Feeding Raw No more baked dog food!

The Cowboy

I was in New Mexico and the hunting was good. On the last day of a week-long Scaled and Gamble’s Quail hunt, I was due to take the drive to Arizona to see another friend and chase some Mearns Quail. That morning, the weather took a turn, and the weather-guessers started getting all riled up about “a major storm” moving in. I figured I could at least get a few hours in on some spots and then hit the road. I called my buddy and he said, “I can’t go today, Randy. A friend called and has 30 or so cows he hasn’t messed with all year that need branding before the State finds out they are not. I need to go help him. I don’t think they’ve seen a human in months. This should be good. Why don’t you come by?” And, just like that, this middle Georgia redneck became a cowboy.

I bundled the dogs in the back of the truck and drove to the ranch house. I only knew one guy there. I was the guy with hunting boots and no cowboy hat. It was colder than a well-digger’s back pocket and the wind kept increasing. The storm was supposed to arrive in earnest around noon. Even with all that, I was surprised at the number of people there, especially the women and children. The cowboys brought their wives and children- even some four, five, and six year olds. The little girls had dresses, hats, and cowboy boots and the boys were all carbon copies of their dads- even down to the belt buckles and folding knives. I wasn’t too sure they weren’t chewing something, too. Everyone was bundled up pretty good.

Horses were saddled to push the cows into the chutes, and lariats were unrolled to rope the calves and get them on the ground to vaccinate and brand them- and castrate the males. The women and girls were assigned that task, while the men and boys worked on moving the enclosed adults in to the chutes headed to vaccinations and branding. It was highly organized chaos. All this took place inside a maze of six foot high steel fencing with gates and separate corrals. Everyone,

it seemed, knew what to do- except me. One grizzled veteran, the owner, ambled over to me and handed me a plastic pole. He said it would be helpful if I could stand along the chute, on a ledge, and when told to, tap whatever cow they told me to on the rear end with that short pole to keep them moving. “Be careful with the end of that. It’s got a good punch to it.”

The propane flame started up (I learned later the usual wood fire was deemed impractical in the 30 to 40 mph winds), and the branding irons were laid out to heat up. The horses and riders moved slowly into the large catch pen and began separating the calves and moving the adults in to the chutes. The noise of the cows and calves bawling was constant and loud, until it was just tuned out. I watched one male calf get roped and led in to a separate small corral while a man walked the rope down and picked him up and laid him on his side. Then the cowboy stretched the calf out while lying alongside him and the woman branded him and vaccinated him. Another woman removed what needed removing and sprayed the incisions with antiseptic. The entire operation lasted a few minutes, and the calf was let up and led over to a larger pen and released. I noticed one little cowgirl watch intently as mom performed the procedure, then she started crying and ran away. Mom immediately went to her and picked her up and gave her a hug and set her down with her older sister. Sis took the little one’s hand as they joined mom again. It was ok after that. From top to bottom, the little girl was cowboy hat, thick coat, dress out the bottom, and cowboy boots. She had heart-breaker written all over her. The boys were a little more stoic with hats as big as them and hands in jeans pockets as they followed dad.

Back on the chute, I was dutifully ready with my stick as the line of cows came though the narrow chute one-by-one on the way to the squeeze chute. There they were held while a cowboy applied the brand to their right rear hip. Once that was done, the cow was released into a bigger corral and the next cow was brought up. These cattle had horns wider than the chutes, and it never seemed to be an issue that they would get caught up on gates or each other. But I was careful to pay attention to what was happening around me. Once, a cow stood on her hind legs for a minute before she dropped back into the chute. I noticed that action elicited a few shouts from the cowboys. I was careful to stay out of the way, off the ground, and ready with my little stick. I was happy to be ignored during the seeming confusion and noise, as I took it all in.

Once. a thousand-pound cow wandered in to the calf area with the women and kids. Where she came from, I have no idea, but two cowboys jumped up, opened a gate, and herded her back in to the chutes. Moms and kids never stopped working.

You lookin' at me?

The temperature dropped as the day wore on. The calf operation finished and the women and girls disappeared. Clouds thickened and it was obvious snow was coming. The last of the cows were in the chute. I’d been told to tap a few of the cows on their rear a few times to keep them moving. Each time it did the trick. The end was in sight. “Hey, Randy, do you want to brand a cow?” a cowboy yelled over the wind. “Heck yeah!” I yelled as I jumped off my station. I watched a few times up close, then the grizzled guy handed me a poker with the end red-hot. “Push that on the cow and hold it to the count of three. He’s gonna jump some, so don’t let it come off him or move around. Put it right there,” he pointed at a spot on the cow. I did what I was told and noticed two things immediately. One, that cow was huge. Big, Muscled. Two, she didn’t like it. I pulled the branding iron off her side and was handed another. It was a two part brand and had to be put in the proper spot. I applied the second one with confidence as the cow protested a bit. As soon as I pulled the second one off, the squeeze chute opened and the cow came out and, thankfully, kept going. “Great job, cowboy, let’s go get some food!” the grizzled cowboy said. Rapidly, the set up was broken down and put away, and we all drove to the ranch house.

Everyone was inside the warmth of the house. A fire was going strong, the kids were playing, the kitchen was crowded with cooks and pots and pans were moved around. Beer appeared from somewhere and the conversation was constant. The grizzled old cowboy turned out to be the owner of the ranch, from one of the original ranch families on the Llano Estacado in New Mexico. There were sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters present with neighbors and friends sprinkled throughout the group. I was welcomed completely and regaled with tales and stories about ranch life. The stories were all amazing, and I wondered if I wasn’t being played with a bit.

The old man stood up and the house got quiet. He thanked God for the successful branding and keeping everyone safe, and asked for blessings for everyone there, and thank You for the food. We all said “Amen”. When the food came, it was steaks, beans, salad, and mountain oysters. The beer was cold and the house was almost as warm as the fellowship. I realized what a special treat I’d experienced that day.

After dinner, I had to get on the road. The storm was arriving and I had to drive right into the teeth of it before the roads became impassable. Regretfully, I made my goodbyes with the men and women.  One young man, maybe six years old, came over, hat low on his eyes. He stuck out his hand, raised his head and looked me in the eye, stuck his hand out, and said, as serious as a judge, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Randy. I hope you come back.” I squeezed his hand a little and said, “I hope so too, son. Thank you.” He nodded that cowboy hat one time and walked away. I glanced up at dad and saw the pride he had in his boy, the future of his ranch.

I got into my truck as a real New Mexico blizzard arrived. The North wind was howling as I pulled onto the two-lane headed to Arizona. Just to be clear, I never did then, nor do I now, consider myself a cowboy.  But, I sure saw some real-life cowboys, cowgirls, and ranchers in action. I was warm inside and thankful for what I just experienced. It was a piece of real America.

Sunday Quiet

Sunday Quiet

 

I sat in the choir room, in the back corner, and waited for the next church service.  I enjoyed my quiet time- the key words are “my” and “quiet”, and I enjoyed singing in the choir.  Every Sunday I was home I would show up at 8 a.m. and join the choir for all three services. I attended the middle service after the choir sang at the beginning.  It was a normal, comfortable routine.  When not singing or attending the service, I found a nice, quiet corner in the back of the choir room to read.  

 

One day, an old man came in the room and walked over and sat down a few chairs away.  I can’t remember how it started, but my quiet time between the 8 a.m. and 9:30 a.m. services changed.  Vern, that was his name, was 88 years old.  His wife died the year before, and it was hard on him.  He dressed in a black suit, white shirt and tie.  Week after week, on Sunday mornings, he would find me out and come sit next to me.  We would talk about whatever came to his mind.  He was a veteran of the Navy.  He was in a minesweeper.  “The only wooden ships left in the Navy,” he would say.  He would tell me about the big storms they went through, how the ship almost rolled over, the different troubles they had, and how he was commended for his service by the Commanding Officer. He brought in the actual Commendation, yellowed and typed on an actual typewriter, and proudly read it to me. 

 

Vern grew up on a small farm in Nebraska, one of seven children. He was the only surviving child. He told me about each one of his siblings, how one married and had all girls, and one had all boys, with amazement in his voice.  He told me about life on the farm. He told me about the Oregon Trail, how it cut through their farm, and how you can even see the ruts left in the dirt.   Once he and his sister had to go out and double feed the cows when a particularly bad blizzard was settling in.  He was about 10 and his sister was 12.  After they rolled the hay off the back of the old truck, they headed back the five miles to the house and realized the road was drifted over and they couldn’t see it.  In addition, they couldn’t see through the windshield with the snow and ice sticking to it. So, Vern got out on the running board, while his sister drove, and he gave her directions.  They ended up driving across the pasture, into the teeth of the storm, to a cross fence, then driving the fence line a mile until they hit a road that was protected in the river bottom.  Vern got down and pulled the staples from the barbed wire post so they could drive through the fence and on to the road and make their way home.  He said his feet were frostbitten so bad, the bottom layer of skin came off a week later. He said it hurt pretty bad. 

 

His stories and adventures were entertaining.  Some were funny, some bittersweet, but I never doubted they were true.  One story about a mule had me shaking my head and laughing at the same time.  

 

“The County Fair was a big event every year,” he told me.  They had the usual events with cows, sheep, and pigs.  Kids would show their animals for ribbons.  Moms would bake pies and Dads would go to the turkey shoot.  One event that intrigued Vern was the Quarter Horse race.  The organizers would get eight or ten horses lined up and would lead them out with a Pace Horse around a track.  When the Pace Horse got to the start line, it would pull off the course and the Quarter Horses would take off, finishing in front of the stands.  There was a cash prize for each race with six races in a day. 

 

One day, Vern rode their mule, Bob, to the Fair.  He asked to enter the race, and was told, “Sure, we have room, kid.”  So, Vern rode Bob to the track.  He got some looks riding Bob, the mule.  He and Bob were in the gaggle of Quarter Horses when they hit the start line.  The Pace Horse veered off the course and the horses took off.  Vern was riding bareback with no bridle, and when the horses took off, Bob took off too and Vern went off the back.  He got up, dusted himself off and watched as riderless-Bob won the race by three lengths. The people in the stands were cheering and laughing in equal parts.  They’d never seen a mule run like that.  Vern was hoping he’d made some money, but they said no.  Only First Place got money, and they had a rule about riderless mules, or horses for that matter. 

 

He caught Bob, and this time he borrowed a rope and looped it around Bob’s neck.  “I wasn’t going to let that jerk drop me like that again!” he said. The next race, he noticed the crowd doubled in size and he heard the words “mule” and “Bob” and “fast”.  He was a veteran racer now, and he was ready when the herd took off.  He thinks Bob took offense to his whooping and kicking, because for the rest of the races he never finished higher than third and only first place got the money.  Vern laughed when he remembered his Dad saying, “a lot of money was won and lost on that mule that day!” 

 

Vern and I still see each other every Sunday.  Like old friends, I’ve heard his stories many times.  I don’t need to do much more than nod and pay attention and sometimes ask the appropriate question at the appropriate time.  When he tells me about how he gives every grandchild a new $2 bill every Christmas and they think it’s fake money, I laugh.  I will help him with his dealings with the Veteran’s Administration and check to make sure he’s doing what he needs to get his disability payments.  

 

It occurred to me I was looking forward to listening to Vern on Sundays.  Then, it occurred to me Vern was a good friend.  He is an old man that wanted someone to talk to, and I’m the one that got blessed. 

Learn to Love the Hunt- the Zen of Bird Hunting

 Love the Hunt

If you can learn to love the hunt, you'll hunt longer, happier, with more contentment, and with more energy than if you only love the covey rise.

I can remember many days of long walks, driving to different spots, talking with farmers and ranchers in small town cafes, and getting ‘hot tips’ from those I met along the way.  Most of the hot tips turned out to be over-grazed pastures long devoid of any gamebird.  And, upon reflection, I was never really upset at that.  Most times, after the realization I’d been led astray, the situation would elicit a rueful chuckle and a grudging acknowledgement that it’s only natural to protect a good hunting area.  I thought most of those times, the hot spot in question probably was, at one time, a great place to turn out a dog.

 

Montana, the Dakotas, the Sandhills, and the Grasslands saw many days of long casts with good dogs hunting hard.  Occasionally, we would stumble across birds of one variety or another, but usually it would be tired dogs and legs when we reached the truck again.  As I look back, I remember thinking, “I didn’t find any birds this cast (or even this day!), but I did find where they weren’t.”   Slowly, I was learning what wasn’t good habitat.  The days of walking grazed-over pastures became fewer and fewer- unless we crested a hill to the view of a plum-choked coulee crowded with Sharptail Grouse, or a fence protecting a grassy section of land bordering a cut corn field with Prairie Chickens flying back into the grass from the corn.  In the Dakotas, a brushy ditch bordering a cut wheat field may meander out-of-sight from the road, full of Pheasant and discoverable only by a trudge through the wheat.  

 

Sometimes the habitat was obviously good.  The rain came in quantity and at the right time, and the grass was tall.  Seeds that lay dormant for years finally sprouted in the desert Southwest, and the sand was covered with brown grass producing the next crop of seeds for the next year’s rainfall.  Also, nutritious food for the local quail. But those days and years were rare as hen’s teeth.  I tried to enjoy them as much as possible. 

 

I began to realize that what I most fondly remembered overall was the great surprise of cresting a hill after an hour of slogging through hills and cactus and watering my dogs every twenty minutes, to a scene of diked alfalfa fields on a creek I didn’t know were there. Then, two hours of shooting Sharptail Grouse and Hungarian Partridge while the dogs hit the creek when they got hot.   

 

Looking back, I smiled at the small victory of finding a place not well known by other travelling bird hunters.  The only way I found it was by putting a dog or two on the ground heading into the wind.  I realized my best memories were of times when I wanted to turn around and head back, but suddenly the beeper, or GPS pager alerted me to a dog on point.  

 

Perhaps only a third of the long slogs bore the fruit of a new hunting area, but those new areas elicited an excitement and protectiveness that never went away.  It took a lot of shoe leather to find them, and once marked on the GPS, or the BLM map, or Gazetteer, they were always cherished locations.  

 

While the thrill of a gamebird flush and harvest is exciting, I grew to realize that the search, or hunt, itself is what I remembered. I now understand my motivation behind endless walks with bird dogs in hopes of finding a new area.  I know the ability to go farther, longer, and more often is spurred by the satisfaction of putting the dog noses in the gamebird scent cone.  I like the whooshing sound of the quail covey as much as the next hunter.  Or the cackling and cursing of the seriously upset rooster Pheasant rising out of the shrub. Or the laughing and mocking “nuh-huh-huh” of the Sharptail Grouse rising from the grass alongside the alfalfa dikes. They all bring smiles.  

 

The motivation is truly in the hunt itself.  The memories of long walks with my many different dogs over the years in all kinds of weather and terrain is the motivation for the present season. 

Red Hat

 Red Hat

Christmas is over, New Year celebrations are finished, and my season has about a month and a half to go.   That is only because I'm willing to drive to New Mexico and Arizona to chase (and I use that word literally) Gambels and Scaled Quail.  While I was perusing catalogs for potential gifts for the spousal unit, I came across an ad for the Red Hat Beanie. Intrigued, I delved into the advertising, then I went to the website (https://redhatfactory.com/) and read about the product and the history behind it.  

My Westcoaster Cap

I had to laugh at some of the videos.  The host was the "son" of the "Mom and Son" team of Norwegians.  The bottom line is he started a cottage industry of women in Norway who knit.  During the long winters, many women will knit everyday, providing clothing for their families.  Benjamin Antoni, the Son, recruited several women to knit five different styles of beanies, or caps.  They use local wool with 80%-100% of the cap made with wool.  The cap I have is called the Westcoaster.  It's 100% wool, fits perfectly above or over the ears, and is designed for cold temperatures. All the caps come in several colors, and various thicknesses. Each cap comes with some stickers and with a card signed by the woman that knit the cap- also it indicated my cap took 4 hours to knit. There are no tags on the cap- each one is handmade and a one-off. 

I really like mine.  I have several all wool watch caps, but this one is softer and thicker than any of them.  My recommendation is to do yourself a favor and get one for yourself or your significant other.  You will be glad you did.  And watch the videos, they are hilarious.  

Note:  Not compensated in any way

The Good Place

The Good Place 

 

There is a place.  Sometimes, when I’m driving or daydreaming or thinking about places to visit again, this place pops into my head.  It’s in the mountains, about 7500’ elevation.  It’s a mix of Aspen and conifers and sage and grass.  The Aspen hide springs, water for the cows, deer, elk, and, best of all, Dusky Grouse.  The grass is knee high in places, other places the grass is barely ankle high.  Always the conifers are close by. There is not too much sage at this place.  Other nice places have the sage flats border the conifers with a creek in the area.  It seems water, grass or sage, and conifers are all required.  In this place, the Aspens hide the water, giving protection from the hawks and avian predators.  

 

From the truck, parked along a road, there is no mercy for the hunter, as the trail immediately starts angling up.  Before long, after two or three rest/breathing stops, the view behind is spectacular with sharp mountains, alpine meadows, accented by the ever-present sound of  flowing water. Ahead, the course is up, and more up.

 

This place is where, at different times, three of my dogs pointed and retrieved their first Dusky Grouse.  I can’t remember ever putting out at this spot and not coming back with at least two birds in the bag.  One year, I had three in the bag, and I had to climb out of a bottom back up to the road and my truck.  Dusky Grouse are a substantial bird, about the size of a Mallard duck.  That was a lot of bird in the bird bag.   It was a slow climb out, especially when I could clearly see the end, 500 feet farther up the mountain.  It was a lesson I learned well that day.  In the mountains, for me, I will try to take on the hard part first, and I won’t give up one foot in elevation if I don’t need to.

  YouTube Channel

 

My mind drifts back to my last hunt there with my pup, JD, a 1 1/2-year-old female Brit. Up and up we climbed as JD ran ahead and down and back up the ridgeline we were hiking.  Along the top of the ridge the angle lowered a bit, as JD ran ahead into the conifers and back out into the meadow.  I wasn’t expecting birds at this point.  Usually, I would reach the apex of the ridge and start back down into some Aspen groves where the birds would be eating and watering.  My other dogs, Blue and Shack, both had tremendous success in the Aspen groves.  Most times we would encounter family groups of 6-10 birds. Today, JD and I reached the top and I stopped to look down on the Aspen thickets along the edge of the mountain, interspersed with conifer forest. I could go downhill and walk through three or four thickets on the way down to the bowl. The same one I climbed out of a few years prior.  But I wanted to go farther along the ridge to where it drops into a big Aspen thicket.  I turned to continue along the now-level ridge when my GPS beeped. JD was pointed at the edge of the conifers 100 yards dead ahead.  I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was steady, since the GPS updated every 2.5 seconds.  Finally, I saw her through the trees, staunch and looking into the trees.  Just then, four birds flushed off the ground away from me and disappeared.  Two more flushed out of a tree above the ground birds and headed right to me.  I think they were focused on the pointed Brit, since they came right over my head. A tough shot for me normally, but that day I made it look easy. 

JD, Ducky Grouse, 28 ga.

I trained her to retrieve the summer prior, and she loved it.  She hit that bird and flipped over the top of it.  She is not a big dog, and I wondered if she would carry the big grouse.  That was a non-issue, and she put the bird in my hand.  We had a lovefest right there on the mountain.  Then we dropped off to the Aspen groves below. The young girl bumped a bird in the tall grass around the Aspen and stopped to watch it fly off.  Then, she was staunch on another bird in the tall grass on the other side of the Aspen. The bird flushed and I got lucky to hit it just before it rounded a big Fir tree. JD made another solid retrieve, and I loaded that bird up as I stopped to assess my location.  I was halfway down to the bottom of the bowl with two Dusky Grouse in my bird bag.  We discussed it and decided this would be a good time to turn back to the truck.  It was a hard sell to the little Brit, but I convinced her we were just hunting in a different direction.  She bought it. 

 

By the time we reached the truck, I was tired of lugging the big birds.  JD was not tired at all and ready for another trek up the mountain.  This place yielded birds once again.  It’s a special place.  There are other places in the area, some not far away.  But this is what flashes in my brain throughout the hot summer.  Aspen, conifer, grass, sage, roaring creeks, and Dusky Grouse. 

Digging Holes- A Good Death

Digging Holes

 

If you have bird dogs, many or just one, eventually time will run out.  It’s a sad fact that from a tiny puppy to digging a hole in the pasture is a span of time measured in “not long enough”. When they start hunting for you at a year old, until they are the senior dog asleep in the front seat awaiting the call 12 years later, they work their hearts out, and they deserve a good ending.  “A good death” is the phrase.  My Germanic ancestors call it “dying well”. 

 

We have a dog cemetery, here on the farm.  I picked a copse of pines in the pasture and almost all our dogs are buried there. One died in Montana many years ago and is buried overlooking the Missouri River alongside an ancient Buffalo jump. Until recently, all the others are buried in the pasture.  Then cremation became an option.  I didn’t even know that was a thing until I took a very sick dog to the Auburn University Vet School. The dog passed away (with us holding her).  They offered cremation.  A few weeks later, Pearl came back home in a small, wooden box.  Since then, Ruby joined Pearl and it won’t be long before Cap is there, as well. They are lined up on the walnut writing desk my father made back over 75 years ago. 

 

A good death.  I want that for all my dogs.  I’ll admit, 40 years ago I thought the way to end a dog’s life was to take it to the vet, let them take it to the back, and take the body home and bury it.  I knew that was a tremendous stride forward from the way my father ended the matter.  He wouldn’t dream of spending money to end a dog’s life.  He took care of it.  

 

But I came to realize how hard they worked for me and how much I was their entire world.  It seemed so cold and impersonal to end it on the stainless table in a place they fear.  Now, they are in my lap in my truck (where they spent so much of their life).  I hold their head, so they don’t even see the administration of the drug cocktail.  The last thing they see, hear, and smell is me.  My wife is even more demanding.  Her dogs are euthanized in our living room in her lap. Recently, her big Lab passed away on its own with my wife holding her head.  I never had a dog pass away on its own.  I wish they all went like that.  I was dispatched to the cemetery to dig another hole. 

 

A good death.  Our bird dogs deserve it.  It takes some courage to make sure it happens the right way.  Years down the road, remembering the dog’s life will always be accompanied by remembering its death.  Make it a good one.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blue Grouse Hunting in Wyoming

Snakes

Snakes

 

“Cheh... Cheh………Cheh.”  

 

“That’s a weird bird noise,” I thought to myself.  Cheh..Cheh..Cheh, Cheh.   “It must be some sort of Prairie Dog, or bird, or something.”  I noticed the volume and frequency both increased just a bit while I was thinking about it.  

 

This was Grouse Camp.  I was in the high, hill country in Wyoming with six other bird dog enthusiasts.  We were in a great area for Hungarian Partridge, but still in the grass so there were no Sage Grouse (no Sage) and no Dusky Grouse (no Sage and no Fir trees).  The grass that year was lush and very tall, in some areas waist high. My little girl, JD, and I were taking a casual stroll by ourselves.  I had no expectations for her, I was just working on her quartering, keeping me in sight and in front.  It was a very pleasant and warmish day at about 7500’ elevation. Being a flatlander, it amazed me the power of the western sun.  The sky is so clear and blue, and, with low humidity, there is nothing to moderate the sun’s rays.  Even though the temperature was pleasant, outside the shade it was approaching hot. 

YouTube Channel

 

We made a circular cast about a mile in length.  We were on our way back to the gaggle of trucks on the horizon.  I could just barely see JD and only about half the time.  I noticed she had the range and direction out from me perfectly figured out.  I was daydreaming about some inconsequential thing when I heard the first sound that puzzled me.  “Cheh……Cheh…...Cheh.”  While wondering about the unusual noise, I was quickly drawn back to the present, and I took stock of my immediate surroundings.  I was in tall grass that came about to my thigh.  It was very thick, and I couldn’t see the ground.  I was standing next to a green shrub of about two feet and next to the shrub was a low, natural stone wall about three feet tall that ran parallel to my course.  I heard the noise again, this time a little more insistent.  “CHEH…Cheh, Cheh, Cheh! 

 

I hadn’t moved since hearing the sound the first time. Now, I began to localize the whereabouts of the sound.  It was to my right, in the direction of the stone wall.  I was wearing my sound attenuators, molded earpieces that protect my ears from the gunshots.  The weird thing was that I could only hear the noise out of my right earpiece, but not the left.  Without moving too much, I looked down to my feet.  I could barely see them, and I did not move them.  At all.  The bush was to my right, the wall was to my right, the noise was to my right.  And now the noise became insistent!  CHEHCHEHCHEHCHEH, until became one noise, loud and long. 

 

I finally realized I had a rattler, very close and very pissed off. That was about the time the hair went up on the back of my neck.  I knew there was danger close. I knew he was upset and trying to give me every chance to leave.  The problem was I didn’t know where he was! I thought I knew the direction, but was I willing to bet a snakebite on what I thought I knew? Just about then, in my mind, I imagined the “whack” of the strike on my right shin and the emergency it would create way up there in the Wyoming mountains.  (It’s amazing what can flash through the mind in the blink of an eye!)  I looked up and saw JD coming to me about 100 yards away.  I realized then I was on high alert, and I needed to act before the dog got to me.   

 

It was time to decide.  I held my breath and, took a giant step forward with my right leg. Immediately, the buzzing stopped!  I looked to JD, took another step and strode off to meet her and keep her out of the area. We evacuated the area with intention.  

 

I realized the snake was probably only a foot or less away from me when I stopped.  I couldn’t see him, but he knew right where I was.  I was lucky I didn’t step on him.  I’m glad he chose to warn me, rather than strike immediately.  That’s one reason I think it was a mature snake. I’m thankful it worked out the way it did.  He didn’t need to strike me, and I didn’t need to remove his head from his body- and the dog stayed safe.  Everyone did what needed to be done, and we were all OK. It did cross my mind about snake avoidance training and whether, in this case, if would have worked for JD.  I’ve seen it work first-hand while hunting but moving fast through that thick cover would be a worst-case scenario. 

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Over the years, I have seen many snakes ,usually in Montana for some reason, mainly Prairie Rattlers.  I have stepped over Rattlers, canoed by Moccasins, field trialed by Eastern Diamondbacks. I attempt to stay out of “snakey” areas, and I don’t worry too much about it. This situation ended well and merely added a story to the logbook.  Bird hunting is 99% benign, but there is always that 1% buffoonery factor that keeps it interesting. 

 

 

The Red-Legged Devil

Chukar

 

“So, down this hill is a bench.  Along that bench, there is usually a covey of Chukar. Once we get down there, we can walk along the bench and let the dogs find the birds.  Easy, peasy!”

 

The day was sunny and cool.  A perfect day for bird hunting in Wyoming.  My friend, a resident of the Cowboy State and bird hunter, was driving me around in his 6X6 and pointing out places he found birds in the past. In the past few days, we found numerous Hungarian Partridge coveys and even a large grumbling of Sage Grouse.  It was a bird hunter’s dream that year.  Chukar were one gamebird that I had very little contact with- the lone exception being a covey in Idaho one year.  I was eager to get another shot at them. 

Randy heading for the bench.

 

Chukar are a non-native partridge introduced to this country back in 1893.  Originally, the birds were imported from Pakistan. The initial introduction had poor success, and in 1931 through 1970 they were re-introduced throughout the West. Interestingly, I read that one way they were distributed was by train, and I have this visual in my head of Game and Fish workers emptying crates of birds from a moving train.  This time the program was a resounding success and California, Idaho, Nevada, Washington, Arizona, Colorado, Montana, Oregon, Utah, Wyoming, and the 6 major Hawaiian islands have stable populations.  In Wyoming in particular, Chukar from India and Turkey were grown at the state game farm and released though 1977.  The population is large enough for successful hunting seasons.  The main contributor to a population decline year-over-year is the weather.  One hard winter can knock back the overall population severely. 

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That day, my friend and I set off down the slope to the mythical “bench”.  Walking was easy as we dodged the Sage brush and kept an eye out for the dogs.  JD, my 2-year-old, was a bold and eager female Brittany. My friend had his 2-year-old female Setter on the ground. They worked well together, meaning they were all business and didn’t follow each other around. 

 

The hill steepened as we descended and little fingers, or draws, took form on either side of us.  Both dogs became really interested in a flattish area (the bench) about 40 yards in front. Suddenly, 15 Chukar blew out in all directions, but mainly downhill across a draw and up a steep hillside. I took my time and dropped one as it crossed right to left.  It hit the ground hard across a small draw.  I marked the downed bird, and took a bead on another bird that got up behind me.  I was twisted around and out of position as I pulled the trigger, and the bird flew on- for two more seconds until my friend’s 16 ga. connected and he dropped. I called my dog in for the retrieve as a few more birds got up around us.  I watched as my friend shot a bird that was going directly away from him.  The bird folded and dropped, and dropped, and finally hit the opposing hillside with a deep ditch between.  I couldn’t see it on the ground, but he marked it and set out to retrieve it.  At this point, he had one Chukar in the bag and one on the ground across the deep ditch on the opposing hillside. I had one on the ground, and I called JD in for the retrieve.  I walked to where I saw it hit the ground, saw feathers, and called JD in to the spot.  “Dead bird, girl!” I said. She started searching the area. We couldn’t find that bird.  We spent a fair amount of time there.  Finally, we moved on, as I mentally marked the spot to come back later. Just then, another bird got up out of the Sage and flew directly away from me.  My 28 ga. caught him at 20 yards, and he dropped like a stone on the hillside we were on. JD saw the fall and passed me to get the retrieve.  Once again, I got to the spot, saw feathers but no bird.  In addition, I had no dog either. Darn it!  I whistled for JD and called her to come in and find that dead bird. I really did not want to lose this one. As I waited, I looked across the deep draw for my friend as he went to retrieve his second bird.  I laughed because he was on his butt, sliding slowly down the steep hillside into the bottom. I knew there was a story in the making there. 

Looking back up from the bench.

 

My attention turned to my own downed bird and non-existent bird dog.  I was getting a little miffed. Bird dogs should make the retrieve.  I looked under every bush.  I heard movement from my right and downhill toward the draw.  A second later, JD walked up out of the draw with a Chukar in her mouth.  She handed it to me.  Hey, boss, here’s your bird.  Chagrined at my own impatience, I reached down to love on her and gave her some water.  She did exactly what she was trained to do.  Good girl. 

 

I couldn’t see my buddy down in the deep draw, but I kept him in mind as I moved across the bench with JD out front. She locked up across a smaller ditch and I moved with intention to get to her. Before I could reach her, a small covey flushed about 40 yards in front of her. They walked out from under her nose before they flushed.  

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Meanwhile, my friend showed up with his second bird in the bag.  We backtracked to re-visit the site of my first downed bird, the one I couldn’t find.  We still had no luck.  It was time to head back up the substantial hill to the mule.  It would have been so easy to keep following those red-legged devils.  But every step downhill meant another step uphill to get home. I turned and started the slog back to the top. 

 

After watering ourselves and the dogs, and re-living the shooting and retrieving and general buffoonery, we commenced the serious climb back up.  Two steps into the ordeal, a Chukar flushed at my feet and flew to the right.  The 28 ga. came up and barked twice.  The Chukar laughed as he made his escape down the mountain and up the other side. I may have muttered an adult phrase as both hunters and both bird dogs watched the bird fly away unmolested. 

 

Heavy breathing and frequent breaks marked the climb out.  After climbing most of the way, JD swung past me and locked up across a small ditch in the grass.  Immediately, I thought, “My wounded bird.”, and I started to her.  A covey of Hungarian Partridge blew up in front of me and I lifted the double-gun to my shoulder. This time, I dropped two birds and JD retrieved both to hand. We watered together and continued the uphill ordeal back to the road. 

 

Finally, we reached the two-track and our ride.  We relived the event, laughing at the slide down the mountain for the retrieve in the ditch, the total whiff of the bird that got up at my feet, the excellent retrieve by JD, and the bonus covey of Huns halfway back up the mountain. That seat in the UTV never felt so good.  

 

Chukar hunting is a young man’s game.  I think those dedicated to chasing the bird must be as tough as they are.  I have great respect for them. They say you hunt Chukar the first time for fun- the second time for revenge.  I believe that. 

 

 

Friends

Friends

 

One beautiful Fall day I was working with my dogs along the Snake River in Idaho.  When I could find access to public land, I would hunt down to the water’s edge. Valley Quail and Hungarian Partridge were having a great season that year.  The issue wasn’t finding numerous coveys but finding them on accessible land. Generally, we hunted between the Snake River and the access roads or canals that followed alongside the big river.  I love the Snake. There was occasional ice in it, due to a cold snap, and the big, deep river was impressive. My dog, Ace, flushed a covey of Huns off the bank and watched them fly across the river.  I watched as he hit the water and started after them, pushing little chunks of ice out of the way.  He was a few yards out when I called him back.  He gave the covey one last look as he came back to the shore begrudgingly.  

 

I knew a few people out there and gave them a call inviting them to come down and hunt with us. I never wanted to be the guy that only called to find places to hunt, so they were always invited to come hunt with me. That year a few did come down to run their dogs. We had a blast.  One friend took us to Chukar country. I shot my first Chukar over my year-old Brit, Cap, on the side of a lava boulder over a roaring creek.  It snowed the day before we arrived and the sunny days after the snow caused all the creeks to swell. Before Cap and I found the Chukar covey, we had to drop into a deep ditch and get over that roaring creek.  I ended up tossing him over, while I waded through it holding on to Alder branches- just accepting the wet feet.  We climbed up the other side of the ditch, and we were on our way to Chukar heaven.  

Ace
Photo by Nancy Whitehead

 Another friend was a beginning quail hunter, and we mentioned we heard about a spot that sounded pretty good for Valley Quail.  Off we went, shotguns in hand and bird dogs in tow.  At the end of the two days, an unofficial count was 42 points on coveys and singles.  We didn’t count backing dogs.  I never thought that Idaho would be a quail mecca.  Valley Quail became a new favorite for me.  It was fun watching them run across the road in their huge coveys.  Oddly, for a western quail, they held very tight, and we had some incredible dog work.  It was not uncommon to have a pointing dog and one or two backing dogs with one of us in the picture and one holding the camera and the birds holding tight.  It was a good year for them. 

 

We drove North into the mountains to socialize with a few more friends.  We ate Mexican food, of all things, near a ski resort in the Idaho mountains. The food was pretty good and the company better. The next morning, we awoke to nearly two feet of fresh snow. The powder was over the running board and up against the doors of my 6-hole Jones dog trailer. It was a blast watching the Brits jump out of their boxes and get swallowed up by the new powder.  Our hosts said it would be no problem getting back to quail country, as the snowplow was driven by their son.  It’s nice to know people.

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The mountain friends came down to hunt some Valley Quail and we moved farther west along the Snake.  We hunted between two high walls of lava rock with the powerful river moving between.  There was enough land on either side of the river to have a road on both sides with occasional irrigated farmland and canals. We hunted up the base of the cliffs and found old rock walls and stone structures.  The dogs did well finding birds.  Ace, my Brit, and my friend’s big setter worked well together pointing and backing each other.  They didn’t miss many birds between them. We had a great time walking along the river in amazingly beautiful country.  

Ace

 

As the sun began to drop below the canyon walls, we worked back to the trucks.  I gave a blast on the whistle a few minutes earlier and checked my early model GPS tracker to make sure Ace turned and started back.  I wasn’t paying close attention to him as he was my best bird dog, very experienced and reliable.  As we arrived at the parked trucks, I checked the tracker again and saw he was over a mile away and going in the wrong direction.  The sun was below the rim of the cliffs of the river, the temperature was dropping rapidly, the breeze picked up, and just about then the wolves started yipping.  I assumed they were coyotes, but my hunting partner corrected me.  Calling and whistling caused Ace to stop and circle, but then he would move away from us again.  I was becoming pretty concerned for my dog.  My imagination took over and I said to the group, “I’ll bet the wolves have him, and they’re running away!”  My friend Bob, said, “They aren’t that brave or bold.  It takes them a while circling and pondering before they move in.  I think he’s fine.  Get in my truck.  Let’s go get him.”  It was black as ink by then.  There was no moon, only the stars.  I jumped in his brand-new pickup, and he tore off down the two-track in the direction of my lost dog.  Thankfully, I still had a GPS lock on him-nearly two miles now down the river valley. The track opened to some crop land, and we saw another truck coming.  Bob flashed his lights and stopped him.  “Have you seen a dog around here?” No response.  Finally, Bob said “Perro?”  “No, Senor, no perro.”  We looked at Ace’s track and Bob said, “Hang on!”  He turned off the road with that new F-150 and we cut across fields and sage flats keeping an eye on the tracker and up ahead in the high beams.  We reached a ditch we couldn’t drive across. Bob said he would follow along the ditch with his truck until he could find a way across.  I said I’d take his flashlight, shotgun, and a pocket of shells, jump the ditch and follow Ace’s GPS track until I found him.  Off we went, me on the ground and Bob driving off along the ditch. I still remember the sinking feeling I got as his taillights disappeared and I was looking at the stars and big blank areas that were the canyon walls.  It wasn’t long before I stumbled onto a two-track we didn’t know was there.  It became clear then that Ace was running the road confused by the sounds, calls, and whistles bouncing off the valley walls.  I shot up in the air in his direction and I watched him on my GPS stop then circle.  One more shotgun blast and the distance started decreasing.  He was on his way back.  I watched the distance count down while I stood in the middle of the two-track and flashed my light up the road.  A few minutes later, my big, concerned-but-happy Brit trotted around the corner. I set Bob’s gun down and sat down with my dog for a grateful prayer.  Both of us were happy to just sit together in the dark.  We listened to the wolves yipping and howling while the river hissed by, and I told him he was on probation.  Again.  Finally, headlights appeared, and Bob’s not-so-new-anymore truck came around the corner.  He was as happy as me. I don’t think there is anything more concerning to a bird hunter than a lost dog, or anything more joyful as one found. 

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Those Idaho friends are a special lot to me. I appreciate every one of them, and most of all, one that would say, “Get in.  Let’s go get him!”  A good wife, some good friends, and a few good bird dogs make a good life all that much better.  

 

 

 

Looking Ahead

Looking Ahead

 

I took a phone call the other day from a bird hunting friend out in Arizona.   He and his wife were traveling to Dallas, from Tucson, to visit family.  We got through all the usual ‘How’s-it-going?’s and chit chat. Then, he got to the meat of the matter.  “Randy, if something were to happen to us on this trip, would you mind going to our house and taking our dogs home with you?”    I said, “Of course I will do that!  Make sure you leave my name and number laying around your house.  Don’t worry about the pups. I’ll take care of them. You know how highly I think of them both.”  “That’s a load off my mind, then.  I’ll see you for the Mearns opener in December” he said. I never asked him where that idea came from, but he’s a retired Air Force fighter pilot, so, like me, he tends to look ahead and have a plan. When I was an intrepid Naval Aviator, back in the day, we would joke with one another before we launched off the carrier.  In typical morbid, male humor we would ask the rhetorical question, “Hey, man, if you don’t come back, can I have your stereo?”  Somehow that sent a signal we cared about each other. 

 

I never took a phone call like that before. My friend is older than me, and we are both seeing friends drop like flies at this age.  It only makes sense some of them would be bird hunters and have dogs.  It also makes sense to make plans for their care should something unexpected happen.  My wife has a list of priorities for my future-orphaned dogs.  The older ones will stay with her.  The young ones will go to bird hunting friends she knows will take care of them.  With only three dogs on the string, it won’t be too tough to manage.  I laughingly told her to offer some GPS waypoints to sweeten the pot, but for goodness’ sake don’t throw in any of my “$200” shotguns! 

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I know several men and women with kennels full of their own dogs. That would be a completely different situation than mine.  The best case would be an advance warning of the impending doom.  The worst case, of course, would be a phone call at 2 a.m.  It would be comforting to know a plan was in place to take care of the bird dogs. 

 

Wally and Shack

I have a just-turned-2-year-old on board.  This coming season, I’m anticipating good things in her work.  If she is a good as my expectations, I’ll be enjoying the next 10 years with her.  When she passes, I’ll be 83.  Should I get another puppy when she turns 5, like I would normally do?  Dumb question.  Of course I will.  But I will make sure I have arrangements made for her in case she out-lives me. I think it’s only prudent to plan, if you are ancient.  Even if you are still relatively young, a few ideas for your spouse would be welcome.  At least discuss it with your wife, husband, significant other.  Give them some sort of rough idea what they should do.  

 

While my friend and I are long removed from our cockpits, he finally answered that age-old fighter pilot question.  “If I don’t make it, come get my dogs and take care of them,” he said.  Will do, brother.