Category: Hunting

Montana roosters

Judging from the departing flocks of pheasants, Finn is somewhere up ahead. Old trees line a meandering ditch, with enough undergrowth to harbour a few dozen birds, apparently. I’m not sure where Bill is, I doubt he’s seeing this bird bonanza. Poor Jack, Bill’s GSP, is trying to work the birds, but Finn has lost his marbles. He busts roosters and hens faster than I can count, and despite a very deliberate forward pace all I can do is watch them sail across the open to a variety of cattail-filled water courses that cut up the stubble fields. Welcome to Montana.

Shortly after returning from Idaho, I received an email from Bill in Missoula, asking if I’d be interested to meet him in Malta, to hunt pheasants for a few days. With some friends he leases the hunting rights on a large Hutterite operation, and only a few of them actually are serious about birds. I consulted the dog, he said “yes”, I consulted my wife, she just smiled and said “go for it”, consulted the boss, he said “sure”, so after a weekend of missing many partridges, destroying what was left of my shooting confidence, we loaded up and drove the four hundred or so miles to a small U-shaped motel in the center of Malta. “Welcome Hunters”. Thank you, happy to be back.

After witnessing Finn’s performance Bill smartens up quickly and suggests we split up for the next act. I’m treated to a repeat performance, with many birds flushing in all directions, without a chance of a shot. Finn is having a fantastic time!

We grab a bite to eat, and hit up some smaller cover on the outskirts of the compound, where it doesn’t take long for Finn to put up a nice rooster, that I manage to bring down with a trepidatious swing of the gun. A few hens followed by a single rooster bust from the cattail-filled ditch a little further down, and only the females escape with their lives. The rooster falls just across the ditch, an easy retrieve for Finn, if not for the icy slush that lies between us and the bird. Finn’s a strong swimmer, and he loves the water, so when he refuses to cross a few times, I take his cues. We’re in for a bit of walk.

Bill and Jack head further up the ditch, while Finn and I double back once we have been able to cross. I don’t doubt his nose, and when we get to where I marked the fallen bird, he pops in and out of the reeds and brings it to hand. Two birds for the day, same for Bill, we head back for a bit of a rest, and an early dinner.

Fewer birds the next day, but what a great place to just walk around, poke through some cover, enjoy the fresh, but not overly cold weather, watch the dogs run, share some stories. We search through an area with high cover, near a hay stock yard, and one rooster manages to fly faster than my pellets. Or I missed.

Last night’s rain has made the trails a little slick, and we decide not to range too far onto the farm, and just hunt where we are. As I push through some cattails, I find two stationary dogs, one up against the reeds, the other quite intently looking in his direction. Is Finn honouring Jack’s point? Twenty seconds later Jack finally stops pissing, and walks off. I release Finn, who takes two steps and locks up again.

All it takes is a few tentative steps in his direction for the rooster to explode from minimal cover, headed for the reeds, his raucous cackle adding to the excitement. Somehow I force the gun close enough to the line of flight, and the winged rooster dives for the cattails. Both Finn and Jack take up the task, but the rooster jumps high and evades capture. The melee disappears, and seconds later Finn emerges on the other side. Shame on me, I doubt him, and think about calling him back to have him search where I “know” the bird to be. He proves me wrong, a short pas-de-deux ensues, dog and bird briefly airborne, but two legs and one wing prove no match for four legs and a mouth.

We change restaurants, this one becomes the scene of a fairly dedicated crowd of pool players. The dining room, like that of nearby establishments is filled with what likely are visiting hunters. The motel parking lot is slowly collecting trucks, loaded with empty coolers hoping to be filled. One party is packing up, disappointed by the lack of big bucks, trying their chances elsewhere. “South Eastern Montana”. Hopefully they get lucky there.

We need to hit the road early afternoon on Friday, to make sure they don’t close the border crossing before we are back on Canadian soil, so we stage a few shorter walks. A rooster makes me look like a fool, as I try to drop a snack, close the gun, throw it up, and find the bird. I find both triggers, the second one fires as a result of my finger slipping off the first one. The bird was not really concerned about any of that.

A little later Bill and I both double at a rising rooster. After some discussion we agree that I shot its tail off. With the wind blowing across the cattails, Finn and I follow the ditch. The bird sailed a long way, but we didn’t see it veer off course. More praise on Finn’s head will make it grow out of proportion, but an undetermined time and distance later he takes a hard left into cover, and the splashing brings a surge of hope. Here he comes, casually sauntering over with the live bird in his mouth. A gentle “hold” has him bring it right to hand. I love that dog. When I don’t hate him for running around busting dozens of birds, out of range, that is.

We find a dozen or so more birds, that earlier we pushed into this area from the same tree line as two days before. No luck getting close to them. A little weary we start back to the truck, and attention wavers. Not for Finn, who flushes a pair of sharptails from a shortgrass meadow. The two birds split up, drawing diverging semi-circles through the sky, one high above me, but in range. Temporarily unburdened by doubt, I swing with confidence and drop the bird at my feet.

We’re done, time to check the dogs, feed Finn a tailgate dinner, change boots, and fill up the tank. One more ninety-nine cents gas station coffee, a milkshake in Havre, and a jolt up to the border across an empty road. I wonder how the Canadian border guards feel, sitting in the same ramshackle building that they sat in twenty years ago when I first passed through here, while the US has treated their staff to a slightly-megalomaniac border facility, that looks totally out of place here in the middle of nowhere.

Perhaps that is why the guard shows no real interest in probing too deeply, and quickly tells me I have to back out of the chute that led to his window, because the overhead door that blocks my view of Canadian soil doesn’t work. We dash across dark highways, and make good time. Bill graciously offered me his birds, so tomorrow by this time my wife will be asking me when I plan to get rid of all the feathers in the garage.

It’s been a good trip. Maybe we can do it again some day.

Dogs, birds and sage bush

Last summer, I promised Finn we’d take at least one out-of-province hunting trip annually. For our first trip, we hunted sage grouse in Montana. This year we got invited to come to Idaho, and we didn’t hesitate long.

Day 1

The hotel in Great Falls looks a little tired, despite the ongoing renovations. Water drips from the parkade ceiling, cheap office furniture that was out of style thirty years ago piled up alongside the unmarked elevator door. The border crossing was uneventful, one twenty gauge side by side shotgun and two boxes of sixes, carried by a tired-looking old guy with a dog no cause for alarm.

We skip dinner, skip the beer, and turn in after a walk through a mostly deserted down town. I need to stop booking these cheap motels.

Day 2

We’re on the road early. In Butte we turn East, instead of following the direct route, taking the scenic backroads. Lewis and Clark, ghost towns, fly fishing shops, new housing developments. The tiny town of Ennis now has three large realtor offices. Descending from the Caribou-Targhee National Forest, we spill out onto the potato fields of Eastern Idaho. Traffic picks up closer to Idaho Falls, we miss an exit and add twenty miles to our trip. Another cheap motel, squeezed in between the highway and a series of silos. Their fans create a background hum all night, accentuated by the horns of the occasional train. Not wanting to drive anymore, I eat a dehydrated meal, washed down with a beer. Finn can’t be bothered with dinner, again.

Day 3

We meet Jacob and June early, and quickly fall in behind their truck, headed for our first hunt. June is a pup from the same kennel as Finn, one litter earlier. Slowly the terrain changes from tarmac and traffic lights to gravel and sage brush. A few more turns and we are on a two track dead-ending on the flats above a cut-up landscape. We are in a Wildlife Management Area; land set aside from agriculture, sparsely planted with crops that benefit animals.

Finn and June get acquainted quickly, and just like that we are off. Several coveys of huns bail off the cliffs like chukars, sailing to the valley below. Finn points, and Jacob gets the first sharpie of the day. Mid morning the sun gains strength, even this late into October. The dogs slow down, but not before Finn scatters a big covey. We follow up. The dogs demand all the water, and we run out. One more detour leads to a long point by Finn. His body language shows the heat, there is no intensity, he just stopped walking. A pair of sharpies flushes a long way out, and I manage to bring one down. We’re done. Two sharpies and a hun each, and lots of more birds seen, it’s been a good morning.

Later in the day we hunt cover for ruffed grouse. Finn finds a few, and I shoot one at the end of the walk, to reward him. We have a great meal of fresh birds, beans and corn. The couple of cold beers taste great too.

Day 4

Finn is limping, so he gets to sit this one out. June nicely works ahead of us, finds birds that Jacob hits, and I miss. Part of a covey flushes towards a saddle, and we follow-up. I get another chance that I squander, and a tight-holding bird in the saddle proves smarter than us, letting me pass within feet and flushing once I’ve passed. At the end of our loop, Jacob connects with the last bird to rise from a covey of huns. Another beautiful morning, in broken, mixed-vegetation terrain, with sage, grasses, occasional sunflower patches, and a few fields of something green. I try not to dwell on the misses.

We relocate to another cabin, an hour and a half North. Beautifully tucked into some trees, near a few large ponds, butting up against some hills at the end of the sage brush desert. The area is winter range for deer, elk and moose, but provides year-round habitat for sage, sharptailed grouse and huns. Where we had rocky ridges and deep valleys before, we’re now overlooking a seemingly endless relatively flat expanse of sage brush of varying density.

Towards dark we head out to walk the pond edges, to see if we can scare some ducks. Finn’s limping is mostly gone, with another good night’s sleep he will be running fit again in the morning. Small groups of ducks start flying, without giving us a real chance. The windless evening, setting sun combined with the yellowing reeds and mirror-like pond surface make for some great photo opportunities.

We sneak up to a small dam, and jump some ducks. Finn and June each retrieve one, but we may be missing a third. We see something move about three-quarters across the pond, a long swim. June goes first, calmly paddling across, making short detours left and right. She turns around not far from what we feel may be a wounded duck. Perhaps it isn’t a duck. Then Finn is up to bat, and takes the same leisurely approach, meandering across the pond, until he turns to go investigate what we hope is a bird. Whatever it is, he bumps it with his nose, and decides it’s not worth bringing. Fantastic swims by both dogs.

Day 5

Birds are scarce this morning. We stopped to take some pictures of a beautiful sunrise behind the Teton mountains. It’s June’s turn to rest up, and we hear her disapproving howls for a long time.  A single sharpie flushed out of range early in our walk. Finn works hard, but it is just not a bird-filled morning. Another single sharpie flushes too close to Jacob, and finds his way into the vest.

It’s one of those afternoons where the wind is chilled enough to make a sweater not a luxury, but the sun warm enough to make the dappled shade under a big aspen tree the perfect place to be. For a few uninterrupted hours I read, watch the robins congregate and get ready for their migration, and stare across the sage flats. I can’t remember when I last had such a calm afternoon, with nothing that needs doing, nothing to worry about, and nowhere to go. Just be. Drink a lemonade. Scratch Finn behind the ear.

Jacob’s wife shows up with their ten-month old son, and cooks us dinner. Taco soup, corn bread, a cold beer. I could get used to this life.

Day 6

On the drive to our last morning of hunting, we bust a covey of a three dozen sharpies that we watch sail across the sage, hoping they’ll settle. They don’t. We suppress the tendency to follow these birds on a two mile grunt through waste-high sage, and park further down the dirt road.

Both dogs are running today. As we are getting ready, I sense more than I hear something, across the road. Four big birds sort of levitate out of the green-grey bush, and slowly, silently take off across the flats. Sage grouse! We follow up, but we don’t find them. We cross the dirt road again, and hunt slightly more open country. June and Finn work well, the sun muted by a thin veil of cloud.

Jacob shows me a plant with tiny red seeds that we found in yesterday’s bird’s crop. My internal alarm goes off, I should check on Finn. I find him stationary, tail slowly wagging. Before I can act he takes a few sideways steps, stops again, and four more sage grouse flush. We messed up that opportunity. Sorry Finn.

Not much later we are angling back towards to truck, the wind not great. Finn pops up out of the sage to my left, and freezes. He nicely holds while Jacob moves closer. June runs in front of me, and I softly call her name. She freezes and turns her nose into the wind. Both dogs are steady until Jacob gets in range. Another four sage grouse rise, I guess sage grouse live in groups of four around here. Jacob shoots the biggest one, which turns out to be a sizeable mature male, retrieved by June. What a beautiful bird. And how modest they are. Hungarian partridge flush in utter chaos, each one picking a different direction. Sharpies laugh at you while they jump. A rooster makes enough ruckus to unsettle the calmest dog or gun. But sage grouse just materialize, and almost gentlemanly try to make a silent exit.

Later that morning Jacob manages to pick off the last of a group of three sage grouse, a younger male. We don’t find any more sharpies. The sun starts to burn, the cloud cover gone, and we call it a day. It’s time to pack up, and start the drive back to Canada.

Day 7

We hit the border before nine in the morning. One car ahead of me, definitely a record. The friendly Canadian border agent asks me the standard questions, throwing in a few about the hunt and the role of the dog. We get sent on our way quickly. A five-minute border crossing, this will never happen again. I think I have officially entered the category of travelers that is deemed harmless: older, traveling with a cute dog, friendly, and genuinely surprised when he gets asked about cannabis.

Snow starts falling as we continue North.

Day 8

The return to reality is harsh. The highway is covered with snow and ice and filled with commuters. Sitting in a conference hall with 700 people feels surreal. Flashbacks recur of a sunrise on the sage flats, dusty, rocky trails, running dogs, rising birds, and lazy afternoons.

I may have dozed off a time or two. The conference coffee lacks a punch. Jacob’s morning brew was better.

FD

 

Summer thoughts

It’s kind of chilly tonight. It’s been an odd day. Smoke obscured the mountain views at dawn, clouds rolled in later on, and a sudden thunderstorm provided “much needed” moisture, again.

Yesterday evening we bumped a single partridge, on top of the hill, an unusual location; and unusual to find a single this time of the year. It’s been hot and dry in June, but now that we need nice weather to create the bugs that the partridge chicks eat, we get cool and daily wet. At least we haven’t had the murderous hail yet. Still I worry about “my” birds.

Something came in the night and killed the chukars. Steadiness training with Finn was put on hold, while I fortified the bird pen. We have a pair of pigeons to work with now. A friend in need is a friend indeed, thank you, Peter. Back on track now, there is still time.

Focus on work is hard to come by these days. The mind wanders to September. It may be hot. Finn doesn’t do well in the heat. But we might hike up late afternoon, find creeks, camp, and wake up before the sun, to hunt some ptarmigan. Or at least hike some ridges, and carry a gun. We found a couple single ptarmigan up high, in barren country, just a week ago. Both were still changing from white into their summer feathers.

I inquired with an outfitter in Alaska. Six days at the lodge, three days of flying into different ptarmigan areas – they have three species up there – and three days of fishing, or looking for forest grouse. Sounded like an awesome trip. Unfortunately, I’m genetically predisposed to frugality, and my upbringing doesn’t help. As a kid, I’d get a buck for a great report card, immediately followed by a finger wag and a stern “don’t you go spend it!”

October may be a good month. Sharpies. Wandering across the plains, in and out of coulees. Maybe a trip South – past the border kind of South. I promised Finn, and myself, one out of province trip per year, going forward. Montana and sage grouse last year. Idaho, maybe. See some new country.

November will be for a few pheasant hunts, and kicking around the foothills to look for ruffies. If the snow is not too deep, maybe another look at those ptarmigan. Day hunts in the mountains are getting more difficult these days. Close to home anyway. Lots of people out there; sunrise hikes are a thing. We’ll need some time to shoot a deer, to make sure the freezer bottom doesn’t show.

December will see the odd snow-loaded hike, with hopefully the odd ruffed grouse flush. It is also too far away to really think about now.

It’s still chilly, I may go inside. Wonder how the partridge chicks are doing.

Pheasants anew

Finn had shown much promise as a pheasant dog, last year, all of seven months old. Found birds, pointed birds, pointed birds where other groups with dogs had just before gone through, pointed a “covey” of four roosters, that rose one by one, the young pup staunchly remaining on point, while Kyle and I managed to kill none of them. Expectations for this season were not high, but well above moderate.

The “back 40” partridge coveys had provided good practice material, in early spring, before nesting, and in the weeks leading up to the start of the season, with the chicks flying as wild as their parents. It was not without a bit of pride that I dropped the odd hint about his steadiness. Shooting chukars during training days and a NAVHDA test had honed my skills a bit too, I thought. We were ready to have a great pheasant season!

We had drawn three slots at the Taber Pheasant Festival to kick things off. The first afternoon Finn and I and nobody else, because everybody canceled, overlooked an expanse of cattails, with a few drainage ditches leading in and out of it. I was just going to take it slow, let Finn do his thing, get some good points, work on steadiness, and perhaps shoot a bird. That cockiness was rudely and rightly crushed when the first bird went up. A straightaway, the gimme of upland shots, bird well within range, but wait, Finn hadn’t pointed it. Never mind, I was already swinging and missing. I tried to convince myself I didn’t want to kill that bird anyway, because I was training the pup to be steady, but lying to yourself is rather hard.

It went downhill from there. My notes say I shot seven times, and the limit for pheasants is two. Finn managed two sort-of points, which gave some hope, and I managed a couple of hits, but we flushed more birds without points or shots. Finn worked hard, but got a little flustered by the raucous birds, and so did I.

The next day, Finn’s brother King came out to play, and we managed to put up a fair number of birds. Miraculously I hit two with two shots, but again points were hard to come by. The birds tended to run out in front of the dogs, and neither of them hesitated to snort them up via their tracks. The third day Finn made a beautiful point on a covey of huns, and I promptly missed.

A week later we were out again, found pheasants and sharpies, got a nice point on a hen pheasant, and I double missed a rooster. Twice. Managed to shoot a consolation sharptailed grouse, so the dog kept some faith in my skills.

There was one redemption weekend left in the schedule. Finn could use some solid points, and I could use some solid hits. We started off fantastic, as Finn worked a patch of buck brush along a coulee, and drew to a point. Unfortunately the bird flushed wild before Kyle could get in range. Not much later he pointed again, at the base of some brush in the same coulee, and held till I got close. When the bird flushed, Kyle got a little trigger happy and the close hit pre-tenderized the meat sufficiently. Finn didn’t skip a beat retrieving.

The pup was having a great day. As we were walking back along the opposite side of the coulee, he went back to where we had already passed. “He’ll probably find one all the way down in there”, Kyle said, and as if on cue, Finn pointed. I started down towards him, but was still a little far off when the rooster flushed. It took a second or two before my brain kicked in, but I managed an impressive shot – at least I like to think of it as such – on the quartering bird, leading him by a double body length. Nice retrieve to hand followed.

The following day we hunted another long, wide coulee with lots of cover on one side and along the creek in the bottom, and the odd grove of trees on the opposite side. Finn pointed a bird right off the bat, but broke and grabbed the hen. Luckily he is fairly gentle and we managed to send the bird off flying minus some feathers. Not much further Finn worked a particular spot for a minute or two, breaking off but returning a few times, until finally a rooster emerged and rose above the low brush, quartering away until my shot connected. Two for two for the weekend, and half-decent points, we could have quit and gone home happy right there.

Finn dug up a few more birds from the snow, but all flushed out of my range, or obscured by cover. On the way back, looping through a connecting coulee, he disappeared into some high bush and I lost sight of him. “He may be onto something there”, Kyle yelled from across the coulee, and directed me. I found him on point in thick cover, but my approach was too much of an incentive and he dug in. After a few tries he pushed out a hen pheasant. While not textbook, the length of holding point until I got there was impressive. Best we’d seen all season.

We ended the day, and pheasant season, by a quick snapshot at a hun, that he neatly retrieved. Three for three for the shooter, and some nice points and solid retrieves by the dog. We both need some polishing around the edges, but I think the team has potential.

F.

I still call them Blue Grouse

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

Back so soon?

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.

Sage Grouse – Montana, September 2022

The sun had turned to orange early, filtered by the smoke of a nearby wildfire, and the dust of the two-track trail. All around, vast expanses of sage brush stretched to where nine thousand feet high ridges framed the scenery. The oppressive heat of the day still lingered, as our minds slowly started to shift from birds to the cool waters of the alpine lake ahead, and perhaps trout for dinner. Suddenly something stirred in the shrubs ahead. One bird head bobbed in the sea of grey-green leaves, shortly followed by a second. Sage grouse!

It all started with a spur-of-the-moment email to a friend in Butte.

“What do you know about sage grouse hunting in Montana?”

The response came quickly and oozed confidence: “I know everything about sage grouse hunting in Montana, my family has been hunting the opener for decades. We are going again this year. Why don’t you join us?”

Two days before the opener Finn, my seventeen-month-old Small Munsterlander, and I drove down, met up with my friend and his son, and set up camp the next day in time for a reconnaissance drive. Finn and I had chosen to stay in a tent. I like my privacy, and he would likely be too much puppy to allow for a quiet night in the trailer, with other people and other dogs. But mostly, I like my privacy.

The nights at seven thousand feet were cold. Despite the daytime mid-thirties (Celsius) temperatures, nighttime temperatures straddled the freezing mark. Though that notion had crossed my mind, I had still brought a sleeping bag that could not be cinched up across the shoulders. Rookie mistake. Finn was comfortable, I think, in his kennel, with fluffy pillow, wearing a jacket. I was not.

We hunted the early mornings, to avoid overheating the dogs. Finn was running big, using the freedom the long views provided, casting nicely left and right, like he had been doing this for years. A few hours were all we had, before the dogs started to suffer. I fed Finn all his water and most of mine
but halfway through the mornings it was time to call it. The area had a surprising number of alpine lakes and shallow creeks, when everything around it was bone dry. Both dogs and hunters took advantage of the opportunity for a cool swim after the morning’s hunt. Late afternoons, with the sun losing just a hint of its sting, we would saddle up again, slowly driving and walking two-track rocky roads and field edges, trying to spot moving birds.

The choice of fields to hunt looked random to me, as for a mile in all directions the terrain was featureless, but it was based on years of experience in this area. I was beginning to pick up small clues about what sage grouse might like. Fresh greens, of which we saw little, grasshoppers, which were ubiquitous, just not in every field. Water perhaps? Some animals get their moisture from plants, but things were pretty arid here. I just imagined birds hitting up water early morning, working their way up to higher areas to catch a breeze, perhaps to return to water late afternoon, before retiring for the night in cover. But that was just speculation.

The first morning we flushed a single sage grouse, and two huns, which all escaped unscathed. Finn had not pointed any of the birds, but he had seen them fly, and had decided to abandon whatever steadiness we had so tenuously achieved in the pre-season prep. I could not fault him, because I had forgotten all my intentions to focus on the dog with the first few birds, and help him remember. The dog did not know better, I should have.

 

That evening we found the bobbing heads near a small water course and just off the two-track. I suggested falling back and around to get downwind of the birds and letting Finn work the breeze, but it was decided to follow the moving birds, taking the leashed dogs with us. As soon as we had stepped
across the water, Finn’s nose glued itself to the ground, the tail started working, and he became a handful. To my great surprise we managed to get within range before the first grouse flushed. The big bird worked hard to gain altitude, and the shot was not hard. Training a pup and hunting an elusive bird do not go well together. Both dogs rushed in for the retrieve but got distracted by two more falling birds, shot by my buddy. Each grabbed one of the fluttering birds and retrieved nicely, and my bird was found not too much later. A nice male bird, perhaps not the biggest, but not a young of the year either. We cut off wings for the registry, and took breasts and legs.

The second morning was mostly a repeat of the first. We hunted a large swath of land, in semi-circular fashion, above a small water source. My friend connected first, missing birds in a covey, but then connecting with the third shot on a single. Finn was bullied out of the retrieve by the other dog, but he got another chance. First a pair of grouse were bumped out of range by my friend’s dog, but not much later I shot a single with the second barrel, as it was rocketing down and around the slope. Finn nicely
delivered to hand.

After a short, late-afternoon fishing session the next day, catching some cutthroats to add to the intended grouse dinner, we again found some birds. We tried to get organized, but waited too long and the grouse flushed. I followed them with Finn, on leash first, but as I got downwind, I let him run. The birds were in the open, and two grouse flushed out of range, but the third one hesitated, and once airborne, followed the downhill slope which curved towards me. I gave him a good two body lengths lead, and the bird crumbled at the shot. Another nice retrieve for Finn.

We investigated the crops of our birds and found they contained fresh leafy greens, and whitish, or light-yellow berries. We have yet to identify what those were. The fresh greens indicated that perhaps water courses, or the few fields that had not been grazed recently, were the preferred feeding areas this time of the year. But again, this is speculation, based on just a few observations.

At night, my friend’s son cooked us up a nice meal of cubed, breaded grouse breast, and cutthroat trout. A few cold beers went with that, and life could not have been much better.

Upland hunting – way up!

The wind howls from the West. Chinook, we call it. Snoweater. Down on the plains the temperatures will rise, the snow will melt, and some will wear shorts even though it is only late March. Bloody cold up here, where nothing grows to block the wind’s path. It’s been a long winter as usual, and the end is not near, but the mountains called, and we went. Labouring up the steep slope at 9,000′ of elevation I have the occasional thought of a soft couch and a steaming cup of coffee.

Preoccupied with my own thoughts, I hardly notice the change in the dog. But something is up. The wind is doing 50 miles per hour from the back, but the dog’s focus is in front. I look up and around but see nothing. A band of ewes generally hangs out here, they like the open patches that the wind creates. Then, a movement. Something stirs, and it’s white. Another one, then five, six, ten. Ptarmigan. Beautifully camouflaged they rummage in the snow-covered grass. I take some photos. With the help of the zoom on the computer screen I’ll later count twenty-seven in this covey. Hardy little beast, surviving winter up here. I’m sorry I have to spook them, but my ridge lies beyond. They scurry around nervously before flushing to the left and sailing over a cliff.

A full year and three seasons later I’m heading up the same ridge. It’s not been a good year. A nasty little virus has the world in pandemonium; and on top of that I developed a condition that doesn’t seem to want to go away. CT scans, surgery, MRI’s and maybe more surgery, I’m sick of it in more than one way. A few days of feeling OK, a spell of decent weather, and a forecast with a lot of snow in a few days has me up well before dawn, and climbing while the sun is still hiding. The snow is not too deep, and the trail has not seen too much of the thaw/freeze cycle that turns most into a sheet of ice later in the year.

After an hour of steady climbing, with daylight started, I hear voices below. I’m not the only one here. Not even on a weekday is mountain solitude guaranteed these days. My plan requires that I am the first. It only takes one hiker to chase the birds off the front face to parts unknown. Soon enough we come to the little grassy plateau underneath where I found the ptarmigan. Time to uncase the side-by-side and slip in a couple of shells. A few ewes and two lambs look at us with wide eyes. A three year old ram takes the opportunity to get a good sniff, neck stretched out, horns turned. It is the rut after all.

The young dog (almost four years old) behaves admirably. He only needs a few whispered encouragements to stay close to me and not give chase. He’s turning into a good buddy, though some of his habits still need work. We know little of his history, other than that he was born in a First-Nation’s community 200 miles North of Yellowknife. His early life may not have been easy.

We climb past the sheep, and come to where two-dozen-and-then-some birds were feeding last time. I scan around for white blobs on white/brown speckled substrate. Failing to see any, I work the binoculars, and look for pitch-black beaks and eyes. Nothing. I check the dog. No sign of agitation. Slowly we work our way up, and find lots of ptarmigan droppings, but none of their creators.

We take a break on the other side of the ridge, to glass for sheep, without luck. Before us lies a deep canyon-like valley that flattens out into treeless alpine tundra as it gains in elevation. Only the odd section is free of snow. Immediately below us lies terrain not dissimilar from that holding all the sign on the other side, but despite our search we turn up no birds and no sign. As I turn to work my way back up to the ridge, muscles protest. Three months of reduced activity, antibiotics and hospital stays are making themselves known. It’s fine, it has been a good morning.

Back at the ridge, hunkering low because of the wind, I feed the dog some treats and water, and devour my lunch. I peak over, back down the way we came, and find four hikers resting in and around the ptarmigan slope. The sheep are gone. So much for hunting that area again on the way down. Suddenly there is movement on the ridge, higher up, towards the peak. A ram appears, and looks down on us. He walks away at first but then changes his mind. He turns, follows the ridge down, and walks on over, crossing not 40 yards below us. It would have been a long shot with the longbow, but not impossible. As it is, season closed over a month ago, and I take pictures and relish being so close to a good-looking, mature ram.

Mid-afternoon we are back at the truck, with no birds to show for, but full of impressions, and new information for the next time the itch to chase birds in the alpine become unbearable.

Memories 3: The Best Hunting Dog In The World

“Do you think Aika will be able to find my deer?”

We were standing on a cut line in the municipal forest where my uncle leased the hunting rights on some 700 acres. My cousin had shot a small buck that had jumped off the trail into a stand of immature pines. Thick stuff. He’d looked in the first rows of trees, but found no sign. So he backed off and waited for me to show up after the morning sit.

Aika was a German Hunting Terrier, six months old. I had picked her up at a breeder near Hannover, Germany in late winter. The pups were born in a small unheated kennel in the heart of winter. There were six pups. More had been born, but the breeder had killed them, because he “didn’t want to deal with bottle feeding”. She was so small, fitting into a shoe box. Hard to see at the time how she would grow into a fierce little hunter, flushing pheasants from thorny cover that bigger dogs couldn’t (or wouldn’t) enter, retrieving anything up to the size of a big hare, crazy about working in water, never losing the drive to hunt during long, taxing days in the field. But that was still uncertain future when we were zipping West across the Autobahn, with a furry bundle in my wife’s lap.

Aika and I had barely moved beyond training on continuous-drag scent trails to a trail with discrete drops (more like small gushes) of blood. She’d been doing just fine, but it was all still pretty playful; short trails in easy terrain with no distractions. After all, at six months old, she was still all puppy-brain.

“Do you think Aika will be able to find my deer?” my cousin asked again.

“I don’t know. It may be asking a lot of her, but let’s try.”

We drove back to the cabin to pick up the little munchkin. About 90 min later I rolled out the long line, trying to relax and send calming vibes to the bouncing pup at my feet. As we walked up to the first blood, beyond where the yearling buck had been standing, the change in the dog was striking. She went from playful to business in a heartbeat. During practice sessions on a fake trail she usually was borderline disinterested, but now it was all concentration.

With a final confirmation from my cousin about the direction the buck had disappeared we entered the thicket. About 30 feet in, the little dog sniffed up a clot of blood. Perhaps 100 feet beyond that, she found a patch of bloody hair, rubbed onto a tree. This was actually working! Five minutes later I was not so sure. Aika lost intensity and started meandering. We were off the trail.

I took her back to the beginning for another try. She pointed out the same blood, and the same hair, but again lost interest a little later. It was just too much to ask for such a young and relatively untrained dog. We started to circle back to the cutline, when Aika took a sharp left and pulled hard. I almost told her to stop playing around, but something told me to give her a little more time and trust. Moments later we were standing next to the dead buck.

Opportunities to work on lost or wounded deer don’t come very often. Aika’s star really shone brightly when hunting small game. I fondly remember so many great retrieves of pheasants, ducks and hares, that I gladly forgive her for the time she made me swim out into a beaver pond. She had not found the duck but instead had grabbed onto a branch, and was determined to retrieve it, even though it was attached to the beaver’s lodge. Her tiny brain had momentarily locked up, and I was afraid she’d drown before letting go. I swam out, and she cheerfully greeted me, happy for the support. With mixed emotions I pushed her into the direction of the duck that floated a ways beyond the lodge. We swam the loop around the pond, she picked up the duck and after some drying off we continued to hunt.

Unfortunately Aika died too soon at the age of nine. Kidney failure. I still miss her.

F.

Memories 2: Making Fire

My office wall has photos of over three decades of hunting, though the memories go back much further. In this series of posts I'm recounting some of the stories that go with them.


I acquired a PhD in Chemistry, so I am pretty much an authority on the subject matter. In order to make a fire you need three components: a combustible material, oxygen, and some way to overcome the threshold of energy required to let the two react; AKA a lighter, or a flint and steel, or a stick that you rub between your hands vigorously, or a lightning strike. For most people a lighter will do.

Oxygen is available, in varying quantities, depending on altitude, all across the globe. Combustible material, on a morning of hunting in a forest setting in an Eastern European country, two decades and a half ago, can also be called ubiquitous. That leaves component #3. Right? You had one job…

We headed out early that morning, sights set on pushing a few sections of forest. Not a big affair. Just my uncle, cousin, and myself carrying the rifles, my dad as independent observer, the local forest warden and his little Dachshund, and one of his friends with another dog whose progeny was hard to guess. We were hoping for wild boar, but expecting to settle for a roe deer. I think we got skunked.

But no room for despair or disappointment, because we were about to enjoy a good fire, and even better fresh-roasted sausages-on-a-stick, washed down with some questionable vodka. Con gusto we attended to the task of collecting one of the three prerequisites that would keep us from having to eat the sausages raw: fire wood. We were counting on the fact that oxygen would be available. OK, light it up!

Despite the language barrier it became clear fairly quickly that we had failed to provide for the third component of a good fire: the lighter. I gave up smoking when I turned twenty-one. My dad gave up smoking long before that, when he found out his father had lung cancer. My cousin only smoked a cigar or two at parties, and I’m not sure if my uncle ever smoked. And by some stroke of coincidence we were accompanied by the only two non-smoking males East of Berlin. Our situation was dire.

But wait! We came here by automotive vehicle. A vehicle contains fuel. That fuel is ignited by a spark. All we needed to do was to somehow combine spark and fuel, outside of the vehicle’s engine, and create a flame that was transportable to the wood pile, without blowing ourselves up. Hunger sparks ingenuity! Old newspaper was crumbled into a ball, doused in gasoline which was sucked from the tank through a rubber tube (standard emergency gear in Eastern European vehicles?), and the battery terminals disconnected, while those with more good sense than a sense of adventure (me) were busy sharpening sticks on which to impale the sausages, a fair distance away from the possible source of third degree burns.

It all worked beautifully! In no time we had the fire roaring, and the big sausages sizzling. We each had two. Fine sausages too, if I may be the judge, leaving us wanting nothing more. We then drove home where we drew the ire of the forester’s wife, who had prepared a big lunch meal for us. We tried our best. I don’t recall if there was any napping in the tree stand that afternoon, but there may have been.

F.