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

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!

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.

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.

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

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.

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 a 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 a duckweed 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 pond 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...

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 WI 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.









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The makings of a grouse dog.

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.