NSTRA: Working a Stubborn Bird

Scott Townsend and Jimmy working at finding a buried up bird.  It takes a staunch dog and a savvy handler to make it all work out. In this case, it all worked according to plan. #nstra #abirdhuntersthoughts

Dressing For Success

The title is really a misnomer. Well dressed to the eastern grouse hunter means something entirely different to the Chukar hunter of Idaho.  Old pictures of the southern quail hunting gentleman show breeches, high lace-up leather boots, corduroy jacket, button-up shirt with a tie, broad brim hat, and a light double gun.  The dress for an Arizona desert quail hunter may include snake chaps, jeans, short-sleeved shirt, strap vest, and broad brim hat.  A South Dakota pheasant hunter's dress might be what's called functional- what works to stay warm, or cool at the Opener, and a gun big enough to drop a wily rooster at 40 yards.  That being said, I fall into the middle somewhere.

2001 at a Field Trial

It's hard to beat jeans.  They are cool when it's hot, warm when it's cool, and comfortable all the time.  Bo and I were at a field trial in the warm weather.  No briars, no sticky things at all. It was dry and the walking was easy.  Jeans and a t-shirt and ball cap were perfect for the day.  Notice the leather gloves.  I'm addicted to leather gloves.  A certain kind- made from deer hide.  They seem to last about a season or two, deflect briars, and allow me to hold the gun tightly in all types of weather.  Once, In New Mexico, I took a Blue Quail, shot by a friend of mine,  from my dog, and I tossed it to him.  He reached out to grab it, glove-less, and dropped it like a hot potato.  He swore, "Dang! Check those things for sand spurs before you toss them!"  "Sorry!" I said, "I couldn't tell it rolled in sand spurs!"  Gloves are an everyday item for me.

Mearns hunting on the Opener 2019 Warm Weather

Jeans, gloves, t-shirt (the wicking kind), good sunglasses, broad-brim hat (it keeps the dermatologist happy), solid vest (WingWorks), and double gun make the Mearns hills and draws in Arizona much more comfortable.

Shelby and me South Dakota. Temps 20's to 40's

Moving into the mid temperature range, it seems I'm always where the wind blows, as well.  Shelby and I are in South Dakota with temperatures in the 20's to 40's, and windy all the time.  She, and her husband Matthew, are proponents of the slip-on chaps.  When I would hunt the briar-filled draws of my Georgia clear-cut lease, back in the early 90's, I wore a pair of Double Tin chaps by Filson.  I still have them and they are perfectly functional (with a little duct tape around the bottoms to allay the shredding caused by briars.), but these days I forgo the chaps for functional pants to lessen weight and binding while walking.  I found a company in Oregon (Kuhl) that makes the perfect mid-weight hunting pants.  They are not water proof (They do have a waterproof variety.), but they don't reach out and suck up dampness like jeans, they can take a fair amount of cold wind, and will deflect a moderate amount of briars and New Mexico vegetation. They make shorts out of the same fabric.  I wear them all summer long, and will field trial in them on those hot afternoons when I'm questioning the wisdom of wandering around in the heat.

Shack and me. Kuhl down jacket. 

A windproof, light jacket with layers underneath is a must.  I have an Orvis jacket (above) with a cotton shirt and wool pullover sweater underneath.  My normal leather gloves were replaced with gloves my kids got me for wet, cold weather- Gore Tex lined shooting gloves.  I was trying them out- loved 'em. A friend gave me a Gamehide upland jacket and it works as well as the Orvis jacket, and has big pockets, game bag, etc.  Broad-brim hat, sunglasses, and vest, of course.

I had to go to the "big hat" theme when they started cutting pre-cancerous stuff off me.  Most old men that have had an outdoor life will understand. (Young bucks! Wear a big hat, sunscreen, and ear protection.  Don't be an idiot.)  I've worn one for many years- different types, shapes, and fabrics.  My current fav is a crushable, felt hat that will take a lot of abuse and still look pretty good after I shake it out. Typically, it will travel rolled up in my backpack on the plane heading out to fish, but fill out immediately when I pull it out.

BJ, my wife, and me.  South Dakota

Moving in to cold weather hunting, the key is layering.  The broad brim hat is gone because the wind was 20+ mph all day- replaced by a wool hat (actually TWO wool hats.  It was that cold.) I switched to the Gamehide jacket with layers- Merino wool pullover, cotton long sleeve polo, wool, Gore-Tex- lined, pullover sweater, and windproof shooting vest, all under the jacket.  The good thing about layering is being able to selectively shed garments as the day unfolds.  BJ is layered top to bottom in a similar fashion. Boots to chin, she's all Orvis for women. That black thing around our necks might be the single best cold weather piece of gear. Neck Gators. Up in Pierre, SD (pronounced “peer”, not a Frenchman’s name.) at Running's, they have an entire wall of these things. They are the bomb for staying warm in cold, windy conditions. They are also good for the occasional bank robbery.

Ruby, Shack, me in Nebraska with Prairie Chicken and Sharptail (Kuhl hunting pants)

South Dakota 2017 (LLBean wool pants)

Layering and wool solve a lot of dilemmas.  Wool sweater, wool and cotton underneath, wool pants (make sure you're not likely to be in briars all day), and you can see I've already shed my jacket (tied it on the back of my vest.). The ubiquitous leather gloves and sunglasses.

Sunglasses:  Back when my vision hovered around 20/15, and I thought I was bullet proof, I wouldn't wear sunglasses.  Now, my vision is NOT 20/15, and, in fact, to sharpen near and far vision, I wear bi-focals when I hunt.  It’s not a show-stopper during the day, to not wear sunglasses, but it sure sharpens things in the field.  I finally chose WileyX.  They are, literally, bullet-proof (well, close. They will stop a pellet to the eye.), they have all the UVA protections, are light, and stay in place.  (And the old Ball-and-Chain likes the way they look.)  Note: Be sure to get some yellow lenses for low light, cloudy days.  They really lighten everything up.  As I said, mine are prescription lenses.  None of them are cheap, but I like my eyes, and seeing is a good thing.

Boots: I've been all over the charts with boots. Rubber, leather, combination. Hiking, bird-hunting boots, Kangaroo leather, hand-made, custom fit, smooth bottom, aggressive tread, straight last, curved last, lace-up, zip up, slide in.  I learned one thing.  If they work for you, wear them.  I buy hiking boots.  I've found that most "bird hunting" boots fit some guy's idea of what we should encounter walking around a southern quail plantation to shoot, then climbing back on the mule-drawn wagon back to the "big house" for a finger or two of good Bourbon before lunch. In other words, they can't handle a season of hunting 4 or 5 different landscapes around the country.  My favorites for years were Danner Pronghorns, but I'd go through a a pair a year.  Lately, I’m currently wearing a pair of "Crispi" boots I got at Scheels.  Once again, they aren't cheap, but they won't make you rob a bank, either.

Does any of my fashion advice make me a better bird hunter?  My dogs think so, but you can't listen to them. They think everything I say is wise and wonderful.  (We gotta love them.) Clothing doesn't make the bird hunter. Whatever you feel comfortable wearing that will keep you cool in the warm fall weather and warm in the winter wind will work.  Nobody that's been doing this for any length of time cares what anyone else is wearing- they only care about what keeps them ready for the flush, is light enough to wear all day, and warm enough to keep them alert and not thinking about how cold and uncomfortable it is. So, the proper clothing will enhance your hunting, while on the other hand, poor clothing choices will make for a  miserable experience.
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An old grouse hunter told me, "Randy, when you meet a guy in the woods, look at his gloves, boots, and pants. If his gloves are well-used and cared for, his boots are scarred, but in good shape, and his pants are clean, patched and well-worn, you are most likely looking at a guy that knows what he's doing, and what he's talking about."  Like most advice coming from an old guy peeling an apple with a pocket knife, I thought it was worth passing on.

Ghosts

The truck was in sight.  I had a few birds in the bag, and my legs were like rubber.  Age was kind to me, but he was no gentleman.  There was no, “Would you mind if I cut down on your endurance year after year?” or “Please remember to write everything down, or I’ll have you standing in the kitchen wondering what you went there for- just a reminder.”  No, he was no gentleman.  It was the same every year, as I noticed tired legs, stopping to “catch my breath” while walking up hills I would jog up in past years, and forgetting obvious facts and names.  Even more telling, I noticed the young bucks I would hunt with were only making it up the hill about the same speed as me.  It struck me later they were waiting for me, watching out for the old man. Even Shelby, (a friend’s wife, and darned good hunting partner) would stop and gaze out over the land for a bit, ostensibly to check out the habitat, as I caught up.  (Dang twenty-somethings should learn to be a little more circumspect.) 

As I approach 70, I can see the faintest glimmer of the end in sight.  Some days, it’s a mere lightening of the sky and I push the thought from my mind. Other days, it’s a lightning bolt in front of my face.

Ruby (#2), Cap, Ace, and me.  North Dakota

I was close to the truck now, and Pearl, my little Brit female, ran ahead to find the water bucket I always set on the ground before I leave.  I watched her stick her head down and drink greedily, and I was reminded of past dogs, gone many years, who’d done the same thing.  Suddenly, Ace, my male Brittany, was right there.  Lying down in front of the bucket gulping huge chugs of water, too tired to even stand, his big, powerful body was sucking in the fluid.  He owned these Montana hills, year after year.  He was dead 5 years now, barely making it 10 years before the cancer took him.  But, at that moment, I could see him and hear him.  It was pleasant, but not- at the same time.  I forced myself back to the present.  I put a hand to Pearlie’s head, and told her what a good girl she was, and that her dad (Ace) would be very proud of her.  Ghosts.  Ace, and other dogs long-gone, in that spot and in other places in Montana, or Wisconsin, Minnesota, Oklahoma, or Kansas.  Old dogs, good dogs, brag dogs.  They own, forever, patches of land all over the country. 

 

Ace

The New Mexico sand hills region and oil patch is not the prettiest place I hunt every year.  It’s smelly, hot, cold, windy, pokey, dry, slicker than snot, and will tear up a truck and tires.  It is, most years, loaded with sand burrs, requiring a hunter boot the dogs every cast, and every plant or animal out there sticks, pokes, or bites. But, it is one of my favorites,  and it is loaded with Scaled (Blue) Quail.  Hunting it this year, I happened upon an area I remembered from 15 years ago.  On my first-ever trip to New Mexico, Bo, my setter male, ran off.  I combed the country talking to oil field workers, game wardens, even a live talk-show on the radio looking for him. Nothing, so far, but with all that hanging over my head and on my mind, I still put a dog on the ground.  Peaches was a big, white setter female.  With a great nose, and a wonderful personality, she was a pleasure. She hit the sand and grit with a long stride and determination.  We hunted a large circular course around several big pump jacks.  She pointed covey after covey that day.  I swear she was doing her best to take my mind off my lost dog.  My shooting was spectacular (for a rare change), and it took no time to bag a limit that day long ago. (Bo was found after a week. His adventure is the subject of another tale.)  This day, I off-loaded Shack, a big, male Brittany, a litter mate to Pearl.  I turned him loose and, as he made his way over a dune, I remembered Peaches slamming to a point on the top of that very dune, pinning a covey of Blues in the scrub just on the other side.  I smiled as I huffed to the top looking for Shack.  I was, sort of, hoping he’d be locked up on the 7^th generation of those Blues Peaches found years ago.  It wasn’t to be, but the thought kept Peaches with us that day, as Shack and I looped around the area.  Her ghost was whipping that tail back and forth, slowing and, finally, locking up- her long, feathered tail straight up at 12 o’clock.  Shack never saw her, but she was with us all day, off and on.  This spot in NM is where she was special.  She’s waiting there for me every year.  Even if I don’t show up in person, I can be there instantly with just a thought.  Peaches.  I smile when I remember driving down to Bronwood, in South Georgia, to get her out of a tremendous litter.  What a nose she had! 

Most of my days, now, hunting in North Dakota and Eastern Montana are spent behind my Brittanys.  But, in the early years, my male setter, Bo, was my go-to dog.  This year, I put Blue, a 2 year old Brittany, on the ground in a large Block Management area in Eastern Montana. As I looked up the gently sloping alfalfa field, it was easy to visualize old Bo cutting the field into manageable chunks and scanning the areas with his nose.  He was not a beautiful setter.  He had a tail with a bend over his back, but it never got high enough on point anyway.  When he hit scent, he froze. Instantly!  He would be twisted, front or rear low, head turned- an instant marble statue.  It’s not hard to feel the excitement, seeing him twisted like a pretzel, and knowing he doesn’t make mistakes.  This day, Blue hunted his heart out, running big and fast, with the energy only a 2 year old can muster.  He never saw his older brother working right alongside him, coaching, suggesting, and leading him to the back of the field and a covey of Sage Grouse that stayed close to their lek just off the plowed area.  The day, many years prior, when Bo first pointed them, he was 150 yards away, a white dot in the green.  When I got to him, 5 huge birds lumbered into the air.  I let them go, not sure what they were.  They were the first Sage Grouse I’d ever seen.  Later, I found out just how heavy they can be in the bird bag.  Good, old Bo. My only “cover dog” and National Champion. I drive past that field almost every year, Bo long since gone, while glancing at the hills hoping to glimpse a flash of white roaming the hills around that special spot. 

Me loving on Bo.  Montana

I don’t know if I’ll be able to return to several areas of the Wisconsin Grouse woods.  Not because I physically can’t, but because the memories are still too real.  Ruby, my first and best Setter, was an amazing dog.  Almost all white, with a little orange around her eyes, she was so classically beautiful on point, it took my breath away.  I bought her because I wanted a dog with a little more range than the Brittany male I started bird hunting with.  At 7 weeks old, driving back from Wade’s farm in Tennessee with her curled up in my lap, how could I know I was holding the best bird dog I might ever have? She was perfect every day.  When I decided to try hunting Wisconsin Ruffed Grouse, Ruby was there- ready to go. I would open the crate door and ask her, “Ready for another day, girl?”  Of course, she was always ready.  Years later, I took Shack and Cap, both accomplished male Brits, to the grouse woods.  I stayed in the usual motel, drove the usual roads, and let out at an intersection of roads and trails deep in the National Forest.  Both boys worked well.  I had no complaints about them- just that they weren’t Ruby.  Her memory came on strong as I was walking the hunter trails.  Her beeper (pre-GPS days) would go off, and I learned you’d better not hesitate getting to your dog in the thick woods, as the Ruffs would walk away, right from under a pointed dog, and then flush when they felt comfortable. I got my first double on Ruffed Grouse over her, and I re-lived it when I saw Cap moving through that same area.  He’s no slouch as a bird dog, but, if he could have seen her moving through the woods with him, like I did, he would have known he was watching perfection.  That little patch of clear cut is totally grown up now, but it will forever hold the memory of my all-white, perfect girl locked up on 6 Ruffs under a dead-fall, just off the gravel road, deep in the Wisconsin North Woods.

  

Ruby

At least 18 states hold bits of dogs long gone but seared into my memory.  I load up the dogs and ponder which of them will leave their ghost behind to haunt me in this particular part of the country. Perhaps none of them, but I know in my heart that won’t be the case.  These dogs are as accomplished as my earlier dogs ever were, and they’ll have their good days, stellar days, and leave their mark in the wheat fields, alder swamps, Arizona Mountains, alfalfa fields, or field trial grounds- just like the past dogs.  I realize that one day, as age creeps in, all I will have is the memories.  The body will give out and I will be forced to hang up the lead.  I reach to my right, as I drive off, to stroke the head of whichever dog earned front seat privileges that day, and I hope, one last time, to see a flash of white through the trees around the bend in the gravel road.  

(If you enjoyed this story, check out my book on Amazon-Click HERE.)

Mearns Quail and Blues! Arizona and New Mexico

Cap and Me in Mearns Country

Walking the Mearns Valley

The annual trip to Arizona coming, as it does, a few weeks prior to Christmas, is an exciting way to start the holidays, or end the Fall. I'm not sure which.  (Listen to the Podcast: https://anchor.fm/randy-schultz/episodes/Arizona-Mearns-Quail--Dec--2019-e9d1nh )  Either way, I really enjoy the rolling hills in the mountains of southern Arizona.  Mearns habitat, in this part of the world, must contain at least two ingredients shown in the picture above- the oak trees and the grass.  Mearns eat mainly tubers they dig up with an extended middle toe.  They leave little holes in the ground, under the oaks, where the tubers grow. Fresh holes mean a covey's been feeding there.

Male and female Mearns up against one of the oaks.

The ground varies between smooth volcanic cinder on the tops, to dirt in the valleys, to rocky jumbles on the hillsides. The rocky jumbles are the reason I don't like to hunt there in the rain, or when it's slick with snow.  At my age, I don't don't want to fall and break a hip! (Just kidding!  I really don't want to fall and break anything, at all!)

Shack, Moose, me

This year, Wally (my friend who's hunted these birds for 35+ years) decided to initiate a young man, John, from Arkansas,  into the Loyal Order of Mearns Hunters.  John rented a house in Patagonia for two weeks, and brought his wife and two children with him.  Now, that's optimism when looking for a niche bird! His dog, a Pudelpointer, Moose, was energetic, friendly, and had a great nose.  For a day or two, Moose got a lot of backing practice until he discovered the scent we were looking for. Once he figured that out, he was on his way!

John looking down at Cap on Point 30 yards farther down!

The first few days, we hunted in the same draws and canyon as the numerous hunters staying in campers, tents, etc.  Our results were similar to theirs, as well.  We logged 3 coveys the first day and 4 coveys the second day. Both days were cool in the morning and warm (70) in the afternoon.  The dogs were fit, but running up those steep hills in the heat took a toll on them.  It was tough.

John and Moose with his double!

We moved to higher country to avoid the crowds at lower elevation. Luckily, the day dawned cool and damp, with rain forecast for later in the day.  I went to my two best dogs, Cap and Shack, both no nonsense, experienced Brit males. I was only 5 minutes from the truck, on the side of a slope, when Cap locked up, Shack backing.

Cap hitting a covey of Mearns!

The rest of the morning was spent easing along and waiting for the pager in my Garmin Alpha to alert me to one of the dogs on point.  The perfect storm of my best dogs, cool wet weather, and plenty of birds gave us an outstanding morning!  Along the way, John nailed, not only his first Mearns Quail, but a double! 7 coveys in 3 hours in this country is the best I've ever had.  Even though I've tallied more coveys in a day, never in that short of period. At noon, we broke for lunch.  Then, the rain came in earnest.  This country is beautiful, but can be treacherous when wet.  We curtailed our hunting for the day, my last day in the mountains this year.

John, me, Wally, Vince celebrating a great opening week.

As luck would have it, a brewery opened in Sonoita, AZ,  this year.  It was a perfect place to stop and relive the last few days. We also discussed the near accident I was in while driving out on the narrow 1.5 lane road.  The wet roads were narrow and curvy.  As I crossed over a creek (as in through the creek), I came out the other side as the road narrowed even more.  I eased as far right as I thought safe, just as the road bent to the left in a stand of trees.  Suddenly, a pickup truck came around the corner, and I thought he looked a little close.  We touched mirrors with a smash that left my mirror dangling from the power cord. I couldn't stop in this section of road, so I looked for some widening before I pulled off.  By the time I did, John, behind me in his own truck, told me it looked like a bomb went off with all the plastic and glass in the air.  We laughed about it, since the other truck kept moving, and some Border Patrol trucks zoomed by in pursuit. I was just happy the damage was confined to my mirror, and we remounted to continue home. A mile later, blue lights went off in my mirror- lots of blue lights!  I pulled over, yet again, and got out to confront the driver of the other truck that hit me- an undercover Border Patrol agent!  His mirror looked worse than mine.  He was very apologetic, and explained they were chasing some drug smugglers, but he would stay and fill out the papers, etc.  I told him, "No way! Go get those jerks, I'll handle this.  It's just a mirror.  I appreciate you guys!"  He and two more marked trucks took off back down the road. I told my wife it was our contribution to our country's security. We lifted a glass to birds, bird hunters, and the USA!

I moved over to New Mexico for another 7 days of hunting Blue Quail.  We had a blast, as my friend Bobby has a 4 seat Polaris, and we drove that all over the oil fields and ranches (with permission).  12-15 coveys per day was the normal haul.

Good Blue Quail Cover

I hasten to add, sighting a covey of Blue Quail in no way guarantees an actual shot at Blue Quail! They are affectionately known as, Running SOB's, and they would many times be long gone by the time the dogs got in the area.  On a good note, this is a great year for sand spurs, or the lack thereof.  I didn't need to boot my dogs once in the week we hunted there.  That's the first time it's ever happened for me.  Normally, booting dogs is just a normal chore out here.

Pearl and her Blue Quail

From the mountains in Arizona, to the sandy hills of New Mexico, my annual trip to the Southwest is always one of my favorites. It always ends too soon.  This year, as I turned the Beast East, with my cheap replacement mirror attached with Gorilla tape, I re-lived in my head the great times I had chasing two species of quail most hunters never see.  And, I thanked Jesus for bird dogs and the little buzz bombs we love to hunt.

A tired Blue and an old man at the end of the hunt.

South Dakota- Sharptails, Prairie Chickens, and Ditch Birds

October and November are great times to be in the Dakotas! We made two hunts, this year, to South Dakota to chase the Sharptail and Prairie Chicken.  Our first outing was the week before the "Opener", which to anyone with a clue about bird hunting in South Dakota means the Pheasant Season Opening Day.

My wife, BJ, and me on a balmy day.

We were just in time for the first blizzard of the year.  They don't last long, but for a few days the cold and wind made us bundle up!

We hunted public land as well as Hunter-Walk-In-Area (private land that anyone can hunt).

BJ watching the dogs work.

Blue, my pup, with his first Prairie Chicken.

Sarah Gomes, BJ, Shelby Puckett

Shelby watching Cap and Ruby hit some Chickens

Shelby and Blue

Matthew and Major

Shack, me, Pearl and a Chicken

Cap and Chicken retrieve

Blue and another Chicken

Pearl pointing with Ruby as back up.

Gigi, Cap and an unlucky Pheasant

Prairie Rainbow

Matthew

Me and a couple Sharps and Chickens

Jon, his two puppies, and a Sharp and Chicken

Cap standing in frozen Grits

Ruby, me, Pearl on a rare pointed double on Chickens!

Some prairie love on my little girl, Pearl!

It was a great hunt with great people.  We went through two blizzards, rain, temperatures up to 71 degs, and constant wind.  Good trips are worth the adversity. All the dogs showed me good work.  Of all my dogs, Pearl really came alive and stepped up.  One day, she pointed 3 separate coveys, but the rascals got up before we could get there each time.  She looked so good, standing tall in the grass! 

Gary and his son, Tristan.  Tristan's first wild bird!

On the last day of the hunt, Gary T., from Wyoming came up to hunt, with his son, Tristan.  I took them to a nice HWIA I knew about from years past.  We were standing on a stock dam, taking a breather, when a Sharptail jumped up at our feet.  "Shoot, shoot!" I yelled.  Tristan immediately pulled up and loosed a load of 6's at the retreating bird.  Miss!  He calmly let the bird get out another few heartbeats, then dropped it with the second shot.  Very deliberate and calm, he reacted like a much older and more experienced bird hunter, and put his first wild bird in his game bag.  It was a pleasure hunting with him.  I'm encouraged to see the younger generation coming along!  (Mom, notice the orange hat and the orange on his vest!)

The Pup Grows Up

Blue was slow to develop.  After Cap, Shack, Ruby,and Pearl all developing into accomplished bird dogs by 1 year, I was approaching Blue's second anniversary, and he was still in that puppy phase of life.  He was big.  He didn't weigh more than Shack, at 43#, but he stood taller.  He was solid, too.  A rock.  But, he was still a happy-go-lucky guy that really would rather stick his nose down a mouse hole.  And, there are plenty of mouse holes on the prairie.  While my other dogs, at his age, would turn "all business" when I dropped the tailgate, Blue would smile and start looking for interesting smells. 

Blue and his first Prairie Chicken

I began to worry a little.  I'd never had a dog that wasn't a bit precocious, at least not in recent times.  I worked him on pen-raised birds at home.  I ran him and worked on obedience.  I played with him all the time, and worked on retrieving.  I kept it fun, and light.  He was great. But, when the time came to do the real job, he wasn't focused.  I really liked his attitude, though.  I saw something in the big boy.  It was hard to put my finger on it, but there was something there that said, "I'm your guy, Boss. Just give me some time." 

We were towards the end of the South Dakota hunt for Sharptails and Prairie Chickens.  All the dogs were doing well.  The older two, Ruby and Cap, at 9+ years, easily parlayed that wisdom into birds in the bag (or at least opportunities).  The middle two, Shack and Pearl, were strong and smart, as well.  Blue was a follower, and after a bit, he became more interested in mouse and badger holes than looking for grouse. Once again, I wondered if he really had what it took. 

I determined to put him on the ground by himself that afternoon.  I drove to an area I'd hunted earlier in the week.  I pulled off the road on a two-track, visually checked the area I wanted to hunt (a large grassy area bordering a sunflower field), and leaned back to take a short nap.  The sun was in my face, the wind was light, and lunch was not long ago.  I'm sure my snoring flushed several coveys of chickens. 

My nap was interrupted by several shotgun blasts a few hundred yards from my open window.  I grabbed my binoculars and watched two hunters (with no dogs) sweep an area on the other side of the sunflower field.  They were hunting more in the manner of pheasant hunters than sharptail or chicken hunters.  It was interesting to watch, all the more so since I'd seen them driving down the main road a while back and execute a rapid U-turn to go back the way they came.  I didn't think anything of it at the time, but they must have seen a covey of chickens flush off the road as they passed by.  

I watched as they swept the grassy field.  If they got to the end and swung around to the other side, they would cover exactly the area Blue and I were headed towards.  The expression "You snooze, you lose!" came to mind just then.  Here I was snoozing away, while a couple of guys (with no dogs!) had a great time shooting chickens right in front of me. I suppose I could have just driven to the other side of the sunflowers and put out.  But, I've had people jump in front of me before, and it kind of rankled me, to be honest.  I determined to let them hunt all around the sunflower field, if that was their plan.  After all, I was snoozing, and I was losing...

With great interest, I watched as they approached the end of the sunflower field, and the road leading back to their truck.  First one, then the other, walked up onto the gravel surface and turned back.  Perfect!  I let them get about halfway back, then I cranked the Beast and drove down my two-track towards the main gravel road and the other side of the sunflowers.  They had their chance, I wasn't going to give them another one.  I pulled off the road and called Blue's name.  He pawed the door on his kennel.  He knew it was his time.  

I slipped the TT-15 around his neck, checked the Alpha, marked the truck, and turned him loose. He hit the grass at full speed.  Something was different.  His head was up, rather than close to the ground. He stayed in front, and he checked my location.  He hunted objectives, shrubs, clumps of grass, and spots of thin grass.  About a 100 yards in, with the sunflowers on the left, and a strong wind blowing right to left, we were working pretty close to the crops.  Blue has a great nose, and I knew he was clearing a huge area upwind of him as we worked along the edge. 

He spun and locked up into the wind.  I walked to a point 15 yards in front of him, ready for the flush.  Nothing moved.  I looked back at him- still staunch on point.  His eyes were looking right at me.  "OK!" I said.  He released and started the back and forth, full speed, tracking scent, excited "birds-are-here" motion that's fun to watch.  I knew the birds were there, or had been recently.  Blue made one short cast crosswind, then another. On his third cast, he spun around again.  Hard! He was about 50 yards away, and I hustled over, checking my gun, the sun, the road.   Just as I got close to the area. 20 Prairie Chickens flushed up and headed for the sunflowers. I dropped one, and swung to another.  I hit him and he wobbled, but kept flying.  I was trying to reload as he flew within 10 yards of me, reaching for the safety of the sunflowers.  Reloaded, I swung back to him, but, in the wind, he was a football field away and looking none the worse for wear. 

Blue broke on the flush and was coming back to me, once again learning these guys cannot be caught.  I called him in and told him "Dead bird, Fetch it up!".  His nose went down and he ran to the area I indicated. After a few short loops, he snapped to a point, and I knew he was on the dead bird.  "Fetch it!" I commanded, and he stepped in to pick up the Prairie Chicken.  

He was one proud bird dog, coming across that prairie grass with the chicken in his mouth! I managed to snap a picture of him before he put it in my hand.  I was (and am) proud of my guy.  My Bird Dog.  

Here you go, Boss!

#abirdhuntersthoughts #flyboybrit #endlessoctoberbook #turnemloose

Hunting Meals

Great tasting, Keto, light, nutritious, filling.  I eat these for lunch in the field. They make great tailgate lunches (or breakfast/dinners, too.). 

The Blooming

We parked where we always park.  A mile from the ranch house, across the dirt road, in a little flat, grassy spot with a short tree line on the east side, and grassy hills on the west side. We had shelter from the wind on west, and shelter from the morning sun on the east.  To the south, across a barbed wire fence, a small valley ran south for a while then split up once, twice, then petered out on the hills.  I am a creature of habit.  If something works, I don't try to fix it.  This spot worked.  It had for 10+ years.  I was good with it.

I let the dogs out, one at a time, to avoid the classic goat-rope.  Finally, after 4 disappointed looks and borderline insubordination from the big boys as I crated them, I let Pearl out of her box.  She looked at me, the land, the crated dogs and her chest poked out, her ears opened, her little brown stubby tail stuck straight up, and she looked me in the eye.  "I'll find them, if they're here, Boss!  Just put the GPS on me, because I might be out of sight a bit in those hills.  You can count on me, because I'm the best you got!"  (The modesty gene was apparently omitted in this breeding.)

Pearl (Brit/F)

I instrumented her on the tailgate, gave her some water, checked her paws, and said "OK!"- off she went.  I grabbed my gun and headed to the  south and the little valley where we'd found hundreds of Sharpies and Huns over the years.  I crossed the fence, and took a peek to see if she was in sight.  Gone already, but that was to be expected.  Her pager went off.  That wasn't expected! I grabbed the handheld expecting her ahead of me a few hundred yards.  What?  She was back by the truck- maybe 30 yards west, in the grass leading up to a big hill.  I turned around and looked for her, and saw her stubby little tail standing tall in the light brown grass. suddenly she moved and worked her way towards the road, then down along the road out of sight around the hill.

I jumped the fence and hurried after her, just as the pager went off again.  I rounded the hill and saw her locked up on a big patch of sage, in the tall brown grass, about 30 yards off the road. Good spot.  Birds  like to come down to get gravel, and then roost in shrubs by the road.  This would be good! She was solid.  Intense. She sure had my motor running.  I kicked the shrubs and got nothing.  Her eyes came up to mine, and I told her, "OK".

Top of the Hill.  Dead on!

Pearl on the retrieve.

Her head went down, her motion was quick, short bursts and her body followed her head followed her nose.  The scent wasn't that old, almost surely this morning.  The birds were here.  The birds are here.  She worked her way away from the road, up the hill side, slowing on concentrations of scent, but discerning that the birds had moved on. Over the top she went, and my tired legs worked their way to the top.  Once again, the pager went off.  As I crested the hill, she was facing me, about 40 yards away.  We had them trapped between us.  I grabbed my camera and took a photo, stored it, and got ready.  I strode right at her as a single Sharpie got up about 10 yards in front of her.  I fired and rocked it.  I knew it was hit, but it flew like it wasn't.  Pearl broke on the shot, and went after the bird.  The bird flew out of sight, across the fence, along the road with a brown little dot chasing along behind.  I knew she'd be back soon, so I grabbed my camera again, and waited for her.  A minute or so later, I saw her headed down then up a coulee, on her way back to me.  Direct line.  Also, she had that funny gate dogs get when they have a bird in their mouth.  It was too far away to see the bird, but I was sure she had it.  I started the video rolling to get this.  Sure enough, she put a dead sharpie in my hand, then laid down to catch her breath.

Another one, Boss!  Having fun yet?

 Video Pearl pointing a covey

A long drink from the water bottles, and she was off again, this time with long, fast, swooping runs crossing in front of me as I walked in to the wind.  She dropped off into a small, brush choked ditch and didn't come out the other side.  Her pager started beeping, and I hustled to the edge of the ditch.  I took a couple steps down to the brushy bottom, when a bird blew out and got a taste of 6's from my everyday SKB Model 100 20 ga.  The retrieve was perfect to hand, and I complimented her.

We had two in the bag now.  Four is the limit on Sharps, and I had other dogs to run.  So, I turned her loose and got the camera out, ready for some action.  Once again, she started into the wind with long, swooping casts, as we moved along the top of the hills.  Finally, she turned, her head dropped, her tail started wagging so fast it was a blur, and I knew she had fresh scent.  I watched closely as she moved, corrected, moved again, and finally locked up, tall and proud.  I took a video as I walked to  her.  The covey got up, about 10 birds, and flew down the hill toward the truck. As they got up, she gave chase.  A toot on the whistle and she turned back to me, and some water.

We had ourselves a little love fest in the grass, on top of the hill, as I told her how wonderful she was.  My little Pearlie-girl.  She brings a smile to my face every time.