Check Your Gear

    The first day hunting I parked miles from anywhere on an old logging road that ran pretty much north and south.  The dogs and I headed west into a clear cut, under a gray overcast sky that promised rain or snow, and then worked our way more or less parallel with the road and south.  When the cut ended at a dense stand of softwood trees we hunted back to the road and then crossed to the east side.

    Boney terrain and scattered softwood trees led down into a promising looking cutting.  The dogs bounded ahead, hunting ever optimistically with their bells clanging.  After walking for about twenty minutes, just to check my bearings, I pulled my compass out of my pocket.

     The fluid inside the dial looked like tea, and twisting the base in my hand the needle followed the card, definitely stuck.  Looking closer I could see flecks of rust along the side of the needle.  I owned that compass for well over thirty years and never gave a thought to it failing.

    Fortunately, we had walked mostly downhill after crossing the road, so by heading up the gradual slope we eventually found the road.  Flat country might have been a bit more confusing.

    The lesson there is always check your gear before heading into the woods, and assume nothing.     

Old cuttings are easy to get turned around in.

After the Nap

    More out of sense of duty than desire, I picked up my gun and headed for the door.  The two older dogs got up, but the young pup already stood at the door.  Leaving the wirehairs at home, I put Georgia in my truck.

    We drove to an alder patch, one that is near the house and I usually can walk to, but high water in a stream that must be crossed changed all that.  On the way down from an old gravel pit where I parked, Georgia poked through the woods on either side of the grassy tote road.  At the bottom of a slippery slope an old meadow borders the stream.  Deer and moose tracks cover the ground. 

    I lead her across the field and through a hole in a falling-down fence, where we enter the alders.  Almost immediately I notice a woodcock splash on the fallen leaves and look for Georgia.

    She’s locked up on point, crouches low and muscles taught, I’m sure the scent of woodcock filling her nostrils, her stature guided by knowledge that’s been passed in her genes.  A picture would have been priceless, but I’m not sure how long the bird or dog would hold.

    I stepped ahead of the dog and the bird twitters toward sky, curling back over the stream.  I pass on the shot, not wanting the bird to fall in the water or on the far side, unsure of what the dog would do.  The stream is several feet deep and running fast, more than a young dog needs to get into.

    A few minutes later Georgia found another woodcock, and just as she points the bird it climbs for the sky…another lesson for the young dog.

     We hunt through the rest of the patch and then head for home.  What a great first day for her.

Bird Season Arrives, 2011

Our first day dawned gray and cool, but the older dogs knew the purpose and anxiously waited near the door.  Up there in the big woods every day starts with one of my lumberjack breakfasts, so they were forced to wait.  Methodically, things were gathered and piled near the door to later put in the truck.  It seems something is always forgotten.

     Two dogs rode on the backseat, my younger GWP, Colby, and Georgia, a friend’s five-month-old GSP that came along for the week.  Chara, my oldest GWP, rides on the passenger side next to me.  She, better than the rest, knew the routine.

     Yellow leaves still lingered on some of the poplars, and green leaves defiantly clung to roadside apples, but most of the trees were bare.  Heavily loaded logging trucks passed us on the highway, a good sign in difficult economic times.  And timber harvesting provides great cover for ruffed grouse and woodcock.

     About four miles up a logging road I parked in an old logging yard, one that provided great hunting the previous fall.  The views from there are spectacular, with rolling hills to the eastern horizon, and make the stop worthwhile if for nothing else.  To the west, north, and east of the yard the trees are about twenty feet tall,  maybe logged over about fifteen or twenty years earlier, but to the south the timber is older, perhaps cut sixty or more years ago.

     I let the three dogs out, corralling each to put on an orange collar with a bell.  With three dogs there definitely would be pandemonium and bumped birds, but I knew they all needed to blow off steam.  Following an old tumbling stream, we hunted up the hill.

     Chara covered the ground like the old pro she is, working the cover and tasting the air.  Colby hunted hard too, but at only two hasn’t figured out all of the tricks.  Little Georgia sometimes followed Chara, sometimes Colby, but often followed her own instincts.  A bit of independence is a good thing. 

     Everything in the woods dripped from the previous night’s rain, but the dogs never seemed to notice.  We worked the edge of the cutting, and then out into the cut toward a cluster of softwood trees, which might provide shelter for grouse.  Nothing.  Working back toward the older growth, we hunted the edge of a softwood stand and then around back toward the truck.  Still nothing.  Soaked to my hide, I was ready for the truck’s heater, yet the dogs’ enthusiasm never wavered.

     About a mile down the road, and surrounded by an old clearcut, a dense stand of spruce and fir spelled shelter for partridge on a stormy night.  I parked and let out the girls.  They plunged into the mesh of branches and I tried to follow. 

     A bird thundered away unseen ahead of us, and then I heard Chara’s bell stop.  Colby and Georgia were working off to my right and out of sight.  Wet, cold, branches clawed at my clothes as I hurried toward Chara.  About the time I could glimpse a piece of the white dog through the green needles I heard the bird leave.

     Coffee for me and fuel for all of us back at the truck!

     The logging road took us up over a hill and along a ridge, into miles from anywhere.  I found a side road that led into country that looked very good on Google Earth, parked, and started hunting up the road with all three dogs.  The country looked perfect, and probably deserves another look sometime, but we only found one partridge that flushed ahead of us and one woodcock that Chara pointed with Colby honoring.

     Everywhere I stepped seemed to be spongy, saturated to the point of soupy from the previous rain, and then rain started to fall again.  With tired aching legs I drove out of the woods, the dogs all curled up on their seats.  A few flakes of snow mixed with the rain at higher elevations, making it easier to call it quits for a while.

     It was time to go back to the house and take a nap.    

            

  

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. 

  

Stocked Pheasants

Our state stocked pheasants today, in preparation for the season that opens this coming Saturday.  For the last few days I’ve been working with a friend’s five-month-old German shorthaired pointer, and, because we had easy access to the area where some of the pheasants were stocked, I decided to take the young dog over there, along with my two German wirehaired pointers. 

     We poked around the woods a bit, and then I led the dogs to the spot where the pheasants had been released every year for as long as I’ve been around.  Sure enough, as we approached one of the pheasants let out a squawk and my oldest dog, the one that is supposed to be a hundred percent steady and reliable, bolted for the bushes and flushed the bird upward.

     The poor bird barely could fly, but did manage to land in a tree about twenty feet above the ground.  All three dogs were very excited as they inhaled the scent and zigzagged all over the place where the bird had been.

     On the way home the younger wirehair pointed into to a tangle of thorns.  Then the older wire honored.   The shorthair pup sort of poked around the edges of the thicket, trying to figure out this puzzle.  The demeanor of the two older dogs told me the pheasant was walking, and soon both of them re-located on the far side of the mess.  Then I spotted the pheasant sneaking out from under the brush and heading my direction.  It froze when it saw me, sort of hunkering down in the leaves.

    I called the young shorthair and she circled around the thorn-pile the long way, then came straight toward me with the pheasant between us.  Coming around a tree trunk the pup almost ran into the bird. 

    I’m sure the pheasant was as surprised as the dog, and the dog certainly hadn’t ever seen a bird that big, nor one dressed like a clown before.  That bird didn’t fly much better than the previous one and if the tail had been longer I’m sure the pup would have snagged some feathers.  It too landed in a tree, that time not much higher than a dog could jump.

     Not much sport was presented by those birds. 

Hot Weather

Grouse hunting in hot weather is awful.  The clothing that is required to protect a hunter in typical grouse cover has to be hot to work.  So it’s either roast, or let the forest make mincemeat out of your arms and legs. 

Several years ago I started using a strap vest, back when they were hard to find in the catalogs.  Now there are a lot more to choose from and some are pretty fancy.  A strap vest is much cooler than a traditional bird hunting vest and certainly cooler than any jacket ever devised.  A cotton shirt heavy enough to protect your arms is all that is needed under the vest on warm days.

Brush pants are available in light weights.  Find a florescent orange hat with mesh panels and that’s about the best you can do.  You will probably want to carry water to stay hydrated, and don’t forget the dog’s water too.

And then where do you find the birds?  Try looking around stream bottoms, particularly if they are lined with softwood trees and a food source isn’t too far away.  Maybe the moving water makes it cooler, along with the shade, and probably the birds like a drink on a hot day just like we do. 

It has worked for me.

The Season is Here!

October arrived dripping wet, with lush foliage still clinging to the trees, the fall colors not quite to peak, and a forecast of more of the same weather.  Out of sense of duty more than desire, I grabbed by gun and, accompanied by the two eager German wirehairs, headed out into the woods to climb the hill above our north-country home.

The ground climbs steeply there, lung busting steep, up a slippery old skid trail clogged with weeds.  I pushed through soaked raspberry vines and waist-high grass, my feet almost making waves among the puddles where the ground was near level.  By the time we reach the old logging road that is cut into the hill, my heart was pounding.  The dogs hunted with passion all the way up and seemed oblivious to the topography as well as the weather.  Why can’t I be like them?

I always find it amazing how quickly Mother Nature reclaims the land in northern New England.  More trees had fallen into that old tote road and foliage crowded in along the sides.  If I were suddenly dropped there I might not even recognize the spot, even though I’ve been there dozens of times before.  Moose had trampled a path in the past, but they seemed absent this year.

Chara, the older dog, hunted off to the right on the uphill side of the road.  Colby, the two-year-old pup, is off to the left beneath tall spruce and fir on a shoulder of the rise.  My mind started wandering, wondering just how far past its prime grouse-producing years the woods had become.

Snapping back to the moment I realized Colby was on point about fifty feet ahead of me.  It wasn’t the rock solid point we all want to see, but she was definitely pointing, yet looking a little unsure of herself.  In clothes heavy with water, I hurried into the spruce and fir thicket, my eyes searching the ground ahead of her.

About forty feet ahead of Colby a grouse head comes up from behind a log; the bird was at the edge of a precipice, where the earth falls abruptly away over a ledge.  As I stepped past Colby the bird jumped off the edge like an Army Ranger stepping out of the back of a transport plane.  The bird may have been gone, but the memory is with me forever.

Continuing to follow that old road upward we found a few more birds, all of which flushed wild, except one that Chara did manage to point high up on the hill.  At an old logging yard, which looked like a marshy lake that day, we turned around and hunted homeward, only finding one grouse that flushed fifty yards ahead of us.

I never brought my gun to my shoulder that entire hunt, with thick soaking leaves cloaking everything, the puddles covering the ground between patches of slippery mud, and the rain seeming relentless.  Yet I had a ball.   

     

Resident Woodcock

Three years ago an April snowstorm caught the woodcock in our area nesting, resulting in many lost young, maybe most.  The local population of woodcock plummeted.  For the next few years the Fish and Game Department had the woodcock hunting season start about five or six days after the start of the ruffed grouse season.  The only woodcock around that early are the resident birds, and perhaps the late season was needed for their numbers to replenish.  It was awfully hard to explain to the dogs though, why we had to let the woodcock fly away.

          This year, during the late summer, the woodcock seem as abundant as ever and the season is again opening the same day as the grouse season.  That’s a good thing.

          But they all seem to have gone into hiding on opening day.  How do they know?

So You Want to Hunt Ruffed Grouse

Where do you start?  The best place would be to find an old partridge hunter who would let you tag along.  That could prove mighty hard to do though, because grouse hunters seem to be somewhat scarce and a pretty secretive lot, and most will only share coverts with the closest and most trusted friends.  Still, it might be something to strive for.

Without a mentor, the next best bet would be to read everything that you can find on hunting ruffed grouse.  Most of what is in the old classics, like New England Grouse Shooting, by William Harnden Foster, still holds true today, and it is well worth trying to find a copy even though it is out of print.  L. L. Bean published a book on upland hunting, written by Tom Huggler, and the chapter on ruffed grouse was one of the best I’ve ever read.  And even if you can’t get the old grouse hunters to take you along, try to get them talking.  A bottle of single malt scotch or aged bourbon might loosen their tongues a bit.  And then pay attention.

Next, stretch your legs and see if you can find some grouse.  When you do find one, look around and see what the cover looks like.  Bird hunters with a lot of experience often refer to a place as looking birdy, even though they might be hard pressed to describe exactly what makes it look that way.  Try to guess the food source and where the shelter is, both are never too far away, and then look for more of the same sort of country.  Along the way you’ll probably find more grouse in cover that is slightly different, but try to notice similarities. 

When you are home again, try to locate where you found the grouse on Google Earth.  Notice what the forest looks like, stream locations and proximity of softwood trees.   Try to find more of the same and mark the spots. 

Then start walking again and keep going until your legs hurt, it will only get you in shape for the upcoming season and you are bound to find cover to hunt.  Finding anything more than one ruffed grouse per hour is doing better than average, so some days are going to be bust, but others are bound to be bounty.  You hunt grouse with your feet. 

   

Skunks

We live on an island of Martha’s Vineyard, where once upon a time skunks never existed.  Many many years ago, some evil-minded person released a pair, and who that was has long been the subject of much speculation.  And now, because we have no earth-cleansing predators other than hawks or owls to keep their numbers down, the skunks are quite abundant and live very happily.

By abundant I mean you never drive to town without seeing a few dead in the road along the way.  A friend, who once raised chickens, used to trap almost one a day, and he wasn’t releasing them alive so none were caught twice.  The skunks almost roto-till lawns looking for grubs.  Ground nesting birds like quail, whippoorwills, and some of the shore birds have all but disappeared.  Every dog owner has a tale to tell and most have a bottle of Skunk Off or other balm handy all the time.  More than once I have heard stories about people finding the skunks walking around inside their homes, coming in through either through a dog door or a sliding door left ajar.

Our older dogs received the wrath of skunks a few times when they were young, but along the way learned it wasn’t fun and have since then gone out of their way to avoid the black demon with the white racing stripe.  Our youngest was only sprayed lightly once and then fell in with the older dogs, steering clear of the stinky little creatures.  Now they loosely point skunks from a safe distance, heads held high with their noses moving slowly side to side, I guess to alert the rest of us to the critter’s position.

There are dogs that attack every skunk they see, and why some do and others avoid them I will never know.  I am just thankful that ours have decided they like smelling like dogs.

Grouse Camp

The title grouse camp evokes certain images…old shotguns leaned against a wall, wet and worn boots lined up inside a door, orange hats hung from deer antlers on the wall, pickup trucks parked outside, and, most importantly, bird dogs curled up in contented slumber.

The camp might be anyplace in grouse country, but preferably where trout can be found in a nearby stream come spring.  That would mean woodcock could be handy too.  A remote or rustic location may be preferred, like someplace that a hunter could walk right out the door with a shotgun across his arm and an excited dog bounding ahead, but in truth, most of us drive between cover, so a grouse camp could be even in a rural town in northern Maine or upstate New York.

Inside, magazines like Field and Stream, or Gray’s Journal would litter the coffee and end tables.  A deer head or large brook trout might hang on the wall, but definitely the fanned tail of a ruffed grouse is mounted on a wall plaque somewhere.  Canvas jackets and wool shirts could be draped over the backs of chairs, and possibly LaCrosse boots are upside down over a boot-dryer.  On the bookshelves worn copies of New England Grouse Shooting, Drummer in the Woods, Big Woods, and other classics wait for rainy days.  A stray feather or two drifts around the floor.

Hopefully a fireplace or cast-iron stove heats the room.  A fair pile of wood should be stacked in a corner or outside the back door; it is very reassuring.  The senior dog will be curled up on a braided rug just beyond the hearth, its white muzzle twitching as it dreams about birds pointed long ago.

The only ‘must-have’ for the kitchen, beside a coffee pot, is a cast iron frying pan, preferably more than one, but a large one will do by itself.  The sweetest morning aroma is that of bacon frying, the sizzling the only alarm clock needed.  Mix in the smell of strong coffee and it’s heavenly. 

Bacon can bring out the cholesterol-be-damned attitude in almost anyone, so hearty breakfasts of pancakes and eggs are always served in grouse camps.  The birds aren’t out and about early, they are way too civilized for that, so the first meal of the day needn’t be a hurried affair.  Partridge are hunted by your feet, so the hunters need their coffee and fuel. 

Late in the day, when the shadows are long and aching legs have carried the weary hunters back inside, tired hands will prepare a simple dinner while stories are told of birds pointed and shots missed.  An open bottle of single malt scotch or fine bourbon sits on the kitchen counter, next to heavy tumblers so weary hunters can pour what they need.  Gun cleaning tools accumulate on the table, along with maps, broken dog biscuits, and stray shotgun shells

When the meal is done, heavy-eyed hunters will doze in their chairs and all will soon slip off to bed. 

The dogs never move, not until morning.

Do you need a dog?

A long time ago, when I was a youngster, we hunted ruffed grouse by just walking them up.  There seemed to be more birds then and youthful enthusiasm was on our side.  Thick briars and muck-filled swamps didn’t even slow us down; we just kept marching ahead.  We did shoot a few grouse, but really not all that many.  I have to admit though that we didn’t know too much about what we were doing.

A hunter can increase his odds dramatically if he knows where to look for ruffed grouse.  An area where logging has created young forests is a great place to start looking.  We didn’t know that.  Most of our time was spent looking for the proverbial abandoned farms that bird hunting literature romanticizes.  Old farms can be great places to hunt, but they are getting rare and when you do find one it has probably seen lots of hunters.

My first bird dog was a Brittany spaniel, who was on the large size for his breed and even more bull headed than I.  With the dog I discovered woodcock, which I had pretty much been walking right by all along, and what fun those birds were.  That Brittany did point a few grouse, but never became a great grouse dog.  He spent his time traveling through the woods like a steamroller and bumped more grouse than he pointed.  Woodcock held though, unless he tripped over them.

The second dog in my life, a German wirehaired pointer named Jesse, had an entirely different temperament.  I’m not certain if it was because she was a female instead of a male, because of the breed, or because I was older and a more patient teacher.  Although she was never exposed to many grouse, she seldom bumped a bird.  It was always fun to watch her slow down and taste the air, trying to figure out where the bird was before settling in on point.  My dogs since then have all been great performers, each seeming to be better than the one before.

Almost any dog will find many more grouse than you will ever walk up by yourself.  An ill-mannered dog will drive you nuts though, flushing the birds out of range that you may not even hear or see, and you’ll shoot fewer birds than if you had no dog at all.  With a flushing dog that hunts within range or a pointing breed that will hold a point until you get there, you will shoot more birds. And better yet, with the dog you’ll find the birds after you shoot them.

So no, you don’t need a dog to hunt ruffed grouse.  Just as I don’t need a fork to eat dinner, but it certainly is more civilized with one.   

Aging

My oldest German wirehair, Chara, was ten this past summer.  When I stroke her whiskers back I notice cloudiness in her eyes that wasn’t there before.  Her spirit is still strong, maybe stronger than mine, but she is quite content to curl up on a rug and wait for something to happen.  Yet on walks she still hunts for mice and points song birds for her own entertainment, and physically she is muscular and strong.    She still runs for the back door, excited as a young pup, at the sound of the bell on her hunting collar. 

           Chara’s colors are white and liver, so the new white hairs aren’t as noticeable as if she were darker, but I do see white flecks where solid liver used to be.  Aging catches us all.

            Inside her head are ten seasons of experience, starting with her first season when she pointed quail at five months of age.  I don’t remember if she retrieved them, but I know I killed quail over her points that first fall.  The following season we hunted woodcock and ruffed grouse, and I can remember every detail of her first wild bird, a woodcock shot in Randolph, New Hampshire, at the end of a very long day afield.

            I remember her first duck hunt and how she retrieved a mallard as if she’d done it a hundred times before.  And the first pheasant she pointed, in a field of low cut grass, where I was so convinced that she was false pointing that I never even raised my gun when the big squawking cock finally flew.

            Last season was her best ever, pointing grouse after grouse, almost never bumping a bird.  Certain days stick in my mind and I hope they always will.  Pointing side by side with our younger dog, she never looked better.  With tremendous luck I killed the first partridge of the season, on opening day, while the two dogs pointed shoulder to shoulder.  The retrieve was a bit contentious and they each somehow ended up with a wing, but remembering it makes me smile. 

            So I have to wonder how much longer Chara will hunt.  This season looks like a sure thing, which is good because the bird numbers are up.  Our two year old GWP, Colby, learns much hunting with Chara and hopefully will continue to absorb the older dog’s wisdom.  At times Chara appears impatient with the younger dog, but more often seems oblivious to the youngster’s presence.  Colby honors easily, almost never interrupting one of Chara’s points, obviously respecting the older dog’s rank.  Twice last season Colby pointed partridge on her own, along with dozens of woodcock, none of which I’m not sure would have happened without Chara’s example.

            Now Chara dreams on the rug by my feet.  I see her feet twitch and hear muffled barks or chirps, and sometimes even a low growl.  I wonder if she recalls the same events I do, and, if so, what her favorite memories are. 

            Chara will remain top dog until the day she is done, and I plan to make certain she knows it.  We have a long history together.   

           

 

Shangri La

It was three seasons ago, before our pup Colby joined our clan, that we discovered Shangri La.  The first part of the day Don Pouliot and I hunted woodcock cover that we’d been poking through together for over thirty-five years, and it was full of memories and one woodcock.  Then we hunted a spot just down the river and found loads of flight birds.  It seemed every few steps Chara pointed another woodcock, but I was on a royal missing streak.  The way things were going, it didn’t look like I’d ever reach my limit, which meant I could hunt forever and I tried to tell myself that was a good thing.  By the time we left there we already had a full day’s fun and a couple of woodcock.

Don suggested trying to find a place he’d hunted before, deep in the national forest.  The drive there wasn’t long and we tucked the truck into the parking place that he remembered.  The hike in was down an old skid road that skirted the edge of a cutting and a ledge, and then went through some very rugged country along more mature timber to our east.  I remember thinking it looked like an easy place to get turned around in, and I was glad to have Don as company.  He’s easily the best woodsman I know.

Where the land flattened out we turned to the right and toward the river.  The trees weren’t large, maybe as big around as my thigh, mostly hardwoods with small scattered stands of fir and spruce.  In places the ground was wet and we had to make detours, but the going was more or less flat. 

Chara started to find woodcock in clusters, sometimes walking only a few steps between points.  Often she would point and then, on the flush and shot, another would take off or sometimes even two.  I had never seen so many woodcock.

My missing streak continued, but when Chara pointed a partridge next to a small clearing, I killed it easily.  Well, at least Don saw the bird fall. The way my luck had been going, I felt I had missed, but Chara found the bird belly-up in the leaves.

We hunted along the river, loosing count of birds pointed and shots fired.  Unlikely as it seemed, we met other hunters working up the river towards us, so we altered our course away from the water and inland.  Later that day, while driving out of the forest, we spotted their parked car and could tell that they had waded the river downstream to hunt back up toward us.

My shooting problem was firing too fast while the birds were still way too close.  I knew that and I tried to slow things down…focus on the bird, take a deep breath, and then raise the gun to shoot.  Nothing seemed to work.  I finally shot a woodcock, but hit the bird when it was so near that the shot charge carried away the bird’s head.

We worked back around toward the cutting and into a stand of softwoods, where a pair of partridge flushed almost under my feet and behind an old fallen tree trunk.  They roared off low over the ground and with a lucky crossing shot to my right I added another to my game bag.

When we found the old logging road we traipsed uphill and back to my truck.  My legs were beyond weary and actually hurt, but day had certainly been worth it.  Chara pointed more birds in the previous couple of hours than she did sometimes in a whole week.  I will never forget it. 

That day we had worked our way far enough from our camp that the drive back would take almost an hour, and on the way I mentioned that we needed to stop to pick up a few things at the grocery store.  Don asked if we were going to shop at the big store on the right side of the highway, or the smaller store on the left.  I remember telling him that I didn’t think my legs could do the bigger store.

        

It is all so true...

I don’t remember where I saw this, so won’t take any credit any of it, but it’s so true….

You might be a grouse hunter if:

you're still looking for a "lighter" shotgun
your truck has a lot of scratches on it
nobody knows where you hunt
your wife has the GPS coordinates & instructions for "Search and Rescue"
your hero is a man named Llewellin
you've NEVER EVER spoiled a bird dog
obviously you know what "ruffed" means
you own a 28 gauge
you shoot with both eyes wide open
you've ever successfully pulled off a "shot from the hip"
the floor board of your truck is covered with empties
the dashboard has 2 left-handed gloves
there's a bottle of Ibuprofen in the glove box
your legs lock up in the middle of the night
you're on the lookout for a "lighter" pair of boots
your key rack has a whistle hanging on it
your hands don't heal up till Easter
you like a dog with "ticks"
you don't mind being alone
your favorite pants have never been washed
nobody poses when you take a "snapshot"
you're not a "meat hunter"
you miss a lot
you don't care that you miss a lot
you've got tail feathers on the wall
you know how to tell the sex of a woodcock
you've been "turned around" but NEVER lost
you know how to use a compass
you think strip mines look kinda nice
Autumn Olive is your favorite tree
your dog box is in the back of your truck year-round
your dog rides in the cab with you
at least one of your kids has ridden in the dog box
your hat falls off a lot
your dog can "hunt dead" for a lost glove
you don't like summer vacations
your idea of a "get away" is Grand Junction, Tennessee
you can say "King Ruff" & "Thunder King" with a straight face
you've ever traded a deer rifle in on a shotgun
you keep pictures of your dog at the office (or in your wallet)
you can't wait for the leaves to fall
you like to walk logging roads
you don't wear fleece
you hate windy days
the forearms of your favorite shirt are tattered
you keep finding feathers on the floor
you've ever slept on the couch with a setter pup
you find dog hair in your cereal
you walk the golf course just to get in shape for hunting season
your dogs wear "jingle bells" on Christmas
and you're tired of hearing, "You hunt what??"

If anyone knows the author I’d love to give them credit.

Turkeys in the Yard

We are guests at another home for the next few weeks, which is a story I won’t go into at the moment, and it’s a beautiful home on a knoll close enough to the ocean to almost always hear the sea.  This morning, early, Sally went out with our three dogs to take them for a walk.  My mind was in a Sporting Classics magazine while I sipped coffee.

                Right after the screen door shut with a click, I heard “Whoa”.  That got my attention.  Through the window to my left I could see mom turkey with five young.
                “Whoa.”

                Mom looked nervous.  The pheasant-sized young were oblivious.

                “Heel.”

                The screen door opened and Sally led the pack back in. 

                How cool is that?

               

Recycling

About two years ago I hunted up a hill toward a covert that I’d discovered only two or three years before.  Mixed softwoods and young hardwoods cloaked the lower slope of the hill, but then the forest turned to hardwoods, primarily sugar maples with a few young beech mixed in, with almost no understory, creating what almost felt like a park.  To the east the land sloped down into softwoods and eventually a stream, but up ahead I knew a small knoll, covered with pole-size spruce and fir, always contained grouse.

      That small bump in the topography was always something of a puzzle.  Beyond it a few young softwoods mixed with a smattering of young hardwoods, but nothing that I would have ever considered a food source for ruffed grouse.  Yet for several years this spot always produced birds and an abundance of memories.

      On the last hunt there the previous fall, a friend and I saw that a porcupine had chewed on dozens of trees.  Up the hill to the west a small sugar shack sat waiting for spring, and when you stood next to it there wasn’t an un-chewed tree to be seen.

      But on that hunt two years ago, I noticed something didn’t look quite right when I looked through the maples on the hill.  The sky was different or something.  And then I realized the forest ended about where that small knoll rose, and beyond a large clearcut opened up exposing the sky.

      My first reaction was disappointment.  Walking out into the cutting I could look to the west and see the ridgeline.  It looked like the opening in the forest might be as large as a hundred acres.  Almost no slash was left behind, which made for easy walking, but already root sprouts were knee-high and young raspberries poked through the ground.

      I realized that soon the new growth would be taller than I and providing cover for grouse and woodcock.  The covert that I remembered was past its time and soon would have faded away, but the new cutting meant rejuvenation.

      Later that fall I hunted the far side of that cutting, working to the west and up to the ridge.  Near the height of the land and among some spruce the dogs found partridge and I killed one.  The cycle had already started.

   

       

     

Pup's First Duck

Settling back into the brush, I looked to see how the three hand-carved black duck decoys sat.  Each rocked gently, as the small waves slid past, two blocks facing into the wind and one down.  Through the oak limbs overhead I watched gray clouds race by and rain pelted against my right shoulder, but adjusting my collar kept my neck dry.    

            With a firm hand I gently forced my young dog to sit next to me, not wanting to speak over the wind.

 An egret gliding past caught the young Wirehair’s eye and she rose to give chase.  Grabbing her collar I forced her to sit again.  She had hunted before, the uplands, and this sitting and waiting I’m sure just didn’t feel right.  Or like fun either.

            Ducks passed well overhead, in twos and threes, black against the sky.  A big flock of small ducks raced along the far shore, probably teal.  Clouds and rain streaked by.  The young dog still stared to where she’d last seen the egret, her muscles tight and trembling.  Overhead, two ducks made a wide circle and headed toward my decoys.

            As they dropped from the sky, with set wings and coming in fast, I rose from the brush.  Chara sprung to her feet and spotted the incoming ducks.  A hen mallard and a black, I choose the mallard and fired. 

            The duck crumpled and then splashed.  Chara took off like a rocket, hitting the water going full bore.  Looking like she’d done this hundreds of times before, she swam out and brought back her first duck.

            With head down and tail wagging she brought me the duck.  After I took the duck from her she shook, then nuzzled the duck in my hand…tail  still wagging and proud as could be.

            I sat again among the weeds and she sat next to me.  No need to hold her collar again; she sat willingly, trembling as she waited and searched the sky.   

            That’s how a versatile gundog comes to understand.       

How I fell in Love with the North Woods

Searching for some meaning, while knowing all the answers, that’s a young man right out of school.  Only in my early twenties, bound for wild places and adventures, I strode into the Brown Paper Company woods department’s office looking to a job.  When asked what I could do, I said anything and meant it.

            They sent that flatland joker from Massachusetts out to cut stump wood.  As an ignorant cocky youth I didn’t need to know what “stump wood” was, but I was sure I could do it.  They just pointed me at a stand of softwood trees and told me to fell them, cut off the limbs, cut the logs into four foot lengths, and then stack the wood neatly to be hauled out later by a bulldozer, which would snake a cable around the pile and drag the whole pile with its winch.  I remember eating lunch on the side of a beautiful trout stream and trying my damnedest find some sort of spiritual enlightenment from the hard physical labor, you know, like from Emerson or Walton or something.  But I didn’t ponder the question too long.  Not knowing how much wood piled made for a decent day’s work, I made sure I cut a lot.

The second day the boss came by and told me that I did mighty well and that starting the following week they would put me with a skidder crew, which meant I’d no longer have to move the wood by hand.  I said that sounded great and then went back to flattening the forest.  A short while later, tangled among the severed tree limbs that littered the ground to a depth of three feet, I lost my balance and my chainsaw fell against my leg.  Wet blood trickled down into my boot and I knew that wasn’t a good sign.

About two weeks later I strode into the woods department office again and told them I was raring to go back to work.  They pointed out I could hardly walk, while I insisted that I could.  Hoping that I’d go away, they said they didn’t have any work cutting trees for me.  I said I’d do anything.  They said I could go striking if I wanted to.  That cocky young guy said striking sounded good and asked where and when to report.

It turned out striking was just following the bulldozers as they pushed out skid trails up the mountains.  If anything fell on the machine’s operator I was to go for help.  With the bum leg and the hobble that I had, help would have been slow coming.  And the job paid less than the workman’s comp insurance paid while I’d been out!

A week later I was introduced to the skidder operator that I would work with, a man you would describe as stout with all capital letters.  Even though he wasn’t any taller than I, his every feature, whether hands, head, ears, feet, or lips, was oversize.

From a seat of an ancient green school bus that the company shuttled the cutters into the woods with, I watched this short broad man, dressed in heavy wool clothes, pull a second pair of pants on over the ones he already wore.  The added layer of fabric only increased his girth and ape like appearance.

He was introduced as Batman and later I was told later that he’d acquired that name for the way he drove his skidder, like a Bat Mobile.  He looked at my chainsaw and shook his head, then said something about I should have a Homelite.  My face must have questioned his statement. 

“No saw gets da tree on da ground faster den da Homelite,” he roared with boisterous conviction.  After dispensing that wisdom, he climbed up onto his enormous yellow skidder and drove off, bouncing over logs and rocks up the mountain.

Our yard sat up high on Cambridge Black Mountain in the unincorporated township of Cambridge, New Hampshire.  The piece had only been cut once before, back in the thirties, to take the spruce out we’d been told.  Enormous hardwoods with limbs bigger than most trees, hemlocks with trunks over waist high when laying on the ground, and a scattering of pines that reached for the heavens grew up there.  Batman’s eyes bulged like frog’s eyes when he saw the wood. 

“Dis is da best chance since I work for da companyee,” he said.  Company was always “com-pan-YEE”.

My job was to cut in the yard.  Proteau, who never spoke English as far as I could tell at that point, was our chopper and would fell the trees up on the mountain.  Batman’s broken English did a poor job of explaining what the trees were to be cut into, so one of the Company scalers wrote out the specs.  Batman was so excited to have someone working with him that could actually read that he took the piece of paper and drove the skidder in circles around the yard waving that paper in his hand.

We were paid piece rate, so much per cord or board foot and the three of us split the total evenly.  As the wood we’d cut was loaded to head for the mills, Batman had me start a ledger to keep track of where the wood went.  He said, “Dat way da companyee can no longer steel from us!”

Every day the large wood piled up fast.  The yellow Bat Mobile would growl as it tugged the heavy trees into the yard.  When Proteau worked far up the mountain, Batman’s trips were less frequent and I’d drop trees near the yard.  Pines came in, tapered from three-plus feet on the butt end to nothing at the top, looking like sixty or seventy-foot rat’s tails.  Gnarly old yellow birch, with their red hearts often punky of rot, were cut into pulp.  Fat rock maple, which Batman told me the mills liked best if it had no heart, just like our boss, were cut into logs.  I lopped white birch into bolt-wood lengths for the dowel mills.  The best of ash, beech, and birch went to a veneer mill.

Thanksgiving Day, headed onto the woods to work on snow packed roads, I zipped around a corner and spotted five partridges pecking at gravel in the road.  Reflexes snapped the wheel to the left and my Bronco spun around backwards and slammed against a snow bank.  The vehicle rolled onto its right side with a terrible crashing sound.

Still sitting in the driver’s seat, I waited the explosion that always happens on TV.  Nothing.  I surveyed the situation.  Two chain saws, a five gallon can of gasoline, toolboxes, tire irons and assorted other clutter are piled all over the windows on down side.  No glass was broken.  Standing on the side of the passenger’s seat, I opened the driver’s window and climbed out.

Four loggers helped roll the buggy back onto its feet and I waited a few minutes for the engine oil to find the crankcase again, then I went off to work again.  

I explained to Batman why I showed up late.  All he said was that he knew something had happened because I was never late before, and then we went to work.

Eventually I was offered a job on a mechanized tree harvesting operation and not long after promoted to run it.  It was a dream job for a young guy that loved the forests of northern New England and everywhere we cut we created great grouse habitat. 

I bought a Brittany Spaniel and he came to work with me almost every day.  Fortunately, my boss, a man named Jim Bates, loved bird hunting and bird dogs, and put up with the mud that my dog brought into the company truck.

Eventually life carried me away to other places, but my heart has always stayed up there in the north woods.          

Grouse build Character

Hunting for ruffed grouse is such a “New England sort of thing”.  If you grow up in New England, early on you are told that nothing is as valuable as learning to enjoy hard work with a little misery thrown in.  With those acquired tastes you are promised to succeed at any endeavor undertaken.  That is why sports like skiing (cold and risking broken bones), sailing (wet, hoisting sails, grinding winches, all with the possibility of breakfast going over the side), and hiking (blisters, rain, sore muscles, mosquitoes) are traditional New England pastimes for families with young children.  I like to think activities such as these develop our crusty stoic character, and later produce grouse hunters.

Other than hunting “partridge”, where else could you walk until your legs ache, hoping for the chance that you might get to shoot at a target that you only glimpse and will probably miss?  During this recreational stroll an assortment of brambles will claw at your legs, attempting to shred your clothes, twigs will poke at your eyes and knock off your hat, and, after chasing a lone bird in circles through a twisted thicket for hours, you possibly will become disoriented and not find your vehicle until well after dark.

Those southerners get to ride around in wagons or on horses while the dogs search for quail.  Am I jealous?  You bet.