Tag: upland 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.

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.