Monday, November 27, 2017

Hunting Naked

I will never find myself in this situation again. 

I have muttered these words under my breath more than once this fall. Due to complexities at home(a baby boy September 30th, an unexpected passing of my younger dog and my new setter pup being adopted by my father due to reason #1) I found myself with very limited dog power come early October. Tess, the 13 year-old setter has been limping along, having been diagnosed with lymphoma and has good days and bad days.  I have shot a few "last birds" over her, including blue grouse, ruffs, Huns, pheasants and sharptail.  If she doesn't wake up tomorrow morning, her final season has been blessed.

I  should be old enough to not allow emotion to trump practicality.  Driving eight hours with a 13 year-old setter to hunt chukars in the most rugged uplands in the US? That makes no sense.  But, like we always do, we justify our bogus decisions with alternative facts.  People can travel for hiking trips, right?  The weather is abnormally nice for November.   I can get into chukars by simply walking farther and faster, even if Tess is unable to perform. Sure. 

Bird hunters rarely arrive in a new area and find instant success with a covey behind every turn. In fact, we often find ourselves driving around with maps and a GPS, hunting for a spot to hunt.  This expedition was no different and finally by 9AM, we were headed uphill. It wasn't quite T-shirt weather, but I have learned to avoid overdressing on the ascent, so we had stripped down to our baselayers.  Tess was with me on this maiden voyage and seemed to be fairing alright as we went up one ridge and down another.  Unfortunately, we didn't move any birds in this first five mile up and down and Tess was finished for the day.

You don't drive across two states to only hunt three hours and sit in a bar watching football.  And, I wanted to be in this country. I needed to feel the burn and see the views.  Like any other addiction, I had to catch those darn chukars on top. Chase them up to the ridges and be lucky enough to find a few in range as I wipe the sweat from my brow. Not having a dog on the ground would be different, but not impossible.

You know how the story ends. Birds flush at inopportune times, when one isn't ready. And in chukar country, that time is often.  Instead of going where a dog's nose leads you, the simple path of least resistance is taken.  Even with a dog, we never know how many birds we pass by when hunting big country of the West. Without a dog, that number increases tenfold. Maybe more.  The phrase, A Walk With A Shotgun comes to mind. My Dad's description of "free exercise", also is applicable when a hunt is nearly fruitless.

But, perhaps the worst aspect of hunting without a dog, bordering on unethical, is when recovering game.  I watched my partner, an energetic fellow who was on a mission to shoot his first wild chukar, wing a bird at 40 yards below him. I did my best to hustle over and play the role of retriever, but without any easy path to him, I wasn't much help immediately. We searched for over 30 minutes, working various figure-eights around his cap, but to no avail.  Silence overcame both of us, knowing that while one bird doesn't not equal extinction of the species, but it sure felt like it. Keenan was upset and I should have known better.  The odds of a well-trained dog finding the bird are high.

Denny Green, the late football coach had a classic line years ago when he tersely stated, "They are who we thought they were!" Well, bird dogs are what we know they are.  Irreplaceable in the field and without them, we are really just going through the motions. 

I will never find myself in this situation again.


Sunday, October 22, 2017

Not Another Sad Dog Story - I Promise

I have read enough dog memorials and other reflections on the painful loss of a hunting dog that I choose to skip them, if I am tipped off. It isn't out of a lack of compassion or empathy for a fellow hunter, but more of a defensive mechanism on my part.  I have lost many dogs and it is always difficult. For the majority of us who do not have kennel-only dogs, but dogs that are at our side day and night, the loss is definitely similar to losing a family member.

Losing Abby was sad, but there was plenty of celebration and appreciation along with her death.  Abby also died while hunting, an apparent heart attack, just ten minutes into a morning walk for sharptail in central Montana.  She literally tipped over mid-stride and did not suffer at all.  We all have had hunting dogs that have endured a long illness, gradually losing function and quality of life. Decisions around those illnesses are much more difficult and often delayed. How many of us would prefer to pass away while doing something we truly love?

On the drive home, I assumed that the next step was cremation, which I had done with previous setters whose time had come. But, when my mind was pondering on where I should spread her ashes, the options were nearly limitless, complicating my decision.  Abby, and her older sister Tess, had shared hundreds of days afield with me, in many locations.  Blue grouse, sharptail, pheasants, sage grouse and Hungarians in Montana, grouse and woodcock in Minnesota, quail in Kansas, chukars in Idaho and Wyoming and ptarmigan in Colorado.  Abby and I averaged about 45 days each fall together, often sharing a bed and a corn dog on the ride home.  I decided that I would bury Abby on my property, under a Ponderosa tree, allowing me to visit her grave in perpetuity.

Abby was a quirky little girl.  She pointed shadows and bugs on the wall. But, she was steady on point, so why mess with that?  Abby also had a fairly annoying habit of carrying shoes around the house, which was a pain when you wanted to leave in a hurry, but were missing one shoe.  Again, she was the best retrieving setter I have had, so what the heck.

Abby was 11, which is on the older end of the spectrum for a hunting dog. But, she was the younger of my two setter girls, so I was leaning on her to be my primary hunting companion this fall. She was showing some signs of slowing down this September, especially on long, tough climbs for blue grouse. I blamed a lot of her sluggishness on the unusually warm weather, but now I know the problem ran deeper.  Her last bird was a blue grouse that she pointed for me in the Little Belt Mountains.  That is another reason that this tale is not sad, but a celebration of a bird dog's life.  Her greatest passion was the same as mine: hunting wild birds in wild places. Abby had a great life.  Nothing sad about that. 


Sunday, June 18, 2017

Introducing Toby

Outside of a newborn baby, nothing can excite (and disrupt) a household more than a new puppy. After a year of researching Ryman setter breeders, getting on a waiting list and a long flight home to Montana with a whining pup under the seat, Toby the English Setter is home.

Perhaps more than any other, there is a lot of variation in the breed. Why the classic Ryman variety, vs. the more available Llewellyn and field trial stock? Mostly range and speed.  Having had both the 40 pound firecrackers and the 65 pound plodders, I have seen the trend with the small-frame,  big-running dogs running faster and wider. My preference is for an all-day hunting dog, not a 60-minute field-trial sprinter. On many blue grouse and chukar climbs, you leave the car at 8AM and return at dark.

Yes, training can dictate a lot when it comes to range and biddability. But, you can't make a race horse out of a plow horse. Genes are a big part of it.  If I only hunted Huns on the prairie, I wouldn't mind a pointing dog 800+ yards and occasionally out of sight.  But, when you also hunt ruffed grouse in the Midwest and blue grouse in the high country, a compromise is needed. Since the 80s, my Dad and I have had a variety of setters, mostly good, with a couple of stinkers in the mix.  All of this is good bar discussion and comes down to personal preference.  Just don't get me started on the Cover Dog moniker. Don't we all want a cover dog?

Back to Toby.  Toby comes from well-planned dog genes, a product of Firelight Setters in Kansas and October setters of Idaho.  Both large frame breeders, with beautiful ticking, Toby would look the part in Norman Rockwell or on a George Bird Evens dust jacket.  The fact that both breeders are avid bird hunters, on on wild birds, is an added strength.  Toby will see his share of sharptail this fall.  And, if he develops as expected, he may get a shot at some woodcock and ruffs, Huns, chukar and bobwhite too.

As far as the household being disrupted, a late September baby boy will need to play nice with the setter pup.  To be continued.......


Thursday, April 13, 2017

The Orange Army


I received this photo today via a constant contact email from a conservation group.  Credit to YoTut/Flicker.

My first reaction was of concern for the dog.  My second thought was if that is the only bird hunting I had left to do, I think I might take up golf instead. 

I understand pheasants that run during late season, corporate outing ass-kissing, hunters paying for success, etc.  And, I also know the reaction to my criticism: we need to stick together as hunters.  Sure, we do in most cases. I concede this is hunting to most folks and there isn't much unethical about it.  Heck, the dog might be having a blast (just as long as it doesn't get blasted). 

I hunted with a party of 12 once in college. We pushed Southwest Minnesota CRP fields with a handful of hyper flushing dogs.  I can recall about six or seven shots whenever a bird flushed.  When the second hen was shot (they were not legal fare) I sneaked off to my Chevy Blazer and found my own place to hunt. No thanks.

What say you?  Do you enjoy these large groups?  Are you a driver or poster?  Would you let your dog cast side to side in front of a large group, possibly with strangers?  

To each his own.


Thursday, February 9, 2017

Still Learning Stuff

 I find it both fascinating and encouraging that after 32 years or so of trying to get a shotgun pointed at a flying, wild game bird, I am still learning.  I am not sure if the chess masters learn every possible move within the game, but they must see a lot of the same tactics over and over.  At least the master checkers players, I would assume.  Tic-tac-toe for sure. Regardless, if we knew everything that bird hunting had to offer, it wouldn't be as exciting and fresh.

Now that I am OFFICIALLY done hunting for this season (I considered the final weekend of the Nevada chukar season last weekend), I can reflect on what transpired, both good and bad.  I managed to fit in a little bit of work around a lot of driving, many nights in cheap motels and a lot of hours in the Toyota listening to a balance of election bickering, fantasy hockey talk and new Chainsmoker songs on XM radio.

Woodcock. I finally conceded that the woodcock hunting around our grouse camp in Minnesota will never be as good as it was back in the late 80s and early 90s.  Sure, you can time the flights just right for a couple of days and feel like the birds are everywhere.  We moved plenty of woodcock in October to feel good about shooting a few that the old dogs had nailed, but it wasn't like the good ol' days, when the season opened on September 1st, the limit was five a day and guys shot a box of shells before noon.  No wonder all of our dogs went deaf at age eight.

Speaking of deafness, it is making an appearance. Oddly enough, it showed up in my Dad at age 70 this fall and by golly, I can tell that my hearing in my barrel-facing left ear, isn't as good as my leeward right ear.  Not a major deficit yet and no, I haven't worn ear protection bird hunting. Shooting skeet yes, but not afield.  I may regret that, sooner rather than later.


Wild Bobwhite. Nearly extinct.  Release birds only.  All on private land. Texas.  Habitat loss.

I have heard the doom and gloom, since I was old enough to read outdoor sporting mags.  I had no desire, nor the money to travel to Texas or Georgia and pay to hunt quail.   But, with a little guidance from a quail-crazy friend, some good luck, and one foot after the other, I had a great Kansas trip hunting bobs.  They were just as dog-friendly as grouse and woodcock up north and it was a special hunt as my two old setters were a perfect team. My only regret is that I didn't take Dad.


Chukar.  My chukar addiction was not quenched this fall, whatsoever.  I only had one real chukar trip this fall and I wasted a lot of time in new spots and previously successful areas were not as bountiful as previous years.  Other trips were cut short due to winter weather or bad roads.  I learned that the season can be pretty much over with one heavy snowfall. I don't mind hunting in snow, but at some point, you start to feel for the birds and the dogs.  It has been a long winter in parts of Idaho, Utah and Nevada and I hope spring comes early.

I learned that not everything from California is bad.  California / valley quail are pretty neat birds.  It is common in Montana to cringe, whenever the California moniker is used, but when a wintry chukar hunt forced me to veer south into the quail country of southern Idaho, I fell in love with the little bird.  In fact, my 13-year old setter Tess, finished her season, and possibly her career, bringing me back a valley quail that I could not find in the brush.   I was proud of her and was able to check a bird off the life list.



As of now, the bird season in Montana is only six and a half months away.  I can't wait to enter another season and learn a few more things.


Monday, January 2, 2017

Can't Always Tough It Out

Should have stayed south.  I was into some valley quail in southern Idaho before New Year's. There was some snow on the ground, but not enough to tire the dogs or make the hunting impossible. The motel was cheap, there was plenty of public ground nearby and a relaxing hot springs next door. But, the plan was to work my way north and get into some chukars, a bird that I can't stop thinking about. I knew there was more snow than normal across most of central Idaho, but I was OK with it.  When things get tough........

Long story short, the hiking was miserable.  The snow was so deep that Abby walked in my tracks.  I had packed snowshoes, but the sidehills were just to steep for them to work.  I saw very few birds and those I did spot, simply walked away.  Hopeless feeling.

Regardless, it was good exercise in beautiful country.  I am afraid that this is the end of my hunting for the year. I also worry about the long winter ahead for many of the gamebirds in parts of Idaho and Montana.  I won't get into the debate of whether or not we should hunt birds when winter is starting to take its toll. That discussion is going on in another blog that many of us follow.  All I know is that my hunt today wasn't fair chase.  At least not fair to me.  The chukars kicked my butt all over the mountain!

Happy New Year.




Sunday, December 18, 2016

Old Dogs New Birds

I had been planning a road trip out of Montana the second weekend in December, looking to hunt chukars in either Oregon, Idaho or an even more distant Nevada.  As is often the case in December and January, a large winter storm can change plans quickly. But, for us stubborn bird hunters that cannot get enough, I had to find an alternative plan to heading west.  Hunting in cold and snow is one thing, but 8 hours on icy roads is another.


All autumn, I had read good reports of quail in Kansas, Oklahoma and Texas and when I looked at the forecast, the temperatures in Kansas were in the fifties for the duration of my five day weekend. I dreaded a 1,000 mile trip to hunt three days, but once again, I dedicated my mission to two old setters that deserved to hunt somewhere.  Mileage, motels, gas and a nonresident license all add up quickly, but no one knows what next season brings for birds, dogs and us.  

I still managed to find icy roads in both Montana and Wyoming, so I didn't complete the journey in one day.  But, I knew my aging dogs would limit my time in the field anyway, so getting a later start that first day, wasn't too alarming.  With the beauty of technology, I was able to order my Kansas hunting license and download the Walk In hunting atlas to my Iphone, all why driving through busy Denver traffic. (Just kidding. I did it in my motel that evening. But, Denver traffic was horrible. And the Kansas Walk In map app is awesome) By, 9AM Saturday morning, I was hunting in a shirt and without gloves, while my friends back home were shoveling snow off their sidewalks.



I missed the first chance at quail due to a terrible case of anxiousness.  Both barrels were emptied to no avail.  But, my entire trip was made just a few minutes later, as I shot a double over my 12 year-old Tess, when the birds decided to sit tight and even fly my direction.  I gave Tess a quick hug and took the five-ounce bird from her jaws and had Abby find the second.  It was a great start to a trip that was fairly ad-libbed.

My assumption on how this trip would unfold,  would be to find some pheasants scattered amidst the private lands open to public, walk-in hunting. I assumed I would find an occasional covey of bobwhite if I burnt enough boot leather.  I was hoping to add the bird to my life list, as I had only shot Mearns quail roughly 15 years earlier.   As it turned out, this would end up being a bobwhite hunt first, with pheasants more of a ancillary discovery.

I shot very poorly, but it was often a case of the yips, combined with the excitement of abundant coveys  and good dog work.  Once I decided to focus on quail instead of pheasants, I left my 20 gauge in the truck, dumped 28 gauge shells in my vest and shot markedly better with the lighter, faster over-under.

The hunting and the terrain was very gentlemanly, just like I had read for years in the high-society sporting magazines. While my setters were in good shape for their age, the Kansas terrain benefitted them greatly compared to the chukar hills of the West.  I had never imagine that I would be able to cough up enough cash to have a southern plantation hunt, so to find huntable, wild bobwhite populations on land open to the public, was a very pleasant surprise.  My truck odometer and bank account both took a serious hit, but the odds of returning to Kansas in the future, when Mother Nature is unfriendly in the northern latitudes, are very good.  Long live bobwhite quail.