Spidey was a Grouse Dog

 

Bonasa Northern Spy, Sept 6, 1997 - Oct 11, 2013

 

Last Friday Spy breathed his last.  I saw it coming, and dug a hole for him a couple days earlier.  He went to the earth in the side yard on a pleasant October morning with a couple grouse tail feathers and a 20 gauge shot shell. That evening after playing catch and shagging grounders and flies, Nolan and I stood over Spidey's grave and I told a few stories, and a bit after sunset a woodcock came in low over the field and set down on the lawn about 20 yards away.  It seemed fitting.

Spy was the last of his litter; Kate went before him a few years ago.  He was okay on woodcock, but he seemed to really enjoy finding grouse.  He was certainly more fleet of feet than either Kate or their dad Butch.  Rather than trail birds, he seemed to pin a higher proportion of them than did Butch.  I remember the first pointed grouse that I killed over Spy, his first season when he was a year old.  It was an October afternoon at Frye Mountain WMA in Maine.  The bird held very tight and I was expecting a woodcock. When it rocketed out I downed it with one shot from my 20 gauge SKB SxS; that was also the first shot I had taken on grouse with that gun, which I had picked up that summer. That gun and dog combination was together for 13 seasons.



 

Spy split bird dog duties with Butch for 4 years. In the era Before Kids, they got plenty of time on the ground.



Spy on woodcock, rookie season 1998 -- see the birdy?



Old dog on woodcock (bottom center).  Same old ATS Basic Beeper!



Spy's retrieves of upland birds were memorable... because they were relatively few, and usually were tough cripples brought back alive.  He pointed dead more often than not.

Ducks were different -- he had no problem retrieving them until ice-up.  Not very stylish, but he liked fetching them.

 

Rich and Spy, northern Maine 2008.

I don't recall the first woodcock I killed over Spy, but I vividly remember his last.  Three years ago, when Spy was 13, I'd hunt him up to a couple hours a day and Brody (1.5 yrs at the time) would get the lion's share of time.  We were in Minnesota and I was guiding a gentleman from PA.  Spy pointed this woodcock 3 or 4 times and each time we either didn't get a shot or missed.  It was getting late and the dog was getting tired. FINALLY, my guy from PA kills the bird, and I'm jumping around cheering, it was such a relief and I was so grateful.  So I leash Spy and lead him -- or more accurately, he leads me -- out toward the truck.  I've got my shotgun (same 20 ga SKB) over my shoulder, Spy tugging on the leash pulling me through the brush and saplings. He suddenly stops and I just about trip over him, and a moment later up flies a grouse.  My shotgun comes forward off my shoulder, butt-stock to cheek and shoulder, and pop -- drops the grouse.

Good old Spidey.  He was a grouse dog. 

 

 





Pathwalker's October Dance Card . . .

. . . is filling up.  Hurry and send a check to RGS for $850 if you want to be part of Andy's Oct. 2-5 grouse camp.

Hunting News

Ruffed Grouse Society to 

Host 2013 Upland Bird 

Hunt in Northern Maine

Ruffed Grouse Society +

| September 3, 2013 | |

Following an extremely successful hunt last fall, the Ruffed Grouse Society (RGS) has once again chosen Northern Maine for its second annual grouse and woodcock hunt. Held out of the New EnglandOutdoorCenter, Fire Road 20D, Millinocket, Maine on October 2-5, 2013, the guided hunt is limited to ten hunters.

According to RGS regional director Tripp Way, registration is $850 per gun and  consist of a “Meet and Greet” reception party on Wednesday at 7 p.m., three breakfasts, two field lunches and two dinners — which includes a lobster or steak repast Friday evening. Hunting hours will run from 8:30 a.m. – 4 p.m., Friday and Saturday. Lodging will be at The Twin Pines Cabins, which has a spectacular view of MillinocketLake and Mt.Katahdin.

“Wednesday’s meet and greet will provide information on the terrain, followed by a Q&A session with RGS regional biologist Andy Weik,” Way said, adding that hunters are encouraged to bring their own dog or they can hunt with huntsmen’s dogs.

A 50-percent deposit is required by September 21, 2013, with remaining payment due prior too, or at the event. All major credit cards accepted and, with the exception of a $100 cancellation fee, refunds will be provided before September 27, 2013.

For more information and/or registration contact Mark Gray at 207-299-4172. Way can be reached at 607-743-0760; Weik at 607-793-4832.

Reservation forms can also be downloaded from the Internet at: www.ruffedgrousesociety.org/UserFiles/File/13AugustaMEMillinocketHunt.pdf.

Logo courtesy Ruffed Grouse Society

Sounds like a good time!

Almost that time of year, boys and girls

UP Odyssey

Quite a thing, the Odyssey: constant motion, movement.  A kaleidoscope of images: Spike's Keg o Nails in Grayling, the Sugar Bowl in Gaylord, the road bird in the Pigeon River, the Jolly Roger, the Trout River Tavern, innumerable mom 'n pop motels, lovely Sam in Munising, the Seney Plains and Mr. Clark, the Veneer Dome in Marquette--and the 70 mile loop road nearby where we drove 8 hrs and were never out of sight of popple--Bergland's Bar near Lake Gogebic, and their annual grouse tournament ('bonus to the FIRST team that brings in their 10 bird limit').  Indian Jail and the bird at dusk.  And more and more.

What a great place, the UP.  long lonely roads, small towns still limping along, and more grouse cover than a dedicated grouser could thrash in a lifetime.  And plenty of birds.

Affixing the pirate flag in the snow near Bergland, Lake Gogebic.  Proudly it flew, and a a covert name--Jolly Roger--near Kenneth MI, born.

A contemplative moment on Kate's Mountain.  Precise location unknown, unrevealed.  Jim and a Lab...who'd a thunk it.

A hot and tired--but very happy--pal in "Sweaty Dog" near the Lost Woodcock Highway.  Josh's gun strikes again!

Grouse Odyssey 2012

Rich promises a write-up (as in "Right . . . yup"), so here's a couple of pics from last week's Odyssey.

Here's Phoebe with her sire Bandit on the left and littermate Daisy in the middle.

That's littermate Daisy, not illiterate Daisy

Here's our pirate flag.  Rich will explain.

Long may she wave

Here's Rich still working and not following through on his God-given right to relax on his God-given right to enjoy a weekend/vacation.  We cured him of that with good old-fashioned ridicule. 

Rich not relaxing

Here's Rich in Munising, MI.  After he relaxed.

Rich relaxing.  Feel better now Dude?

I think that's about it for photos right now.

Why Grouse Hunting the U.P. Ain't for Sissies!

Cougar Photographed by Michigan Trail Cam Suggests Resident Population in Upper Peninsula

2012 'ku coup

first bird in two years
in an undisclosed covert--
Sugar Hill's sweet spot

Birds so far

Figured I'd fill space until Pete or Rich contribute the write-up on the Old T trip. Here's a summary of my bird season to date. Before I went to MN, I got Brody out hunting at the FLNF for a couple hours, moved 1 grouse, and Brody pointed two woodcock (2/2). I left Spy home when I went to MN -- I figured all that travel and crate time would be a bit much for a 14 yr old dog. In MN I was able to work Brody several hours scouting coverts and guiding a few hunters. (photos: MN double rainbow, Earl's ES Otto w/ Earl's DIY tricked-out mudflaps, Brody pointing a woodcock). On the way home I was able to hunt half a day. After I packed the car, the first stop on the way home was some paper company land in MN. Tried a couple spots ("fishing") but did not move any birds over a couple hours. The temp was nice -- 50s -- but it was very windy. The final spot was also on paper company land that had been cut periodically. Lots of stands of aspen from <5 old sapling to mature. I popped a grouse that I bumped. Wing-tipped him, and fortunately Brody caught it. Little while later Brody went on point where I saw a woodcock settle in. I walked up expecting a woodcock, but instead two grouse rocketed out simultaneously, away and high. I missed two shots at one bird. In about 15 seconds Brody was on point again. This time the bird came over me high and I dropped it behind me. Over the next 1.5 hrs we moved a few grouse (pointed, bumped or bumped by me) and a couple woodcock. Killed a pointed wc. The final action was a long walk to the beeper. I swung wide, and flushed a red phase bird about 30 yards ahead of Brody, and fortunately killed it. We hunted that place about 3 hours total. Brody handled nice -- I didn't have to talk much. I ran him w/ a beeper on point only, and a bell. Seems to work nicely. Got to have the beeper -- he's hard to see and ranges well out of gun range. The grouse seemed harder to handle this year -- sneaky runners and silent escape "hop flights" well out. The age ratio of grouse from the hunt was pretty heavy to adults. The birds I killed were two adults and one youngster.



Back in NY for a week, I ran Brody almost daily on the backyard woodcock. Just training runs, no guns. (photo pointing local woodcock on a rainy day). I hunted Brody one afternoon at the nearby state forest. Moved two grouse (no points) and one woodcock (pointed, bagged).




The last week of October I was in Maine. Work trip, but I was able to get out hunting a couple hours a few of the days. Had a great time in my old home coverts outside Old Town, but for the life of me I could not connect on a grouse! (just like old times). We moved on average 4 grouse and 3 or 4 woodcock per hour; got points on about 75% of the grouse. Did well on woodcock. Later, out in the vicinity of Grand Lake Stream, the woodcock were just as abundant but the grouse were more variable (1-4 per hour). I heard later that friends in Aroostook County were averaging 10 grouse flushed per hour... Anyway, I had the pleasure of hunting over a friend's springer, which served up a grouse and a few woodcock for me.



Back again in NY, the boys and I tried to find a backyard woodcock with Brody, with intent to kill, but we came up empty. I think our local birds had skedaddled. I got Brody out again to the local state forest, and in 2 hours we moved 4 spooky grouse and 1 woodcock (see Brody's mouth, below). Now with 10 days left in the woodcock season I want to get ol' Spy out for a last chance at a last bird -- a point, maybe a photo op, hopefully feathers in the mouth.

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)

Snippet from Minnesota

Bird numbers were good in NE Minnesota. Weather was balmy, a little on the dry side. Unfortunately I wasn't able to get my dogs on the ground much -- a couple hours for Brody on Saturday 10/9 and a couple hours more later in the week during scouting; an hour w/ Spy during the RGS hunt, and finally (after the work was done) about 6 hrs w/ Brody over this past Sat eve/Sun morn. This was our first hunting of the year anywhere.

Little things can make or break a hunt. Spy made the most of his hour of hunting last Friday by pointing 3 wc and 4 grouse; all 7 birds were quite killable and were shot at, but we bagged just two: a wc by my hunter (his first!) and a grouse that I killed on Spy's last point of the day (at his age -- 13 -- you never know when it's his last. Period.).

Brody showed alot of... "variation", and alot of progress in a short time. He bumped plenty of birds early on, and made some nice points - and more consistently worked birds nicely - as his time on the ground increased. He ran w/ alot of urgency initially, probably a combination of pent-up energy and inexperience (as well as the potential to race in his breeding), and later settled into an easy handling mode, but still covering ground quickly. In the end I killed a woodcock and 3 grouse over his points, and I let go alot of killable foot-flushed and bumped birds. All those bumped birds and the few killed birds are great training. It's those pointed birds that got away that I regret not bringing down to reward the pup.

The photo is Brody last Sunday morning/noon in MN. It was dry as chips, but the birds were abundant and Brody was getting the hang of it. I had just knocked down a grouse from his 3rd or 4th point in a row, and he pointed it "dead" -- you can see it through the veg below about 6 inches to the front-right of his nose, its head is up. Pup was in a stupor, standing paralyzed, drunk on scent, eyes were just slits.

Also that morning I got to educate Brody on porcupines. For anyone who runs an e-collar, you might want to take advantage of your next porky encounter by setting the transmitter on fry-o-lator and nicking your dog when he knowingly approaches the porcupine too close. You want him to see and smell it. He'll think the porky gave him the jolt. Don't say a word, just pet him when he runs over to you, and hunt on. Try to come back around down wind later for another lesson. This could pay off some day. Hopefully you'll never know.

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

The Blessings of Autumn Continue

After working 8 years to get tenure (takes longer when you do it twice), and finally getting word yesterday, I figured I could come in late (~1030) one morning. So, I packed up my pup, and headed south to Michigan Hollow environs. (We can’t all beat the crap out of Hector all the time, ‘specially with CowPoke Weik and the missus drifting into town). Started off by working downstream of the old beaver dam, having espied some nice alders there last winter.

Mindful of the warm weather and disdainful of fashion, I wore my old Finger Lakes Marathon long sleeved T under the Filson jacket. Andy’s boots completed the ensemble. I suspect he’ll want to claim the shirt too.

The beavers have been busy. It was a hellish nightmare, and I recalled thinking I really ought to have left word with Julie as to where I was heading. I vividly envisioned a Pongee stick puncture or twelve. This was not a lot of fun. Andy, sorry about the new tear in your boots. Nor was it in keeping with my vision of a contemplative stroll, full of reflections of career, place, friends, cycles, and all that romantic rot.

Backtrack to the backside of the old pond, now a series of small ponds surrounded by well-nigh impenetrable puckerbrush: multiflora, autumn olive, etc. But on the margin, there are gorgeous stands of old pine with hazel growing up. These stands drop off to the thick stuff to the East. Wonder of wonders, a bird flushed from one of these pines, left to right, and wonder-of-wonders, I dropped him with a single shot. To be honest, Conley had nothing to do with this: he was off busting through the thick stuff the way he ought to have been. But I whistled him over, gave him the line, and out he came with the bird…a purty brown phase young of the year.

I’d post a picture but Julie has the durned camera to take pictures of our kids in some danged neighborhood Halloween parade. Strange priorities.

Conley’s first NYS grouse. Life is good. Back to work.

Rock of Ages

Spy seems to have come down w/ anaplasmosis. Thought he was going to die last Mon./Tues -- shivers, couldn't stand, cried out in pain a couple times, could barely raise his head. But put him on doxicycline Thursday and he was ready to hunt again Friday -- 4 wc and 1 grouse point, 2 wc killed, 1 hr. He's his old self again.















I've gotten Brody out a few times since getting back from WI. It's always been maybe half an hour for exercise if nothing else. Tuesday afternoon (10/27) I had 15 minutes to run Brody before I had to pick up the kids. I put him down in a wet aldery area. Lots of white wash (day old?). Brody went on point.... but started flagging. He wouldn't take a step so I walked in and put up a low, weak-flying woodcock, which he chased out of sight. He came back around and continued hunting, and pretty soon went on point. Again tail flagging but wouldn't take a step . This time when I walked in a wc sprang up strongly. Easy shot. Bang. I missed. This time Brody just watched it fly away. I still haven't shot a bird over a long-held, statuesque point by Brody.

Wednesday afternoon. This time I had an hour. I brought Brody back to the same covert as yesterday. Ten minutes into it I bumped a woodcock that Brody didn't see. We continued hunting in the direction the bird flew. Brody was ahead, down slope among fir, cedar, and alders in a fairly soppy area, just about the right distance for land fall of the bumped bird. The bell went silent. I waited a bit for him to start moving again, and when he didn't, I moved ahead to find him. It took me a good minute, but there he was statue still in the thick wet stuff. A dark dog is hard to see in the dark woods. I moved ahead of the dog, approaching from the side. I was startled by a rustling of vegetation and a brown blur of hare hair hopped away. One jingle of the bell told me Brody saw or heard the bunny, but stayed put. I took two more steps and up twittered a timberdoodle flying right at me until it was about 5 yards away, at which time it turned away but quickly dipped low around a fir thicket and it was gone. Arghh! Brody had turned to rock, but my hands had turned to stone. Stoned by the woodcock. I really want to kill every bird pointed like that, to reward the good behavior.

So Thursday, a potential buyer of our house was visiting with a house inspector. I got them started, then got out of their hair for awhile. This gave me an hour and a half to try to get Brody into birds. Most of the first 60 minutes where uneventful. Then we worked along an old road lined by a stand of jack pine sloping down either side of the ridge into aspen and alder. I heard a grouse flush, so whistled Brody in to hunt the vicinity. He went on point about 30 yards into the pines. I walked in to flush, and a grouse busted out of the tree over my head, and my one shot did no harm. We followed, and again Brody pointed, this time looking up into the canopy to a spot from which a grouse burst forth. This time my load of steel 6s knocked it down -- Brody's first grouse on a solid point that lasted more than a few seconds.

Further down the ridge Brody's bell indicated he was moving slowly and pausing. In a little while the bell went silent. As I crept to his point from higher ground a bird flushed from about 30 feet up an aspen, and my shot broke a wing, at least. At the shot, the bird Brody had been pointing flushed.... toward me. I turned and took a going-away shot as it banked and flew down slope. The grouse went out of sight as I shot, but I did see a small cloud of feather dander hanging in the air in its wake. Shooting birds over Brody's solid points was just what I wanted. However a potential downside to this happy story is that both these last two birds were live on the ground so Brody then caught them (notice one bob-tailed bird in the photo). Time will tell whether he still wants to point, or if he thinks he can just run 'em down.

Last day for woodcock is Saturday, so I'll be out tomorrow trying to add a couple more birds to the larder for Thanksgiving appetizers.

More Cowbell

Pete and I put in an all-day hunt at the covert we called "More Cowbell" . . . Pete later returned to the same covert with Andy to hammer it again. No surprise there. (just kidding Pete . . . NOT) :-)

ANYWAYS, the "More Cowbell" skit seems to have been purged from YouTube, but here is a link to the entire skit at another site: http://www.buzzhumor.com/videos/28180/More_Cowbell

Better watch it before it gets yanked again.

Guess what . . . I've got a fever, and the only prescription, is more cowbell.

She's ready

Well, any ambivalence I might have had about taking an untested yearling setter into the Michigan and Wisconsin grouse woods has now vanished. The short version: we got Phoebe out onto the Hector Backbone today for the woodcock opener, and in one hour's time I watched her go from a completely clueless doggie doofus to an absolute woodcock-pointing machine.

The somewhat longer version: We were in the woods by 4:00 pm, under sunny skies, 62 deg F, 6-10 mph winds out of the north and northwest, and as usual I was wearing jeans, my torn and tattered Carharrt vest, Filson hat, and toting the 16 gauge loaded up with early season 8s.

For the first hour and a half we scoured two coverts in a row (many of you have been there, but if I told you where it was today I'd have to kill you) and turned up nothing. nada. zilch. I was beginning to doubt if I had any woodcock finding talent at all.

By 5:30 or so, things started to heat up. Phoebe had had one or two false points up to now, a pattern I'd seen fairly frequently, so when she went on point in some gnarlies I was expecting more of the same.

WRONG! wrrrrrrrr. WOODCOCK.

BANG. . . . . BANG.

Ouch. I missed two shots on Phoebe's for-real-first-ever live point on a live bird. Ouch. We hunted for quite a while where I marked it down, but never did get it to flush again. Oh well. So we kept going.

Ten minutes or so later: the same scenario was repeated. Point; bird; bang; bang; NOTHING. Ouch.

Now I'm starting to get pissed at my poor shooting. Damn. I really want to get a bird for this dogge now, and I'm blowing some very easy opportunities. Fortunately I had marked the second bird fairly well, and when we got to its general location, Phoebe went on point. Staunch! and there it was, the woodcock on the ground two feet in front of her nose. Cool!

I make my move on the bird from three feet away. That blasted bogsucker escaped two more shots from my mighty Parker . . . mighty powerless Parker, that is. DAMN! now I'm starting to foam at the mouth and swearing at my self in the woods. (Honestly. I'm talking to myself, and had to stop because I realized Phoebe was hearing my tone of voice and thinking it was being aimed at her.)

We move on. At this point I'm 0-for-six and am praying to the Almighty that I be given another chance. And then it happened.

Phoebe goes on point. No ambivalence now, no uncertainty, no doubts about my untested puppy. This dogge is for real. I move in, and two birds go up simultaneously--and they're GROUSE!!

BANG at the farthest one, flying away left to right. I don't see any reaction whatsoever from the first bird to that shot, and then I turn to shoot at the second, closer bird. BANG! and the bird falls!

Thank God. I call Phoebe over, who at the moment is going absolutely crazy with bird scent, so it takes her a while to come over to the spot that I've marked with my hat. And then it happens: I can't find the bird. Phoebe can't find the bird. I walk around the spot in circles with a sense of deepening despair. I saw the bird fall, but now I'm beginning to think that it was a crippled grouse that then ran away. Damn. This is quickly becoming one of the most depressing hunts of all time.

And then it happens. After circling and circling and circling, Phoebe comes right back to the small tree where I've hung my hat, and she locks up. There, two feet away, is a stone-cold dead woodcock laying camouflaged among the leaves.

HOORAY!! the dogge has found the dead bird, has done it by pointing dead, and in finding it has accomplished what I was not going to be able to do by myself. Her first dead bird over one of her points. Needless to say I experience an instant mood change. You know, snatching victory from the jaws of defeat kind of mood swing. I'm on cloud nine. I'm a bit surprised that it's a woodcock, having had the impression that the flushes were grouse, but I'm happy nonetheless.

After letting her nose the bird a bit, I put it away in my pouch and we move on. By now I am truly following the dogge every step of the way. She has come into her own as a hunter. And then it happens.

She locks up on point again. As I move in, she lunges at something on the ground. She's got it . . . and it's a GROUSE . . . the second of the two birds that ten minutes earlier had flushed simultaneously. And then it dawns on me--this is the first double of my upland hunting career. Granted, it is a woodcock and a grouse, but a double's a double I figure. (Judges, give me a ruling on that one. Grouse purists may insist that a true double consists purely of partridge. Discuss.)

Phoebe's first double

Wow. At this point I've got a grouse and a woodcock in the bag. It's getting dark, the dogge is now going absolutely nuts after having had the taste of grouse tail feathers in her mouth, so I decide it's best to leash her and quit while we're ahead. We exit the woods at 7 pm, happy and secure in the knowledge that this dogge is ready to hunt.

See you all in Wisconsin.

Kate the Great and the Puppy Formerly Known as Doofus

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.

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