New covert

I'm reading deer hunting posts and receiving photos of cervid prizes from grousers in New York with envy. Wish I were there with you folks. Here in Pennsyltucky, the woods are just getting good for grouse and woodcock and gun season for deer doesn't start for eight days. Bobby, my neighbor, introduced me to a new covert, just down the road from Lion Country Supply, that yielded both bird species. We came home with two woodcock, but should have had a few more.

Lilly, locked up along the railroad track that borders the new covert.

Half Moon Creek - redux

Quit work early to return to the creek for another round of jump shooting. No kids this time (still visiting grandparents in Arkansas). Much colder. But the ducks were equally accommodating.

Canoga's Tiger Lilly, soaking wet

after two icy, but short, retrieves

Half Moon Creek

Looking out my dining room window you can almost miss the half-mile stretch of creek that runs through my neighbors’ fields. A line through grass at the bottom of the broad valley, it’s usually more void than body. Forced out of its meander long ago, the creek cuts deeply into the alluvial soils that bound it. Leeches have made their home in its warm, muddy stretches.

Even with all of its ailments and insignificance, there’s not a member of this blog who wouldn’t see this little creek's potential. I covet it, although I could never afford to buy the farm through which it courses. Looking upon it I imagine a healthy riparian system with pothole ponds, trees, brush, flowers and wildlife. Like much of the land around my house it is a blank canvas.

Occasionally, the creek provides hints of what it would offer when healed.

I left work around 2:00 yesterday, heading home to watch the kids while Kelly shopped for their Christmas presents. It has been a gloomy week at work, federal budget cuts finally coming to roost upon our lab, and I had hoped at some point for a cathartic grouse hunt over Lilly. Now I had my beloved kids to factor in. Grousing seemed out.

We’ve had a lot of rain this year. More than 60 inches in an area that normally gets around 40. Recent rains had flooded wetlands along the drive home. By the time I rounded the last bend I had hatched a plan for waterfowl, unlikely as it seemed.

I stopped off at Bobby’s, my other neighbor, with the offer to swap my kids for a hunt with him. He has three daughters who bracket my kids’ ages, so the proposition wasn’t as unreasonable as it might sound. Bobby had seen ducks along the creek earlier in the week, and was nearly swayed by the offer. But, he had work to do making his participation out of the question. I couldn’t muster the chutzpa to ask if I could just drop off my kids without some form of reciprocation.

I’ll take them with me I decided.

So it was that we three marched with Lilly across my little farm, past my equipment shed, and down the lane to Half Moon Creek. I let Lilly run much of the way, stretching out her long legs after a day cooped up in the house. She ranged widely. Before I knew it she had reached the creek by the bridge and was making for the water. I called her back. Here! Here! Here! She returned reluctantly. So much for a sneak.

Even so, I was committed to the plan to stalk the remaining length of the creek. Kids trailing by a few yards. Dog on heel. Occasionally poking over the bank to search its contents.

Nearing the creek we cut off the laneway, bypassing the stretch that Lilly had travelled. I was surprised by the noise of stiff feathers launching birds from near the bridge. Two mallards rose, not 30 yards from my position and only 10 yards from the spot Lilly had momentarily visited.

I wheeled, noting the kids – great kids – were exactly where I had told them to be, several yards behind me.

I picked the green head and shot.

The bird flinched, but kept flying. Off, down the valley with its mate. Lilly trailing at full speed.

Wait. While the hen headed skyward the drake remained only 10 yards above the flood plane.

Dog and bird covered 300 yards in seconds.

Then the bird wheeled down to the creek. Lilly hot behind.

We waited. After a minute I told the kids to wait in the open at the bridge so that Lilly would see them and return to them with duck if she found it. I headed down the other bank to help dog locate bird.

50 yards downstream I saw Lilly racing back to the kids. No bird.

Here! Here! Here! She snapped to me. Launched herself, 10 feet across the creek. Bank to bank. A spectacle of athleticism.

We hunted the final yards downstream. Another bridge crossed the creek. Lilly ran across it and under it. I could see her stop momentarily, scooping the bird up. I didn’t even need to call her. She came. Fleet, fluid motion. Bird in maw.

The drake was very much alive when she dropped it off. A crisp retrieve.

We returned to the kids, waiting for us at the bridge where I had left them. Cheers went up when I hoisted the bird. Mallard! Mallard! Then excited prattle about Christmas duck and Christmas presents and Christmas music and duck feathers on our Christmas tree.

We walked the long lane home. Half Moon Creek babbling behind us. Nearly bank full.

PA Woodcock 2011 - Coming of Age

It's been so long since I've last posted to the blog that I had to renew my password. Apologies abound. Many significant posts missed.

2011 was the year that I had hoped for my 3 year old german shorthair pointer. No, it wasn't the trip to Wisconsin, which was wonderful but primarily served to show me that I didn't know how to to hunt over my pointer. It was only on the last day in Wisconsin that Lou and I figured out how to work with Lilly. At home in Pennsylvania, it was the warm weather and a flight of woodcock who just wouldn't fly south that cemented the late Wisconsin lesson, helping to convert a (hopeless) flushing dog owner into a (reasonable) pointing dog owner.

In the past 10 days Lilly has pointed - really pointed! - at least 60 woodcock, and bumped a dozen or so more. We stumbled upon these birds one afternoon, in search of grouse on the game lands down the road. A fluke, as many good things in life seem to be.

That first afternoon was pure chaos. The cover was thick, often 6-10 ft high, making shooting impossible most of the time. Lilly bumped many of the birds, but she began to point after I yelled "whoa" in frustration. I shot two birds that afternoon. And she retrieved both to hand. GSP retrieves: saliva soaked birds that were well tenderized. Impossible for me to find on my own.

Lilly, with the cowbell Jim Tantillo gave her on her inaugural hunting trip in 2009. The cowbell disappeared on the first day of 2011 PA woodcock hunting, victim to multiflora rose, hawthorne, locust, something....

After that I recruited my neighbor, Bobby, to serve as gun while I handled the dog. Bobby is a wonderful woodsman but is as new to dog hunting as I am to being his neighbor. On the first day we began to work out our technique. Lilly would point. I would walk in to flush the bird. Bobby would shoot. We killed two birds that day. Out of 10 or 20. Who's counting? Lilly occasionally broke point to flush a bird. But that was rare and I would call her in, scold her, and we would try again. The birds were accommodating.

We repeated our afternoons, several times, always killing a few birds. The points accumulated. The bumped birds declined. A ritual evolved. We would end the day picking ticks off of ourselves and the dog, listening to woodcock twighlighting. The surprising gift of warm weather in November.

Last Saturday found us with a colleague who owns an English Pointer. The pointer, a sweet dog, hadn't hunted in awhile, so we left colleague and dog to their own ways and hunted the late afternoon. Lilly pointed. We missed. She pointed again and again. We missed again and again. At one point Bobby looked at me and remarked: "there's only one hunter here, and it's the dog, not us." Touche. Or motivation.

I shot my first bird of the day at point blank range. Lilly picked the bird up. Dropped it. Refused to retrieve it to me. It was only half a bird. Breasts salvageable, but no lower half. Even a versatile hunting dog has its limits.

We hunted until the light was waning. On the way back to the car Lilly pointed a bird while heeling at my side. She pointed three more until, in the dusk, I finally dropped one. Lilly found it, 40 yards off, and retrieved it to my hand. Much better tasting than the previous bird!

The shooting percentages this last week were dismal, but that's ok. A transformation occurred. Between hunter and owner. Ain't no one going to tell me she's not the greatest woodcock dog. Ever.

January Harvest

I've been exploring a bit lately, searching for coverts closer to the new farm. Yesterday felt like Christmas when my neighbor suggested I use his property as a gateway to the public land just over the ridge. Hunting right out the back door!

Drove across Half Moon Creek with high hopes and parked the car next to a dilapidated deer camp . Within five minutes dog and I were drawn to a copse of young white pine. She pointed, then relocated, muscles slowed by whatever hormone it is that paralyzes an excited pointing dog. Another solid point.

I stepped forward as the grouse broke from top of a pine, five yards high and 15 yards ahead. Up went the SKB. No snag of the gun butt on my clothing. No forgetting the safety (as I had the day before). Stock planted solidly to cheek. Smooth swing from left to right. All very deliberate.

The bird tumbled. Pure joy. I called back the excited dog. Lilly, here! She had not seen the bird fall and was well beyond, having followed its trajectory. Returning to me, she winded the grouse, picked it up and came straight over. Perfect. A beautiful cock bird with full ruff.

Canoga's Tiger Lilly, fit to explode with excitement, SKB and

Grouse

The remainder of the hunt yielded no more birds, but we found some very nice cover. All five minutes from my stoop. And access to 100s of acres of game commission and Penn State land. I plan to return soon, taking advantage of last night's snow.

Cock bird, skinned and quartered, with crop contents (raisins, bar berries, greens)

Therapy by tautology - a draft

Forced myself up the mountain this morning to hunt familiar coverts. I sought therapy from an imbalance between career focus and the remainder of life's meanings.

Forty degrees and three inches of melting snow, sun just cresting the ridge top. Grouse flushed to my right even before we left the car. We found the terminus of the bird's tracks, dog wild with fresh scent. Off we trudged, through pine stand, bar berry thicket and witch hazel meadow.

I followed grouse tracks, none as fresh as the ones we first encountered. An old compulsion, my zen quest. The dog, olympic marathoner, was also drawn to the old tracks, crossing them but never anchored to them as was I. Several points but no birds.

We crossed fresh porcupine tracks in the snow. Sweat, snow, thick cover.

Finally, fresh grouse tracks. Dog locked in point. Nothing. Dog relocated, then moving in slow motion, thick scent slowing her to a creep.

The fresh tracks continued, intermittent but persistent. An uhurried bird, flying 10 feet then walking. We circled the enormous covert, following a single set of fresh tracks it seemed. The hunt drew us back toward the car. A final point. I swung around, wide, only to find the spot where a grouse had flushed, two hours prior, and a stressed out hunter and dog had investigated its terminal sign.

Successful hunt

Trick or Treat

Took advantage of a few free hours on Halloween day, heading to "Cobert Covert," with the sole objective of stumbling into timberdoodles. This was my first hunt since Wisconsin, and Lilly worked well, Jim's new cow bell audible at all times. We bumped one bird at the end of the covert, but marked it well. Lilly locked up, a solid point. Tweet. Bang. I dropped the little fella into a tangle of multiflora rose. Just when I was preparing to crawl into the brambles Lilly made a nice retrieve. I breathed a sigh of relief. My pup had returned to her old ways. We celebrated by adding Andy's sticker, now earned, to the bumper.

Lilly c. Feb 24, 2009

No disrespect to the late, great, greatest Kate, but I had to share this with you.

Lilly, most versatile hunting dog ever, succumbed today to her would-be quarry, Mr. Tiger. The battle was going her way until he caught her jugular in his vice-like maw.

What hunting dogges do in the off season

Grouse season is closed. Canoga's Tiger Lilly has grown from pup to novice to dogge. What's a newly developed bird dogge to do in the off season?














Here's something constructive. Clearly we need to buy some pillows for the kids.















Versatile Hunting Dogge: Feather, fur and... plastic?

Season's End

The 25^th of January, 2009, last day of Pennsylvania grouse season, a day that I had hoped to spend in New York coverts, but that’s another story. I called my friend Dean and we were on our way to Pine Grove Mountain a little after lunch, two GSP pups in tow. We had hunted the coverts along the mountain top hard during the late season, encountering plenty of grouse but unable to provide our young dogs with anything to retrieve. I had watched my now 7 month old dog grow from inexperienced pup to a reliable partner, but since our trip to Maine in October I had been incapable of holding up my end of the partnership: the kill.

So it was that we found ourselves at the covert called Broken Rib, crashing through thick stands of 20’ pines for porcupine meadow. Winter sun overhead, 20 degrees, crusted snow. The two pups knew their business and hunted independently. Once at the meadow we tracked the line of white pine that rims the lower edge: Lilly and I upslope; Dean and Mauser down slope. Occasional seeps create breaks of barberries and laurel through the pines, about the only place where I could see Dean, only 20 yards down slope.

At the first seep Lilly began a series of points that pulled me further and further upslope, away from the pine barrier. Four points and nothing. Old scent? Just then I heard two shots from Dean. Four grouse had flushed from the pines and his second shot brought a fountain of feathers but no bird. We followed the flight path of the wounded bird, crossing a creek, cutting through pines and eventually emerging onto a laurel covered talus slope. Roughly eighty yards from where it had flushed, the grouse was found running on the ground. Dean grabbed it. We celebrated briefly, then pushed on.

Dean, Mauser, grouse

Back at the lower end of porcupine meadow more grouse flushed from in front of Dean. I heard and saw nothing. Then, a bird flushed wild from the pines. I allowed a lapse in judgment, taking two pot shots even though Lilly had not been part of the transaction. The red gods did not approve of my poor judgment.

We pushed on, still only half an hour into the hunt. Then, not 30 feet from where Lilly had her first encounter with a porcupine, Lilly went on point. I snapped a photo then walked into the pines. Nothing. Lilly ran past me and pointed again, feet away from the log where I had pulled dozens of quills from her jowls on New Year’s day. I walked past her and heard grouse flush on Dean’s side of the copse: one; two; three. A bird emerged overhead. I brought the gun up hard, and, to my relief, the bird dropped to earth, full of lead ballast. Thus spake the Parker!

Spawn of Artemis executes a perfect point

What ensued was a bazaar period of parallel activity, i.e., pandemonium. Lilly had broken at the flush and anticipating the trajectory of the birds flight was blind to its fall. As I called her back for the retrieve, I became aware of barking from Deans direction. Lilly stumbled upon the bird, then completed the worst retrieve of her brief career. I hadn’t worked with her on retrieving since early fall and she played with the bird before reluctantly delivering it to hand. I was elated – point, flush, shot, bird, retrieve! Only then did I hear Dean’s shouts of desperation. I cut short the celebration with Lilly and went to investigate.

Recalcitrant pup

While I had been focused on grouse, Mauser, the 6 month old GSP, had discovered the thrill of mauling Grandpa Porcupine, who waddled just yards from where Lilly had earlier made his acquaintance. After initially recoiling, the versatile hunting dog was clearly getting ready for retribution when Dean stepped in, noting that Grandpa P now sported very few quills on his back, thanks to two young GSPs. Things were under control by the time I arrived with Lilly on leash, although Mauser’s jowls and leg were bristling with quills. By the time I was able to photograph the scene Dean had removed many of the quills. We pulled the remaining quills and the pup seemed none the worse for wear. Onward Ho!

No more grouse were encountered, to my recollection, but we finished the hunt in high spirits. I do remember a joyous feeling as the bird in my game pouch bounced rhythmically against my back. The 2008 season now closed, I’m looking forward to 2009.

Now that's what it's all about!

January Snow Storm

Watched the radar with keen interest as a narrow band of snow barreled down on Central PA. After a mid-day sledding excursion with the family, I loaded my daughter Kendall and my pup Lilly in the truck and we set up the mountain for an experiment in grouse hunting.

“I’ve never been in such a winter wonderland” exclaimed Kendall with 100% Kleinman enthusiasm. We eased our way down the long track that leads to coverts with the names of Broken Rib, Search and Seizure and Laureltown. The landscape was spectacular, a shellac of ice covered with six inches of feathery powder.

The shooting party

At Search and Seizure I unloaded the menagerie, placed Kendall in the sled, and slid down the old tote road to the pines, barberry and laurel that attract wintering grouse. The covert is named after a grand mal seizure my black lab Cody suffered during one of our first hunts there with the Vicar, who had discovered the spot. The walking was treacherous, as I had to negotiate curtains of ice-laden limbs, tinkling like wind chimes, while skidding over the base of ice that lay under the snow.

Ice curtain

It was particularly hard paying attention to little Lilly, whose bell was almost impossible to distinguish from the resonating ice. Kendall noted that other than her collar, Lilly's white and liver fur was perfect winter camouflage. But, as soon as the ground leveled and we reached our first cluster of pines, the dog went on point. It was a moment of truth. Kendall and I were sixty yards off and I was hesitant to leave my six year old daughter alone while I searched for the bird. The cover was too thick to drag the sled through. There’s my 7 month old uberpointer holding fast. What’s a multitasker to do?

By the time I made up my mind Lilly had been on point for at least a minute. We ditched the sled and I had Kendall follow me, reassuring her that I would come back for her if I got too far ahead. When I eventually reached Lilly she had been on point for at least three minutes. What’s another few seconds to snap a photo of my canine pride and joy?

First point

After the photograph I circled around to the pines. No flush. I released Lilly and she moved in, pointing again. Just then Kendall called. “Daddy, where are you?” Another moment of truth. I left the dog for the kid, immediately feeling the pressure pulse as the bird flushed in near silence into the whiteness.

We returned to the sled and hunted for another twenty minutes, winding through laurel and over limbs, all the time pushing through icy curtains of branches. Kendall was an incredible trooper, a true snow princess.

Second point

Lilly pointed several more times but we never saw or heard birds. Restricted to the open trail we could not follow up her initial points, as I normally would (she often points several times before we get close enough to the bird for it to flush). It was a long slog back to the truck, but worth every molecule of ATP. Daughter and pup added one more experience to their bond.

Bonded

Post Script: The real adventure occurred just as we were about to exit the state forest onto the two lane highway that leads down the mountain. A pickup had turned onto our icy road, the only one I’d seen all afternoon. The driver slowed to let us pass, slid on ice, slowly, and was only stopped from sliding down the mountain by a forest service sign. If it hadn’t been there he would have slid into a steep right-of-way and rolled down the hill. With tow ropes and ax we were able to rescue him.

Kosong

I've returned to the grouse woods twice with Lilly since the encounter with the porcupine on New Year's day. During those two hunts she has begun to put it all together. While I too have begun to understand how to hunt with my little GSP, I can't say much for my shooting.

In but two hunts Lilly has pointed at least seven grouse, perhaps more*. One encounter with Mr. Bonassa on January 2nd was particularly memorable. Lilly pointed, relocated, pointed, relocated, and pointed again. I assumed it was a running bird, eventually letting down my guard. Immediately the grouse flushed from 20 feet up a pine. I never even mustered a shot.

Today's final point was memorable in that I did everything perfectly, at least until it was time to close the deal. Dark was falling and we had flushed at least four birds, two of which Lilly pointed but flushed as I bungled the approach. Finally, not far from the truck, Lilly froze in the midst of a copse of pines. I swung wide, very wide and walked in. Perhaps thirty yards from her nose I nearly stepped on the grouse: low house skeet, straight away. I missed with both barrels. It was like taking your eye off the golf ball to watch its flight. The gods of Parker are punishing me.

However, I am blessed by my little Lilly.

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* A veneer of ice makes every step a sonic distraction to other sounds in the woods.

New Year's Quills

Drove up Pine Grove Mountain to Broken Rib Covert to usher in the New Year with Lilly. Temps in the 20s, bright sun, dusting of snow. Grouse tracks everywhere. Within 20 minutes we had flushed roughly 5 birds (hard to precisely count with the noise I made breaking through ice), several off of creeping points. Lilly was starting to settle. Then, a perfect point. I swung wide around her and she held. Perfection. When I was but five yards from her nose, she broke. Off waddled a porcupine. We'll try again tomorrow.