Month: October 2022

There is a ridge in the front range of the mountains an Southwest of here that doesn’t see a lot of foot traffic. Below it runs a trail leading to a popular waterfall. To the North and above it runs a hiking trail up a somewhat popular mountain. Somewhat, because the grade and duration of ascent weed out the uncommitted. The ridge doesn’t really go anywhere, it fizzles out at a big scree field.

Enough sheep and elk hunters passed through to have carved out a bit of trail. From it’s false peak, I’ve watched a ewe with lambs relax in the sun below me, and a herd of elk wait out the heat of the day in the shade at its bottom. I’ve shot a blue grouse there once, when I still hunted with a compound bow.

Behind it is a little oasis, where water comes out of the rocks, creates small waterfalls, and a lush green creek bed. It’s a nice place to sit and relax, perhaps even snooze a bit. It’s also a place that grizzlies like.

It can be a hostile place, the area is known for big winds. Once I crawled behind a two-feet high rock, with hands so cold, I feared I actually had done some damage. I have hiked around it, to end up across a ravine from it, hoping that opening-day hunters coming up the main trail would push a ram towards me. There were hunters, obliviously skylining themselves, but no rams.

But today the weather was calm, there were no opening day crowds, and no bears. However, the climb up there was steep as ever. Perhaps even a little steeper. Finn and I worked our way up an avalanche chute, with many of the right plants, but without birds.

Crossing the barren slope to gain the ridge took a few breaks. Once there, we had barely started to follow the faint trail up when Finn got birdy. He dashed into the stunted trees lining the North side of the ridge, working his way up, with me panting and heaving trying to keep up. Just as I was thinking about calling a time-out Finn made contact, but didn’t manage to lock down the bird, that flushed onto the trail. Before I could develop unsportsmanlike thoughts, Finn followed through and thoroughly spooked the bird out of range. We continued for a bit, but lusted for the water and a sit down. We weren’t going to reach ptarmigan altitudes today anyway.

On the way down, I kept us below the ridge, in the trees, trying to string together the breaks in the cover. Finn’s bell kept chiming, and never stopped for more than a few seconds. Entering yet another clearing, a blue grouse erupted from below a lone tree. Nothing budged when I pulled the trigger, twice. Safety! A flick and a desperate swing were followed by an impressive puff of feathers. Finn quickly found the bird, but had some trouble, or was disinclined to acquiesce to my request of retrieval. As I came closer he brought the bird anyway.

We got sucked into a steep ravine, the best way out appeared down. It hardly was, but we made it, despite an unfortunate amount of bushwhacking. We even dodged the rain.

It was a good afternoon.

F.

Why they are no longer called Blue Grouse

What was supposed to be a three-day bird hunting trip, turned into a single long day quickly when I tried to pat Finn on the head and he flinched and yelped.

Camp had been made along the banks of the reservoir. Not our regular spot sheltered by trees. In stead there was nothing but grass between us and the water, and the neighbours on either side, a hundred yards away, on equally barren spots. I was hoping for a windless night.

Kyle had hurried home from classes, and skipped some work, to come out with Brizz, his thirteen-year old German Shorthair. We wasted little time getting out to a short-grass coulee where we’d been a few times before, but was new to Finn. Sharptail season had opened five days earlier, huns had been open for over a month, but pheasants were still a week away. Of course, Finn bumped a rooster not ten minutes from the truck, and Brizz and Finn tag-teamed on semi-pointing a group of three more, where the wheat stubble gave way to native grass.

We loosely walked up the high ground between two draws, with Finn trying hard to cover the land beyond as well. After the long drive, and afternoon of being staked out in camp, he had just a little extra energy, and was hard to keep under control. He had pointed a covey of huns, presumably, because I didn’t actually see it, but judging from the absence of sound, that flushed when I followed a cattle trail into the twelve-foot tall buck brush. Kyle tried, but couldn’t connect.

We got another brief point out of Finn on a rooster that wouldn’t hold, when he returned from exploring “the land beyond” one more time. He figured that chasing these big chickens was just the best thing ever. I’m still getting used to having the e-collar remote dangling on the left side of my vest, and often tuck it in a bit, so he had more than enough fun by the time I found the right button. He’d done so well on our local hun coveys, but all those lessons appeared forgotten, or at least considered temporarily irrelevant.

I had shot one sharpie, and Kyle unfortunately had missed several, when we bumped one from a patch of ten-foot tall vegetation, that I managed to drop. Finn rushed in for the retrieve, but circled wide. Brizz slow-jogged over, and they arrived at the same time, briefly pointing the still-alive bird jointly. Brizz claimed seniority for the retrieve and Finn came to me for a little praise and consolation. That’s when he cried in pain.

It didn’t take long to see the blood in his eyeball. He wouldn’t even let us point at his face without whinging. We decided to call it a day, Kyle couldn’t hit anything anyway, Brizz was already past tired, and Finn’s eye needed some attention. I called the vet from camp, and decided to pull up stakes to get him checked out in the morning.

Back home, Finn cuddled up beside me as he sometimes does when I sit on the ground. As I was stroking him I noticed something hard under his skin, inside his left elbow. Clearly something was wedged in there, but we couldn’t find any obvious entry point. More things for the vet to look at.

Fast forward and $485 later, the 1 1/4” thorn had been removed, his eye checked, labeled “bruised cornea”, and the birds cleaned. Thanksgiving dinner coming up. I think I’ll do up the Montana sage grouse.