Nothing To Brag About

There has been some name-calling recently among some of the wingshooting bloggers.  The monikers of braggart and poser have risen. Well, to avoid being called the former, I should reveal how I recently came home with my tail between my legs from a recent Colorado outing.  I spent over $1000, drove over 1,200 miles and came home with one bird. That bird was a lowly blue grouse, a species that I could have bagged over my lunch hour at home. (oops, that sounds a bit like bragging)

My plan was to drive the 12 hours south, to look for ptarmigan in Colorado.  It was definitely a bucket list bird, one of those trips you just can't put off for another year.  With seasoned 10-year old and 12-year old dogs, I had wished my interest would have taken hold a year or two sooner. It would have also been nice to take along my Dad, who hunts as hard as anyone at age 70, but it wasn't meant to be.  I decided to leave town alone, only with Abby, the younger setter.

I got to Aspen late Saturday afternoon, without enough time to scout the area.  I had some leads on areas to explore, more less a direction to start, not with GPS coordinates from someone else who had the good fortune of ptarmigan sightings or kills.  I didn't bring binoculars either; I wanted this to be a true bird hunt, with the dog doing the bird-finding and me doing my part with the 20 gauge.

Heading to my Rocky Mountain High, I knew just a few important details: ptarmigan were mostly above 11,000 feet in elevation, roughly 350 birds were harvested annually, and often they were found in wilderness areas.  The last detail meant that all dogs were required to be on a leash.  I cheated and grabbed a really long leash, a 30 foot check cord, but what a hassle that would still turn out to be.  I was in decent shape from running all summer, but I was more worried about Abby's paws, as a lot of our hunting would be in sharp, unforgiving rock.

Like a football coach's playbook, day one was according to plan. I drove to the highest pass possible, about 12,000 feet above sea level and took off with plenty of liquids, beef jerky and a sandwich.   My usual MO is to keep walking until I find birds.  The walking wasn't bad.  The bird finding proved to be difficult.  I hunted up to about 13,400', back down to 11K, and up again. I told myself if they were still in their brown plumage, maybe they were hiding in rocks near ridgelines. Nope.  The lush willow and tundra ground cover seemed inviting.  More food, more insects for young birds.  They didn't seem to care of any of that business either.  I don't think I ever cussed so much that day. Not because of the hiking or lack of birds, but because of that #$@$!*& check cord which would repeatedly get caught up in the boulders or stunted trees.  Who makes these rules anyway? I walked from 8AM-2PM and called it a day. With one ten year-old dog, I knew I couldn't run her into the ground on the first day. I returned to my vehicle, confusing some tourists that were appalled that I was hunting in their nature preserve. I wanted to tell them that this wasn't Yosemite National Park, but I bit my tongue and headed back to my over-priced Aspen hotel.

Day two was more of a bust than day one.  I had taken a lead from a local who had seen birds up a certain drainage a year or two earlier.  The road I chose never came close to tree-line and became a two-track nightmare before I turned around.  The wild goose chase ended up costing me three hours of my second and final day in CO. I returned to my previous day's destination, hunting in a different direction from where I parked the Toyota earlier.  I was an hour into my walk, when thunder from a cloud at my very elevation spooked me back to the car. Being on the top of a bald ridge at 13,000+ feet was the worst possible place to be.  Game over.  Checking ptarmigan off the list wasn't meant to be.

When the quick-moving storm passed, the blue grouse I did shoot gave me a split-second of excitement when Abby became birdy. But, I knew I was too low for it to be a ptarmigan.  I also saw a good-sized black bear, but most importantly, I saw a high-altitude bowl that I vowed I would return to some day.  Unfortunately, that day will be when I am one year older, most likely with a dog that is just learning the ropes.  While in the short term I regret my lack of success from a cost-benefit perspective, I look forward to the challenge again some day.

Serious Planning

Seems like a waste of time, at the very least, a waste of bandwidth.  But, for some reason, I already have a bit of the fall fever, even though the Montana upland season doesn't open until September 1st and western chukar seasons don't open until later.  Regardless, I have been easing my pain with checking a handful of webcams from around the country, just taking a peek at the habitat, seeing if Minnesota ruffed grouse country looks too wet or just right, checking to see if chukar country has completely dried up yet or much worse, burned up.  I don't ever expect to actually see birds parading by the camera, but if I did, well, that would make my day. Maybe I would screenshot the image, Snapchat, tweet, or something else that seems really techie and cool. So far, things are looking good.

The planning phase is already in high gear.  I have marked days on the calendar, warned my employer and spouse that certain dates are non-negotiable.  Last fall, I used the excuse of aging dogs to get afield every possibly moment. I did pretty well, hunting about 50 days in four states. But, if you consider that was over the course of six months, I could have hunted more. Should have hunted more.  Now, with my same two dogs approaching ten and twelve, my rationale for hitting the road is even more solid.

Montana blue grouse and Idaho/Wyoming/Oregon chukar are at the top of my list again. The endless public land hiking in rugged, beautiful country keeps me awake at night.  Abby, the youngster at 10, may be my only dog on the ground for those long treks, unfortunately.
I will probably spend five or six days in MN  hunting grouse and woodcock, as that is more forgiving ground to hunt and Tess can partake in shorter hunts if needed. I missed the bulk of the woodcock flight last year, so I hope I time it better this year. I also hope I don't have another timberwolf encounter mid-point. That could have been the tragic end for one of my setters.
I have added Colorado ptarmigan to my fall agenda.  I guess the P is silent? I really don't know what to expect, except for the fact that you hike uphill, take a left, continue to hike uphill and then the birds are only a couple thousand feet in elevation above you.  Should be interesting, but again, I don't think my old girl can safely accompany me on those all-day hunts.  

Sure, I will hunt Montana pheasants, sharptail and Huns plenty. Might even take someone out to shoot their bucket-list sage grouse. But, those birds don't offer the mystique and the challenge of the others right now.  And, I can hunt them next season, when my dogs are really old.

Bird Hunting Is Cool

Without a doubt, fly fishing is en vogue. Has been for quite awhile. It doesn't hurt when someone like Brad Pitt has a starring role in a movie where he has great hair and good skill on the water, neither of which I can offer.  If you look online, you discover endless videos, blogs and digital magazines with bearded, PBR-drinking hipsters landing trout in exotic locales such as British Columbia, Alaska,  Argentina, and Belize. (don't confuse hipster beards with Duck Dynasty beards. the former is well-trimmed, the latter ain't) Attend any local fly fishing film tour event and you see a whole lot of Simms and Subarus.

Bird hunting has never really had that demographic.  The average DIY upland bird hunter from my view is usually Bob Whitebread, the middle-aged teacher who hunts on the cheap, packs his lunches and buys his field loads at Wal-Mart. Bob isn't afraid to walk all day for a few chances at wild birds on public land.  Bob is a lot like my Dad who was a county worker his whole life and will go to his grave never having paid to hunt pheasants and wouldn't step into a Starbucks, mostly out of fear of not knowing how to order.

Age is also a big part of the traveling bird-hunting crowd that we all know.  Starting in about 1991, when I was limping to western ND from college in MN to hunt pheasants, I realized I was always the youngest bird hunter in the cafe's and $35 motels.  Youngest by a long shot.  Now that I am in my 40s, I am still often shortest in the tooth in upland circles.  I know- be careful what you wish for.  One day I will wake up and wish I could keep up with those whippersnappers in their 50s.  As we know from our dogs, life flies by.

The wingshooting scene might be evolving. Bird hunting is gaining steam as the grass-root, outdoor-active, organic-food,  sporting tradition that it is.  Michael Keaton is a bird chaser.  This past fall, Andrew Bourdain filmed an episode of his travel show in central Montana. Peyton Manning is reportedly a bird hunter, when he isn't setting NFL records.   And, when you get time, check out the work that Project Upland is doing.  The great video is being produced with the Ruffed Grouse Society in conjunction with hipster beards.

What does this mean? Is it good for the future of bird hunting?

I think it is. While many of us would rather not have more people show up to pheasant opener in Smalltown, ND, USA, we do need more hunters in our ranks overall, especially from urban areas.  There are many Hollywood elites or big city dwellers that think fly-fishing is a beautiful art, but view any form of hunting as cruel and barbaric.  If we can bridge that gap with a trendy, nouveau generation, than I am all for it. Even if they are cooler and younger than me.


http://projectupland.com/bird-hunting-videos/partridge-hunting/

The Big Basin

Since the upland season was closed in Montana and there was too much snow in my Idaho haunts, I had to look elsewhere for my bird fix.  This time of year I am fairly busy and I was approaching Madoff type financial waste in hotels, gasoline and nonresident licenses, so I could have easily stayed home. But, when I look at my setters' aging, sad eyes, I couldn't stay home.
It left me with Utah or Wyoming chukars. Wyoming was an easy drive, Utah about a day's drive.  I chose the Cowboy State and got out my maps, hopped on the internet, and devised a plan.  Basically, all of my resources said the same thing: there are chukars scattered throughout the Bighorn Basin. Before you SMH, as the kids say, for my possible hot-spotting, look on a map. The Basin is roughly 10,000 square miles and not all of it screams chukars. In fact, in two January trips there, I spent equal time driving as I did hunting.  It took me quite awhile to realize that the Idaho/Oregon chukar habitat that I was looking for, doesn't really exist in Wyoming.  Instead of looking for 45 degrees slopes which rose from large watersheds, I was settling for gradual ridges, with occasional stock tanks and creeks that probably were dry most of the summer.  Cheatgrass was still present, as were scattered sage brush and rocky knobs which we chukar hunters have seen chukars scamper over in our dreams. 

I saw just enough birds to give me that fire of wanting more.  I won't give Wyoming a 10 out of 10 for chukar habitat or upland hunting in general. Sure there are pockets of great pheasant hunting, healthy numbers of sage grouse and good mountain grouse hunting. But, overall there is a lifetime of arid range land that requires a lot of sifting through.  I don't mind walking miles between coveys of Huns or chukars.  But, if one is having more dry runs than fruitful walks, you begin to question if this is the best use of your time and your dogs' paws.   The birds I shot were in far corners of the Basin, in some fairly nondescript habitat. Now, as February sets in, I won't have another chance to explore and learn more until next season.  Maybe I head to Utah next weekend. That season does remain open until February 15th........

Yes, I Am Seeing Somebody Else

       900 miles on the road, three nights in a motel, 7 hours of hunting. If you do the cost/benefit analysis, it would prove to be a poor choice of a New Year's weekend, both fiscally and time-wise.  But, I would do it again in a heartbeat.  In fact, I spent the past two evenings, studying maps of chukar ground in Wyoming and Utah.  Oregon is too far, Montana numbers too spotty to expect a good hunt.  My wife thinks I am nuts, but in a cute way.  I think.

Speaking of the Mrs., she finally came with me this past trip to Idaho.  She didn't explain herself, but I am quite sure it was to check up on on me.  Seven trips to chukar country the past couple of years, often by myself,  all in wintry weather, without a full limit of eight birds ever captured.  Something was amiss.  So, when she said she was coming along to check things out in this state that was suddenly better than Montana, I had to accommodate her. 

Leaving at 6AM, the morning after New Year's hijinks was the first test. And she was ready to go, without a complaint. Freezing fog in Butte made for some white-knuckle driving conditions, but she kept the faith.  When the Toyota's console read -20 below at the mountain pass on the border, she simply said, "This is too cold to hunt, right?"  

Overall, the hunting trip was a compromise.  We wined and dined, did a lot of hot-tubbing and hot-springing and did some hiking.  My hiking with guns and dogs was limited to about two hours a day.  Some of it was fairly difficult. Almost dumb.  I looked hard for south-facing slopes and tried to pattern the birds based on snow depth, maximum sun exposure and food.  That equation was more complex too, as I found some birds on the canyon roads, some at the top of the mountain in 18" of snow.  The latter birds I really felt sorry for as I could almost run them down in the fluffy powder. My setters also had to work harder than normal, but our days were short.  

When I wrapped up the hunt Sunday, I felt it was time to admit the season was over.  Laura had tagged along, pretended she enjoyed seeing what it was like on the chukar mountain and took some video.  But, it was more work staying upright than it should have been.  Now, less than a week later, I am not so sure.  If my dogs and I all get a vote, it is probably unanimous that I study those maps a little more. 

Just A Taste Of It

I had originally planned to head west for chukars when things started to wind down in Montana.  Those "things" included upland birds in Montana, like Huns, sharptail and pheasants.  Why leave birds to find birds, right? (see previous post on ruffed grouse) I also consider myself an occasional big game hunter, but mostly for the privilege of having deer or elk meat in the freezer.  Horns, not so important to me.  As you probably know. the dogs would prefer that I only hunted things with wings.

Well, I have never been great at delayed gratification.  My alibis were: 1) there wasn't enough snow to really track elk in the mountains of central Montana and 2) there would be plenty of time to shoot a deer over Thanksgiving weekend.  I also wanted to get to Idaho before snows would hinder my chukar hunting amidst the steep terrain.  Out of four trips to hunt chukars the previous fall, I hunted in substantial snow in three of them.  It wasn't a complete barrier to success, but the snow did add a bit of extra effort and danger to the hiking.

The trip for me was a solo one, which was fine.  When it came to chukar hunting, I had learned that it really wasn't for everyone.  The days were long, the miles were hard and the shooting was quite challenging.  When I am alone, I don't mind exploring new ground, with the possibility of completely striking out.  My Dad had the same philosophy for years, as he searched for the holy grail of ruffed grouse coverts, much to the benefit of others.  Now I can return the favor and get my hunting partners into birds with more consistency.

Some things never change, as I had ice-covered highways to travel over and there was even some snow on the chukar hills when I arrived. But, by the end of the first day of hunting, most of the snow had melted or disappeared via sublimation.  It was a fruitful trip overall, as I had found some birds in a new location and crossed off one possible chukar hotspot from the list, as the cover was sparse and we didn't put up any birds.  I made sure the dogs got into plenty of birds before the trip wrapped up as we hunted known milk runs where the only disappointment was my shooting.  

Overall, it didn't do much for whetting my chukar appetite. Now I just need this deer and elk hunting to wrap up.

A Ruff Time

The trip to Dad's grouse camp in northern MN is always a bit of a 180 from the Montana upland scene. His camp is a speck of private ground, amidst thousands of acres of public land.  Hence, there is no begging for access, no worry about fence lines and property lines, and very little competition.  This is where I grew up, where my Dad and I have spent 30 years of weekends and holidays.  Dad has pages of detailed hunting journals and his own records of drumming counts and grouse cycle statistics.  In other words, this is our home arena.

The dogs also seem to enjoy the chance of pace.  They get to sleep by a wood stove, they eat table scraps that would feed some entire families and the ground is fairly forgiving, moist and shady, compared to rocky and rugged in Montana.  There are very few stickers and burrs to bury themselves in the long setter fur, no rattlesnakes or cactus to worry about. Wolves are my biggest concern and with gunshots, beeper collars and some loud voices, the odds are slim that one will have an encounter.

We seem to have missed the major woodcocks flights, but encountered a few each day.  Grouse were up slightly from 2014 (5% up according to the grouse professor). The dog work was good; many prairie dogs struggle with pace and range in the northern grouse woods, but with dogs that are both in their twilight, they worked at just the right cadence.

The negatives will haunt me for a year, until I return to Minnesota.  It was actually just one negative: my shooting.  I can still see Tess on point, on the edge between scattered popple and a expansive cedar swamp. As Tess was locked up, I prepared myself for a shot, but stepping into a clearing and onto a slight mound.  Not one grouse rose, but two, giving the grouse hunter a rare, very rare, true double on ruffed grouse.  Boom Boom.  I choked.  I rushed my shot on the first bird and then in a panic, missed the second also. No excuses.  This wasn't my first hunt in the woods. I spent more time in those woods than should have been allowed. If this was hockey, I would have been benched.

It wasn't the only miss or screw-up that I recall from that trip either. Is my hearing fading? If you can't hear a bird flush immediately, you are giving that bird a huge advantage. My reflexes? I hope not. I can still beat my Mom in tennis. Maybe.  Then again,  is no more challenging bird to get a bead on than a fast-flying grouse in thick cover.  Maybe I am just forgetting that detail.  A pheasant or sharptail is not very sporty over a point, compared to ruffs. Woodcock are even a notch below ruffs, especially when the leaves are mostly gone from the landscape. I also had two reloads that didn't fire.  That is also maddening, when you consider you drive 12 hours and might get six to twelve opportunities on grouse per day.  I also spent too much time trying to get video this trip as well.  Attempting to get a dog on a point, a bird flying and a subsequent clean kill on camera, is as tough as it gets in the world of cinematography.  But, my footage of the dogs, hunters and camp shenanigans are priceless.

Great trip overall, one that makes me appreciate where I grew up, how I was raised, and every dog that I have shared those favorite coverts with.