spring has sprung...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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

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

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.