Still Hunting Grouse on Snow

January 4 am grouse hunt

A late afternoon phone call from Uncle Pete convinced me that there are people reading this blog and eager for word from the coverts. My congratulations to Dr. Dirt for keeping us appraised both of Lilly's progress and of his own ongoing struggles with ballistic irregularities.

I managed to get out yesterday for a pair of hunts: one in a covert dubbed "Rocky Raccoon" which Uncle Pete saw many many years ago. Because Uncle Pete expressed some incredulity at the fact that I gave out precise GPS coordinates of a recent hunt's results, I have covered up identifying topographical traces in the above track log of the hunt to make it harder for lazy-assed hunters amongst you to find this spot. heh heh

It was a calm, cold 22 deg F morning, and I was garbed in the usual attire, etc. etc.

We put up two grouse from high, high up in the trees in a red pine plantation along the edge of a small swamp. We followed the mark for a while, but nothing else materialized. Half an hour later, however, Phoebe rewarded me with her first real point on a hunt--alas, nothing came of it, but it was staunch enough for twenty or so seconds, and I believed her. I figure it's just a matter of time now.

In the p.m., we made haste to another oldie but goody, a spruce plantation that I haven't hunted in several years. This time we were rewarded with a total of five birds flushed, with a missed couple of shots at bird number four and a reflush of bird number four that confirmed his ongoing excellent health. Needless to say, a good time was had by all.

Yesterday I downloaded a vintage 1893 article from Outing magazine, "Still-Hunting Grouse on Snow," by James R. Benton. One passage in particular caught my eye. Here's what we all hunt for:

But my mind is suddenly diverted from this fascinating sort of “track inspecting,” by the report of my companion’s gun high up on the ridge. If he missed his bird there is a chance it may come this way—there—one hundred feet in air—wings set—feathers compressed, apparently to make as small a mark of itself as possible, shooting across the ravine like a bullet. Well! here goes for luck. Fifteen feet ahead is not an inch too much. Hurrah! that brought him. His speed was such that he drops half way up the opposite hill, while a handful of fine feathers drifting down through the fading light show how hard he was hit. A hit like that makes up for twenty misses. What sportsman knows not the wild joyous thrill that follows such a clean shot! A minute before you were tired, your feet seemed bound to stumble against every root and stub in the woods, you began to think hunting was losing its interest, you didn’t see just what you came to-day for anyway. Then the whir—the successful shot, and your muscles are springs, your feet scarce touch the ground, your triumph breaks forth in a shout. Could the philosophers but grasp and make tangible this passing thrill, they need seek no further for the elixir of life.

January 4 pm grouse hunt: still seeking the elixir of life