>So
it is obvious they don’t all hatch at the same time, but they do grow so fast that
they reach near adult size in little time. According to the Ruffed Grouse
Society, baby grouse are able to walk as soon as they hatch and take off
following their mother. About a week after they are born they can fly like
little bumble bees.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHXkr01OLQgGADBjksPApWfMD67b4xcA0ayqWEy1qzzos_XVS6Uwl2hofVwOM5RbadUTgtvtj8B9q7S14MVlxLIYeqQANWtn1nReHrtu2BVVLRRbnA7RSlqT90_NLhB05sJApR_kHvcBlY/s338/Ruffed+grouse+in+the+road+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="269" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHXkr01OLQgGADBjksPApWfMD67b4xcA0ayqWEy1qzzos_XVS6Uwl2hofVwOM5RbadUTgtvtj8B9q7S14MVlxLIYeqQANWtn1nReHrtu2BVVLRRbnA7RSlqT90_NLhB05sJApR_kHvcBlY/s320/Ruffed+grouse+in+the+road+%25282%2529.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-44722319814344710092021-05-24T16:59:00.000-07:002021-05-24T16:59:01.036-07:00Take the Time…<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> There’s
getting to be less and less of the old timers around, at least from my
prospective. When you find one and he is willing to talk, take the time to
listen. They have lived in a world that is very different than the one we live
in now, and one you will never experience.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> I’ve
only known one old-time hardcore bird hunter really well. I never used to miss
a chance to stop by his home and listen to his stories about birds. There were
tales of where to find them or when to find them. And of course dogs, there
were always a stories about a dogs. And guns. He was an avid Ithaca fan, owned
a 20, 16, and 12 all with the same stock dimensions.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> He
always asked my opinion about the upcoming season and the weather. New
Englanders always ask about the weather. Dogs were always welcome and he would
take the time it rub an ear or pat a head. He worked in the woods for a logging
company, which added another dimension to his tales. Eventually all of the
country he worked in and hunted was laid out in my head.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> There’s
been other old timers, too. A character from Fort Kent, Maine who worked in the
woods since his thirteenth birthday. He was still working and sixty-five when I
met him. He told how there were 18 siblings in his family and when the oldest
got married there were twenty-one at the dinner table. He started young picking
potatoes and seemed to always have a bag of them in his truck.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> And
the sea captain that ran a boat yard down on Cape Cod, who sailed his own yawl down
to Miami in 1950, jumped aboard a schooner heading to Cuba, then sailed back to
Pocasset, Massachusetts to start a boat yard he would run nearly the rest of
his life. I remember him standing like a sea captain, with hands clasped behind
his back, looking at the Pocasset River flow by. He lived to be one hundred
years old.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"> Their
stories were fascinating. When you find and old timer who will talk about times
long gone by, listen to the details and ask yourself if you could do the things
that they did. It’s a world we will never see.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOt0teD_U8ALFdNqQoAOeQ0dXMWIDFUZWmPJr7by5tnsiMvUUNIWhZ3Lm319J6eflNmtEr25NFlz9xerOBPDISLN1c16VNOgKUxJE30PBFAFsHkR5ld3Fgx7HWFq76T-fJfze04TY7wr43/s2048/20191229_092907.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1575" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOt0teD_U8ALFdNqQoAOeQ0dXMWIDFUZWmPJr7by5tnsiMvUUNIWhZ3Lm319J6eflNmtEr25NFlz9xerOBPDISLN1c16VNOgKUxJE30PBFAFsHkR5ld3Fgx7HWFq76T-fJfze04TY7wr43/w308-h400/20191229_092907.jpg" width="308" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-37804880743677136482021-02-20T08:10:00.001-08:002021-02-20T08:10:06.652-08:00Snow<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span> </span>February
usually means snow. By the time the month starts the hillsides are covered with
a couple of feet beneath the hardwoods. Under the boughs of the softwoods there
is always noticeably less. Temperatures are cold, often going for days without
a temperature as high as freezing and many nights dipping well below zero.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>This
February has been no different. There certainly is two feet of snow in the
woods, but this year there is no base underneath. The snow is fluff all the way
to the ground. This makes excellent roosting snow for ruffed grouse and tough
snowshoeing for humans.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>On
cold nights ruffed grouse will dive into the snow to take advantage of the snow’s
thermal protection. Snow has an R value of about 1, which is nearly the same as wood.
Twelve inches of snow has the same insulating value as a two by four wall
filled with fiberglass insulation.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>I
know of people who have been out snowshoeing and a grouse suddenly burst from
the snow and startled everybody. There are stories of grouse diving into the
snow and breaking their necks on hidden stumps or logs, but I have never seen
that. I’m sure a predator or scavenger would clean up any evidence as the snow
melted come spring.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>By
the end of February the days are noticeably longer, which is a welcome change.
March will bring on bigger changes.</span> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWiqjtrI3AUlXxhtjL29RpVytX8i5QB56Ka1niJq0KCt86qPhJ9nQw3hUo43d8bDbH6ux4jvuceQVATc2aL_1440KCMHjkxVeITP5nOM4SJ0gJIpBwdshzy2PodaiaUidmRbmwPTBGhoA/s2048/Grouse+roost.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Ruffed grouse snow roost." border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWiqjtrI3AUlXxhtjL29RpVytX8i5QB56Ka1niJq0KCt86qPhJ9nQw3hUo43d8bDbH6ux4jvuceQVATc2aL_1440KCMHjkxVeITP5nOM4SJ0gJIpBwdshzy2PodaiaUidmRbmwPTBGhoA/w400-h300/Grouse+roost.jpg" title="Ruffed grouse snow roost." width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An abandoned ruffed grouse snow roost.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-23675190077766997362021-01-30T12:44:00.003-08:002021-01-31T11:41:41.060-08:00January<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqyEYiTPjN_yEaBl8BMApnooDArW1bNUy5g7fZxIvczuG4AE4Zlm1SYyLz-MAXjbxKkAqQsNBw_7qIcTaWFPL5Y9Nq62FHaTv03PXChJBXEBJRXvvNM-jPBAFMBSnSM3OZ8d0QJNgXBDEV/s2048/20210118_155630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqyEYiTPjN_yEaBl8BMApnooDArW1bNUy5g7fZxIvczuG4AE4Zlm1SYyLz-MAXjbxKkAqQsNBw_7qIcTaWFPL5Y9Nq62FHaTv03PXChJBXEBJRXvvNM-jPBAFMBSnSM3OZ8d0QJNgXBDEV/w240-h320/20210118_155630.jpg" title="Catkins will feed the winter grouse." width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Catkins will feed the winter<br />grouse.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;">W</span></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12.0pt;">inter
really gets a grip on the land come January. Temperatures drop often to zero or
below and snow accumulates in the woods. We still run the dogs down under the softwood
trees. It breaks up their monotony and keeps all of us in shape. Often we hear
grouse thunder out of the trees and on rare occasions one of the dogs will
point one on the ground.<span> <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>By
the end of the month our brook is pretty well frozen over. Snow has forced
another batch of trees to the ground, with many falling across the stream. Song
birds entertain us at our feeders near the house. This year evening grosbeaks, common
and hoary red poles, and nuthatches galore are all a treat to watch. Of course
there are the usual clouds of chickadees, blue jays, and woodpeckers.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>The
month is a good one for hunkering down and tying flies. Spring will be here
soon enough and the fly boxes are best full.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUiEW3d4vM80N0tIrA5j8fj_DcFRxLWu7RYRz6-grrEQWGiAPJEyhVH-vbp7MKR_9oEQB5TK51rWQVzcFinDDQ2fFuGQXD9xusQXFDUEYBavgRd9VZJqwg23POVL09-54Hrsq1fO2RxExx/s2048/20210110_130413.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUiEW3d4vM80N0tIrA5j8fj_DcFRxLWu7RYRz6-grrEQWGiAPJEyhVH-vbp7MKR_9oEQB5TK51rWQVzcFinDDQ2fFuGQXD9xusQXFDUEYBavgRd9VZJqwg23POVL09-54Hrsq1fO2RxExx/w400-h300/20210110_130413.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-4085825814514712832021-01-01T13:07:00.001-08:002021-01-01T13:07:29.665-08:00Figuring It Out<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0-vKop5OPk0UzQjrznZErSrsCCkafF2WuD91o0P5rbz_AHOiF1q09q421MSgygwa0Bu810eReehM7K3eWP0fPilC4m_P7XeO758YfdjBuWBt887hDfUA39f_RTPUtzqIGsrxfrWOP9SwU/s2048/20201227_124644.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0-vKop5OPk0UzQjrznZErSrsCCkafF2WuD91o0P5rbz_AHOiF1q09q421MSgygwa0Bu810eReehM7K3eWP0fPilC4m_P7XeO758YfdjBuWBt887hDfUA39f_RTPUtzqIGsrxfrWOP9SwU/s320/20201227_124644.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>Grouse
hunters are always trying to figure it out. Why was last Sunday so good, with
birds everywhere? The day before we saw none in similar cover. Oh the dogs
seemed to get birdy a few times, but where were the grouse? Were they in the trees?<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>Grouse
are reluctant to spend a lot of time on the ground when there is snow cover. Is
that because they know their natural camouflage is compromised by the white
snow? Or is it only because the snow has buried much of their earth bound food?<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>Sunday
was great, moving more than a dozen birds in under two hours. Was it the
weather? We had just finished a week of unusually warm weather for December.
Warm weather means the birds don’t need the calories to keep up their body
temperatures, so they may not feed as much. But the temperature dropped a
little and an inch of fluffy snow fell. Did that cause the birds to come down
to feed?<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>Do
the birds know when the barometer falls? Do they move about to feed in
anticipation of a cold front? It certainly got colder.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>Most
of the birds were on the ground on Sunday, where for the previous couple of
weeks the birds had been content to sit in the safety of the softwood trees. I
assumed they had been plucking catkins from alders and birch because the birds
we saw or heard flush from the trees were all near alders or birch. We saw few
tracks anywhere.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>What
time of the day is best? Sunday it was late morning, but maybe it was better
later. Or earlier. Who knows? This time of the year the shadows are long
shortly after lunchtime and by three the day feels late and the temperature is
plummeting.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>Two
weeks ago a shot bird had a crop filled with fern leaves, even though a couple
of inches of snow covered the ground. Where did he find those?<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>If we ever figure out all of this I’m sure it would get boring.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisEKSPc9cOYMhKkiCgaA8KHyv8pIwmT75V1LItkVMRcxJ9476AQ65-3HkS8gPlPbb3jhmdGKz-C5xnqQVqzUpKtJnAbO4Fc7OutnrtZ230HSMW89lLzj_8NZH2jhsIR1Ln_feC5r1J7CWa/s1261/20201227_134038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1261" data-original-width="1028" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisEKSPc9cOYMhKkiCgaA8KHyv8pIwmT75V1LItkVMRcxJ9476AQ65-3HkS8gPlPbb3jhmdGKz-C5xnqQVqzUpKtJnAbO4Fc7OutnrtZ230HSMW89lLzj_8NZH2jhsIR1Ln_feC5r1J7CWa/w326-h400/20201227_134038.jpg" width="326" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7756338957221505463.post-10215339112957752122020-12-20T10:21:00.000-08:002020-12-20T10:21:01.036-08:00Fickle December<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjogZbkWLqU-AEy4H8brDHExTOc1ReMcUSSmzze2EOVuJe6ViefNIaJY2ijZl5UDm8k1zN4ITKQ3ZMZu7YEggy6WOGvMuJ33twI7zdBKNNWvIwTqGheyOc7s4KVbPouCQCw-vnfP-V40K3-/s2048/20201203_122136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjogZbkWLqU-AEy4H8brDHExTOc1ReMcUSSmzze2EOVuJe6ViefNIaJY2ijZl5UDm8k1zN4ITKQ3ZMZu7YEggy6WOGvMuJ33twI7zdBKNNWvIwTqGheyOc7s4KVbPouCQCw-vnfP-V40K3-/w200-h150/20201203_122136.jpg" title="Contents of crop from a December grouse" width="200" /></a></div> <span> </span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;">About
every other year the snow is deep enough by December that upland bird hunting
is either difficult or impossible. When the weather turns bitter I choose not
to kill the grouse, instead letting them live to perpetuate the species come spring.
The balance of calories expelled versus calories gained is a delicate one
without unnecessary scaring of the birds.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>This
year the ground was bare the first weekend in December. A shot grouse provided
a crop full of fern leaves, showing a diet not all that different than early
November. During a hunt early in the month the dogs pointed several birds on
the ground.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>About
six inches of moderately heavy snow arrived the middle of the month. Afterward,
I hunted to dogs in a favorite area and they found plenty of scent, but few
birds. The only bird we heard flushed from a low branch in a softwood tree. I’m
sure others were hiding overhead. Their diet had shifted to catkins, for the
only place birds were found was along alder patches.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>When
the temperatures dipped well below zero at night I didn’t bother to bird hunt,
instead letting the birds preserve precious energy. The dogs are amused by
squirrels that appeared when the song bird feeders come out. Maggie actually
sits next to my twenty-two inside the house, hoping I will grab it on the way
out the door.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span>It
is hard to admit the bird season is over, but, even with almost a week of
December to go, it is.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig51-MQUrqZgt_TPFpoT8hPTXbRPk7UlejuuEMBzD_2_6mRdzAJteQEgc6CKO6wrJi_WR151BkJ9aGZ4jucnRnpuExj8PYB6aquOPwLsHcVhDhd6SbbWGOoJiXJKLE7mwwjr-qXxrOMMub/s2048/20191223_131515.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig51-MQUrqZgt_TPFpoT8hPTXbRPk7UlejuuEMBzD_2_6mRdzAJteQEgc6CKO6wrJi_WR151BkJ9aGZ4jucnRnpuExj8PYB6aquOPwLsHcVhDhd6SbbWGOoJiXJKLE7mwwjr-qXxrOMMub/w400-h299/20191223_131515.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>Jerryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08619630410333292297noreply@blogger.com0