Whiskey In A Snipe Glass

not ice fishing yet...

2011-12-19T17:43:00.000-04:00

Today was one of those day’s that sticks with a person. No, nothing spectacular happened. Nothing earthshaking or heartbreaking. Just a simple day filled with simple pleasures that make it easy to believe we’d be content if everyday was like it.

I woke this morning with the sun, naturally with no alarm. There was no reason to hurry, I had nothing pressing to do. Just live out the day. I slipped into insulated coveralls to take care of the outside dogs and was surprised at the mild temperature outside. There was fresh coffee in the kitchen, but I let Jack and Molly run around while I grabbed the maul and split the blocks of birch I’d cut up yesterday. A good way to work up a bit of an appetite for breakfast.

Indoors the Christmas tree lights glowed cheerily and I traded looks between the tree in the living room and the birds outside the dining room window. Breakfast was tasty, and the coffee was particularly delicious. There were some freshly painted bass poppers drying in the den, so I moseyed in and experimented with ways to add rubber legs and skirts to the foam bodies before I put the finishing touches on them. All the while I pictured casting to a rocky shoreline and whooping it up when the hog bass bashed the fly on the surface, and contemplated the colors to complete them.

Over the last several weeks it’s become my practice to spend Sunday afternoons watching at least part of the football game with Dad at his home in town. We usually get some food, have a beer, and generally reaffirm how glad we are not to be devoted fans. As often as not we end the game playing dominoes at his table. That was my plan for this afternoon, but it was a beautiful day and there was time for a quick hunt on the way to town.

I turned Jack and Molly loose on a powerline that I wouldn’t usually hunt earlier in the season. There was mostly old timber bordering the right-of-way and much of the way is through swampy terrain that will have you knee deep in water when it’s not frozen. But it is frozen now, and with a couple of inches of snow and today’s sun and 30 degree temps it made for a fantastic day to be out.

Jack bounded ahead and disappeared into the woods while Molly raced around in front always keeping an eye on me. I was just enjoying the movement when I heard Jacks bell fall silent off the south side. I caught a look at his orange collar from under the powerline and heeled Molly as we came up behind him. I told Molly to sit when we were close and I moved around in front of Jack, shotgun at ready. I spotted a running grouse trying to put some distance between us and stepped quickly to get a position. The grouse ducked behind a huge old popple and took wing. I fired when I saw it for a bit but never touched it. Molly broke at the shot and started another grouse, this one heading fast the other way. Seems most of my shooting is best done when I have no time to think, and that’s how this worked. I stood happy with my gun open as the dogs looked for the bird when a third grouse got up from the same vicinity and came flying right at me at about eye level. It banked left when it was about thirty feet away, flying as slow as it could and still stay up, zigged through some trees, rose up over the cover and hung for a second before going on out of sight. About as easy as they come, if your gun is loaded!

The birds were in groups, as I often find them this time of year. They were in big woods with lots of balsam cover, too. Jack pointed three more times as we made our loop, and he had grouse before him each time. I couldn't locate him when he stopped the last time. I had an idea where he might be but the cover was so tight and thick I was hesitant to go looking in case he was still moving. I tooted my whistle and heard his bell clink a bit just as a few wingbeats started. He was close and it sounded like a grouse had jumped to a tree. I pushed in and spotted him right off and knew he had grouse. Molly sat while I moved in keeping an eye to the trees above. A grouse jumped and disappeared from a tall balsam thirty yards away. I had to smile, Jack had another good find but I just didn't have a chance. I turned back and saw Jack still pointing in my direction and Molly sitting a few yards behind him. It was a neat sight and I said out loud "Nice." That's when the grouse sitting over my head took off like a rocket from the branch above. The grouse wasn't as fast as my load of birdshot, however, and after a quick retrieve we hunted our way to the truck and headed for town. I didn't kill every bird I saw, but it's something special when it works. The dogs love it and I doubt I’d be out there without them. The swamps are frozen and allow access that can't be had early in the season. Today I found a little high-ground island in the midst of wetlands that held two grouse. A good little piece of cover that I'll visit again, but only if the way is froze. The weather can shut us down anytime, now. I hate to know the last hunt of the year is over, but it may be. Still, my shotgun is at the ready, the dogs are willing, and for another day like today, you know where I’ll be.

Sunday 18 Dec. 2011

Ole 'Ruff

2011-11-15T21:21:00.002-04:00

A long time ago (actually, a long, long time ago – but I hate to believe so many years have passed) when I was hardly more than a lad I met a grouse not far from here that fooled me and my various dogs for years. I was shooting my old pump gun then, and was hunting with Tyler, the big liver springer spaniel and my first gundog and constant companion since I’d moved from my parents home. Tyler was a neat dog and I’m not kidding when I said constant companion. Everyone knew if I was to be invited anywhere, Tyler was coming too. It helped that he was awfully friendly and knew a bunch of parlor tricks like sitting up, playing dead, and rolling over on command. Come to think of it, I wonder now if Tyler was the reason I was invited anywhere.

Anyway, I was trying to learn how to hunt grouse in those days and one October afternoon I followed Tyler down a short two-track into a small, defunct gravel pit. We hiked the top ridge of the pit that was grown up in mostly big, dark balsam. Not really very good grouse cover but grouse are where you find them and besides, I didn’t really know good cover from bad in those days. But right on the top edge of the pit Tyler spun with bird scent and a big red-phased grouse blew up and into the balsams quick as lightning. Of course I shot, but my shot charge went where the bird was instead of where it was going. We worked our way around the pit and were done without moving another bird. I could have saved myself a lot of trouble had I crossed that spot off my list, but nope.

I visited that pit several times that fall, determined to get the big red grouse that called it home. We moved the bird every time, and I took shots when I could but never cut a feather. The heavy balsams provided just too much escape cover for the bird, and my prowness with a gun was nothing to brag about, either. It sort of became personal, me versus ruffed grouse. I took Tyler in from every conceivable direction and because he was so well trained several times had him sit at one end of the cover until I circled around to the other side. The plan was for him to come at my whistle and push the bird towards my ambush. Tyler was totally into it and gave it his best, but the grouse always foiled our plan one way or another.

I could have brought in a gunning partner, I suppose. But I’d resolved to take this bird on my own, and I don’t think more guns would have helped, anyway. This grouse and I had something going on. And Tyler and I tried for him each year, when grouse were at high cycles and low, until Tyler took to the happy hunting grounds.

Pointing dogs didn’t help the odds much. My little setter Molly came closest, I suppose. She had the bird pointed on the far side and I saw it’s silhouette hop over a log and run down toward the wet alder swamp that bordered the small woods. I should have hurried to flush the bird, but Molly was very good at relocating and pinning grouse on the edge of their cover, so I let her go. She moved ahead cautiously, knowing this bird was no pushover. She worked her way through the tangle and stopped and stood tall ten yards from the swamp. I figured the bird would go out over the alders and offer a fairly open shot. But before I got to her she moved again this time out into the wet stuff and I heard her splashing as she followed the sneaky grouse into the swamp. I was about to call her off when she stopped and I could just see her rigid tail and head low like the bird was right there! Those alders are no place for people, but I fought my way close and was soaked to my knees when I heard the grouse flush and Molly gave a little jump but I never saw it. Molly’s grandson, Ty, locked up on the bird in about the same place years later. I wasn’t about to let the grouse run into the swamp again so I nearly ran down the hill hoping to get it in the air. But I couldn’t raise the bird. When I turned and started back up the hill the grouse took off from a branch and flew low right back over Ty’s head and I couldn’t shoot! If you can’t find some humor in this entire scenario you shouldn’t be hunting grouse, and this bird was really getting the best of me. Most times, however, the dog would point and the bird blast away before I could get a bead on it or flush in a swirl of leaves and put itself behind a tree just as I shot, or it would just flush wild and be gone when we entered the cover, apparently not in the mood to play our game.

Over the years I stopped at that pit once every season with a bird dog. Sometimes it was sunny, sometime rainy. Sometimes dry and sometimes snow. There was always just the one bird there, never more. I’ve tried for that bird with six worthy setters, one pointer, and four different shotguns. The trail is grown in now, barely discernable from the road, and the gravel pit has trees growing in it. It’s still not much of a cover and I wouldn’t hunt there if not for the effort of matching wits with that one particular bird. I can’t help but wonder if that grouse knows it’s still me. And does it appreciate the game of it as much as I do? Does Mister Ruff get a chuckle out of making me look the fool every time I chase it? Of course it’s unrealistic to think that same grouse has lived there all this time, but I can believe the bird I flush is a descendant, can’t I? After all, those times I do get one rare fleeting glimpse of him, when the sunlight penetrates the cover and he turns just right I can see the red color of his tail. Just like the first time I encountered him when I hunted in Levis jeans and Red Wing boots and carried an old Remington 870 that I bought used when I was in high school.

The hunting this year has been kind of spotty. Some good covers had no birds, others had some, and still others had plenty. The early season was terribly hot and very hard on dogs that had spent the summer mostly lying in the shade and chasing the occasional squirrel or tossed tennis ball. Then we hunted in rain – not enough to fill water holes in the woods, but enough to get soaked pushing through the brush. The later part of October was the turnaround for me. We found and killed grouse and woodcock, the weather was perfect and even though a few good days can make a season, and often does, I can’t help wishing October wasn’t so short.

Jack and I stopped at the old gravel pit on our way to some ‘good’ cover. Jack was fresh out of the truck and when I turned him loose he tore off down the faint trial and flew up and over the top of the old pit. I followed him up and was surprised to see how much of the old balsam woods had been blown down since my last time here. Jack was out ahead and I picked my way through fallen trees trying to keep up. Suddenly a grouse exploded from under standing balsams on my right and crossed into the tiniest opening over a couple of downed trees. I swung my Parker on instinct and the grouse dropped in a shower of feathers! I stood sort of slack-jawed and silent, but Jack came back at the shot, quickly found the grouse and delivered it to my hand. It was a beautiful, red phased cock grouse with gorgeous bronze neck ruffs. As pretty a bird as I’ve ever seen. The grouse I’d been after for thirty years was finally mine.

Dammit.

November camp

2011-11-11T03:49:00.000-04:00

I was the first into camp Friday evening. The sun had not quite dropped below the horizon so I was able to load my cot and gear into the tent before dark. The white canvas tent had been set two weeks before, and other than one visit from me during the week, had sat undisturbed waiting to provide warmth and shelter for us hunters who have come to rely on it. I was just about to mix myself a birdshooter when headlights rounded the corner and John pulled his truck in next to mine. Tony and Jack wouldn’t get into camp until Sunday morning, so John and I had the place to ourselves for opening day. We spent a pleasant evening warm by the woodstove and talked about the hunting and fishing we’d enjoyed since last year, and the hunt we would partake in the morning. I don’t see him often, but John knows dogs, guns, and rods and uses them whenever he can. Like me. Outside, a bright moon cast shadows on the ground while an unseasonable wind buffeted the tent walls and shook the hissing lantern hanging from the ceiling. We’re there to hunt deer, I suppose, but where else do you find like-minded companions to spend the evening hours admiring rifles, comparing new ammo, analyzing backpacks and boots? We cooked brats, drank whiskey and told stories until I finally slipped into my bag and was soon sleeping.

I’ve spent time in a number of camps over the years. Some were pretty deluxe with private bedrooms, complete baths and showers, kitchens and living rooms. I spent a week in one camp, if you can call it that, complete with a caretaker and cook that had meals waiting when we were ready for them. I’ve also been at the other end of the spectrum – sleeping in a little nylon dome tent huddled deep in a thick sleeping bag only to crawl out in the morning, shivering myself warm enough to grab my rifle and trudge through snow in my quest for deer.

I suppose we all reach a time in our lives when we need and expect a certain level of personal comfort. Some might think camping in a tent, with no running water, keeping a fire stoked in the stove is roughing it. Well, I’ve had it a lot rougher. A good cot with a pad and warm sleeping bag makes a fine bed, and I’m happy to be lulled to slumber by the wind, the hooting owls, howling wolves, and other night sounds of the woods. In fact, come opening morning I remember how comfortable and cozy I was and how I would have liked to sleep longer had I not felt the need to be in the woods well before sunrise. The portability of a tent is neat, too. While we’ve all hunted basically the same area for years, we’ve moved camp to different locales for quicker access to some new cover, or easier access in case of deep snow, or maybe just a change of scenery. We drive our trucks right to camp, but I can imagine horse-backing into western mountains with this same outfit.

We do most of our cooking outside the tent, and I’d brought some of last years venison to grill over coals Saturday evening. John and I both enjoyed the tender slices of backstrap for a true hunter’s supper. As it turned out, we could have feasted on tenderloins from deer taken that morning, but you never know it will turn out like that. There are two camp tables in the tent, one for the two-burner propane stove, and one for the kitchen. Morning coffee and hearty breakfasts are cooked inside while we finalize hunting strategies and pull on wool pants and boots for the day.

I had a ways to go to get to the high oak ridge I hunt, so John filled my cup with strong coffee and I was off. Years before, I’d found my hunting spot by accident. I was still-hunting and exploring this high scrub-oak country and not seeing much deer sign. I sat on a fallen log and leaned against a pine to relax for a bit and figure out my next move. It was mid-morning and something stirred to my left. My heart pounded when I saw the antlers, and then I made out the legs. But I saw nothing else until the deer made me and disappeared. I sat stunned and wondered how I should have handled it differently. Good bucks are rare and I figured I blew my chance for the year. Maybe a half hour later I heard a snort and bent my head around the pine to see behind me. Another buck stood looking at me perhaps 40 yards away. A blowdown blocked it’s body, but it hardly mattered – he knew I was there and bolted before I had a chance. Wow, I thought! Two shooter bucks within an hour. I’ll probably never have chances like that again in my life! I was a ways back in the woods but I looked at that pine and determined to have an elevated stand leaning on it next year, though could I reasonably expect to see deer like that ever again? I leaned on the tree and munched my sandwich with a plan in mind.

I've hunted that ridge every season since. My stand is in place and even from that it’s hard to see far in that thick, brushy country. I scout just a bit before season, and never have seen much for deer sign there, but I have a superstitious feeling about the place and leave it alone as much as I can, other than leaning my stand on that same pine tree. Others have been there to complain about the lack of view and suggest some shooting lane cuttings but I know from experience when the deer come, they can be seen. I won’t risk messing the place up thinking I’m “improving” it.

John and I met at camp that afternoon and toasted our good fortunes. John took his buck in a newly discovered cutting closer to camp and spent the rest of the day scouting and placing stands for Jack and Tony. I scouted the day away looking for sign along the hilltops where I hunt. At camp that evening I fired the grill for supper and we spent a satisfied and relaxing evening telling our tales. The day outside had worked it’s magic and we cut the celebration short trying to keep our eyes open. With the promise of sleeping in and enjoying a big breakfast we hit the cots and listened to a light rain on the tent roof for minutes before drifting off.

Deer camp stories have been written and told for many more years than I’ve been around, and I know plenty of folks who find their deer hunting enjoyment from just being in camp. Some old timers, and not so old timers are happy to hunt little and hang around camp a lot keeping a fire stoked, a stew on the stove, and an ear open for rifle shots. Some guys just want to get away from routines for awhile and would no sooner forget the deck of cards as they would the rifles. I have to admit, deer camp is fun to be around, but for me, so far, there’s a valid and logical conclusion to it all. I’m lucky and thankful to take part.

Reduced to Possession?

2011-10-31T23:37:00.012-03:00

Really? What a strange term – reduced to possession – and one that I’ve never liked. I know it generally describes the end result of killing a game animal, but I could never agree that the grouse in my hand has been reduced in any way. If anything it seems the bagged quarry is elevated somehow, for as much as we think of and talk of the beauty of the bird, don’t we really only become fully aware of genuine beauty when we have it close in hand. Of course, the bird might have a differing opinion of all this but it’s an unthoughtful and cold hearted gunner who doesn’t appreciate, at least for a moment, the dark neck ruffs and intricate markings of the feathers before smoothing them a bit before sliding the bird into the gamebag. I can’t say I’ve ever pouched a bird without fanning it’s tail open for a few seconds, at least. Maybe I was confirming the sex, or the size, but likely I was just looking at it because I wanted to. I can’t walk by a good work of art without doing the same. Sometimes I’m drawn to stopping and gazing at the view, a dog, or maybe my gun, for much the same unexplainable reasons. Sure, I know there are guys who swat birds and toss ‘em into a milk crate strapped to an ATV or into the back of a pickup with as much deliberation as they would dropping cans of beans into a shopping cart. I don’t get that and I don’t know what to think of it.

Nor have I ever harvested a grouse. I’ve harvested some tomatoes. Some potatoes, too. Quite a variety of vegetables now that I think of it. But I’m not a farmer – I don’t have the stuff it takes for that – I’m a hunter/gatherer. Grouse, like all the best of Nature are wild and natural. Have you ever heard anyone state they were out harvesting blueberries, or morels? Really? Even if they’re not wild, say we raise them, do we really harvest any animals? Does the stockman say he’s going to harvest some steers at slaughter time? We hunt grouse don’t we?... but we don’t “harvest” them.

I suppose it’s all just a way of describing the killing of game in an unassertive manner to avoid stirring the pot of the anti-hunting type of folks who are all so quick to proclaim what we do is wrong. I expect there are those of you who have to put up with that sort of thing more than I do. It’s easy for me to just avoid it. So, if you have to make your life easier by ending your hunting trip saying “I harvested a grouse, today,” well... I’m sorry. But believe me, you’ll feel better if you can boast, “Yep, I got me two grouse today” or “Yessir, I killed the biggest grouse I’ve ever seen. Took two shots, but I got ‘im. Just look at these tail feathers!"

I’ve shot birds with fellows who, when birds flushed, yelled “Kill it! Kill it!” That was always kinda disconcerting to me. It would have been far worse, though much funnier if they’d yelled “Harvest it! Harvest it!” Ha, that cracks me up just thinking about it!

While I’m on the subject of what I deem as incorrect lingo, the other day I was talking to a new hand in the sporting goods store about the right size scope cover for the optics on my deer rifle. He said I should bring the weapon in. God forbid I ever use it as a weapon.

September! Already!

2011-09-07T23:31:00.011-03:00

Man, bird season opens in ten days and I haven’t finished my June fishing yet! I just spun new line on a reel today when I suppose I should be oiling the boots and getting some shot shells lined up. I still think I need to wave a fly rod at some more sunnies and bass before summer is gone. The days are still summer warm but the evenings have been getting right chilly. My neighbors over in Embarrass took a frost last Sunday evening. A few weeks ago I was working dogs with a buddy and we talked big ideas of shooting clay pigeons and scouting out new places to hunt before season. Well, we haven’t started that, either.

A while back I opened an insistent e-mail that simply stated, “There’s no excuse not to go fishing ” It was from my buddy Scott who spends his summer days-off fly-fishing a couple of neat rivers for, mainly, smallmouth bass. We’d never gotten our spring trout camp put together and after a number of false starts he laid it on the line, so to speak, and quite perfectly to boot! I had days available, and the desire to continue my quest for the large bass taken with a fly of my own making. So after the many e-mailed photos of Scott and company posing with recently hooked bass of hefty proportions, the plan was made.

I’d never fished the river we met on, but it’s a real beauty. Hardly any development along its banks, too shallow and rocky for any heavy boat traffic, and a good population of smallmouth bass. The order of the day was drifting downstream to a take-out point, tossing large poppers and divers to the shoreline and jerking them back with quick, violent strips of the line.

Most of my angling consists of wading or sitting in a canoe or boat, so standing on the raised deck of Scotts jon-boat sometimes tested my balance and though I caught myself a few times, I managed to stay in the boat throughout. A western style drift boat would be a nice way to go, but the jon-boat works well and I brought home some ideas on how I would modify one for that type of drift fishing. Scott floats the river often and made a fine guide, optimistic and complimenting my accidental accuracy when appropriate. We took turns at the oars and I learned something watching him fish the river, too.

There’s some kind of excitement seeing your popper explode in a splash as a river-raised smallmouth hits and takes off. The fish living in this current are strong and the thumping rod relays their effort to shake the hook loose. They often clear the water at first, dancing on their tails before bulldogging their way to the rocky bottom and doing their best at staying there. Neither of us caught the 20 incher that day, though it’s no surprise that Scott took the biggest. Fighting a stiff wind part of the time and constant casting or rowing had me getting sloppier and sloppier, and after something like 9 hours on the river I was kinda tired out. But a good kind of tired and one I’m looking forward to again.

It’s hard to stop having that kind of fun, so days later I waded the rocky Cloquet River without as much success at catching fish, and the fish I caught were indeed smaller, but with apologies to J. Gierach, I was, at least, standing in a river waving a stick.

canoe camp...

2011-07-04T01:06:00.003-03:00

When I was a kid in Boy Scout camp I failed over and over to earn a merit badge in woodcraft ‘cause I kept forgetting to make sure nobody was in range while I was chopping wood. I guess I figured if anyone was dumb enough to get close to a kid with an axe, they’d get what they deserved. But the night games of capture-the-flag and afternoons canoeing on the river made it all worth it, even though I couldn’t get anyone interested in paddling across and invading Wisconsin by water. Maybe that’s when I realized much of my outdoors life would be spent alone.

My camping has come quite a ways since those days, but it usually still amounts to crawling in a tent and sleeping real close to Mother Earth. There are exceptions, of course, like hunting camps in comfortable cabins or sleeping in some kind of RV during a fun recreational weekend. All in all, however, my camps still have a primitive flavor to them.

Living close to Minnesota’s Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness has afforded me some wonderful camping opportunities and some great country to travel and fish in. I’ve made some unforgettable canoe trips through the BWCA and the Canadian counterpart, Quetico Provincial Park. Early on I was impressed with the idea of going it alone and soon found my way to owning several solo canoes before I settled on the one that I still have today. My first trips were learning experiences. I used gear I’d collected when I was tripping with a group and quickly learned that weight is the enemy for a solo traveler and I took to updating just about everything I owned from tents to sleeping bags, to stoves and packs. When all was said and done I was comfortable and confident with my stuff and was spending weeks each year in canoe country, by myself.

I recall easy quiet mornings where the only sounds were from songbirds and my deer hair popper’s “bloop!” on the still surface of a border lake shoreline. Always expecting the ferocious strike, it seems so unexpected when it does happen. Like buck fever in the deer woods, my heart races as the fly rod bends to the weight of a diving fish. Then there was the evening on the north end of a broad Quetico lake when schools of minnows boiled the surface and jumped from the water hoping to escape the pursuing lake trout that coursed back and forth just beneath my canoe. I wonder if I’ll ever see anything like that again, or experience that kind of fishing? And could anyone ever tire of the loon’s piercing call that startles you awake during the night, then to lie back on the sleeping pad and enjoy the song through thin tent walls?

I’ve caught scores of walleyes in those lakes, and pike so large I wouldn’t try to get into my canoe. I’ve been pulled far across clear lakes by large lake trout not willing to give up and I’ve enjoyed backwoods fish fries that still make my mouth water. I’ve camped in the best of weather and some of the worst. I’ve lain on rocks and became sunburned at water’s edge, and I’ve huddled under a tarp while storms pummeled my camp to a muddy mess.

I’ve also made trips that were mainly focused of traveling and exploring, and some of the sights and experiences are indescribable. I remember one camp where I sat on the shoreline and watched a moose feeding across the lake the same time a bear was prowling a couple of hundred yards from it, all the while a pine marten was exploring my campsite behind me. I once ignored a Quetico ranger’s route warning and failed four times to paddle upstream into a dangerous chute that was bound to capsize me in high cold water. Unwilling to backtrack, I ended up spending hours cutting my own portage. There was another early season trip where I found portages flooded and pushed my loaded canoe through the trees to a lake waiting ahead. From the lake looking back it was impossible to find the portage trail and I was happy to make camp knowing I was not returning that way.

A few days ago I woke to hear rain pelting my tent. It was the same rain I fell asleep to, but it’s a different matter to be lulled into dreamland by the rain than to know I’d have to get up and break camp in it. So I relaxed in my bag and listened, and dozed, while the rain and wind drummed and rustled the nylon tent surrounding me. For those who have experienced it, you know there’s nothing quite like it and I hope to enjoy again, soon.

Lightweight canoe & 6 weight rod...

2011-06-02T09:00:00.000-03:00

The foam frog landed inches from the shoreline and rested a few long seconds before I gave a short jerk and plopped it a foot across the surface. It sat still for a moment before the line slowly started to drag it into the lake. That’s when the smallmouth bass hit it with gusto and the fight was on! The fish pulled back and forth before it broke the surface and I’m sure I was wearing a smile that matched the bend in my rod. I was happy to reach down and grab the fish by the lip and admire the feisty bass before releasing it to grow and fight again. Three days before I was catching eating-size crappies on another lake with minnows and jigs but there’s nothing quite like playing a lively fish on the fly rod!

I’d found this little lake years ago when I was exploring grouse covers with my setters. It takes a half-mile hike to reach it from the forest road, which is enough to nearly guarantee an un-crowded setting, and it felt good to have my canoe on my shoulders as I made the portage in. A walleye stocking effort failed, but the smallmouth bass population is claimed to be “thriving,” which is a stirring declaration to a guy who loves pursuing them with a fly rod.

Author Jim Harrison wrote about the world-class smallmouth fly fishing he enjoyed in Quetico Park, which isn’t all that far from me. I’ve been there a lot, and have experienced the best of it as well, but it requires some planning, reservations, fees, and a couple of days (at least) of canoe travel and camping. Whenever I can get a lead on some close bass waters I take heed, and if it can duplicate some wilderness travel all the better. There’s nothing like fooling a fish, any fish, with fly-fishing gear and I'm happy for the chances I get.

When I was getting my gear together I opened a box and found a pair of foam frogs I don’t recall purchasing. I know I didn’t tie them myself – they may have been a gift, but they were too appealing to leave home. I assume they were designed for large-mouth bass, but it was worth giving them a try on the water I was heading for. Besides, how fun it would be to catch fish on something that looks like a cartoon character!

I couldn’t have picked a better day than yesterday. The day before I worked the dogs between rainstorms until the big ones blew in that afternoon and chased me home with lightning and thunder. Today is much the same with wind and rain, but yesterday was calm, cool, and mostly overcast. The goldfinches and rose-breasted Grosbeaks were feasting at my feeders when I left home and it seemed a perfect day. Even my casting came easily and my rod felt like an old friend as the line unfurled overhead and stretched out on target after a long winter’s rest. And it was easy to keep the canoe in position and work the shoreline with my offerings, something I don’t take for granted, since even a soft breeze can become a battle in a solo canoe.

I didn’t hammer the bass like I’d hoped, but I did affirm there was a good population that I will be happy to visit again. Nor did I land any big trophies, but I’m encouraged by a good number of spawning beds, even though I saw only one with a bass tending. I fished the frog for a while until the action slowed and then had success with a deer-hair diver. My Clouser Minnows hooked one nice pike, but I couldn’t hook a bass with them. Still, it was a fine day on the water with canoe and rod so I toasted my good fortune with Makers Mark and hit the sack with a smile. I believe it is early yet, and the smallmouths will be more aggressive in the coming days. I only hope I can get there to find out!

30 May 2011

Girl Scout Cookies, Free Coffee, and Karma

2011-03-19T23:59:00.000-03:00

Yesterday I swung through town on my way to hook up with some friends for an evening of live music and stopped at the grocery store to grab one of my favorite hot sandwiches. I entered the store, turned for the deli and walked right past two young girls sitting at a table selling Girl Scout cookies. It didn’t register at first, but I didn’t get far when I was stopped by a memory.

Some years ago my friend Charlie and I where heading home from a bird dog field trial in Tennessee. It was around this time of year, early March, and though no one is ever in a hurry to leave the warm breeze and welcoming quail plantations of the Cumberland Plateau for the cold and snow of northern Minnesota, we were anxious to have the miles behind us.

We were driving a one-ton diesel and pulling a 30-foot horse trailer loaded with three horses, nine English setters, and two pointers. The radio was warning of a winter storm moving in from the north when we pulled into one of those mega truck stops somewhere in Kentucky. While the fuel pump ran I went inside to fill my coffee cup and find the restrooms. Inside was a typical looking convenience store setup that I passed through and walked past a diner area where half a dozen road weary truck drivers sat at the counter having a bite to eat and talking about bad weather coming. I sat my cup on the counter and when the waitress asked, “Black?” I nodded and continued down the hall. A little video arcade caught my attention to the left with its flashing lights and dinging bells. On my way back from the restroom I noticed a little girl and her mother sitting at a table filled with boxes of Girl Scout cookies. They were across from the arcade and I hadn’t seen them the first time through. I was eager to hit the road and walked right past their warm southern smiles. I was almost to the cash register when I thought “wait a minute, I’m not in that big a hurry.” Then I turned around and walked back to buy some cookies. The mother helped the little girl make change and she delivered her “thank you, sir,” with the sweetest Kentucky accent I’ve ever heard.

Up at the checkout stood a gray bearded trucker with a cowboy hat and he looked at my boxes of cookies. “I see you got yourself some cookies, me too,” he said and showed me his box of Thin Mints. “Yea,” I replied with the first thing that came to mind, “if I’d walked by that little girl selling cookies I’d have bad luck for a week.” The gray trucker gave me a grin and a nod and turned to finish his business. The men at the counter may have overheard us or not, but at any rate six gruff truckers rose from their stools and lined up to buy some cookies from that little scout. It was a neat scene, though the poignancy didn’t strike me until later up the highway, but when I went to pay for my coffee the smiling waitress offered, “Why don’t you have a donut with that coffee, on the house!” Charlie and I drove north, missed the worst of the storm, and enjoyed a good trip home munching Kentucky bought Girl Scout cookies.

Needless to say, yesterday in the store I did an “about face” and strolled back to buy myself some cookies from those young girl scouts.

a strangers view...

2011-02-23T01:06:00.004-04:00

After one peaceful everning last October I crawled out of my tent to a frosty, dark morning a hundred or so miles west of here. I was over there exploring some new hunting areas during the day and sitting outside in the chilly air sipping Knob Creek and pondering the Hunter's moon at night. A pretty fine way to spend some time, I think, and that morning I was about to light my stove and boil up some coffee when I thought "to heck with it," and drove into the nearest town to get some breakfast.

It was still dark when I spotted a little diner with quite a few vehicles parked outside and a sign that claimed 'home cooking.' As it turned out the claim was false. Compared to the mostly sorry breakfasts I usually have, this place was far better. I suppose most everyone in the place knew each other so I got the usual looks when a stranger comes into a place like that. It was during the week and I'm guessing most of the regulars worked at an equipment manufacturing plant a few miles outside of town. I sat down at a table and the waitress came and poured me coffee without my asking and told me the breakfast special was the way to go. So I ordered it without knowing what it was. A minute later I saw it posted on a chalkboard by the door.

An older guy that everyone greeted by name came in and took a stool at the counter and ordered his meal while she poured his coffee. I kinda overheard the waitress scolding him and warning about his cholesterol level and health in general. A couple of others seemed to side with the waitress and joined in. I'm thinking he had a heart problem, or something. He knew these folks were his friends and were concerned about him, but he just took a sip from his cup and looked up and said, "Now listen..."

Then this guy went on to tell them just how content he was and how he'd seen the world in the service, lived in Hawaii for a while, built his own house in the woods with the help of his wife and raised three kids, the early years without electricity, who were grown and successful and gone. He'd fished and hunted in Alaska and worked and played hard all his life, and made a passel of friends doing it. His wife had passed and he didn't figure at his age there was much left ahead for him. He was happy and satisfied and all he wanted in life was a big plate of eggs and bacon -- and if it killed him he'd have no regrets.

While I was digging into my own eggs and bacon I thought about what he'd talked about. I don't think everyone has to go skydiving or bull-fighting to live a full life, but you need to do something. We all have things we want and need to do that are important to us. I guess we all have our own bucket list. The idea is to keep it short.

Won't be Spring for awhile...

2011-02-19T23:40:00.000-04:00

…but it almost felt like it for a couple of days last week. We enjoyed melting weather for three days, and one night it didn’t freeze and there was no ice on the water buckets in the morning. Nice. The sidewalks and kennels were down to bare concrete, people were skiing in shorts and tees, and it was downright pleasing to have a case of spring fever. We missed the January thaw, there wasn’t one. It seemed like it snowed daily since Thanksgiving and when it wasn’t snowing it was 20 below or colder. So this February thaw was more than welcome. Of course it didn’t last.

This morning I woke early but, weary of crawling out of the sack in the dark, I napped until the rays of the morning sun broke into the window and I could see the grosbeaks, and chickadees, and redpolls flitting around the bird feeder. I was still in pajamas when I pulled on my boots and coat and followed Ty out into the sunny morning to let Jack and Molly loose from the kennel. I kind of hated to let them out because the packed snow around the feeders is high enough that Molly can nearly jump up and reach them. The grosbeaks are shy and non-confrontational and won’t tolerate being hassled by an annoying spaniel, so they leave immediately. Only the chickadees are brave enough to quickly land, grab a seed, and head for the higher branches of the trees. When the dogs get tired of chasing little birds and head off for another part of the yard to search for mischief, a hoary woodpecker will appear and take a few stabs at the suet, and a nuthatch will join the chickadees for a quick bite.

I didn’t stay out long in my pjs. The thermometer read minus 5 and the lure of hot coffee inside was too much to ignore. After breakfast I sat with a cup and watched the birds for a while, and now and then a setter or spaniel would pass by on snow banks window high. The dogs were light-footing across the yard on a thin crust of snow. Every dozen steps they would break through and I could nearly feel their frustration at not being able to open up. I also had a feeling the conditions would make for some wonderful snowshoe travel and before long I was outside affirming the idea.

A light dusting had fallen last night, just enough to make for excellent tracking. The crusty snow held my weight and I snowshoed throughout the woods easily and randomly north. There was no need or desire for a trail so I just walked where I wanted. I carried my cruiser axe in case I had reason to clear branches but there was no need; I just took the clearest route, but I did use the axe to check the snow depth beneath me out of curiosity. Each time I pushed the handle into the snow it went the entire length right to the steel head of the axe.

I saw tracks of fox, coyote, fisher, marten, squirrel, rabbit, mice, and deer. The deer were using packed trails and I’m sure they’re having a heck of a time now. I expect we’ll lose a fair number this year. I did not find any wolf tracks in the area I covered behind my house, which is a bit unusual. I have to pity those deer when their tiny hoofs pierce the crust that holds up the broad-footed wolves. I've seen the results and know how harsh Nature can be. There were also grouse tracks, and quite a few of them, which I always like to see. I think the grouse will have a hard time getting through the crust right now and that’s a concern, especially if it stays cold, but this happens every year and the grouse always seem to survive. Though today I never saw any wildlife other than at my bird feeders, I’ve been seeing grouse regularly coming out to road edges and pecking gravel and high in birch trees feeding on, I suppose, catkins. I often flush grouse near my pigeon loft and wonder if they are there for some feathered company.

This afternoon the clouds rolled in and it started snowing. There were several inches of fresh snow by dark and I’ll bet tomorrow morning will be a good time to be on skis. Hhmmm…

Snowshoes

2011-02-13T15:32:00.002-04:00

I fell in love with snowshoes when I was yet a teenager and spent much of my time outdoors chasing all manner of wildlife and exploring hills and valleys and rivers and such. I was trying to learn how to catch fox in traps and having some success. But when the snow became too deep for easy walking even I had to concede to something more reasonable. However, I thought, if I had snowshoes there would be no safe fox for miles. I made my first pair from scrape plywood and a couple of miles of bailing twine. The result never lived up to the anticipation but the course was established, and snowshoes would become necessary winter gear for myself.

I broke my first snowshoe on my first winter camping trip. Some friends and I set up in the Whitewater River valley and explored the river bottom like we never had before. The open river winding through the snowy woods and meadows was a sight. Somewhere along the way we broke into a rowdy game of snow tag and I was running full out when I caught a toe or hit a hole or something. I went tail over teakettle and when the explosion of snow settled I looked down to see the frame of my shoe broken in two places. Little did I know then that I was about to embark on a lifetime of broken snowshoes, skis, canoes and other assorted outdoor gear. I still have that shoe with the metal splints I attached to keep it all together, but it was never the same.

This is a year for snowshoes if I ever saw one. There is no going into the woods without them and I dislike being confined to the plowed yard and roads. Even the powerful snowmobiles seldom leave the groomed trails – I asked a neighbor motor-head if he could break a shortcut ski-trail for me to the groomed trails of Big Aspen on his monster Polaris, or Ski Doo, or whatever it is. No, he reckoned, it wasn’t worth the risk of getting stuck out in those woods. So I broke the mile trail myself, on my snowshoes.

I’ve used bearpaw and beavertail style snowshoes but long ago became convinced longer and narrower Alaskans were the way to go. Ojibwas have a pointed toe but are otherwise about the same as Alaskans. I’ve tramped through a lot of brush on snowshoes and can’t say a pointed toe is any real advantage. They all get tangled and the best thing is to avoid the worst of the brush. When the course is more open the Alaskan, or pickerel, style allow a more natural stride but when the snow is deep like now, it’s still a leg burner. Rubber bindings are fast on and off, but for long hauls the A-type binding offers me more stability and I’m experimenting with the old wick binding described in The Snow Walkers Companion.

I like the art of traditional wood and rawhide. Now that I’ve re-laced a snowshoe of my own, I really appreciate the technique of the snowshoe craftsman. Even though I’ve broken a number of ash frames in various mishaps, I don’t see the day soon approaching when I’d buy a pair of the new metal and composite materials. They may work fine and some have a binding/crampon combo that would be awesome climbing hills, but the ash and rawhide shoes give me a feeling something akin to old double guns and felt hats. There is modern gear out there that may be as good or even better, but some of the old ways seem worth hanging on to.

It’s a real winter, here. Roofs are collapsing under snow loads and there’re plenty of 25 –35 below zero temps. The ski trails are excellent, grouse are comfortable in snow roosts, and the deer are yarded up. The woods are snow filled and beautiful and snowshoes provide the means to get out and see it. Neat.

Partners...

2011-01-17T20:32:00.005-04:00

When it comes to hunting partners, I’ve long held the belief that dogs were hard to beat. We’ve all heard the cliché about getting along better with dogs than with people. That might be a little bit true in my case. For more years than I care to admit, a good hunt meant a good gun, good boots, and a good dog. I’ll always consider it a measure of fortune to have seen and gunned over at least my share of fine canine companions. And for some years, it seems, canines were the only companions I cared to share the grouse covers with. Occasionally, however, I would find myself in the company of a like-minded cohort whose amity I welcomed. Over the years I have found myself sharing cover and camp with a number of folks that have enriched the entire experience.

Dad is a man who hunted and fished most every chance he had. He grew up in a family of ten siblings and wild game was an important addition to the larder. Outdoor pursuits were a way of life for him and he passed that on to me. Years later we hunted grouse together over my English setters, a different method than he employed over his beloved springers and labs, but the twinkle in his eyes on those fine October days divulged the familiar pleasure he felt toting a gun behind bird dogs. I learned the way of the woods and waters from him, in my teens we hunted together on more equal terms, but it was finally as adults we hunted as partners. We weren't so much trying to bag game for the pot, though he shot very well and dropped birds that I still can hardly believe; we were out to enjoy brisk Autumn days and each others company. He’s in his eighties now and hunting for him is mostly hearing my tales and recalling his own. What a pleasure it is.

Good dogs are hard to come by, I know, but a good hunting partner is equally rare. Now, I’ve taken folks hunting and I’ve guided folks hunting and had great times doing it, but you don’t take a partner hunting; you just go hunting. After a while you get to know where each other will be without having to look. You get to know how a partner will approach a dog on point, what to look for when they yell “Your way!” and what they mean when they say, “I never expected you to miss that one!” We’ve come to know each other’s dogs, shotguns, shooting and casting skills, tastes in backwoods diners, favorite game recipes, and whiskey. When I go in the thick stuff to flush a bird I know where my partner is, and he knows where I am. We kid each other about missed shots and lost fish when we're on the water, and appreciate and congratulate each other when it all works perfectly.

PJ took to grouse hunting like a natural, pushing through the cover, keeping track of the dog and doing a fine job of handling a shotgun as well. She knows which end of a canoe paddle to hang on to and how to sling a packsack, too. Women can look pretty darn sharp when they want, but when I see a gal in outdoor clothes and with a knowledge of hunting and fishing gear I can’t imagine how she could be anymore attractive. We explored the covers and enjoyed far better luncheons than I would have alone -- or with any other partner, for that matter. The dogs loved her doting manner; I benefited from her company, and loved watching her shoot unencumbered by ego or pride. Unfortunately, she hadn’t grown up hunting and I lacked what it took to keep her interested, so when her interests changed I lost a fine gunning partner.

There was a time when good piece of bird cover was called a “covert,” and some of the sporting books still use the term. That the word covert is synonymous with “secret” and “concealed” is no accident. Partners have coverts that they will only visit together, and when my partner takes me to a new place I don’t mark it on my GPS and I won’t take any other hunter there. For those of us who follow bird dogs on preciously offered autumn days, hunting spots are closely guarded secret locations, and there are times when extreme measures are taken to keep them that way. It doesn’t matter that other hunters may traverse the same ground, and perhaps have names for those areas, when I mention heading for “The Loop,” or “Sweet Miss,” or “The Puppy Course,” there are some of us who know exactly where I’m referring to.

I met Scott many years ago at a field trial. He started much like I did – eager, broke, a taste for Old Milwaukee, and in possession of fine bird dogs. Together we’ve paddled rocky rivers and fly-fished for smallmouth bass, waded and floated world-class Montana streams casting to rising trout, shared camps and Dakota prairies chasing sharptails, huns, and pheasants, and searched out and pursued grouse and woodcock over our dogs in earnest. I know him pretty well, and he knows me and I can’t think of a better partner to have. We live a couple hundred miles apart so it’s always some planning to pull a trip off, but it’s worth the effort. I like to think I played a small part in improving his taste in whiskey, but there’s still a tradition of ending the day with a welcomed Old Mil!

This fall CRP made the trip from the east coast to hunt with Scott and we all met up halfway between Scott’s camp and my place for a successful grouse shoot. The last time I hunted with CRP was in North Dakota some years ago. He’s been in Minnesota a number of times since, and we finally were able to get together and gun over his impressive champion setters.

Paul came to me with his enthusiastic young Llewellin setter looking for a little help getting her started. Together we worked Scarlet on all manner of birds from pigeons to chukars, quail, and finally wild grouse and woodcock. She turned out a pretty decent bird dog and Paul is always fun to be around. He lives close and though we’ve only hunted together recently, it looks like I’ve found myself another fine partner. I know it was fun having him along in the thick this past fall; at least one of us could usually get a shot off. Those grouse have a way of flying off the other way when flushed, but when another gun is waiting that other way, well… now you’ve got something.

At days end there is little better than sharing a meal and partaking in a little post-hunt celebration; recounting the day, the dog work, shots hit and missed, wildlife spotted, the weather, and the general good fortune in doing what you want, when you want, and with whom you want. Sometimes the day’s results could be boasted in sports shops and taverns, and other times in less tangible terms – either way, a good partner is good to have.

Rough Shooting

2010-11-01T08:55:00.001-03:00

I kind of like the term “rough shooting.” There’s even a book titled A Rough Shooting Dog. It’s about gunning come-what-may over a Springer spaniel. I also like the idea of following a gun dog and taking whatever game is presented, be it grouse, pheasants, ducks, rabbits, squirrels and such. I like the idea of it, but I haven’t shot a rabbit for quite a while, the red squirrels around here are nothing to put on a plate, and ducks are an entirely different game thanks to non-toxic shot requirements. But I have old photos of my grandfather in his high laced boots and old shotgun posing with a Springer or cocker before truly mixed bags and I have to think how fun that must have been.

Bird hunting this season has been pretty darn good over my setters. Old Ty is finding plenty of grouse every time out, and Jack is trying to do as well. But we have Dad's eager little Springer spaniel, Molly, living here now and she is a delight to have in the woods. No need for bells and beepers. No wondering where she is or how far out she is because she is never far away, and I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a dog that likes to be with me as much as she does. Whenever I drop the tailgate she's in the truck and eager to jump into the dog box.

She’s fun to watch darting in and out of the cover, searching for most anything, and when she gets whiff of a grouse she bounces up on her hind legs in true Springer fashion and literally rockets in to flush. She’s always loved to retrieve, but the freshly dropped grouse always seem to surprise her with a mouthful of feathers that she hasn’t yet figured out how to deal with. But she always brings ‘em in and I can’t imagine losing a bird over her.

There are a few folks who can still step off the back porch with a shotgun and whistle up the dog that’s been busy keeping chipmunks from getting under the house and keeping an eye out for strangers coming up the drive. They walk out through the woods and fields following a dog that’s forgotten about chipmunks for grouse and pheasants. If there’s a pond or stream nearby there could be a chance to jump a wood duck or mallard. If pooch comes by a rabbit she’ll roust that out, as well, and retrieve it happily if the gunner takes it.

I was happy to often have some sort of spaniel around the house when I was growing up. They are the kind of dog that is great for a kid, because they’d join my friends and me and run alongside our bikes as we pedaled down to the swimming hole and happily splash in with us. They’d retrieve any baseball that was hit out into the long grass, help us find frogs and snakes, and they’d be in our tent when we camped giving us great comfort against any possible marauding wolves or bears. In the fall they eagerly started game birds for us to try for as we learned to wing shoot and were quick to bring ‘em in when we did connect.

While I surely love finding a pointing dog in deep cover with a grouse nailed in front of him, I’ve come to enjoy walking down an easy-going trail and letting the spaniel flush what she can near me. Perhaps she won’t find as many birds as a wide searching setter, but she found three this morning on the short loop we made and I had some easy shooting right from the trail. It may be that there are good numbers of grouse this year, but she’s found enough birds on several different hunts to rival the bigger running setters. And as she was cheerfully delivering my Halloween grouse she paused, looked left and dropped the bird she carried. I read her right and reached for the rear trigger just as she darted and flushed a second bird. That grouse came right at me and I should have taken it then, but I hesitated and tried for it when it turned and crossed in front of me about 15 feet away. I missed, which may have been good at that point blank range and it disappeared into the thick balsams. Molly made a search for the long gone bird and returned satisfied to grab the one she’d dropped and finish her retrieve. Neat stuff.

The first gundog of my adult life was a big liver colored male Springer we named Tyler. He did himself proud on grouse and woodcock, of course, but also pheasants, snipe, and ducks. I hope I get the chances to give Molly the same opportunities.

taking time for trout...

2010-08-12T17:06:00.001-03:00

I woke to a light rain drumming my tent, but it wasn’t enough to keep the wild turkeys from announcing the beginning of another day. I’d slept the night through and was happy and peaceful camped there in Trout Valley. I was in southeast MN trout stream country and had enjoyed catching and releasing brown trout on my hand-tied flies the day before. Cold, spring fed water lapped around my light waders and kept me feeling cool on the hot, sunny day. Even my casting was going well, and I was thinking I was doing exactly what I was meant to do.

I grew up fishing those very streams with an old bamboo rod of my grandfather’s until I could put together enough muskrat trapping money for the ultra-light spinning outfit that appeared so deadly. In my younger days I suppose it was more important for me to catch fish by whatever method seemed easiest, and the more and bigger the better. But it wasn’t long away from those crystal clear spring-fed creeks and rivers before I missed the activity and satisfaction of casting a tiny fly from a decent fly rod. I’ve visited those streams sparingly over the years, mostly during the winter catch & release season, but I hadn’t camped in that country since I was in high school.

I still remember the day when the river called louder than the school bell so I drove my old ’54 Ford pickup down into the Whitewater valley and spent the day in the company of hardwood trees and sunshine and trout rather than teachers and the walls of a building. On my drive home I noticed a familiar looking car on the side of the road but forgot it quickly, trying to come up with a story of how I came from school with a creel full of trout that Mom might believe. The next morning a shop teacher pulled me aside as I entered his class and told me to grab a floor jack and air tank and go and fetch his car. Seems it had a flat and the spare was also without air. I asked where I might find his car and he exclaimed, “You know darn well where my car is because I took the day off to go fishing and when I finished I saw your truck down on the south branch!” He was on to me. “You must have driven past it on your way home! Take one of your buddies with you,” he added. So Ken Stock and I spent our class that day retrieving a teacher’s car. You’d think a shop instructor would have his vehicle in good repair. Anyway, I doubt there are many teachers like that, anymore. That’s too bad.

The rain was letting up while my coffee was boiling and I pulled on my waders and rain jacket for the morning fishing. A quick breakfast and I headed to the south branch, that same water I was caught playing hooky on those years back. On the stream I was casting a small dry fly into riffles, mimicking the technique I was successful with the evening before, when I spotted a rising fish in a slick pool just upstream. After a careful stalk I cast to lay my line just short of the fish, hoping not to spook it yet getting the drift just right to tempt the trout. The fourth cast worked and I had the fish on! It was the biggest of the trip and a great way to cap the morning. I posed the fish for a moment lying in the net and took photos to add to the other beautiful shots I taken of the trout, turkeys, and river valley scenes that I’d missed for so long. Then I bent to remove the hook from the trout’s lip and dropped my camera into the river. It was swept away in an instant. I splashed downstream hoping against hope to see it tumbling in the current, but to no avail. I stood bemoaning my misfortune when my net and rod came shooting by! A quick lunge and I saved them, at least.

After a couple of days of feeling like an accomplished, sophisticated fly angler who knows what he’s doing -- dropping my camera made me realize those hours fishing and camping were a gift I’d be wise to accept with humility, because I can still be just a clumsy, bumbling fool.

Grouse are hatched & hatching...

2010-06-02T16:50:00.000-03:00

This is the time of year to be thinking more about fishing than working, or mowing the lawn, or household chores, or just about anything, I suppose. I even take a break from thinking about hunting … well, just a little, I guess.

Yesterday I sat in the yard in the sunlight and read a book and sipped a cold beer while the girls did the same. It was Memorial Day and though we didn’t drive to town to take part in any of the official celebration we are well aware and grateful for the freedoms we have. And sitting in the warm sun yesterday enjoying the beautiful weather made it easy to appreciate how lucky we are.

Jack lay at my side so I could rest my hand on his haunch while I read, but every now or then he would hear a squirrel or chipmunk and tear off into the woods to secure my safety. When he gave up the quest he would trot back in all setter regality and again rest in the soft grass. He’s a well built dog and I’d admire how dignified he looked until he’d jump up and chase dragonflies and their shadows. Jack is no pup, anymore, but I doubt he’ll ever grow up. Ty, the senior member of Team Bird Dog, watched from the shade of the birch tree, refusing any part of such antics.

Grouse had been drumming since March and I’ve heard them steadily up until about a week ago. But I haven’t forgotten them and after a while I hopped on my mountain bike to check a couple of nests I came upon last week. I left the setters home but took a camera in hopes of getting some decent photos, and was happy my little digital camera worked OK. The last time I took any quality wildlife photos I was using my expensive film shooting SLR with telephoto lens, and I’ve yet to replace it with a digital model.

I knew where the hens were sitting, but it took some time to locate them in their perfect camouflage. Actually, I found only one hen still nesting, the other had left with her brood of eight in tow, leaving only egg shells to mark the spot. I know the survival rate of baby grouse isn’t all that good, but it’s almost surprising any survive at all. I wonder how many predators passed the sitting hen as she watched motionless, exuding little scent thanks to Nature’s defense system. I saw coyote tracks within a stone’s throw of her nest and I’ve seen plenty of fox in the area. It’s a mystery how the sharp eyes of hawks and owls miss her during the weeks she incubates the eggs.

Since early spring I’ve searched out and found the drummers on their logs, then listened to their drumming efforts to coax a mate. It’s neat to see the effort was successful with the hens on nests, and finally the hatched eggs. Now I can hit the lakes and streams with fishing rod in hand and only have to worry about the grouse through the summer months until autumn, when, of course, they’ll worry about me.

spring has sprung...

2010-03-30T22:23:00.112-03:00

It’s hard to complain when Spring comes early. We’re all eager to enjoy some sunshine and open the windows for some new and fresh air. Robins are hopping around the yard, and ducks and geese are finding the open water. There is still some ice on a few lakes, but the four or five rivers I crossed today are flowing free. There are those who will worry over fire danger, and I suppose there’s truth in that, but I’m going to enjoy things while I can.

I’m going to be out in these spring woods with a couple of bird dogs who know their business better than I do. As a matter of fact, the setters don’t really need me for much, except I think they take some pride in finding and pointing grouse for me. Someone has to be there to give them a bit of praise, a pat on the head, and a ride home for supper -- and I sure enjoy watching them work so I might as well be the guy following them.

Even in the leafless woods the dogs can be hard to keep track of. Nowadays there are all kinds of electronic devices for the sole purpose of locating bird dogs. There are even GPS units you can buckle on your pup and watch his progress on a handheld screen. I don’t have much of that stuff; partly because I don’t trust batteries, I’m technologically inept, and that stuff costs real money. I do hang a bell from their collars and sometimes have a beeper that will sound off when they stop to point a bird, and that seems enough for me.

I like working dogs in the spring. After a winter’s worth of snow and cold it feels good to walk on good old Mother Earth. The white dogs flashing back and forth in the grey and brown cover are exciting, and when they find a grouse I fire my training pistol over their points. I suppose the dogs just chalk it up as another miss, just like hunting season. Oh, I love the smell of burnt powder, even if it’s from a blank gun!

Woodcock are a sure sign of the season and a couple of days ago Ty found the first of the year for us. We don’t find as many as we used to; the little russet fellows are having a harder time surviving these days, so we don’t shoot as many either. But they’re sure fun to work a dog on and, as an indicator species, I’d be right worried if there were none. That same evening I drove to a woods meadow I know of hoping to hear and see a woodcock or two performing their annual mating sky dance. I sat quietly and waited while dusk approached, and heard the high pitched hooting of a saw-whet owl and the snipes “woo-woo-woo” until 7:50 when I heard the unmistakable “PEENT!” Then again, and several more times before the male woodcock took wing and rose up over the meadow and into the clear sky. It was a classic scene under a nearly full rising moon – I watched the bird spiral higher until it was out of sight. Then I heard its twittering chuckle and suddenly the bird shot across before me and settled on the ground to quickly start peenting again. I watched the display several times before deciding all was right with the world, and headed home.

So if you're out exploring some backroad and see a tall, kind of ragged fellow leaning on his truck at a woods clearing with a couple of tired setters in the back, don't be afraid to say hello -- it's just me watching for woodcock.

only thing to do...

2010-02-23T09:13:00.000-04:00

Dad and I were sitting in the ice house trying for trout the other morning and not having much success catching them. We were, however, enjoying the morning warm near the heater and sipping coffee and munching sandwiches. His little spaniel, Molly, was begging for attention and now and then I’d step out to throw the retrieving dummy for her. All in all, it was a pleasing way to spend a winter’s morn, fish or no fish.

I guess no one was catching much because of the half dozen others we shared the lake with, four of them made their way over to see how we were doing. We chatted about the fishing for awhile and one of the guys remarked that he fished because there was nothing else to do. Hhmmm…

This is the time of year I start getting withdrawal symptoms from the hunting season. The holiday madness and getting accustomed to dealing with the first snowfalls keeps me busy and occupied, but by February things have usually settled down and I get to wishing I was following a dog with a gun, or casting a fly to trout or smallmouth. Cold nights are good for tying a few flies and thinking about rising fish and warm camps. I have a few favorite patterns I’ll stock up on to replace what I lost last summer. I wish I could say those flies were lost on big fish, but just as likely they are still hanging from some high tree branch or rusting on the submerged logs they were impaled on. I get kind of crazy with the bass flies, and I like to believe my clown-colored wine-cork poppers are more attractive than they are. I know I’ll tie up some lead-head Clousers after catching nice smallmouth bass in the BWCA last June.

For a few years I traveled to Tennessee to run dogs on bobwhite quail field trials about this time of year. Once I went to Georgia and gunned quail on a friend’s plantation. Those trips aren’t as easy to pull off right now, so I practice mounting my shotgun in the house, re-living the hits and misses of last Fall, vowing to be a better shot next year -- and reading the best shooting writing I can find. A glass of whiskey on a quiet night with a good book is a real pleasure to me, and just as good is hot coffee on a cold morning letting the day dawn reading that same book. It’s inspiring, and I’m keen to get the dogs out for a run when they beg at my knee, even if it’s trudging through the snow. Jack and I took a long trek yesterday and found one deer shed and all kinds of wildlife tracks. Of course, grouse tracks in the snow are among my favorite and get my heart beating a bit faster.

I don’t burn as much wood to heat my house as I once did, but I still burn some. I live on a little patch of ground surrounded by mostly aspen, some of which are over-mature and in need of cutting. There are some that might make good lumber but I have no interesting in any kind of logging venture. I just walk around and drop what I have enough ambition to split into firewood. I know there is better firewood than popple, and sometimes I take some birch and maple when it’s convenient, but a stove full of dry popple heats the house nicely and the thermostat can’t tell what kind of wood is burning. I knock the trees over and block and split where they fall. My old snowmachine pulls a little sled-full of wood over to the shed where I unload and stack it when there’s room under the roof. It’s a small scale, leisurely run outfit that suits me fine.

There are four pairs of skis in my basement ready to go, and I still have to re-lace my snowshoes. The band I play music with seems to get busier and busier and we've spent some weekends out of the area, which has been nothing but fun. Don’t forget about those home projects that can’t get done in the summer because, well… it’s summer. Hunting seasons are far too short for anything but hunting so if anything is going to get done around the house it’ll have to be during the winter.

I wish ice fishing was the only thing to do.

Yes, it's winter...

2009-12-28T12:18:00.001-04:00

There’s enough snow now to make a difference. It’s truly winter, now. It snowed Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, the day after and was still snowing lightly today. For about a week now I’ve been doing little but lying around, visiting folks and family and eating and eating all sorts of holiday goodies. The holiday festivities have sort of calmed by now and when I woke this morning and saw that snow drifting down I just had to get outside for some activity.

I figured I could get out for a hike before breakfast while everyone was still asleep but when I stepped into my snowshoes I saw the rawhide was broken on one of the shoes right where the binding attached. Damn! Not ready to give up, though, I went back inside to dig through the pile of snowshoes for another that would suffice. I’m not sure why I’ve kept those old shoes, all made of wood and rawhide, especially the ones with broken frames, but I was happy to find one Ojibwa style that was in good shape and had a binding on it. So I would have my hike after all, with an Ojibwa snowshoe on my left foot and an Alaskan on my right.

My planned route had two purposes; I would get some much needed exercise, and I would get a start at tramping down a ski trail. The scenery and possible wildlife sightings were important bonuses. Jack the setter was eager for the chance so he came along. It only took minutes after entering the woods to feel enveloped in the landscape. Fresh snow clung to every stem of the hazel brush, every limb of the aspen, and every bough of the balsam. The snowshoes pushed muffled into the snow and even Jack busting ahead coursed forward in silence.

I can’t believe there was a better thing to do this morning. Here and there I crossed a deer track, some likely moved by Jack. My route was mostly north over and down the first hill that always is tricky when skied. It’s surprising how fast the brush grows to choke a trail, and some trees where down since the last time I followed this route. I found a new way across a thick creek bottom and when I climbed out the other side I heard a grouse flush. A few yards later I found a snow roost in a bit of a clearing. I might have thought there wasn’t enough snow for the grouse to shelter in, but I learned otherwise this morning. I’m always on the lookout for predator tracks, but the fresh layer of snow revealed nothing of that yet. However, in a day or so I’ll find fox and coyote tracks, fisher and marten, and maybe some wolf tracks.

I stopped on the last high ridge before the country descends into the swampy bottomland south of Big Rice Lake. On many days the lake is visible three quarters of a mile away, but today the light snow obscured the view. On the way back to the house I widened the trail on the hills hopefully to make for easier skiing. Halfway home I saw a grouse had walked out from under thick balsams and into my own tracks, but I never saw or heard the bird. Home and coffee, the usual morning bustle and readying JP for her trip back to school, the early hours were mine – a fine start to the day, and I guess it’s time to learn to fix snowshoes.

coming winter...

2009-12-05T21:45:00.005-04:00

Autumn is finally giving way, surrendering to the icy grip of Winter. There are several inches of snow on the ground and today’s temp might have reached 20 degrees. I spent several hours hiking in the woods today looking at tracks, traps, trees, and the overall beauty of the new winter landscape. My favorite boots provided sure-footedness and comfort as long as I kept moving but it’s close to time to break out some heavier insulated footwear. I’m kind of old-school as far as trapping goes. I know the fastest way to take most furbearers is from the truck, running and gunning and putting lots of miles and plenty of steel on the ground. I’ve done it and reaped the benefits. You pull up to a place, jump out and grab a pail with trap and bait and run in and make the set. Then back to the truck and off to the next place. But I know a couple of places where I can swing my packbasket on and spent the best part of the day in the forest and never see another soul. I don’t cover as much ground but I like feeling my load get lighter with every trap I set. And it’s even more satisfying when checking the line and the pack gets heavier with fur as I make my rounds. It doesn’t always happen like that, but it’s neat when it does.

I like going on foot. I’ve spent some time on different machines traveling backwoods trails and roads, and probably will some more, but to my way of thinking it’s difficult to beat a non-motorized trek to really enjoy the experience I seek. Some think of horse-power, tires, and track length. I think about snowshoes, skis, and boots. I have to wonder if I hunt because I enjoy seeking the quarry or just hiking around the woods. I spent just about every day of October following bird dogs searching grouse and woodcock. I walked off nearly ten pounds despite the hunter’s feasts I took pleasure in. That’s not a bad thing.

Deer season came on warm and pleasant, at least for most of us. Sure, the die-hards worried over tracking snow and cooling their game, but I think whenever we get agreeable weather in November we should take advantage of it. I wore a pack and carried a map and compass because it seemed I felt more like exploring new ground than killing a deer. Twice I paddled my canoe to new country I’ve never hunted before. There’re not many seasons that allow canoeing during deer season around here. I rambled around the woods far from my usual haunts and discovered lakes, ponds, rocky outcrops and ridges I’ve never seen before. Some of them I may find again, others maybe not. I saw deer. Not many, but enough. I have to believe I hunt not so much to take game as to enjoy the places it takes me. I had some fine days overlooking wooded valleys I’ve never been to and enjoying lunches sitting on sun-warmed rocks. There’s real pleasure to be had in good outdoor gear and having the confidence in it to really get out there.

When deer season was over there was yet no snow so I loaded dogs in the truck and shells in the gun and hunted grouse some more. The later season birds sat tight and offered some pretty good shooting, surprisingly, after eluding hunters and critters for two months. And it’s not over yet. As Christmas approaches there are only those few inches of snow on the ground. I found plenty of grouse tracks this morning and I believe I know a couple of setters who would love a romp in the snow.

Cool Stuff...

2009-11-24T22:50:00.001-04:00

All outdoor folks have some cool stuff that holds some kind of meaning to them. These things are likely not all that valuable, at least in terms of dollars and cents, but might offer a worth that money can’t measure up to. Over the years people are bound to hang on to some tangible bit of wood, metal, material or whatever that they’ve used or collected for some obscure reasons known only to themselves. I know a man who doesn’t hunt anymore but keeps an old Faulk’s duck call on his end table. The call is split up the side and doesn’t work anymore and he’s lucky to have a wife who understands. At first glance most folks would wonder why it hadn’t found the trashcan long ago. The old guy hardly ever notices it himself, but when he does it means something.

I have an old military issue mirror that was my Grandfather’s. He gave it to my Dad and he passed it on to me. I’ve used it camping in the BWCA and elsewhere when I or someone with me thought a mirror would be useful. It’s made from a rectangle of very high quality stainless steel and is of a size that just covers my hand. There is a hole punched in one end for hanging and is kept in its own canvas case. I wonder if such quality steel is available anymore – this piece of steel reflects true distortion-free images from either side. I can picture Gramps using it to shave from tent or trench, maintaining military discipline, before grabbing his Springfield for battle in Europe.

Years ago there was a fellow named Charlie S. who handmade a few dog bells for his setters to wear on their collars when he hunted grouse with them. I’ve seen a lot of bells in my time but his were unique in sound and style. I know of two men Charlie gave one of his bells to. I am one of them. My setter, Molly, was wearing it when she won the Minnesota Grouse Dog Championship. I’ve had some good dogs since, but none that have lived up to wearing her bell.

The Buck Folding Hunter is probably the best known Buck Knife ever made. When they first came out I wanted one badly, but could never seem to find the money to purchase one. When my sister presented me one for Christmas I didn’t know what to say. Susan was just a teen with a part-time job and to buy me such a gift was a real sacrifice for her. I was thankful, sure, but she deserved far more than she ever got from me. I cut my initials into it and carried that knife on my belt daily for years before finally reserving it for hunting only. Every deer I’ve ever killed or helped others with has been dressed, skinned, and cut with that old Buck Knife. I’ll never use another for deer hunting. Shortly after she gave me that knife, my sister died in a vehicle accident. Every year I handle that knife; open and close it; pull it over the whetstone; pass it from hand to hand, I wonder what kind of woman Susan would have become. And I treasure that knife.

It's about over...

2009-11-02T22:42:00.000-04:00

I was in the fleet store this evening looking at deer hunting gear and gadgets when I ran into an old friend doing the same. He told me he’d just went back to work after taking the most of October off for hunting and fishing. He couldn’t believe how quickly that time passed. I know the feeling.

I spent most of October hunting, also, and though it was a tough month weather-wise, I hated to see it end. I can’t remember such a wet bird hunting season. I know it’s not over yet, and there may be good grouse hunting in Nov, and December, but it’s a chancy bet with the snow that will likely be here. As a matter of fact I often find grouse bunched up near clear cuts late in the season and the shooting can be awesome. But it’s not the kind of day-in, day-out hunting I enjoy when the leaves are turning.

I hunted a lot in raingear this year. It wasn’t easy to find a dry log to sit on and enjoy a sandwich while my setter lay in dry leaves next to me hoping for a bite. My evening routine consisted of hanging clothes to dry, sticking boots on the boot dryer, break down the shotgun for an oily rag, supper, drink, bed.

My hunting was interrupted only by the field trials I had been asked to judge. During them I connected with long time friends, saw some great dogs work many grouse and woodcock, and had a fine time in general. Hunting or trialing, I walked hours a day, and I ate bigger meals than usual but lost nearly ten pounds in October. It was nice to do a little duck hunting when I could watch the morning break sitting in a boat or canoe. I might be in better shape than I was the first of the month, I know my dogs are, but after weeks of following bird dogs through tight and heavy cover, I feel kind of worn out. But not wore enough not to do more if the opportunity presents itself.

On our last hunt in October I was treated to maybe the prettiest grouse find I’ve ever seen. My setter Ty hunted forward on the edge of a cutting, when his bell fell silent. I climbed out of a draw to come into a little meadow where I saw Ty pointing on the other side just at woods edge. He was facing right and stood tall and still, poker straight tail at twelve o’clock. I approached in the wide open of the meadow when three grouse exploded simultaneously in front of the dog. Two went for the woods and the third came across the meadow. You seldom get offered shots like that and I’ll remember that scene for a long time.

Saturday morning I’ll watch night turn to day in a quiet deerstand. A few days of that peaceful pursuit will be welcome. But it won’t take long before I’ll miss the action and sound of dog bells, fast flushing birds, and smooth swinging shotguns. The best of bird season is coming to an end. It felt like summer when it started, and it’ll be winter when it’s finally over. It will be too soon for me.

In the Rain

2009-10-07T23:36:00.001-03:00

Many years ago a fellow gave me a hot tip about a cover where there were lots of grouse and woodcock. He freely gave me directions and carried on about the high numbers of birds that I was starting to think he was leading me on a wild goose chase. There are those that would do such a thing, after all, and I can’t say I’d be completely above it myself.

But anyway, I took him at his word and opening day had me arriving at said cover 30 minutes before sunrise after a forty-mile drive in steady rainfall. I guess I wanted to beat anyone else to the place, but I worried needlessly – it wasn’t a fit day to be outdoors for anything, much less busting early season foliage behind a bird dog. But I was there with two male setters that were as eager as I to get the season started, and when the day turned from dark to gray enough to pick out a dim trail into the cover I put a bell on Birchwood Cully’s collar and followed him into the woods with my shotgun in hand.

In those days I shot a little short-barreled 20 gauge double that I wasn’t very good with, and my pockets were filled with shells. The fact that the little gun killed many birds in my hands is more a testament to the good dogs I followed and the many, many grouse and woodcock they found for me. Years later when I tried a gun that fit me better, that little 20 was seldom used.

The rain never let up the entire time we were hunting. If there’s ever been a test for rain gear it’s pushing through wet brush. But the guy steered me right and the place was nearly bursting with grouse, and when I wasn’t poking a shot towards a grouse I was likely swinging at a woodcock. It seemed like Cully was pointing every minute or so. My rain suit failed miserably and I couldn’t have been wetter had I fallen in a lake. But I finally gathered Cully up and trudged out to the truck with a limit of woodcock (the limit was five woodcock in those days) and one short on grouse. I’m sure I could have taken the last grouse but I wanted to give my other dog, Elvis, a chance, too.

The rain was getting to me and I wanted to be done, but Elvis deserved a chance so we went down the track a little ways and I turned him loose. He darted through a strip of old balsams and jammed into a point thirty yards off the trail. Elvis was nearly all white in color and he really stood out against the shining wet still green cover in the falling rain. I pushed my soggy self over to him and saw two grouse blast out from under a young sheltering balsam tree. Somehow my first shot connected and our day was done! Elvis made the retrieve and while I was trying to stuff it into my waterlogged canvas vest he took off to hunt some more. I’d had enough and tried to get him back but he was pointing again before I knew it. I couldn’t shoot anymore birds but I flushed the grouse for him and he took off with a chase. Before I could get him back to the truck he’d pointed six more grouse!

Soaking wet and happy, I stopped at a friend’s house on the way back to the highway. It was 10:30 in the morning and I had taken limits of grouse and woodcock fairly, over pointing dogs. Quite an opening day.

Yesterday I had the day to hunt. It was raining, though not as hard as the day I just described. I’m not as enthusiastic about hunting in the rain as I once was, but again, it wasn’t coming down that hard. I took turns with Ty and Jack in different covers and we hunted most of the day. Each setter pointed grouse regularly. That doesn’t mean I get shots at them all, or that I hit everything I try for, but it’s great to have some action. I was shooting light loads in a very old 12-gauge double that was built sometime around the end of WWII. I don’t know the history of the gun but it’s fun to think about all the grouse and pheasants and rabbits and ducks, and maybe even deer the old gun has taken. It’s kind of a beater, now -- some rain and tough cover can’t hurt it anymore, and it’s fun to carry and is still deadly.

Some of me was still dry when the hunt was over. My chaps turned most of the water from my legs for half the day, rain found it’s way inside my jacket in a few places, and my heavy old hat kept most of it out of my eyes and off my neck. We found many grouse but only one woodcock. I’m still thinking about a missed grouse that offered a pretty easy straightaway shot and would have ended the day sooner. And yes, I missed quite a few shots yesterday, but when it works there’s nothing like knocking a fast flying grouse from the air in tight cover. And I made some that were awesome. I’m grateful for every day I have, and especially days like yesterday.

Early Season

2009-09-21T23:08:00.001-03:00

It would have been a fine morning to be on the lake fishing. It was still and sunny; lower 50 degrees with the promise of a warm day ahead. Or perhaps an off-road ride on the mountain bike over ski trails devoid of deer flies and mosquitoes in the morning chill. There’s even a small pile of birch outside my woodshed that would find benefit being split and stacked. But grouse season opened and I was thinking of little else.

My setters have been antsy and anxious for the last week or so. Ty can tell what time of year it is without a calendar and I think Jack gets his info from Ty. At eight years old Ty isn’t as spry as he used to be, but when I came from the house with my bird hunting vest, old orange-topped McAlister hat and a gun in my hand he was into the back of the truck before I could drop the tailgate! We’d been finding birds regularly during summer recon outings and I believe he was as expectant as I was.

Early season grouse hunting. The papers, magazines, and radio have been telling anyone and everyone that this is the year to be hunting in Minnesota. Still, they usually advise waiting until things cool off a bit and some of the leaves turn color and fall from the branches. That’s good advice, but when you spend as much of your life as I do watching, worrying, listening, and searching for grouse there is no waiting when the season opens. I know that the heat and the bugs will drive us from the woods in short order, so there’s no need to carry lunch – it’s hit the covers early, carry water for the dogs and come out sweating and hopefully smiling.

We were in a favorite cover for five minutes when Ty pointed the first grouse of the season. I found him at the bottom of an aspen hill along a run of alders, a good looking spot for birds. He was facing me when I saw him which is always a good situation. The grouse was pinned between us and it exploded up and back over Ty, turning left and disappearing at my hasty shot. I caught a glimpse of it as it topped the trees and continued on, unhurt. It’s no matter that I missed that shot; I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be. And I was smiling.

I suppose the weekend highlight was when I turned Ty loose the second morning and he ran about 30 feet from the truck and locked on point. I didn’t even have my gun out yet. I quickly dropped a couple of shells in the chambers and marched to him. A brood of young grouse lifted before him and about six birds went in all directions. One of the luckless ones tried flying through a tiny opening and my barrels caught up and it fell in a heap.
Ty remained steady to shot (I still wonder the wisdom of that) and when I sent him for the retrieve he overshot the area and ran on to point another one. I was able to kill this one going away and after Ty’s quick retrieve we went back to find the first. All the while poor Jack witnessed the episode from the truck and he yowled his angst at missing out on the action. Ty and I were never more than 50 yards from the truck. I believe we could have hounded the rest of the birds and perhaps decimated the brood but I chose against it so after some photos we left to hunt a different cover.

I hunted Ty and Jack each morning of the weekend. The dogs had to be watched closely for heat related troubles and I offered water often from the bottle in my vest. Even when the temps read fairly cool, it seemed stifling in the woods and when I stopped walking my shooting glasses would fog and sweat would run down into my eyes. Each setter pointed early season grouse and I had shots at some. My old shotgun was at home in my hands, my boots comfortable, and my hunting hat felt just right. It’s not the best hunting just yet, it’s too early. But the Red Gods were kind and I’m thankful for the hunt and last evenings grouse dinner.

It's not so much the living... as the life.

2009-08-14T16:34:00.001-03:00

For more years than I care to say, each spring I’ve looked forward to getting the dogs out for early season workouts. It’s no secret that October is my favorite month of the year, so it only makes sense that April would come in second for it is the month that closest duplicates the best of Autumn. But when it comes to working bird dogs, you have to get out as soon as you can because in the middle of April it becomes unlawful to run dogs in bird nesting cover, which could mean just about anywhere. Clearcuts, fields, and some meadows are OK, and I rely on these for spring training when I plant birds for the dogs to find, but before I go to this artificial type setup I try to get the dogs in as many wild birds as I can. That means keeping a close eye on the receding snowline and hitting the south slopes as soon as some of the snow has melted away. I’ve been known to load dogs and sleeping bag in the truck and drive south until there was no snow to work the dogs. Sometimes that has taken me nearly to Iowa before I found enough bare ground to turn them loose on. During lean snow years I’ve actually went north and set up chilly March tent camps to run dogs on native grouse when the going was good.

I suppose I don’t really have to hit it so hard anymore, at least as long as I’m not currently running dogs in field trials. Old Ty is as trained as he’s ever going to be and is much better at his job than I am at mine, and even though Jack is always goofing around and could always find benefit in a tune up, I guess it’s really not all that important this early in the year. But I truly love seeing a dog pointing grouse and after a long winter and half a lifetime messing with bird dogs, man, I’d sure be lost not doing it. Someday I won’t be able and, hell… I don’t even want to think about that.

I tried full-time dog training for a while, and the lifestyle out on the summer prairies and spring and fall woods was indescribable, but I lacked business savvy and had a young family to support so a steady job with benefits won out over chasing dogs and seasons all over the country. Looking back I have to wonder, but that water flowed under the bridge long ago.

There was a time on the grouse and woodcock field trial circuit when the dogs I ran won a lot more than not, and I got to know some of the best dog handlers in the country and they got to know me. Those friendships endure and though I seldom enter dogs as a handler, it’s a rare year when I don’t accept a field trial judging assignment or two. I’ve got to tell you, I’ve seen some fine, fine dogs.

A lot of good dogs have passed through my own kennels as well, along with some others that, well… I don’t work so hard at remembering. While I haven’t time to work more than a few dogs, it seems every summer I end up with one or two from other folks who must have even less time than I do. Through it all I’ve built some valued experience with quite a few different hunting breeds. Most of the time I’ve spent with field bred English setters and pointers and though there are some pretty accurate generalities you can say about the breeds; if anything, I’ve learned that each dog is an individual regardless of breed.

I’ve also worked with a couple of German shorthairs, a couple of Brittanys, a Gordon setter, some labs and springers, and there’s even been one or two of questionable breeding in my kennels. Right now I have made the acquaintance of a German wirehaired pointer and after only a couple of days I have to admit I’m kind of taken by this dog. She has an engaging personality that’s hard to ignore, seems eager to please and likes to be around me. She runs hard when she gets the chance but about the time a setter would be topping the hill she’ll turn back and check on me. The weather is pretty warm right now so all our workouts are limited, but it’s a good time for some yard work and this wirehair is catching on fast. Of course, she has one season behind her with an owner that knows what he’s doing so that helps. I’m happy to have her here for now and am eager to see what kind of bird dog she’ll develop into by hunting season.

All this dog stuff keeps me from fishing as much as I’d like, and some of the home projects that never seem to get started; but I’ve seen some neat country and interesting sights following bird dogs that I might have otherwise missed. And folks call me from all over the country to ask how the grouse numbers are. I never tell ‘em, of course, but they know that I know.

Springtime!

2009-04-19T23:29:00.000-03:00

After a long winter I’m as happy as anyone to see and hear the signs of spring. Though I can still see plenty of snow in the yard when I look out the window, at least it has melted away from the house and I can walk across the yard without needing to wear boots.

Songbirds are busy in their mating seasons and are singing in the mornings before light and stop only when it gets dark. Snipe are flying throughout the day and their woo-woo-wooing is nearly constant. Geese are flying steady and mallards and mergansers are on every open water. In the last few days I’ve heard timber wolves howling in the early mornings before sunup but I don’t know the reason. Are they celebrating spring? Or announcing the birth of a litter? Perhaps it’s the male lamenting an unsuccessful hunt knowing there’s a grumpy bitch wolf with a hungry litter back at the den.

April is the month most resembling October, so it’s only natural to get into the woods and see how things survived over the winter. It’s a good time to check out prospective new hunting covers, stretch winter weary bones on myself and the dogs, find some deer sheds, and see how the birds are doing. And seeing the dogs handle grouse that have survived the winter is a treat, because after months of eluding the cold and about every predator from weasels to wolves, these can be some of the toughest birds to get pointed.

What we bird hunters really look forward to this time of year is hearing ruffed grouse drumming. Through the winter I’d seen plenty of sign and quite a few birds themselves, and I’ve been finding grouse with the dogs on our spring outings and seeing birds on the roads. Going into the breeding season with good numbers of grouse is a good omen and the fodder of happy and encouraging conversations for us grouse hunters. If we’re not talking shotguns, gear, or dogs, we’re mulling over the general health and population of our favorite game bird.

I’ve been lucky enough to have seen a number of drummers doing their thing over the years and last spring I watched one jump on his log and beat his wings within a few feet of the road like he was showing off for me. Perhaps the most memorable was the Quetico grouse that drummed from a big rock at waters edge as I paddled by.

Last week I was working along the Embarrass River when I heard the first drummer of the year. I listened for a bit trying to pinpoint its direction in the rolling country and heard another drumming from a different bearing. Over the next couple of hours I heard them intermittently and what a pleasant sound it was. Yesterday morning I started hearing one here at home and am happy to report he continues through today and I expect to hear drumming daily throughout the next couple of weeks, at least.

Woodcock go hand in hand with grouse, of course, and the little birds mating ritual is another event I look for, but haven’t yet heard or seen any this spring, despite a long evening walk into the night along known woodcock haunts. This morning I took the dogs up the forest road that is just now passable to my old and favored training grounds. There’s a spit of alders surrounded by an island of popple that is often good for finding a woodcock or two, but nothing today. I know others around the country who have been finding woodcock for weeks, now, but I’ve talked to no one locally who’s seen any. I’m kind of worried about the little birds. It seems there are fewer and fewer woodcock each year so I hope this seemingly late return isn’t an indication of poor times ahead for timberdoodle.

I’m on a mission now to see some woodcock on their singing grounds and will spend some of the next evenings on the search.

Winter thoughts of fly fishing.

2009-02-16T23:05:00.000-04:00

It’s mid February, about the time of winter when I’m getting kind of bored with the snow and cold and my thoughts drift toward spring and fly-fishing. It’s now when I get out the old hook vise and start tying a few of my favorite flies for the coming fishing season. I was born and raised near the finest spring creeks and trout streams in Minnesota and spent countless hours in those cold waters catching rainbows, browns, and brook trout, and I miss it dearly. Many were the nights spent in bad tents listening to great horned owls through the evenings and wild turkeys gobbling at dawn. A favored camp was right next to a crystal clear pool that I’d cast ragged hare’s ear nymphs and Adams dry flies to. I’ll never forget the 16 inch rainbow (huge for that water) that rose from the depths, opened its white mouth and sucked in my offering. In those days I wasn’t all that excited about fishing with a fly rod and saved my trapping and odd job money to buy an ultra-light spinning outfit like my fishing partner used. I finally did purchase that rod and reel and soon learned how deadly #0 Mepps spinners were to the local trout population. But before that I was forced to rely on the old bamboo fly rod my grandpa used to use. It was equipped with a wind-up Martin automatic reel that I got a kick out of but I never appreciated neither the rod nor the skills I learned with it until much later in life ... if I only had that rod now.

Once I learned how to cast the double tapered line I could pretty well keep up to the spin fishers by tossing muddler minnows and wooly buggers into the same riffles and holes that spinners would get aimed to. And on those still summer mornings and evenings when trout rose only to the tiniest bugs and the spin anglers left for the lakes and bigger rivers for walleye and crappies, the fly rod was the only thing to use for trout.

I sometimes travel back to those clear, gravel bottom streams to try my luck but times have changed and the quietude of that area of my youth has been mostly lost to a generation seeking outdoor pursuits. It’s still possible, sometimes, to find a bit of solitude, but it can be pretty iffy.

Last summer I met a man who is known for his fly fishing prowess here in the North Country. It was an accidental meeting involving a water diversion project we were both working on. Somehow we started talking fly fishing and soon all our conversations ended on the subject. It turned out we both had fished some of the same waters in Montana as well as locally and after some conniving and banter I convinced him to show me the favorite fly he kept bragging about. He doesn’t tie himself but has his flies tied for him down in Superior. One look at his fly, which I won’t mention by name, and I told him I could tie the same thing. The next day I presented him with a half dozen of the specimens and he agreed to show me some local trout. We met one evening on the river and caught and released a fair number of brookies, all taken on that same pattern. We’ve became friends and I’ll have a good number of that fly for him this spring, and I’m looking forward to fishing with him again.

Last week I halved wine bottle corks to shape into poppers and divers that I’ll fasten to a hook, add some fur and feather, and cast to both smallmouth and largemouth bass – and maybe some panfish along side. I wish there were better trout streams close by, but the flyrodding for smallmouth bass can be outstanding.

As I write this I can look over to my tying table, see my rods standing in a milk can and the old dental drawer that I keep the supplies in. I have some bits of fur from some of the critters I’ve trapped, some feathers from the birds and fowl, and pieces of tanned deer hides, with the hair, from local taxidermists. I use as much of these “homegrown” materials as I can when I’m making my flies, and I have one of my own patterns dubbed the “golden marten” than has proven itself for me and others on trout streams from here to Missoula. What good times it’s been. When it’s time to fish I don’t think about it, I just do it. But I sure think about it now.

Grouse for supper.

2009-01-13T22:31:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite meals, anywhere, is fresh grouse grilled over the coals in camp. My old Smokey Joe has really gotten a workout over the years in grouse camps around the northern part of the state, and with good luck it will keep cooking in the years to come. There's nothing much better than a day hunting over a dog followed by an autumn evening under the stars after a tasty supper of the bounty. Of course a few spuds are welcome, too, and if there were some woodcock for appetizers, well, all the better. I know two real honest-to-goodness outdoor gourmet chefs who can do wonders with wild game, but I've served up a few platters in my time and have yet to get a complaint -- or leftovers for that matter.

In his excellent essay on woodcock, De La Valdene describes his dinner in a French restaurant where he was served the woodcock whole with its head tucked under a wing. It rested on a piece of toasted white bread and a dark puree was spooned over the works. He was encouraged to hold the head by its bill and bite off the top to get at the brain. I’m not sure that would go over very well around here, but he proclaimed the bird delicious. At any rate that kind of cooking is far too complicated for me.

I keep my cooking simple because I'm really not much of a cook. I wouldn't cook at all except for the fact that I like good food and I enjoy a good steak as much as anyone, but I believe wild game deserves a little more respect and care than the everyday U.S.D.A. fare, some of which gets force-fed and drugged and dyed and who knows what else before they wrap the plastic on it and call it "food." I've had too many wild game meals that were ruined by well meaning but inattentive cooks who just can't believe meat can cook that fast. Safety first, right? Cook the heck out of it.

My Rapala knife isn’t just for fish, and a couple of swipes yield two fine pieces of meat off a grouse breast. I have a few marinades I like to use, but laying ‘em on the grill with some s&p works for me, too. But don’t forget them. There’s time, if you don’t dally, to mix a birdshooter before they need to be turned. Done right they’ll cut with a fork and man, oh man, mmmm.

If the red gods are kind to me I’ll generally have a few birds tucked away in the freezer for this time of year. Long about now when snow is knee deep or better and I’m busting ice from the dog pails with a sledge hammer, I get a few withdrawal symptoms from bird season and find myself pulling out the shotgun and giving it a swing or two on some imagined grouse on a sunny October afternoon. And that is the time to chop some veggies and redskins and have some of those grouse fillets thawed and ready, ‘cause grouse dinner is about the best cure I know for wishing it was still bird season.

Occasionally I’ll fire up the grill out on the deck, but mostly this is indoor cooking in an iron skillet. I’m partial to olive oil and pepper, can’t imagine too many vegetables and can’t think of tastier wild game than ruffed grouse.

I don’t hunt for food, rather, it’s part of a dozen valid reasons for pursuing game with a gun. But when I sit down to a winter grouse dinner, some good bread and wine, I often believe it’s the only reason I need.

Deer

2008-11-16T23:19:00.001-04:00

I listened for a minute to the wind and sleety snow pummel my tent, but I was tired from the day and cozy in my bag and I didn’t stay awake long. Earlier I’d snuck into the woods in the dark and hiked, with the aid of my headlight, to the foot of my stand. The walk in took 40 minutes and I hastily pulled my heavy hunting bibs from my pack and slipped them on before climbing up and resting my back against the tree. It was 20 minutes from shooting time and after my clumsy hike I finally relaxed and felt invisible as the day dawned.

I hunt big woods for deer. It’s some kind of adventure camping and hunting in country I could get lost in. Sometimes I use my canoe to get in where deer see few people, but this time I headed for my favorite spot on top of a big hill where I placed a stand before season. My stand is sort of my comfort zone, and from there I’ll still-hunt to the north when I can sit no more. There’s nothing between my deer stand and Canada except woods and lakes. I usually see and pass on quite a few deer. I like hunting the season out and watching the woods change as snow and winter approach. I like watching the deer sign progress as the rut develops. After a busy and fast month or so of following bird dogs and swinging on grouse, I like the slow motion of deer hunting and the quiet. I like taking time to notice everything – birds flitting, squirrels rustling, pine marten that I never would have seen otherwise. I like eating a sandwich someplace I’ve never been before, and wonder if I’ll ever find again. I like the rifle in my hands and feeling like a predator. Fresh buck scrapes give me butterflies, and when I see a good buck my heart beats so loudly I’m afraid it will scare the deer away. And when the day is drawing down I’ll find my way back to the stand, where I’ll sit and watch the shadows grow to darkness. Then the hike out and back to camp.

On the second morning I lit the heater and lantern in my tent and had a quick breakfast before I knocked the snow off from the inside and entered the woods again in the dark. I’d seen only one deer on opening day and once again I climbed toward my stand in a stiff wind that had been blowing for two days. It seemed as if little game was moving -- the wind and snow had caught everything by surprise – and I wasn’t confident the second day would be any different than the first. I sat on my stand and pulled my earlaps tight to the wind. I must have dozed a bit because I was startled by the footfalls of a deer. I looked up to see a doe fast approaching. She ran by with a buck zigzagging behind. A fast and poor shot was offered and I didn’t take it but I took note of how wide the rack was as the buck disappeared into the cover. All was still when I blew two bleats on my call. Minutes later I heard the buck grunt, then spotted his legs first walking quickly my way. Then his antlers, and finally his body. He was coming back to find the doe he thought he'd heard. That sort of thing hardly ever works for me and I took it as something of a gift. I pressed the trigger and my season was over.

... perfect for duck hunting.

2008-10-29T01:14:00.001-03:00

My dad is in his eighties and doesn’t hunt anymore, but he still gets the outdoor magazines and is pleased to hear about my hunting experiences. But even more enjoyable are the stories he tells of past hunts from before I was born and when I was just youngster.

Just as I was raised by an outdoorsman, so was Dad. My grandpa and his brother had a duck camp in southeastern Minnesota on the backwaters of the Mississippi river just north of the little town of Weaver. The cabin was built of vertical logs chinked with mortar, heated with a barrel stove, and lighted by lanterns. Near the water was a three sided boat shed where six or eight small flat bottomed boats hung like canoes. I well recall dark mornings of camo-clad men sliding the boats over frosty leaves to the dock while various hunting dogs crunched the edges of the yard marking territory. I was put in one of the little double-ended wooden duck boats when I was five years old, and my dad would pole us into the marsh and shove us into the high cattails and reeds. Our dog and I would sit in the boat and Dad would push a long one-legged stool into the muck and sit with his waders on alongside us. I would shiver from the cold and excitement as he called ducks to our decoys and watch as he shot mallards and wood ducks and widgeons. Our yellow lab, Queenie, flew from the boat to every fallen bird and I was awestruck at her retrieves. Gramps would sit in his boat not far away and Queenie would bring his ducks in to us. Gramps was something of a legend around the area in those days for his shooting skill. His little boat was just big enough for him alone and he would shoot from it right or left handed, depending on which way the ducks presented themselves. I loved it all.

At seven years old I was presented an H&R single shot .410 with a hammer that I practiced with constantly until I could cock it pretty well, but it was always a battle to get my one little shot off at approaching ducks. I begged Dad to let me shoot some of the coots swimming around, and sometimes he'd let me to keep me interested. Then came the day when he poled us over to the mainland and I followed him, sneaking into the woods to an algae covered pothole surrounded by hardwood trees. We crawled close with Queenie following and Dad parted the grass to show me a pair of wood ducks perched on a rotting log out in the middle. They were the only ducks I could see and he told me to take the one on the right. I eased the hammer back and from a prone position shot the beautiful drake. My shot startled at least forty ducks from the green algae but I was only interested in the one I'd shot, which had disappeared and I barely heard my dad’s gun going off at some of the others. Before I knew what was happening, Queenie was clawing her way over the log to retrieve my duck and came swimming back leaving a path of clear water behind her. I held my duck and marveled at it while Dad sent her back for the ones he had dropped. It was the first duck I’d ever shot, and it was amazing.

We were shooting lead shot back then and I used that little .410 those first years with enthusiasm, but didn’t hurt many ducks. But I was part of the club, and in my cabin bunk I’d listen as Dad and my uncles’ poured whiskey and talked about the day’s hunt. It was two months before my tenth birthday when I dropped one of a trio of snow geese that came to our spread. It hit the water but tried to get up again and Dad finished it with his 16 gauge Remington Sportsman. In his basement hangs the photo of the two of us holding that goose, wings spread wide, to this day. That’s when I graduated to my uncle's 16, a twin to my dad’s. The goose was mounted and adorned the wall in duck camp.

In the ninth grade I’d saved enough trapping and odd job money to buy a used 12 gauge 870, but Dad used that old 16 for years until I’d grown and left home for some schooling and went to work. One of my biggest purchases then was a brand new Browning Auto 5 Magnum Twelve. I gave it to him for Christmas. He killed countless ducks and geese with it up until a few years ago, when he handed it back to me along with his 14 foot boat filled with decoys.

I was out with it again the other morning. Wind pushed rain at my back while I looked out over three dozen dekes. A gray, wet day perfect for hunting, a few small flocks of ring-necks and a couple of bills were lured close enough for some fast shooting. It was over quickly and I was home for late breakfast, but man, was it great! And Dad was happy to hear about it.

Champions, Runners Up, and also rans...

2008-10-12T23:24:00.000-03:00

Bird dog field trials have been around since the pre-civil war days, and while many types of trials and hunt tests have evolved, the traditional format of two dogs going head to head in search of game is still the oldest and draws the most participation. True to American nature, it wasn't enough to have a good bird dog. You wanted one better than the neighbor's, and it's wasn't long before a competition ensued. The trial tradition is embedded in the southland where sportsmen would follow their quail dogs on horseback and the mounted gallery would actually applause when a dog pointed a covey. The war couldn't even stop the sport and there's a well known story about a Union Army captain who took a morning off from the fighting to try his setter on the quail fields of Dixie. He followed his dog over a rise and was surprised to see his setter on point with another dog, a pointer, locked up next to her. The Union captain was startled when a voice said, "I believe the shot is yours, Sir," and wheeled to come face-to-face with a Confederate officer also taking a short reprieve from the war. As the story goes, the two captains spent the morning hunting their dogs in an impromptu contest to see who's dog would best the other. When it was over they nodded farewell but were reunited later on the battlefield, with predictable results.

It took a while for the trials to find the northwoods, but grouse and woodcock trials took hold in the northeast and spread west to the midwest and Wisconsin and Minnesota. They are foot handling events where only the judges can be mounted. The first Grand National Grouse Championship took place in 1943. Grouse and woodcock trials follow the original format in that two dogs are turned loose to be followed by their handlers, then two judges and a gallery. The major trials, Championships, usually employ a reporter as well. The judges and reporter are often on horseback for a better view and to reduce the fatigue of following bird dogs 6-8 hours a day for the length of the trial, often 4-6 days.

I took part in these trials for years, and have made some wonderful friendships with folks across the country. The competion is exciting and it's hard to beat seeing good bird dogs doing what they do best. Many's the night spent driving through rain and snow to get to some faraway trial grounds only to arrive dead tired but eager to turn a dog loose. It's some good feeling to push in ahead of a rock solid dog and see a grouse thundering out over the gallery of spectators, fire the gun over a stauesque dog and get a smile and nod from the judge. Bird dogs have taken me to the backcountry of Florida up to the far corner of Maine and back. I've spent summers in dog camps on the Dakota prairies and the lifestyle is indescribable for an outdoorsman.

I recently returned from a day at the WS Champion-ship where I visited old friends and watched good dogs. Even from back in the gallery I could hear the bells on the dogs and get a look as they crossed the cover in front. It was neat to be behind a lot of good dogs -- not as good as handling one up front -- but fun just the same. One of the dogs I especially wanted to see found three grouse and two woodcock during her hour. Sometimes it can be hard to spot the pointing dogs in the thick stuff, as anyone who's chased grouse with a dog will agree.

One day of watching other dogs fired me up to run my own dog, and after a good supper and hours of conversation, I camped on the grounds and returned to MN to hunt my way home.

.

The makings of a grouse dog.

2008-10-07T11:08:00.000-03:00

About four years ago a doctor friend gave me two orange-ticked male setter puppies with the express purpose of developing one of them into a field trial prospect. If it worked out the best of the two would compete in the grouse and woodcock field trial circuit and the other would be sold as a gundog or pet. I registered one as Orange Pop (though I called him Casey) because of his choppy, animated, reckless way of charging and darting through the woods which can be very attractive to a field trial judge. The other is Jack Sparrow, named for his swashbuckling clownish attitude. Right from the start I believed Casey would be the trial dog. I ran Casey and Jack in several American Field puppy and derby stakes and both did well enough, but Casey soon lived up to my expectations and when he turned two years he was qualified to enter Championship stakes. My situation changed and I was unwilling to commit to the travel required to run a dog in major trials, so the decision was made to sell Casey to a friend of mine who would enter him in the major events. And I decided to keep Jack because his personality had won me over, though he lagged far behind his brother as a bird dog.

Though he did OK during summer training, there were times when I was frustrated by Jack's lack of desire, it seemed he became bored and was too lazy to hit the cover, often returning to walk along side me rather than hunt. I wondered if he would ever find a wild bird, but the light finally seemed to come on for him in a woodcock cover near Bigfork. From there he started to come on, but he often backslid and reverted to his puppy ways. He never tried to do wrong or upset me, of course, he just couldn't help clowning around. And when he did he always seemed to have a smile on his face, and if he could I'm sure I would have heard him laughing out loud at his own antics. He was definately my second string dog and one of the slowest to develop that I'd seen. But that is changing. My older setter, Ty, is my 'go-to' dog and has won some trials and has a reputation as a bird finder in the woods and on the prairies. When Ty is on the ground everyone expects action. But Ty is laid up with an eye ailment this season and has only been out hunting once (and a good day it was, with 14 grouse finds). That leaves Jack to carry the load.

Jack and I have been hunting nearly every day, now. We would be hunting right now if not for the pouring rain that's falling. I've hunted in the rain often, but... well, not today. Jack was finding late summer grouse broods during training and handling them well, but when the season started I would hear or see birds in the air coming from his vicinity. And he would come in panting looking for water partly because the earliest cover was stifling near the ground even on cool days, and partly because he was not in top condition. As the days passed I would go in to find him pointing at grouse in trees. This happens sometimes, but I've never seen it so often with one dog. I suspect he was getting too close and flushing the bird, and sometimes the grouse would jump up to a tree above. This may not sound like such a bad thing, but I wonder how many were flushed that didn't stop overhead? Also, I shoot at grouse flying, and a tree flush is one of the toughest targets there is -- especially with all the leaves still on the branches. And then there were a couple of occasions when I saw him point and then move up to flush the bird. Thinking he was seeing the bird on the ground and unable to resist the temptation, I spent a morning at home having him point and watch wing-shackled pigeons hop and flutter all around him. So far, this has seemed to help.

There's nothing like daily hunting to get a dog in shape, and Jack's middle is slimmer and his hindquarters are muscled. While Ty is eager and cannot understand why he is left home, Jack jumps in the truck and is ready to do business. His confidence level is high, and my confidence in him grows daily. Yesterday we worked two good looking, but barren covers for woodcock to no avail. These are the first covers I've hunted this year without moving a bird. Then we headed for another spot that I had in mind but have never hunted. Jack was pointing minutes out of the truck and this grouse fell in a shower of leaves. A good start to any cover. We hunted this place in one direction for an hour. Jack had a grouse nailed about every ten minutes. It was tough shooting, it's seldom easy, and I didn't hit every bird I shot at, but I hit enough to enjoy Jack's enthusiastic retrieves. And we found grouse on our way back. I even flushed a pair of wood ducks from a puddle that would have offered a pretty fair shot. It was great! Sometimes it was hard to find him in all the color, sometimes it was impossible to hear his bell. It was often hard to get much of a look at the grouse rocketing in to a stiff wind through red and yellow foliage, but that's what makes grouse hunting what it is.

I think it was Burton Spiller who said it takes 500 grouse to make a grouse dog. Jack is still shy of that mark, but he's on his way.

This afternoon I'll travel to the Eau Claire county forest where the Wisconsin Coverdog (meaning dogs that hunt the cover, rather than open country)Championship will commence tomorrow. I've been invited down to see some friends from out east, and one of the first dogs running is a grand-daughter of my grouse champion Molly. My friend Lance B. from Pennsylvania is running her and I'm eager to see her perform.

This is a big time of year for those who participate in the wild bird trials. When the Wisconsin Championship is over the MN Grouse Dog Championship will start in the Rum River Forest. Then the National Amateur Grouse Championship will take place back in WS. From there the dedicated move east to Michigan, PA, and out to N.Y. and New England. I've been there and I miss it, but I sure love hunting the home cover with a good grouse dog.

Opening Day

2008-09-24T21:05:00.001-03:00

In the U.K. the first day of the red grouse hunting season is known as the Glorious Twelfth, and though many know and celebrate the fabled date, relatively few participate. Each year on August 12 the aristocratic class of England take their places around the moors accompanied by a matched pair of Best Grade English shotguns and a spotter/loader. The gamekeepers then beat the heather with their spaniels and labradors to flush the grouse from the cover and over the waiting gunners. The shooting can be fast and furious and when the gun is emptied it is passed to the loader who offers the other gun which is loaded and ready. A good loader is kind of like a one-man Indy pit crew -- I can picture the gunners sitting around and the end of the day sipping single malt and saying things like, "that old McDowell's a fine chap, he isn't much to look at but he can load my Purdey in 9/10ths of a second."

Each year I toast the Glorious 12th because I like the tradition and it's a reminder that our opening day isn't far off. I used to celebrate with a shot of The Famous Grouse scotch whiskey, but it's such vile tasting stuff that I finally switched to something I like.

Grouse opener here in Minnesota is quite a bit different than the British version. It's a sweaty exercise in pushing through a jungle of brush, fending off mosquitoes and bees, and trying to keep track of the dog. But sometimes you get lucky and the dog finds a bird that flushes into an opening just wide enough to offer a shot.

A lot of folks won't hunt during the opener because of the thick cover and warm temps, and I don't blame them. I didn't this year because I was at a field trial, but I was out a couple of days later and my dogs found some birds. I was able to take the first grouse of the season with my Dad's bird gun, which made it even better. Some days later came the woodcock opening day, another day to celebrate.

I've been out with my gun and dogs several times since. The fall colors are becoming brilliant but there is still very heavy cover. I return to the truck with a panting dog and sweat-soaked shirt every time, but still, I go out -- because the season is too brief not to.

Whiskey in a snipe glass.

2008-09-22T21:48:00.000-03:00

Some years ago I bought a set of Old Fashioned glasses that were decorated with Ned Smith paintings of upland game birds. That's the kind of thing we bird hunters do, at least those of us who like to lace up some comfortable boots, grab a shotgun, and follow a good bird dog. We buy bird hunting cocktail glasses, and grouse hunting and dog training books, and little silver woodcock pins we stick on our hats until they're lost in the brush. I even have a necktie with sporting dogs on it. And we sit around and talk about things like straight combs and open chokes, setters versus pointers, hatching seasons and drumming counts.

Anyway, at the end of the day when I'm cleaning my gun or kicking back for some reading and I feel the need for a little liquid libation, I always seem to grab the snipe glass. I don't know why, seeing how the ruffed grouse is my favorite gamebird, by far. Still, the grouse glass sits ignored in the cupboard, along with the dove, woodcock, and pheasant, their gold rims glistening after all these years. I don't shoot many snipe, and my dogs never seem to know what to make of them. Sometimes they'll point 'em, sometimes not. They may chase 'em or pay them no heed. You just never know.

Around grouse camp the term has become something of a catch phrase. Whenever someone gets to boasting about his prowness with a gun, or how great his dog performed someone else is likely to quip "thats just whiskey in a snipe glass."

Following the lead and encouragement of a couple of friends, I've started this posting about my experiences hunting, fishing, and maybe some other outdoor pursuits. It's kind of fun - when the sun goes down it's a neat way of extending the day. I've kept a journal for many years but nobody gets to read that, so this will have to do. And if the tales get to sounding too tall... it is after all, just whiskey in a snipe glass.