a strangers view...

After one peaceful evening 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 bacon and eggs -- and if it killed him he'd have no regrets.

While I was digging into my own bacon and eggs 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...

…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

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...

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

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...

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...

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...

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.