The Openings

They are a long way in, over a rocky road that is barely possible at times, even crawling along in four wheel drive. The term “openings” was new to me, but it is what the locals call the fields left by long-gone homesteaders. Holes in the forest is what they are, openings.

A friend who had grown up in the area showed me the way in. At a certain point, you have to park and walk the rest of the way, but four wheelers make it in and out to a couple of nearby camps. The snowmobilers maintain a bridge over a large stream that flows north, which makes crossing easier.

The area before the openings is logged hard, so it is good grouse country. It’s also flat, at least for our neck of the woods, and thick, so I find it easy to get “turned around” there. We’ve taken a lot of birds out of those woods.

But the openings are special, where you step onto grass and large pines stand overlooking on a knoll, with blue sky stretched overhead. The forest tries hard to creep back in, and I am sure it will with no one mowing the fields. Beneath a mammoth white pine there’s a small cellar hole. I always wonder if the pine stood there when the house still remained.

What did the people grow? The summers are short and the winters long. Was there a barn? Maybe this coming summer I’ll walk in there with the dogs to look around again. Could there have been more than one family? It is miles to the nearest village.

I get distracted around abandoned home sites. If we locate their dump it’s like finding a gold mine. Everything must have been precious in those hard times, and I’m sure little was thrown out unless it was totally useless. But their useless might be a treasure to me. I’ve spent hours, sitting on my butt, digging out old bottles and unidentifiable pieces of rusted iron, while the guns rested against trees and our dogs waited impatiently.  

An ancient stone wall, sagging and moss covered.

Where did the people go? What drove them away? The rocky soil? Cold winters? The isolation?

Did they leave during the chilly years after the volcano Krakatoa erupted in 1883? It took five years for the world’s weather to get back to normal. Mount Tambora did the same thing in 1816, but made it so cold that it was referred to as the “year without a summer”. It snowed in June and water on ponds froze an inch thick. Frosts happened in every month, disrupting agriculture in New England and Europe to the point that thousands starved. I read once that between 10 and 15 thousand left Vermont during that time and headed west, hoping for a better climate and fewer rocks. But if those openings had been abandoned that long ago, I think they would have grown in long before now. Maybe not.

So I’ll probably never know for certain. Those openings, while they still remain, are a testament to tough people that tried to carve out a dream. The stone lined cellar holes will last long after the fields have grown in, but eventually all will be forgotten.

I will visit them all again, and wonder.     

Do You Ever Wonder…?

Do you see him in there among the mango leaves

I wonder about woodcock. Ten thousand years ago, during the last ice age, when they migrated north, did they stop in what is now Maryland? They must have. Further north was a frozen wasteland. But maybe Maryland was much like northern Labrador is today, so possibly they summered and raised their young in Georgia. Perhaps we can convince our government to spend a big chunk of money to figure this out.

And what about the woodcock’s favorite food, the earth worms? I’ve read authorities that stated they weren’t indigenous to North America, but were brought over by the Europeans. If that is true, what did woodcock eat? Just grubs? The woodcock would have followed the Europeans around to uproot up their newly introduced apple trees and such to get at those new “imported” tasty morsels.

And I’ve read other experts that stated the worms were here all along and died when the ice sheet covered over them. One writer even said the worms had returned north at something like eighteen inches a year. I’m not sure how that was measured or if our tax dollars paid for the research. Did someone actually put radio telemetry collars on earth worms? I’m happy the answers they found weren’t in metric.

Ruffed grouse in a mahogany tree?

If we could travel back through time to the last ice age, would it be possible to shoot ruffed grouse in the Florida Keys? It’s fun to imagine, skipping from island to island, the sand sticking to our waxed cotton brush pants. Woodcock probably flew right across the Straits of Florida to winter in Cuba and the Bahamas. I guess there wasn’t any rum then, but it still would have made a spectacular winter vacation, assuming the seasons lasted into January and February.

What I am glad of is that we don’t know all the answers. Can you imagine if we could google everything?

Are those holes in the sand from a woodcock's probing bill or clams...?

Juno Points Her First Quail

The recall house loaded with Quail

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where are the Woodcock?

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

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

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

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

Chara pointing a March woodcock a few years ago.

Picking a Shotgun

Some decisions are agonized over....

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

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

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

Older ones may be missing a screw.

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

A wide plane catches the eye. 

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

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

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

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

    Remember, practice safe shooting.    

A favorite, leaning against a tree.

  

Old Things

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Never Promise

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

Breakfast sausage

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

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

Don Pouliot, out in the thick of things.

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

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

Chara on point.

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

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

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

Red, sizing things up

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

Colby giving Red the evil eye

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

And with the same results.

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

Pandemonium

Four year old Colby honoring Chara.'s point.

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

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

Twelve year old Chara backing Colby.

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

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

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

Can you find the third dog pointing that grouse??

Civilized

My old girl Chara

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

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

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

Ancient apples.

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

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

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

Chara pointing the woodcock.

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

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

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

Chara on point among wild apples.

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

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

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

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

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

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.