What’s It to You ?

Speed on the water.

     I once lived amongst the world of diehard sailors. Some raced two or more times a week and had to be the first to everywhere. Every piece of gear on their boats was of cutting edge technology. Other sailors just wanted to be out on the water, headed for a quiet cove to spend the day. Some had to cross an entire ocean to be happy. A few never went anywhere, but instead used their boat mostly for entertaining or just a platform from which to read a book. Many of my friends worked on boats, lived aboard boats, and went sailing on their days off. Every one of those sailors enjoyed their boat and who’s to say who enjoyed theirs the most.

Which fly today?

     Fly fishing is sometimes like that. One angler has to match whatever insect is hatching, while another is quite content to throw the same fly that he threw the day before and the day before that. Some fish as if their life depended on it, while another may find a sunny spot on the shore to stretch out and take a nap. Who’s having the most fun?

     Bird hunting can be the same way. Some hunt until their legs are ready to fall off, with anything less than a limit an impossible thought. Others may mosey along, content to watch the dogs work while they chat with a buddy. Many love their old shotguns and bird hunting is an excuse to get them out. Bird dogs are the passion of a huge number of bird hunters, and many wouldn’t bother to walk into the woods without one. To some, it is an excuse to be out in the woods watching song birds, looking for deer tracks, and possibly shooting a bird along the way. Who is having the most fun?

     When I was younger killing birds seemed very important, much more so than it does now. My dog was steady to wing and shot and, by the time a day was over, my legs would have felt better if they had fallen off. I have to admit, I always slept soundly after a day in the woods.

Georgia pinning a ruffed grouse.

     I sleep just as well now, but during a day afield I notice a lot more. Around here there are old stone foundations and long lost apple trees. A beaver pond might harbor a wood duck or a half dozen black ducks. A woodcock or two might hide among the alders in valley around the other side of the hill…or is it the hill beyond that? Sometimes I just follow an old logging road to see where it goes.

     Every day is an adventure. My dogs no longer are steady to wing and shot. Hunting alone that was difficult to enforce and caused a lot of frustration, both for me and my dogs. They still hunt hard and point with intensity, but more like cowboys than mechanical soldiers. If dog safety is an issue on low flying shots, I just let the bird go. One bird in the game bag feels great, and after that anything more is a bonus.

     Don’t get me wrong, I love to watch dogs preform flawlessly and to see birds drop in front of gunners that never miss. You have to admire the determination and discipline that brings such results. If it makes them happy, and I certainly hope it does, it makes me happy.   

     Instead, my dogs are my buddies, under foot both in my shop and in our home. I still try to rule the roost and make sure their manners are impeccable, and we do get out in the woods often, probably much more than most. Experience and birds in front of the dog’s nose are the best teachers, so we try to get out a lot..

     But I’m willing to cut them some slack, as long as they are willing to return the favor.

Pandemonium

Four year old Colby honoring Chara.'s point.

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

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

Twelve year old Chara backing Colby.

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

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

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

Can you find the third dog pointing that grouse??

Georgia, the story continues…

Room to run in the big woods.

At a little over two and a half years of age, it was Georgia’s third foray up to the big north woods with me. Her owners, both non-hunters, loved that their shorthair got the chance to experience “what she was bred for”.

Her first year she just tagged along, playing as much as hunting and learning what life is all about. Ruffed grouse baffled her, but occasionally a woodcock would hold for a point. The second season it all started to come together, and during the second week of that trip she pointed her first ruffed grouse. There were more points that week, as it all started to come together, but also periods of over-exuberance (read: unruly flushing of grouse, most far enough away that they could be heard but not seen).  And then this fall, after a couple of rather rowdy days burning off steam, she settled down and hunted like a champ, pointing over a dozen grouse, politely honoring on still more than that, and doing both on countless woodcock.

Georgia with a bird pinned.

In her puppy days, Georgia had been taught the basic manners that all dogs should be taught, but since then has had almost no training in hunting. Before taking her north for the second season, we did a little work on planted pigeons and stalked a few pheasants that the state of Massachusetts had nicely provided, but I doubt there was five hours of training all together.

Before heading north this year I took her out into the fields behind the house to find pigeons that I’d planted, and she solidly pointed every single one of them. Georgia did it with such regularity that it was almost boring to work with her. Again, we only trained a few of hours, total.

Three tired dogs.

Her breeders, Hedgehog Hill Shorthairs in Belmont, Vermont, did a spectacular job of breeding for temperament balanced with hunting skills. Georgia was so well mannered this year that I’ve told people it was as if she knew she was a guest and wouldn’t be invited back again if she misbehaved. It was a pleasure to have her in the house as well as on the hunt.

We won’t get north again this season, so now it’s the waiting, but it’s only three hundred and twenty days until it’s October again! I think Georgia has the days marked on a calendar in her kennel.

Smiling

Juno, sorting out
 the meaning of life
at eight weeks old.

We have a new puppy in the house. Could life be any better?

Yes, it can and it will. I took her out in the dark this morning about five, only to be startled by a duck quack by the driveway, then it quacked near the barn, and then over near the woods…it was flying unseen in the dark, probably trading between nearby ponds.

Fall is in the air. Last week we traveled up to Camp Grouse, where the former vibrant green hillsides had started to show signs of rust. Out walking, wild apples hung red from their trees and we found grouse, even busting an enormous covey just before we had to head south again. Twice we searched the sky for geese we could hear but barely see. I read in the news this morning they had a frost up there last night, which I’m sure softened the fruit hanging from trees. I can’t wait to return.

A hidden pond behind a clear cut in grouse country

Back here at home, the air is drier and the leaves sound different when ruffled by the wind. In the woods the low-growing huckleberry and blueberry have shed their leaves, and the ferns have shriveled to brown. The deep green of the oaks is tarnished and the clouds move faster across the sky. Ducks have appeared on the ponds, swimming in orderly flotillas, where a few weeks ago they all remained hidden.

My two German wirehairs
are enjoying the cool weather,

Both of the older dogs are a bit more intense in the woods, they sense what is coming. This morning, on a walk right after breakfast, they flushed a wild peahen in a field out back, and boy did that get them excited. Back in the yard, the pup watches the clusters of birds and dashes about after them, often tumbling over her own fat feet. 

Soon I'll be able to count the days until bird season opens on my fingers and toes. Life just keeps getting better,  

A New Pup

Our wirehairs, Chara with Colby the pup.

     We are down to two dogs in the house. After living with three for so long the place feels sort of empty. This past spring we had to put our high strung Vizsla down. The hole that she left behind is larger than her diminutive size. She may have been the runt of the litter, but she rose to be queen of the castle here.

     Sally, my virtual wife, has always had a soft spot for German shorthaired pointers, and, seeing that I picked the last dog, a German wirehair, it is her turn. She did a lot of research and has picked a kennel, one with a hunting background because that is important to us. We want a dog that will be at home in the rugged terrain of northern New England, and that is where this pup will be born.

     

Georgia, a friend's GSP at five months on point.

So now the mom has been bred and the wait begins.

  

Georgia

     Georgia is staying at our house while her owners are away. In case you missed the earlier posts, she’s a young German shorthaired pointer who will be two in May and belongs to friends of ours. Georgia is intense, almost constantly in motion, ever hunting, but she is very well mannered, I will give her that.

     I’m lucky and make a living as a cabinetmaker with a shop only a few feet from our home. Most days our two German wirehaired pointers hang out in the shop, and this past week Georgia has been there too. While the wires sleep, Georgia searches for mice.

     On Monday I had to install cabinets at a customer’s summer home out in the middle of nowhere, so I brought the dogs along to let them poke around the yard and swim in the pond. In the afternoon I didn’t see Georgia around, so I peeked into the backyard. There she was, munching down a rabbit that she had just caught. By the time I got it away from her the hind end was devoured.

     The next day was unusually warm, so I had the big doors to my shop open. My wirehairs stretched out in the sun and slept. I found Georgia underneath my truck with her head stuck inside a box of dog biscuits, which had been almost full earlier in the day.

    We left her in the house this morning, and when I went inside for lunch the placemats on the dining table were either on the floor or askew. Somebody had obviously been table surfing. No damage was done

     I love Georgia’s constant inquisitiveness and that drive to hunt. Last fall her abilities in the field were outstanding, especially considering how little formal hunting training she had. How many young dogs do you know that can handle ruffed grouse on a regular basis?

     Her motions are measured, as if she wants to make certain that she can run all day. And she’s a real sweetie, always comes when called and wants to give you a lick when she arrives. In the woods she keeps track of her handler and never seems to tire. She’s just pretty to look at and a joy to watch. 

     But the best thing about Georgia is that she makes my wirehairs appear so well mannered.

Georgia

     I’ve always started working with my bird dog pups the day that I brought them home from the breeder. It is never too early to expose them to feathers and birds, as long as you don’t scare the pup and keep it fun, that’s the way I feel anyway. By the time they are a few months old they are always pointing quail or pigeons and well on their way to becoming bird dogs. Without birds you can’t have a bird dog—I think we’ve all heard that.

     So this story is about a dog that friends of ours, who are non-hunters, acquired about a year and a half ago, a German shorthair pointer named Georgia. This couple has always had shorthairs, and I think this was their third. The idea of their dogs doing what it was been bred to do has always appealed to them, and one day two summers ago I asked how old the pup would be come last October. It would be six months old that fall they said and I jokingly mentioned I’d love to take her up hunting with me. Luckily for me, they thought the idea of the dog traveling up to bird country sounded like a great idea.

     Or maybe they just needed a break from the pup’s energy!

     Georgia had been well taught her basic manners, came when called, sat, stayed, and was a pleasure to be around. Of course there was lots of energy there, and keeping her sitting or staying sometimes became an issue, but, all in all, she was great for a young dog. Her manners around other dogs were impeccable, never once trying to force things to have her own way.

     So we headed up to the big woods for a couple of weeks, with Chara, my oldest German wirehair, and Colby, the young wire who was having hind leg issues that year. Georgia loved it up there, bumped some partridge right of the bat, and explored the new woods with its new and wild scents. The other dogs tolerated her or ignored her, often acting as if she were invisible. Sometimes Georgia stayed in the kennel in the back of the truck so the other dogs could hunt without her bumping the birds.

Georgia on an early woodcock.

     And then we went to the biggest alder patch that I know, where woodcock always are present and sometimes very abundant. Right off the bat Colby pointed a woodcock with Chara and Georgia both honoring. Georgia bumped a couple, and then pointed one. I made very sure that I killed that one on the flush. She was starting to see how things are supposed to work.

     The day turned out to be sort of controlled craziness, with dogs pointing and honoring and bumped birds flying all over the place, but Georgia learned a lot and learned it fast. I don’t know how many woodcock we moved, but there certainly were dozens.

     This past fall we headed north again, Chara another year older and starting to show it, Colby a year wiser and in better physical shape than the year before, and Georgia, anxious to go hunting, but with no additional real training on birds.

Grouse country.

     And what a year! Grouse seemed to be just about everywhere and I lost count of how  many were pointed. Georgia would lock up like a statue though and then take off like a rocket, determined to catch the birds. The other dogs ignored her bad manners and when they pointed I tried to hurry in before Georgia would notice them. When she spotted another dog pointing she would honor for a moment before storming in with the predictable and disastrous results. On woodcock she did fine, but those nervous grouse were just too tantalizing to not chase. Each of the dogs spent time in the kennel, and Georgia was forced to sit out some great grouse cover.

     And then one day, when all three of the three dogs and I worked down through a clear cut that I had never hunted before, it all clicked in. While Chara tried to relocate a grouse that had flushed off to my right, Georgia locked up solid on another bird ahead and stayed that way. What a sight!

Yeah, that's what it is all about!

     It happened in a thicket that all but swallowed up the dogs, where their bells went silent and I could barely catch a glimpse of Colby’s rump as she honored Georgia’s point ahead of her. Georgia, with her darker color, was almost impossible to see. The bird flashed up through the fir boughs and I fired as it disappeared. Both dogs vanished into the foliage and I feared a miss, but then Colby came pushing out of the greenery carrying the bird with Georgia following close behind.

     I took some time to praise them both, which they definitely deserved. They each looked cocky as hell and anxious to hunt more.

Georgia looking proud.

     After that Georgia pointed nearly as many grouse as either of the older dogs. Most of what she knows is in her genes and not from anybody’s training, so it’s kudos to the breeder, Hedgehog Hill Shorthairs in Belmont, Vermont. Of course she is smart too, which lets her figure things out quickly, like how to grab that unattended last half of a sandwich from the tailgate of the truck.

     I’ll hunt over that dog anytime. I keep finding myself singing that Ray Charles song…Georgia on my mind.

   

Back from the Big Woods

     The time up north passed way too quickly, as it always does.  This year the weather stayed gray, with occasional showers breaking up the days, and temperatures held steady with daytimes in the fifties and nights in the forties.  Migrating songbirds, which usually long gone by the third week of October, still lingered in flocks and the flights of migrating woodcock didn’t show up until the day before I left.

     Ruffed grouse were abundant, with almost twice the flush rate of the previous year, but the birds were skittish like I have never seen them before.  Often the partridge flushed forty or more yards ahead, frustrating both the dogs and I.  But there were places and moments where things came togethern and the birds held for points and then flushed in multiples.  And on one day the sun shined like a jewel in an unblemished blue sky, and even though no birds were shot, it will stick in my mind.

     A five month old German shorthair pointer pup came along for the trip, providing lots of laughs and interesting moments.  She pointed her first woodcock five minutes into her first bird hunt, honored the other dogs easily, and carried my boots around back at the house.

     Hunting with friends and visiting old acquaintances made the week special.  Watching three dogs, with one pointing and two honoring, made the week magic.  But like the lingering leaves on the poplars, it was time for me to go.

     I’ll write more on the trip soon.