The Hill

      The hill has an odd name. It is named after the same man as the town it is in, but that is all I’m going to tell you. Years ago it was out in the middle of nowhere and I hunted deer there and birds too. A memory sticks of walking out of the woods, moments after legal shooting time had passed, and seeing a monster buck ghost cross the woods road ahead of me. But that is another story.

      What made the hill special were the old farms. Up on the top there were two, both long abandoned, but marked with sagging homes settling into old stone foundations. In the overgrown fields game had trampled paths between the scraggly apple trees and the cedar swamp down below. Old tote roads crisscrossed the upper wooded slopes, and every single one of them seemed to lead exactly where you wanted to go. It was that kind of magical place. In a field, halfway down the eastern side of the hill, stood a box-like camp where an old woman lived by herself during the summers. I wish I could remember her name, she was in her seventies when we met.

     Somehow, two decades slipped by without visiting that hill, but finally I went back with my German wirehaired pointer pup named Chara and my Parker shotgun that had turned a hundred years old that year.

Busted up country

      Unbeknownst to me a horrific ice storm had flattened the trees a few years earlier, obliterating most of the landmarks. Up on the top of the hill two homes had been built near the ancient fallen ones and the old fields there were posted. Travel through what had once been woods was impossible, with ice-shattered trees broken and lying in a tangled mess. Chest high raspberries flourished in the new sunlight, with waiting claws that seemed incredibly sharp.

      After an hour or so of searching, we found that little camp in the field halfway down the hill. Someone had been there recently and it looked much like I remembered it. Above the house a basin had been re-dug next to a spring and firewood was stacked on the far side of the porch.

      Where an old footpath came down the hill into the field, I tried to pick my way between the raspberries’ thorns. A fallen maple trunk blocked the way, then another, then six more and the path disappeared among tangles of new raspberry vines. And then Chara flushed a grouse.

      She went into overdrive, pushing under or jumping over obstacles and oblivious to the vicious briars. Several more grouse exploded into the sky. I sat on a log and watched, knowing she would be back eventually and was learning a lesson along the way---dogs can’t catch grouse.

     Her tongue looked a foot long when she came back panting. Even that had been pricked by the thorns and wore flecks of blood. We found that spring fed puddle near the house and she stretched right out in the icy water to drink her fill. I wondered what had become of the woman that used to live there, she should have been over a hundred at that point. And who kept the place up, mowing the grass and piling the firewood? Obviously someone used the place in the summers.

      Sauntering out the old tote road toward the truck, Chara continued to hunt, but at a slower pace. It was obvious she would grow into one heck of a bird dog. I carried my old Parker shotgun broken open and draped over my shoulder. It had been quite a day. And of course a lone grouse dropped out of a busted-off old spruce and flew straight away down the road, offering one of the easiest shots a man could ever hope to see.

Chara in her younger days.

Squeaky Snow

 

Maggie

    As I write this it is late December at Camp Grouse. Among the hillside hardwoods two feet of snow covers the ground. Temperatures have been below zero for days and dipped down to thirty below a couple of nights. Cabin fever starts to set in after a while and when temperatures climb to near zero it is time to put on the snowshoes.

      Our younger German wirehair, Maggie, is game to go. She loves winter and rolls in the snow daily. Colby, our older girl, will pretend to want to go, but after I leave she’ll curl up quite content beside the wood stove to dream of summer.

      From the house, Maggie and I head down into the softwoods, snow squeaking with every step and our breath in a cloud. She bounds through the snow with enthusiasm. In the shelter of the spruce and fir trees the snow is hard, crunching beneath the snowshoes despite the dusting of fluff on the top. Maggie can easily dash about atop the snow, following the confusion of snowshoe rabbit tracks.

      Deer have passed through, punching deep imprints in the hard snow. The coyotes barely made tracks, but traveling on top with such an advantage over the deer.

      Our favorite brook trout stream is silent, capped over with ice and snow. It is hard to imagine trout fishing and I wondered where the brook trout went for the winter. Surely they are not in the same riffles as they were in July, but probably in the deep dark holes where the current is slow or nonexistent.

      We follow downstream. Maggie shows no interest on going out on the ice, which is what I had hoped. I like smart cautious dogs. They seldom get porcupined or skunked more than once.

      Snowshoes on crusty snow drown out any other sound. Mice tracks, squirrel tracks, rabbit tracks, all create a puzzle. Fat well-spaced trunks of conifers cover the plateau along the stream, making travel easy.

      We pass where the coyotes killed a deer the previous winter. Maggie sniffs about and I wonder if there could still be scent after so much time. Dogs amaze me with their noses and nothing seems impossible. She squats to urinate, to say to the coyotes “Hey, I was here”.

      Leaning alders, bent by the snow, block the path and I crouch to walk under them. A busted fir tree, broken by an early winter wind, demands a detour. Another fallen fir, this one uprooted, reaches out halfway across the stream. Eventually the stream pinches against a steep ledge to cut off our course, so we turn back and inland to follow the edge where the softwood trees of the lowlands meet the hardwoods of the hill.

      The snow is deeper, but Maggie still flies about, first up the hill then down into a thicket beneath a cluster of firs. She points, relocates, points again, and then zips off to hunt still more. 

      Grouse tracks cover the snow where she stopped. I stare up into the trees, hoping to glimpse one, but see none. I did not bring a shotgun. With the extreme weather I really don’t feel like bother them and seeing the tracks is enough for me.

      Heading uphill and back toward home, another shattered fir tree blocks the path. I trudge around it beneath three big softwoods. Ahead of me, Maggie again points for a moment before charging onward. Grouse tracks go every-which-way where she stopped. The bird never wandered far, but created a tangle of tracks beneath a cluster of young maples, all in an area the size of a large dining table.

      I search among the tree limbs, but again find only empty branches. Hopefully the bird is sitting somewhere safe with its belly full. We are close enough to the house, so, if this one is a male, we will sit on the deck and hear his drumming in the spring.

      A late day chill reminds us it is late. The low winter sun has slipped behind the hills early and the sky has dissolved from blue to the color of steel. Up the hill we find a skid road that takes us around the bottom edge of another softwood stand. Water runs beneath the snow, creating a murmur that is almost impossible to hear. In the summer mud would be everywhere, but a pristine white blankets everything. The deep snow makes breaking trail work, but Maggie still bounds about. Eventually, the road leads to the far end of the field behind our home and I can see smoke wafting up from the chimney.

      There is no place I would rather see or be.

Worm Soup

Alders

      The rain had finally stopped. It was time to get the dogs out hunting again. With the youngster in the house, Maggie, that meant looking for woodcock, because no finer bird was there ever for training a young pointing dog.

      The woods was soaked after three or four inches of rain in only a matter of hours. Winds had approached hurricane force and the power was out back at the house. Hundreds of trees were down everywhere. Logging roads would be impassible, unless one hacked their way in with a chainsaw. I opted for easier going and picked a covert next to a state road.

      Soft wet ground, like runny chocolate pudding, oozed down the hillsides. We pushed through raspberries and then blackberries into a stand of young alders. Maggie and Colby were in hyper mode, hunting hard, oblivious to the mud. Down the slope we sloshed. Then, where water puddled among alders, a bumped woodcock flew back over my head.

A rock pile left by a farmer.

      Clumps of young firs, growing on a series of hummocks the size of overturned bushel baskets, divided the alders from more poplars. We skirted an enormous pile of moss-covered rocks, left by a long gone farmer, and another thicket of blackberries. More fencepost-size poplars stood above bent and brown ferns, then into another cluster of alders we waded. Where were the woodcock?

      Far ahead, Maggie’s bell screamed silence. Colby’s still rattled off to my right. Then Colby’s fell silent too. Silence. Two dogs were pointing, what to do? How long would the young dog wait? I quickly stepped in front of closer Colby, knowing that if a bird flushed a gunshot would send Maggie into overdrive.

      No bird, I breathed relief, then hurried toward Maggie, while saying to Colby, “There’s no bird Colby. Where is Maggie? Let’s go find Maggie. This way girl, come on, this way.”

      Colby zigzagged through where she thought the bird was, but, finding nothing, she galloped ahead, disappearing into the alders. Ducking under and stepping over limbs and leaning trunks, I first saw the unmoving white of Colby’s coat and then Maggie’s brown silhouette, like a statue a dozen feet ahead of her. My heart pounded.

Soggy ground. How many dogs in the picture?

      Trying to approach through the tangle was frustratingly slow. And I needed to be able to stand to shoot, but the world was a jumble of limbs and trunks. As I stepped over a roadblock of tilting alders, the bird tweetered toward the sky. A shot is pointless, but tried anyway. The bird disappeared into the swamp.

      The dogs went into overdrive, fueled by bird scent and gunfire. We worked downhill to where thick grasses grew between the alders. Water was everywhere and the ground felt like stepping on a soggy pillows. Turning to the right, we followed where the saturated bare ground met the soaked grasses.

      In a spot wetter than most, puddles and pools dictated detours. Maggie pointed thirty yards ahead. As I tried to find a route towards her, Colby pointed to my right. White splashes covered the ground. A step toward Colby sent another woodcock aloft, but a shot was impossible. I hurried toward Maggie and a second one launched, offering an easy going away shot.

      After that the dogs were wound tight, with bird scent is in their nostrils and the taste in their mouths. Hunting hard and fast, they covered a lot of country, while I struggled to keep up. The scenario repeated three more times in the swampiest of places. Only one more bird fell to the gun.

      What were these birds eating? Drowned earth worms? Marinated in rainwater? How did the woodcock stay dry? Ducks would have swum happily between the trees.

     After we turned back toward the truck, I attempt to steer the dogs toward an old apple tree where ruffed grouse like to loiter. To my left, Maggie was up the hill further than I wanted and out of sight. Then her bell fell silent. I coaxed Colby in that direction, hoping she would find her for me.

      But Colby went on point where a small stream created an expansive quagmire in a flat spot. That woodcock flushed well ahead of me and disappeared into a cluster of firs. Colby dashed off toward the apple tree. Mumbling to myself, I headed toward Maggie and called Colby back.

      The young dog’s bell jangled again, then a woodcock weaved through the trees toward me, passed overhead, and disappeared down the hill. Impatient Maggie charged along in hot pursuit.

Wild apples and an abandoned field.

      The three of us followed the bird’s path into intertwined alders. Maggie’s bell went silent, then Colby’s too. I followed to the edge of a gully, where I could barely see both dogs locked on point not forty feet ahead of me. Stepping, twisting, crawling, and cursing, I pushed in. The woodcock tweetered upward and then down the hill, dropping like a stone beside a lone fir tree.

      We followed. The dogs hunted hard, tearing up the turf with water splashing. The bird seemed to have disappeared, but then took off next to my right foot. I never lifted my gun and neither of the dogs noticed it go.

      Hunting again toward the truck, both Maggie and Colby each found another woodcock where another tiny trickle wound down the hill, but in the tangled jungle both flew off without a shot being fired.

      Later that day we hunted across the street among ancient apple trees that the grouse love. We found no grouse, but, about to turn around and head home, I coaxed the dogs into a tiny patch of alders next to a small field. Colby instantly snapped into a point, then Maggie too. I marched into the alders and a woodcock twisted skyward through the branches. When it reached the treetops I fired.

Colby looking good.

      Colby made the retrieve and the dogs tussled harmlessly for a moment over ownership. 

      With wet feet and very happy dogs it was time to go home.

Bloat

     

      Below is a link to a quick read about bloat. We all love our bird dogs and certainly would hate to see a dog suffer.

http://www.shootinguk.co.uk/gundogs/health/ask-the-vet/bloat-in-dogs-97054

Upside Down

Can  you see Colby pointing?

      Regenerating clearcuts make for great grouse hunting. Certain things make some better than others. I like to see young poplars coming up. Maples and birches are good too, but if there are young choke cherries I usually pass it by. Softwood trees nearby are important for shelter too, but it doesn’t take many. Grouse will walk a long way into a cut, from the shelter of softwood trees, so be sure to hunt quite a ways into the cut.

      Some clearcuts are almost impossible to walk through from the slash left behind. Others are easier if branches and tree tops were hauled away with the wood. In our area almost none of the ground is flat and the logging roads tend to be in the valleys. The best hunting if often at the tops of the cuts, because the birds see fewer hunters and frequently there are stands of softwood trees at the higher elevations. So you had better be in shape because climbing those clearcuts can mean hard walking.

      When you find a productive cutting and hunt it over the years, the trees get bigger and you probably don’t notice the changes. But one day you will realize the place isn’t what it used to be. It is because the forest became too mature and the nesting areas and food sources are gone. Grouse and woodcock are birds of the early successional forests.

There is even an old stone
foundation nearby.

      So besides hunting grouse, you continually have to hunt for new cover. If you don’t you’ll soon be finding fewer birds.

      This past fall we stumbled upon a new favorite. A logging road will take you up above the clearcut and then it is only a hundred yard walk down a gentle slope to reach it. Better still, the loggers left behind a few ancient wild apple trees that had been hidden. There is an assortment of weeds, water is nearby, and stands of softwoods break up the landscape. Clusters of young alders, the diameter of shovel handle, stand like tall skinny commuters waiting for the bus. The place is going to be a good one for several years.

     No, I won’t tell you where it is.

Maggie is pointing a woodcock.

Deer Season

      Sneaking out of the house was nearly impossible. Since the start of bird season the dogs never took their eyes off me, particularly Maggie our youngster. Earlier in the day, I had snuck my deer rifle out and tucked it in a corner of the entry. Leaving sad faces behind, I walked out of the house in my deer hunting garb.

      An inch of snow covered the ground and no wind moved the air. An overcast sky promised daylight fading early. The snow had fallen a couple of days before, but constant cold temperatures had kept it from melting.

      I picked a course away from the house where the dogs could not see me entering the woods with a gun. If they had my wife would have been forced to listen to a sorrowful chorus.

      Just beyond the edge of the lawn, tracks showed where a bobcat had walked up through the softwood trees and sat. Was it there in daylight? Did the cat know there were dogs around? From its perch it looked up the hill at the house and our shop.

      An old skid road lead down to the edge of the soggy marsh. The damp snow-covered ground muffled my footsteps and I took care not brush against dead twigs. The coyotes keep a worn path parallel with the wetlands, and I followed it west. Judging from the tracks, only a few had passed by since the snow fell. Snowshoe hare tracks were everywhere and I wondered how they survived. Their lives had to be constant terror with all the coyotes in the neighborhood.

      A blown-down fir tree forced a course change. Stepping from hummock to hummock, I crossed wet ground beneath firs and cedars.

      Movement…I froze. A blue jay landed on a low branch, then flashed away again.

      Where the ground grew firmer, I followed the stream beneath a canopy of tall softwood trees. The ground there is predominately flat and slow streams meander through from the north, joining the larger stream further west. Beyond where I could see, the hill goes up through birches and maples, with patches of evergreens breaking up the forest. Craggy, near vertical, ledges break up the slope, making ascent or descent impossible in places. To the south, on the other side of the stream, a smaller steep hill climbs upward through mixed woods. Some of that hill is so steep that deer detour around it.

      I hope to find tracks ahead where the deer funnel between the steep slope and an open field beyond. Two years ago there were so many tracks it looked like a highway. The previous fall our trail cam caught deer there too.

      A twig snaps off to my right and I freeze. Up in a tree a squirrel chatters. I wait and listen, watching for movement. A slow step to my right puts a fir tree in front of me, a possible shooting rest if I needed one. The squirrel was very persistent, but finally stops. I wait another fifteen minutes, then continue.

      Tracks show where a bobcat has climbed up on a stump and sat. Could it be the same one that visited the house? Tiny tracks that look like lace ribbon weave across the snow. Coyote tracks are everywhere.

      I reach the open field without seeing a single deer track. Discouraged, I turn northward to head back along the north side of the valley, following the edge where the land starts to climb. That course would make a giant circle around our home. 

      One giant white pine clings atop a craggy boulder the size of a house and I wonder how it stays. A spruce holds on similarly. Holes in the mammouth rocks formed gloomy shadows. 

      The dark craggy vertical ledges breakup the slope and I know deer cannot cross them. Just beyond a giant white cedar, a stream tumbles down from above, creating a series of roaring waterfalls. When I stop to watch a grouse explodes from the top of a fir tree. Where was he when I had my bird gun?

      Another skid road takes me up through skinny young maples. A lone coyote had taken the same path. Off to the left an enormous shattered fir tree lays on the ground, broken by a recent wind. Either side of the whippy maples the forest looks eerily dark beneath dense fir trees.

      Deer tracks.

      Big ones. They go down the slope into softwood trees not far from our home. How old are they? The edges looked sharp and no snow was in the imprints. The deer must have crossed the valley. How I could have missed them? I must have crossed them on the other side.

      Darkness and the end of shooting time was only a half hour away. I waited in the shadows of the softwoods, timing fifteen minutes on my watch, then slipped uphill to a woods road that would take me back to our field.

      Coyote tracks littered that road and yellow snow showed where they had marked. The neighborhood seemed to be overrun with those hoodlums. Next to a rotten stump, bobcat tracks went in under the low branches of a fir tree to sit in the shelter of its branches.

      It was time to call it a day.

     At three in the morning I woke, realizing that the reason I hadn’t seen the deer tracks anywhere else on my circular hunt was because the deer hadn’t crossed to the other side of my circle. Could that snapping twig and chattering squirrel been caused by that deer?

The Puppy

Maggie in her new home.

     Ripsnorter Magalloway Magic Snapshot came home with us the end of February, 2016. In our neck of the woods, February brings nights with temperatures well below zero, and even days that barely creep up to zero. Maggie slept in a kennel beside our bed to wake us when nature called, and, when it did, I would slip on the heavy flannel lined pants and chamois shirt.

Hurrying back to the house.

     In the winter darkness she would scurry off to search for the right spot beneath the low limbs of a softwood tree. That was her choice every single time. To keep track of Maggie I slipped a collar on her with a blinking red light. What looked like a tiny fire truck zigzagged about the yard.

With her great aunt Chara

     Every day she explored and learned. Her great aunt Chara kept her in line. Colby, seven years older at the time, became her playmate. Her willingness to please made her easy to train. Snow, mud, pools of water, all were great fun. The woods became a giant playground. Unfortunately, Chara passed away that summer, but Maggie had already learned much from the old wise one.

Pointing a planted quail.

     That August Maggie pointed pen raised quail like a champ, even retrieving ones shot. Her first hunt tests she received near perfect scores and that first fall we searched out woodcock.

Pointing a woodcock.

     I won’t say Maggie pointed every woodcock she found, birds were bumped and sometimes patience during a point ran short, but she did better than a passable job. Frequently she honored Colby’s points. Sometimes she pointed on her own. Her enthusiasm felt infectious.

A lunch time break.

     Now in her second fall, Maggie points woodcock regularly and even an occasional skittish ruffed grouse. Her range is perfect, she frequently checks back to see where I am. There has never been a dog more anxious to have a hunting bell hung around her neck than Maggie.

Ripsnorter Magalloway Magic Snapshot

Across The Stream

     Across the stream the cover looked perfect. Isn’t that always the way? Mixed hardwoods towered over clumps of alders and softwoods stood in clusters, all on flat and relatively dry ground. Up in our neck of the woods, if you are not going uphill you are most likely headed down. Horizontal country is rare. And everywhere your feet seem to get wet.

      Ferns and grasses covered that oasis, with patches of wild hops, seedy weeds, or raspberries breaking up the forest floor. To an old bird hunter, it looked like the Garden of Eden.

     For years I had looked at it, across a rather formidable stream. It was property open to the public to hunt, but road access was for the privileged few or on foot around locked gates. Or across that unfordable stream.

     The past summer was as wet as any other up in this neck of the woods, but the last two or three weeks had been dry. Evidently the spring runoff had moved the stream's bottom around and changed the course of the stream a bit. Passing by the other day, I was surprised to notice a place to cross.

     After parking, we started to our collect gear and ready the gun. Instantly, the two dogs locked up on point about fifteen feet from the back of the truck. Ahead of them a nearly vertical drop fell to the water a dozen or more feet below.

     Stepping toward them with gun in hand, a grouse exploded across toward the far side. I never even attempted to bring the gun up. The youngest wirehair, Maggie, launched and landed mid-stream and I don’t think she even knew she got wet.

     The climb down to the stream was a challenge, followed by a leap to a gravel bar, then steps from rock to rock to rock, then another leap to a steep slippery muddy bank, all the while holding onto a very dear shotgun.

     The country looked even better up close.

A scraggy old tree.

No chainsaw had visited that plateau in decades. Three men together would not have been able to put their arms around one particularly fat yellow birch. Ancient alders lined the streambank and scraggy old cherry trees towered overhead. Fat white birches shed sheets of bark and an occasional red maple stood nearby. Further inland, scattered clumps of softwoods offered shelter and a zigzag of alders split the property.

     followed the stream edge, ducking under or stepping over alders. At times we took the easier way, weaving inland to push through weeds or dried grasses. A finger of slack water finally cut off our course.

     The rumble of the stream competed with the rattle of the leaves. Moose and deer tracks hid between the dried leaves in the soft moist ground. Dog bells jingled and it felt like civilization had to be far far away. Overhead, ravens rasped about something.

Hunting inland we followed another line of alders that wove back along an old crooked stream that had barely any water in it. In places wet ground called for careful foot placement to avoid disaster. Twice grouse launched off of the ground, startling us. One flushed low at my feet when I stepped last a cherry tree. It offered an easy going away shot, but the dog’s bells were ringing ahead of the grouse so I held the shot.

     The dogs pointed a woodcock under big old alders, but then the youngster, Maggie, attempted to catch it. Another was bumped, which was nobody’s fault, we’ll blame the wind. We followed to where it disappeared into a cluster of red twig dogwood that stood beside a dark stand of softwood trees, but never found it again.

Colby has been around long enough to know the tricks.

     Colby, the older wirehair, locked up on third one back at the alders. Maggie honored like a champ. That bird came home with us.

     I had to wonder when that land had been logged. Everywhere up in that neck of the woods had been cut over at least once. Could they have just taken the spruce or pine? An area I had logged as a young pup had been harvested that way. The big old yellow birches we passed had to be two hundred years old.

     In a clump of fir trees, Maggie poked around the base of one maple that stood among them, repeatedly coming back to its trunk. Her tail was just a blur. Finally, she looked up, which caused me to look up too, and sure enough a grouse sat hidden among the branches. I am sure the bird wished it were somewhere else, or that we were. Several pictures were taken and then the bird bolted, escaping unscathed without a shot fired

Do you see him in there?

     The string of alders led us through more beautiful cover, but we found no other birds. Eventually we came back to the stream, far upstream from where we had started. We hunted further upstream a bit, but the country turned to mostly softwoods and didn’t look as promising. We turned back downstream to find where we had crossed earlier.

      Crossing back was just as challenging, but we made it with dry feet. And climbing up the banking to the road was the most physically demanding part of the day.

     Sometimes the grass is greener on the other side of the stream, you just have to get there.

New Country

     

        It was a few years back, I had been thinking about it since the previous year, when I drove by the gate and noticed a partridge in the road about a hundred yards away.  We were miles from anywhere on logging roads that day, so I pulled over, let out the dogs, and grabbed my gun to see if the dogs might point that bird.  

        It had taken some doing to just find it, the little guy walked farther than I thought it might.  Chara, my older wirehair, pointed staunchly, I walked in, and then the bird burst into a thicket of softwood trees never to be seen again.

      That road went on around a long bend to the left, apparently following the edge of softwoods growing in a boggy area.  On the other side of the road was a cutting, probably ten years old, maybe younger, gently sloping uphill.  It was late in the day, the last day of our week-long hunting trip, so we didn’t go far, but I knew there was country to explore.

      Often during the next summer I studied the area on Google Earth, looking for softwoods, streams, and fitting the topography into the cuttings.  Frequently I would measure distances to get everything in prospective, trying to plan hunts that would explore the most productive looking country.  Finally, fall arrived.

      I parked in an abandoned logging yard not far up that road and let the two wirehairs and the young shorthair out.  Three dogs?  I love pandemonium.  Light rain fell and the temperature wasn’t much over freezing.  Wherever the ground appeared flat, water puddled from the almost steady rain of the previous week.  But it was the first day of my annual hunting week and life couldn’t have been better.

      We worked the edges of the softwoods and mixed cover, working the high side of the logging road and heading up further into the forest.  No birds.  A couple of miles or so from the truck, and starting to get quite wet, I convinced my girls to hunt the low side of the road back toward the truck.

Well down the slope and far from the road, Chara, the older wirehair, started to get birdy among a mixed stand of mature fir and red maples.  A woodcock bolted up the hill.

          We followed, hoping to find that woodcock again, and soon Chara’s tail started to blur as she sorted out the scents.  Colby, the younger wire, picked up the scent too, while Georgia, the young shorthair, dashed about further down the hill, unaware what the other two dogs were up to. 

Chara at her best. 

          Chara froze.  It didn’t look like partridge country, not on a rainy day anyway, with tall maples and yellow birch trees, so I thought she must be marking the woodcock we had flushed before.  I did my best to hurry over the squishy ground.  Colby noticed Chara and stopped in her tracks.  You got to love that dog.

          A partridge rocketed into the air and flew diagonally up the hill, gaining altitude all the way, launching far ahead of the dog and well out of range.

          By that time water had found its way into various inner parts of my clothing and my legs ached from trying to find footing on the lumpy water-logged ground.  We hunted back up toward the road, with its easier walking, and headed toward the truck. 

          It certainly was rugged country and we would be back.  

More New Country

So close yet so far...

     Across the river looked to be mighty birdy country, but the water was too deep to wade, so to get there meant many miles on logging roads. Mature alders, with pockets of poplar and clusters of softwoods, beckoned. Dozens of times I had seen it, but traipsing all over the country on the other side of the river, I had never figured out where to find it.

     Studying topographical maps and aerial photos, I finally unraveled it.

Beavers were everywhere.

     It took a hike through softwoods to get there, probably a mile. In places the sphagnum moss was so thick you could actually hear yourself think. Most of the spruce and fir trees were large, so the walking was easy, but in places thickets of smaller trees or cedars and water under foot made the going slower. When we could, we followed game trails. I wish deer were taller.

     Along the river ancient cherries stood over the alders. Dead elms desperately tried to hang onto their limbs and scattered fat fallen fir trees required detours. Fingers of water forced reconnoitering and alternate courses. But it was bird country.

     The dogs tore through the cover. Maggie, the youngster, shot about like a ping pong ball, almost immediately bumping a grouse. It looked like a cannon-fired turkey crossing an opening over tall grass. Colby, the experienced older girl, work methodically. Bells were ringing. Birds were pointed, birds were bumped, and, at the end of the day, the birds were luckier than we were.

Do you see him there?

     There’s more country to explore along that section of the river. We’ll be back.

Woodcock

     There is some encouraging news about the magical woodcock. In our area, their numbers have been steady the last few years because of local timber harvesting, which creates abundant early successional forests. Young woodlands are important to both woodcock and ruffed grouse. Nationally, the news is also encouraging too.

http://www.freep.com/story/sponsor-story/michigan-wildlife-council/2017/09/19/woodcock-making-impressive-return/105605460/

Getting Ready

     It is time to get ready for bird season. The young woodcock and grouse of the year are old enough to fly, so we have been running the dogs in the woods with their bells on. Maggie, our youngest, is showing her smarts and acting like a champion. The older girl, Colby, still likes to show off and finds her share of birds, but her older joints have slowed her down some. It brings great joy to see them pointing side by side.

     It is important to get the dogs in shape, and us too. One of the important things is make certain dog's toenails are ready for hard running. Here is an excellent link that shows proper trimming.

https://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F%2Fltp-cdn-endpoint.azureedge.net%2Fltp-test%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2014%2F06%2FNail-Trimming-Diagram.png&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.lovethatpet.com%2Fdogs%2Fgrooming%2Ftrimming-dogs-nails%2F&docid=NO5CaTQFUWsS6M&tbnid=-UMqtGuFHKql2M%3A&vet=1&w=960&h=606&hl=en-US&source=sh%2Fx%2Fim

Good stuff to revive boots.

     The shotgun needs to get some serious use too, to freshen up the muscle memory. It has been way too long. Boots are new and broken in, and there are plenty of shotgun shells on the shelf. Maybe the Filson pants need new wax.

     One of the nicest things about upland hunting is there isn’t a lot of paraphernalia needed. It’s time to start pouring over maps and plan the season.

Ripsnorter Magalloway Magic showing her stuff last year.

The Brook

     A woodcock fluttered up and away my very first time there. That was eleven years ago and it seemed like a pretty good omen. Barbed wire buried inches beneath the bark of softwood trees told it once was a pasture. In places, remnants of old fields still border the stream, but alders and poplar are squeezing the grasses away.

     Every year the brook changes when the spring runoff chews away at its banks and tumbles streamside trees. One favorite bend used to be around a narrow gravel bar, but has grown to nearly the size of a tennis court. The stream is a property bound and someday it will be interesting to sort out who owns what, but that isn’t a worry now.

     On the north side of the stream, softwoods cover the flat valley bottom. Soft needles and moss muffle footsteps, and moose and deer keep a path well trampled. 
      In places the ferns are waist high, easily tall enough to hide dwarfs, elves, and forest creatures. It is a magical place. Farther from the stream, the land abruptly climbs and the forest changes to mixed hardwoods. Along this edge is where the exploding ruffed grouse live.

     Brook trout hide in the stream’s shadows, beneath undercut banks and fallen tree trunks. In the fall they slip up some of the tiny feeder streams to reproduce, sometimes in places that are so shallow their backs are out of the water. It is best to give them some privacy then, so I stay away.

     Fishing downstream, sinking flies in the deeper holes or among the shadows along the banks, you will eventually come to the alder flats. In October, when the weeds finally lay flat, the woodcock will be found feeding in the soft soil beneath those alders. Some great memories linger in that tangle. But by mid-November the place feels as empty as a ghost town.

     Further downstream a bit, beavers keep trying to dam the stream, but always disappear after the dams get started. Possibly someone traps them out, but the abandoned barriers create lovely tranquil pools. There, a tiny dry fly often coaxes a trout into doing something stupid, or at least showing its location. The trusty old green woolly bugger usually catches the biggest fish.

     Most of the trout are gently put back into the stream. A whopper would be as long as the spread of a man’s hand, but those are rare. Occasionally, a couple medium sized ones will come home to be cooked in bacon fat for breakfast. A kingfisher might protest, but he can catch his own trout.

The Thunder of Wings

It's that time of the year.

     Two days ago, while walking to the compost, a young grouse exploded out of the weeds beside our field, startling me and brightening my day. On the way back to the house two more thundered to the air, catching the attention of Maggie, our youngest German wirehair. For the next twenty minutes she hunted that patch of woods hard, but found no more birds.

     It is the time of the year when the young grouse are exploring their world. The young birds are not always the brightest and either they learn quickly or end up as somebody’s dinner. Often they appear dazed at a roadside and would make easy pickings for hawk. By October they are a different bird, wary and wild.

     Fortunately, at this time of the year, there is a smorgasbord of things to eat. Blueberries are abundant and soon raspberries will follow. Insects are everywhere, to supply much needed protein. All sorts of plants are going to seed,

Her young were hiding in the weeds.

     Two weeks ago, a short distance down our gravel road, a grouse stood like a statue while her brood hunkered down in the roadside weeds. Before we could get pictures, she strutted into the brush to vanish.

     A week before that the same experience happened on a logging road miles in the woods. That one sat for a picture.

     On the way to a blueberry patch this morning we saw a woodcock standing on the asphalt of a winding back road. Before the camera could come out it leapt into the air to fly away in the classic erratic flight of a woodcock. A friend had asked only a day or so ago if I had seen any woodcock lately and I had said no.

     Is it going to be a good bird hunting year? Only a fool will make a prediction. In the meantime the brookies are biting and there are blueberries to pick. 

Headed for a pie.