A Good Day Trialing in Georgia

NSTRA CH FlyBoy Ace's Bullseye (Shack)

 

2021 Georgia Region Championships

Hufstetler Farm, Bronwood, GA

March 13-14, 2021

 Members of the Georgia Region and their families gathered at Hufstetler Farm for the 2021 Georgia Elimination Pre-Trial, 2021 Georgia Elimination Championship, and Awards Ceremony. Members enjoyed a delicious BBQ supper and a presentation by Quail Forever representative, and NSTRA Sponsor, Kenny Barker before the Annual Meeting.

 Gerald recognized Tyler Clore who served as Vice President this year. CJ Pearson provided the financial report, and officers for 2021-22 were elected. Officers for 2021-2022 are President – Gerald Pannell, Vice President – Keith Howard, Treasurer – C.J. Pearson and Secretary – Brittni Pannell.

 2021 Regional Awards were presented to:

High Point Dog - PINEYWOODS SWEET AS HONEY – Owners Janice and Harold Hufstetler

High Point Female Dog - PINEYWOODS SWEET AS HONEY – Owners Janice and Harold Hufstetler

Most Improved Dog - BRYSON'S DIANA aka ANA – Owners Gerald and Bryson Pannell

The Scott Clark Award – Harold Hufstetler

Judge of the Year - Harold Hufstetler

Sportsman of the Year – C. J. Pearson

Rookie of the Year – A tie – Maggie Adams and Bryson Pannell

Junior Handlers were recognized and given personalized leads. Georgia Junior handlers are Kam Hill, Bryson Pannell, Madissyn David and Maggie Adams. Not present was Sarakate Pannell. 

Oldest and Youngest Handlers (Green Shirts) Bryson Pannel (12), Randy Schultz (70)

 The 2019-2020 NSTRA Georgia Region Board of Directors drafted a proposal for the establishment of and the requirements for induction of dogs into the Georgia Region Hall of Fame. The members of the Georgia Region approved the proposal of the Georgia Region Hall of Fame at the 2020 Georgia Region Annual Meeting. Nominations of dogs that meet the requirements are to be submitted by their owners to the Georgia Region Board of Directors. The first induction ceremony held at the 2021 Georgia Region Awards Banquet was an emotional event. Congratulations to the following dogs and their owners who were the First Inductees into the Georgia Region Hall of Fame.

 CEDAR HILL TOBY - Donald and Jared Roberts

CIRCLE R MISS ROLLING DICE - Donald and Jared Roberts

TOP GUN KING - Ricky Gunnyon

TOPGUN SHOTGUN - Ricky Gunnyon

POPCORN - Ricky Gunnyon

GET ER-DONE SKY - Ricky Gunnyon

SHE'S A SCOOTER - Keith Koon

TROOPER'S BOY TRIPP - Gerald Pannell and Jeff Keck 

All of us and Top 4: Shack/Schultz, Skeeter/Koon, Howard/Trim, Jane/Hiland

The PRE-TRIAL was held on Friday, March 12th. LOTS OF SUNSHINE and NO RAIN! Placements were earned by the following on

 Field A

1 BUCK'S CHANCE

2 PINEYWOODS SWEET AS HONEY

3 STURDY OAK FRANK

4 DD'S THE GEORGIA PEACH - TY

 Amateur Placements on Field A were earned by

1 PINEYWOODS FEARLESS RAY DONOVAN – RAYMOND

2 MOSSY CREEK'S READY TO RIDE - CLYDE

3 ABRACADABRA'S RUBY

4 SARKATE'S MOONSHINE – SHINE

 Field B:

1 T T'S SOUTHERN JANE

2 SNAKE ISLAND PICEN - BOGER

3 CHOESTOE VALLEY CHARLIE

4 FLYBOY NAVY BLUE – BLUE

 Amateur Placements on Field B were earned by

1 FLYBOY NAVY BLUE – BLUE

2 UNCLE DOBB'S FIDDLEN BEN

3 ABRACADABRA'S RUBY

4 SARKATE'S MOONSHINE – SHINE

 Round One.

On Saturday, March 13^th, the field was cut from 34 to 16.   Bodie Ray served as Field Marshall. Ed Ford and Gene Pritchett were Judges and Noah Sheriff was the Bird Planter. There were 34 dogs in the trial that began at sunrise. 16 dogs continued to Sunday.

 1 DD'S THE GEORGIA PEACH aka TY/ Dan Miles

2 FLYBOY ACE'S BULL'S EYE aka SHACK/ Randy Schultz

3 CHOESTOE VALLEY CHARLIE/ Bill Pickard

4 BUCK'S THAT’S A FACT JACK/Ken Buck

(Yes, the top three were Brittanys!!!)

 

 Round Two.

After 8 morning braces the field of 16 was cut to 6. 

.

Final 6 Kieth Howard/Trim, Charles Hiland/Jane,Keith Koon/Skeeter,Ken Buck/Chance,RandySchultz/Shack, Ricky Gunnyon/Tater

 Round Three

The semi-final was 3 braces which resulted in the following placements:

 1^st.- Skeeter/ Keith Koon

2^nd- Shack/ Randy Schultz

3rd - QUAIL VALLEY'S GOT TRIM/Jeff Keck, Handled by Keith Howard

4th - T T'S SOUTHERN JANE/ Charles Hiland

5th - BUCK'S CHANCE/ Ken Buck

6th - GETER DONE THUNDER/ Ricky Gunnyon 

Round Four 

The top two dogs ran in the final hour.  The final scores differed by 17.5 points.  It was a real nail-biter for those that hung around.

 2nd place went to SHE'S SKEETER GEORGE – SKEETER owned by Keith Koon and Keith Howard and handled by Keith Koon. 

Trophy Presentation by Gerald Pannel (President) to Randy Schultz

 1st place and 2021 Georgia Region Champion - FLYBOY ACE'S BULL'S EYE – SHACK owned and handled by Randy Schultz.

Keith Koon congratulating Randy Schultz

 

When are they retired?

Ruby

They are fit and ready to go.  The five Brits in my pack started in Montana in September and finished in NM in January.  Then, I threw in a few NSTRA field trials to keep them tuned and happy. Today is the First of March, and, true to form, thunderstorms and scattered showers are announcing a cold front on the way.  This morning is mild and unsettled.  Tomorrow will be cold and blustery.  I think the dogs know it's over for another long, hot summer.  It's a shame, too, because they are in the best shape ever.  

Ruby (above) is 11 years old, now.  She's as smart as ever, and is still a runner. The arthritis in her left front elbow and in her back is painful to her, I can tell.  Modern medicines, and a few homeopathic remedies, keep the pain at bay for the time being. Our goal (hers and mine) is to run and win the Georgia NSTRA Championships in a few weeks.  She's two-time winner (the only Brit to ever win), and I think she deserves a shot at a third one.  It's a pipe dream, I'm sure, but she never ceases to amaze me.  

So, I think the question is, "When are they retired?"   Maybe, "What is retirement for a bird dog?"

Honestly, I really don't think the sedentary non-hunting lifestyle applies.  When I have a dog 10+ years old that wants to run, he's welcome on my trips. He will get extra attention, special rations, meds, bedding, etc. And, that is what he's earned over the course of his life. As long as he's eager and ready to hunt when the tailgate drops, he'll be along for the ride. I don't know too many dogs that live long after they lose that desire to hunt- sometimes just weeks. 

It seems so short, only 10 years.  One hears it all the time, when a dog passes.  I hear of dogs hunting at 13 and 14 years old.  None of mine, so far.  Bocephus (Bo), my English Setter of the 2000's, hunted all the way to 12 1/2 years. Then, the end came quickly.  Rocket, Brit male, 12 years old. Ace, Brit male, almost 10. 

Rocket

 

 

 

The conundrum is: we want to hunt them and let them fulfill their genetic destiny, yet, by doing that they develop arthritis and sustain injuries that shorten their hunting lives.  Arthritis in a hunting dog seems ubiquitous, especially when they near 10 years old. The good news is that new drugs (Adequan) can help mitigate the arthritis, and older drugs (Rimadyl, etc.) can help with the pain and inflammation.  I even had some success using hemp oil. (Yep, Ruby's a junkie.)  The problem is not curable, but it is manageable, to some degree.  My attitude:  Whatever it takes, they deserve it.

 

Bocephus

Two weeks from now, we head for south Georgia and the Championships.  All five of my Brits qualified this year, and, pretty much, they all have a shot.  It will be fun, nonetheless. Ruby and Cap, my other almost 11 year old dog, say they are ready.  Wouldn't it be amazing, if the old girl did it again? It would be amazing, and a miracle, actually.  But, I'll receive a miracle any day!

 

Whiskey?

Pearl

After many years, I was back in my good spot. Walking the trails discovered back in the 90's, when 40 to 50 flush days were common in this part of Wisconsin.  The urge to re-walk old ground is strong. As I age, the push to go back to the good, remembered areas grows.  Invariably, they aren't as I remember them, probably because the dogs aren't the same, or, most likely, neither am I.

This day, my friend and I had a nice sojourn through the forest. It was warm, headed to 75 degrees, and we chose a trail that crossed a road in the Chequamegon National Forest.  At first, I regaled Josh with tales of past dogs and adventures in the area, and finally, adventures on this very trail.  Pearl was working left and right of the trail, usually out of sight, as the trail was on a small ridge and the forest dropped off on either side.  The alert on the GPS beeped and interrupted my reverie. The GPS showed her 30 yards off to the right side, holding tight. I looked at the brush piled up on the side of the trail, and moved up and down the path until I found a way through.  Stepping up on the berm, I looked through the brush, down to the woods, and caught a glimpse of Pearl's brown body, head, and tail.  She was taut.  Taking another step down the berm onto the woods' floor, I reached for an alder branch to steady myself, just as a Ruffed Grouse flushed ten feet in front of me.  He headed deeper into the woods, his escape route already planned.  My experience indicated I had a half second, or less, to put a load of shot in the air.  After that, the bird would be around a tree, over a rock, down a drop off.   I didn't meet that requirement as I chased the bird with a load of 28 ga. 7 1/2's, and the boy was gone to safety.  Pearl rolled in looking for directions to the dead bird, and I had to give her the bad news.  She took the information stoically, gave me a withering glare, then turned her back on me and ran back in to the woods. 

We made the turn back to the truck after an hour and retraced our steps back out.  Nearing the junction of the trail and the road, where we parked the trucks, we kept closer track of the dogs, and listened for the sound of traffic on the Forest Service road. We were so close to the trucks, I unloaded my gun.  I hadn't seen Pearl in a while, so I looked down at my GPS.  She was pointed!  (Even though my GPS unit will beep and vibrate, my hearing is poor on one side, and sometimes I miss it.)  She was off to the right, down in a wet area. I told Josh, "Pearl's on point! 50 yards that way."  I reloaded as I walked to her.  No doubt about it, she was tight, and eating scent. Josh was to my left, just a little behind, as we walked into some tall, bright green marsh grass in this low spot.  Three birds came out of the grass, directly in front of me.  Two went to my left, directly in front of Josh, and one made the fatal error of flying straight away from me, headed for the closer woods.  I dropped him and swung on the other two, but they were gone.  Josh shot twice.  After Pearl handed me my bird, I sent her in for his. "Never mind," he said, "those SOB's fly pretty quick!"  I laughed, and said, "They do!  Real quick!"  He was a lefty, like me.  Those birds flushed right to left across the front of him - the worst set-up for a lefty.  I've seen him shoot. It was the birds' lucky day.  As we followed after the escaping Ruffs, Josh’s setter pointed a Woodcock, then another. By the time we made it back to the trucks, parked only a hundred feet away, we had a grouse and a woodcock in the bag.  It was time for a change of dogs and the midday siesta.  

After devouring some crackers and cheese, I put my two senior, male dogs down, Cap and Shack, and we headed up the other direction on the trail. Logging was going on, and the gate was open. The trail was widened to accommodate logging trucks and equipment. The temperature was now well into the 70's and what breeze we had was at our backs.  The dogs were panting after five minutes, and  we stopped at several stream crossings to let them water.  After about  mile, we turned back to the trucks with one more grouse in the bag, a result of some good work by all the dogs.  It was a long, hot walk back, and the tailgate was beckoning when the trucks finally hove into view.  

 

For a hot, humid day, two grouse and one Woodcock in the bag was a pretty good haul.  The sun was low, and the temperature was dropping as we sat on the tailgate and talked about the day, the dogs, and all the stuff of tailgate conversations.  Traditionally, at the end of the last day of an enjoyable hunting trip, I will discover an old container of a rare adult beverage under the back seat of my truck. Convention calls for the sharing of the beverage, as the highs and lows of dogwork, shooting, and chicanery are hashed and rehashed.   Josh mentioned he may be able to find something under his backseat, and, after an exhaustive search, produced a suitable bottle of amber liquid.  We scrambled for some containers, and ended up with a Yeti coffee cup and a slightly used Dixie cup.  No matter how rare the beverage, coffee-flavored cups seem to enhance the flavor, especially with legs dangling and the temperature dropping.  

Halfway through a recounting of the second grouse flush, we turned to look down the gravel National Forest road. We both heard a truck, as it moved slowly and rounded the curve close to our parked trucks.  It was a nondescript, four-door variety with the windows down, and the driver leaned out the window.  I waved, in the friendly, Wisconsin way, and he stopped in front of us.  "How's it going?" he asked.  "Pretty good.  We have a few in the bag.  Just finishing up," I answered.  "Would you like a beer?" he asked.  Not to be out-cordialed, I invited him to have a sip of whiskey.  "Whiskey?"  The truck shut down, all four doors opened, and four hunters emerged holding various empty containers, one of which was a recently emptied beer can.  Josh affably poured out suitable amounts of the rare, amber liquid, as we began the important ritual of recounting the hunt.  With six of us deep into the nuances grouse harvesting, we all turned to look up the trail at the noise of an approaching ATV.  A husband and wife pulled up. "Anybody need a beer?" the husband asked. "We have some whiskey," one of the road hunters offered.  "Whiskey?"  The ATV shut down as husband and wife hopped out with an empty Styrofoam cup and the ubiquitous empty beer can.  Josh dutifully poured a ample amount into their cups, and recharged the other containers, as well.  "That's it," he said.  "We have an empty bottle!"  Groans echoed through the forest.  "Wait!" I said, and jumped down to root around in the back seat.  "Here we go! I have no idea how this got here, but we aren't out of business yet!"  Cheers erupted in the nighttime forest.  The husband/wife team were quickly absorbed into the conversation, as the eight of us pondered bird hunting and bird dogs.  A refill or two later, conversation stilled as we cocked our ears up the same trail to hear a truck approaching.  It pulled up, idling, and a large man leaned over and asked, "Wanna beer?" "No, man, how would you like a whiskey?" the husband inquired.  "Whiskey?" as the truck shut down, and a lumberjack sauntered over with an empty McDonald's coffee cup. One fill-up and eight refills later, the conversations grew in volume and hilarity.  Finally, as the temperature dropped into the 40's, I grabbed the bottle for another round of refills, and it was empty. I announced the disaster, and, amid the disappointment, I took the opportunity to slide off the tailgate and walk around to the front of my truck, chuckling at our impromptu party.  The night was perfect.  It was cold, clear, and calm- and it was  getting noticeably quieter.  A minute later, I walked back around to the tailgate just in time to hear five doors slamming on two pickup trucks, and see the taillights of the ATV heading out into the darkness.  Josh and I looked at one another in a forest absolutely dark and quiet. We both laughed hard, enjoying the quiet moments at the end of our party in the grouse woods. Fellowship, friendship, grouse, and bird dogs. The ingredients for a memorable gathering came together like the eye of a hurricane, and dissipated quickly after the fuel ran out.

 

I wonder if the Boss would entertain our next pup's name to be "Whiskey"?  It seems to be an uncommonly powerful word up there in the Grouse Woods of Wisconsin.

Southwest Late Season Gambel's and Blues

 

 

 

 

 Late season desert birds, Gambel's and Blue Quail, can be a challenge, to say the least.  By the end of the season, in January and February, those runners have matured and become tougher, faster, smarter, and more wary.  Or they aren’t around anymore.  

I hunted both of my favorite southwest states this year- Arizona in December and New Mexico in January. While my Arizona hunt was OK, some of my favorite spots didn't yield any birds, at all.  It boiled down to looking for the habitat.  For me, I looked for water, grass, and cover (brush, bushes, cactus, trees, etc.). At night, I would peruse Google Maps and GAIA GPS looking for waterholes, stock tanks, creeks with water, etc.  Once you've spotted a few, they are pretty easy to see.  Dry creek beds and washes are also favorite hiding places for the Gambel's. 

 

 

Blue and Pearl found them in the Creosote

New Mexico, in January, yielded a lot of the same.  From some locals, I learned the rains were on time and plentiful in the spring for the hatch, but then the spigot was shut, and the rain quit. The hatch was excellent in many areas of the Southwest.  It is a banner year, in fact.

 

Cap and a couple of Gambel's

We finally discovered the secret of the dry wash. Those rascals like to roost in the safety of the washes, in the trees and shrubs and bushes.  They'll head out of the wash  in the early morning to eat seeds on the rocky hillsides, retreating to the washes to loaf during the day, safe from the avian predators, their primary danger. Early afternoon, they'll once again brave the edges of the washes to finally go back to the safety of the trees and shrubbery for the night. All of this usually on their feet.  To fly is to die (from hawks, falcons, etc.), so they would much rather run/walk to and from the food.  That said- check for tracks.  It's the easiest way to see if there are birds in the area. I always welcome a rain or snowfall, because it will wipe out the old tracks leaving fresh ones.

 

Looking for quail tracks is a great way to find birds.

This time of year, it can be very cold in them morning.  It was 12 degrees one morning at the motel, and the Brits were toasty in their kennels with moving blankets over the top of them and in the insulated topper on the back of the Beast. During the day, it went up to the mid-60's, and felt like a day at the beach!  One day, near the end of my trip, a wind warning was published for winds of 25+ mph sustained with gusts up to 45 mph.  It turned out to be my best hunting day for desert birds all season! The birds don't like the real strong wind, I think because the aren't able to hear predators.  I found the low areas and draws held birds all day long.  When we trailed a covey out onto the hillsides, they would flush back towards the washes, or to another wash.  They just didn't like the blowing wind.  

 

Blue and me on the side of a dry wash.

In the picture above, you can see the straight stock on the my new 28 ga. I was bound and determined to hunt with it all season.  I almost made it. These fast flushing and flying desert birds laid it on me, and I never seemed to be able to catch up! Also, after one day knocking down 14 birds and only recovering 10 of them, I began to question my gauge, shot size, dram equivalent plan.  I finally switched to the old, reliable 20 ga. SKB double, shooting high brass #6's, switching from 7 1/2's.  A broken wing on these birds means many times they will run down a hole, or be totally out of the area by the time the dogs arrive.  It's a lot like pheasant hunting in that regard. I know guys that shoot a .410 out there.  For me, a 28 ga. will be as small a shot as I'll use, and I'm  leaning towards using my 20 ga. on these birds.  I don't see any requirement for a 16 or 12, other than your personal preference.

  

Male and Female Gamble's Quail

One thing I like about this land is the lack of dangers to our dogs. The cold weather keeps the snakes in the ground, and while there are porcupines,  they are relatively few. Hunting the near the end of the trip, I had my gentle giant on the ground, Shack. He was covering the hills around some water holes, in the heat, and doing a great job. His pager went off after he was out of sight for a few minutes. So, I climbed to the top of a hill and looked toward him. He was locked up and looking like a million bucks 125 yards from me, near a shrub along a fence line. I started moving to him, when I saw a black shape take off away from him. Then, I saw a huge black shape run out of that shrub in the opposite direction from the first shape.  Javelinas! I yelled to Shack, and, thankfully, he turned immediately and came trotting back. I was thankful he wasn’t the kind to go after the peccary!  They can mess up a dog. 

Blue and me resting during a warm afternoon.

 The bottom line, for me, is the sheer pleasure of hunting these wily, tough birds. A few days, I didn't put any in the bag.  One day, I never saw a bird! We explored and looked for new areas, and that did not always pan out.  Rather than hunt the same area over and over, we drove the dirt roads with our GPS App designating the public lands.  Many times, doing this, we will discover a real sweet spot, after many hours and many miles and many days of effort.  It's then I  realize why I drive 25 hours to walk through the desert looking for these worthy adversaries.

Growing Old With Him

 I went to feed the dogs tonight.  Cap, my 11 (almost) male Brit, accompanied me to the barn.  Over the last few years, with three eye operations, he's become a house dog, and goes just about everywhere with me.  As I fed the younger dogs, the three year old, Blue, jumping and running and bouncing in anticipation of being fed, and the older ones, Shack and Pearl, at six, and Ruby, nearing 11 herself, turned circles and were excited.  Cap laid down on the gravel of the barn.  He was,  no doubt, reminding the pack that the house dogs get fed in the morning without all the drama.  

3XNSTRA CH FlyBoy Ace's Delta Captain (Cap)

I took a minute and sat down outside the barn.  Returning  a few quail calls to the birds in the call-back pen, I saw Cap's white, little stub disappear around the corner of the pine trees.  "Cap!" I yelled to him.  Dutifully, he turned and trotted over to put his front legs in my lap, disappointed he wouldn't be able to chase a few deer or gnaw on a leg bone from an old carcass on the creek. 

Loving on the old-timer for a few minutes, I noticed, in the setting sun, the gray on the muzzle, the broken lower canine tooth, and the glass eye (the result of a spine from some bush in New Mexico). Far from being a being a sad time, I laughed and said to him, "We make a pair, don't we buddy?  I can't hear, but about half what people say, you can only see out of that left eye, and we are both limping all the time.  Do you think you'll be up to hunting Arizona and New Mexico in a few weeks?"  As plainly as a dog can talk, he looked me in the eye and said, "I'll be there.  Do you want your best dog on the ground, Old Man?  I'm the best you have, and I might be the best you'll ever have.  I suggest you keep the gun loaded, and turn up those ears so you can hear the pager when I point.  I'm not eating canned ALPO, yet!" 

Chuckling, I heaved myself out of the chair, and we eased back to the house.  Cap ran ahead looking for that blasted cat. 

Quick Cleaning a Pheasant

Quick Clean Pheasant   (Click here for YouTube Video)

 Tips to make it easier: 

1.)  Don't wait until the bird is frozen!  The sooner after the harvest, the better the result.

2.) If done quickly the entire head will also pass through, and you will have the breast and two wings. 

3.) Bird should be flat ON BACK.  Put your feet as close to shoulders, against the body, as possible. 

4.)  Pull with steady, firm pressure- don't jerk or yank.  

We Walk It Together

 Day after day, he hunted with his pup.  After work, after holiday dinners, before opening presents at Christmas, on vacation time saved throughout the year, even on days after he developed his recurring eye problem ("Yeah, man, I'm sorry, eye problems again.  I just can't see myself coming into work today. Buck and I found a monster covey of Chukar last weekend. Cover for me?  Thanks, I owe you.  Again."), he and Buck climbed into the old, 1989 F-150 set off down the road spewing gray dust out both sides and the back. They never missed an opener, or the last day 

The gun he used was an old, humpback 12 gauge Browning A-5,  bought at a used gun and tire store in town for $200.  One year, he moved to a much nicer 12 ga.  Then, as he gained confidence, and made more money, he upgraded a few times.  Now, he toted an artfully engraved 20 ga. double, with twin triggers and a fancy, incomprehensible name, fitted stock, and a storage box. He smiled when he looked at the dings, dents, and scratches in the Carpathian Walnut and scratches in the blueing on the side-by-side barrels.  Each imperfection brought back a memory, nearly all of them pleasant, of Buck and him scrambling over rockfalls, walking the top thick in Cheat grass, or looking for a dropped bird at the bottom of a boulder-filled hillside.  

One big gouge in the forend of the stock brought back a "less than pleasant" memory- one that almost ended in disaster.  He and Buck were trying out a new area along the top of the Snake River gorge.  Easy walking along the top lulled them both into a sense the world was finally in order, perfect, just a good day to be in God's Creation.  It was about 40 degrees, and a soft wind blew into their faces.  Buck ranged 100 to 200 yards out, got birdy and locked up on point. He hurried as fast as he could, since the flattish lava rock gravel turned into a boulder field hidden in the tall cheat grass. The dog was tight as he moved off to Buck's left side to give his lefty shooting stance an advantage, and also, to let Buck know where he was.  He was almost even with the dog, when a huge Chukar covey got up and headed for the edge, and safety.  The light 20 ga. barked twice.  One bird dropped, deader than a hammer, straight down to the grass.  But, the second bird wobbled, flapped, wobbled and set his wings. The last he saw, the second Chukar was gliding after the rest of the covey, down to the water way below. He lost sight of the bird, even though he tried to watch where it landed.  Buck brought the first bird back to hand, and made his way to the edge and over, down to the wounded bird. The man walked to the edge, hoping this was one time Buck could do this on his own.  He watched from the crest as Buck worked up and down the river.  He watched as Buck walked in to the river, and thought about going across.  A blast from the whistle settled that issue. Buck turned back, and climbed up a short incline out of the water. Reaching a small shelf, just a few feet above the river, he put his nose to the ground and started searching for the wounded or dead bird.  The man encouraged Buck with several "Good Boy!”s and "Look in there!" and "Hunt 'em up, Buck!" thrown in.  

Just about the time the man decided to head down the steep hillside and assist, he heard Buck yelp and jump back.  Buck whined and started trying to reach around to his left hind quarter and bite something.  It almost looked like he was trying to chase his tail, but he wasn't happy and was almost crying.  The man broke from his reverie, and started down the rock-strewn hillside with intention.  Buck was lying down now, still trying to get to his hind-quarter. It took five minutes to get to him, but it seemed like an hour, as he jumped from rock to rock, then used his free hand to balance himself as he wound between the bigger rocks.  The last 20 yards, before the hill leveled on to the shelf, he let himself speed up some.  He was close to the bottom, and he could tell something was bad wrong with Buck. Just a few, large steps from the shelf and his dog, his foot rolled on some smaller stones, and he almost did a split as one foot went out front.  One arm grabbed for a boulder on one side, and he instantly let go of his shotgun and reached for another boulder on the other side.  He managed to stay upright, but his thigh and butt hit the ground, about the same time his gun did, as he unceremoniously arrived at the shelf and his dog.  He ignored the sore rear-end and moved to Buck. 

On Buck's left hindquarter, he saw just a little dab of blood, in two places, in the meat on the backside of his leg.  Snakebite.  Those bloody dabs were a long ways apart.  It was a big snake- surely a rattlesnake. And while it was uncommon for cold-blooded snakes to be out at this temperature, it was warmer down near the river, and they will sometimes come out to sun.  Buck stopped reaching and was just looking back and whining.  "I'll bet it hurts like hell, buddy," the man said.  He assessed his situation. Options were not good.  Upstream and downstream, along the river, it would take forever to get to help.  A ranger boat could come by- not very likely.  He was never that lucky.  The only real option was back up the hill to the top, a trek to the truck, and a 50 mile drive to the vet. Buck's left-rear leg was beginning to swell.  He got up and tried to walk on three legs.  It worked, but it was painful, as the venom spread through the leg.  The dog would never make it up the incline.  The man took off his vest, emptied it of anything not critical, grabbed Buck by the collar, and slid him inside the bird bag.  Buck was feeling the shock of the bite, and was docile.  The vest was one of those favored by many Chukar hunters- WingWorks- with a huge bird bag.  The man sat down, pulled the vest on, and cinched up the waist-belt tight, and then the chest strap.  He left his water bottles, everything in his bird bag, and anything else he could to lighten the load.  He grabbed his gun, unloaded it, and set it in between two boulders.  He would need both hands to get out of the canyon in a hurry.

Leaning forward with the almost 50# dog in his bird bag, he picked and chose every step on the way up the slope, hands out ready for a fall and for balance.  He slipped a few times, and was thankful for his deerskin gloves.  They protected his hands when falling, grabbing, or balancing on the lava rocks. Sweat poured off him as he crested the hill, and sat down.  Buck was OK.  He couldn't see the swelling, the setter fur and position of the dog masking it.  After a minute, he loaded up and started for the truck- 2 miles in the distance.  The easy, pleasant walk on the way out was pure torture for his back and shoulders heading back.  He was thankful for the vest, though.  It held Buck safely and snug. A little over an hour later, he rolled in to the vet's office in a cloud of dust.  The vet was waiting for them, and the man carefully picked the dog up, trying to avoid the swollen left rear.  The vet did her magic with antibiotics, fluids, etc., and told the man to come back the next day and pick him up.  Ruefully, he got in his truck and headed back to retrieve his gun.  

It felt weird to be out with no dog or gun, he thought, as he retraced his steps down the hillside to the shelf.  The gun was where he left it, and he admired the nice, fresh gouge in the forend. He retrieved the water bottles, and the first, dead Chukar.  Glancing around, he gave the area another quick search for the second, wounded bird, but didn't find him.  He was, also, semi-looking for a big rattlesnake.  He knew what he would do, if he spotted one in the area.  After a while, not finding the bird or rattlesnake, he started back up the same hillside, and headed home.

Buck survived the night, and was ready to hunt again within the week. The man's butt was bruised, and he had 'road rash' on his thigh, but all in all, the incident became nothing more than a story that was the subject of many a campfire tale.  The man would get his gun and point to the, by now, well worn gouge in the forend of his sweet, little 20 ga.  Then, he would begin the story of the day he and Buck fought off rattlers to hunt Chukar high above the mighty Snake.

Through the years, they hunted all over Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, the Dakotas, and even as far south as New Mexico, and one trip to Arizona for the mystical Mearns Quail.  They were quite the team.  He couldn't bring himself to get another dog. The thought of watching a dog that was 'not Buck' sweeping the ground in front of him didn't elicit the excitement he felt with his setter. And so it went.  Through the years, they hunted, laughed, shot poorly, shot perfectly, made friends, and lived and loved a lifestyle few people even knew existed.  His wife and children knew him as a good husband and father.  They understood the pull of open land, bird dogs, and birds. His wife, especially, knew better than to schedule big events that required his attention during "Bird Season" before checking with him with exact dates in hand.  It's rumored one of his daughters changed her wedding date from October to the traditional June, after announcing with glee her engagement and prospective wedding date at the dinner table."Well, honey, that's wonderful," said Mom. "But I think we should discuss the date a little, if that's OK?"  "Mom, why?" the daughter replied, shocked.  "All I'm saying is, your Dad sure would like to be at the wedding," said Mom.  "And, you know October is the finest month of the year for bird hunting.  Wouldn't June be a better month for the two of you?"  The man, sitting quietly next to his wife, never raised his eyes, as he shoveled another spoonful of dessert into his mouth.  Only his wife of many years noticed the little uptick on the corners of his mouth. 

Buck was 11 years old, and the pair were in Montana late one September.  He slowed his run noticeably on this, the first, trip of the season.  He held his right front elbow out a little when he ran, and his left rear leg seemed to be losing the power it once had- perhaps from that snakebite many years ago.  The man noticed immediately, and kept calling Buck in for water and to discuss strategy, and to "take a break" in the heat.  He noticed, on a more personal level, he didn't have a lot of the go he once had, either.  It rankled him that the young bucks he hunted with would occasionally stop and wait for him.  His hips seemed to hurt more after a few days in the field.  Cramps would routinely hammer him, in the middle of the night, after the first day hunting from sunup to sundown, and he needed to eat bananas and avocados to get the minerals needed to keep them at bay.  Stretching every morning was painful, but mandatory, if he would maintain the ability to hunt behind his dog. 

Both man and dog slowed from those first years, when everything was new and exciting.  Buck's nose was as sharp as ever, and the 11 years' experience made him as lethal as ever.  It seemed he went directly to the coveys now, not covering non-productive ground first.  The man didn't waste much movement anymore, either.  He could look at a piece of ground at a glance, and determine their odds of finding birds.  He wasn't foolproof, to the amusement of his hunting partners, but they listened closely when he made a suggestion about staying or moving on.  He always explained to them why he felt as he did. 

One day, the group put out on some rough ground in central Montana. As often happens, a cold front moved through overnight and instead of the 80's and 90's from the last several days, they encountered temperatures in the 40's and blustery winds from the north.  The hunting companions let their dogs out, three and four year olds, and started up the rough hills in the grass that held Sharptail Grouse.  Three dogs took off with Buck in his usual front position.  Two of the dogs headed to the top, while Buck turned and headed for a coulee holding a long line of shrubs.  The man chuckled as he move off to the right, keeping Buck in sight approaching the closest bunch of bushes.  He suspected what Buck already knew- the birds were in the shrubs staying out of the wind and cold and away from the predators they couldn't hear in the hard wind.  In moments, Buck locked up in that pose the man grew to love.  He moved in, for the moment ignoring his aching hips, and checked the load in that old 20 ga. The birds were there, alright. 30 gray monsters blew out of the shrubs and headed for the top.  The 20 barked twice, and two birds dropped.  By the time Buck made the retrieves, the two young hunting partners and their dogs came swooping down from the top to join in the fun.  The man knelt down and held Buck's collar.  "Let's let them have some fun, old boy," the man whispered.  "We both know they are all your birds."

Later on that day, at a different spot, new dogs were put out, eager yearlings with muscle, sinew, balls, and not much in the way of wisdom.  The man told his partners, "Go on guys.  Old Buck and I will move down to the next coulee.  We want to take our time, and you guys need to stay right on top of those young dogs." Plans were made to meet up around sunset, and the man kept Buck in the front seat as he drove down the road. They stopped where the man knew would be more Sharptails hiding in the plum thickets high up the hillside.  He got out, let Buck out and they started up the hill.  Buck moved slower now, the morning hunt was draining, and the hill in front seemed a lot steeper. He looked back at the man, walking stiff-legged and resting every five or ten steps.  Buck turned and came in, like he usually did for some water, and the man grabbed the bottle from his vest and let him drink his fill.  Then the man sat down and they admired the day and the country.  They heard shooting, then whoops of joy coming in off the wind from their friends the next coulee over.  The man smiled and stroked Buck.  "Those young dogs must have gotten an handle on their hormones, Buck.  That surely is a good feeling to see a young dog coming along like that. You were like that once, although I know you'd never think you could be."

The man stood up, shouldered his vest, grabbed his gun and reloaded.  His legs felt pretty good for a change, and he pointed up the hill as Buck limped in front of him- doggedly set on reaching those plum thickets.  "Buck, you take your time. I need it, too.  I'll stay with you, buddy.  We'll walk it together.  We're a good team.   Damn, the days we had!"

Buck reached the plum thickets just ahead of the man. He pointed like a year old setter- full of piss and vinegar.  The man went off to Buck's left, the routine as old and comfortable as a pair of well-worn chaps.  The birds were there, and the man thought it might be a little unfair to them with Buck on the ground.  He laughed as 10 Sharptails flew up 20 yards in front of Buck. He dropped one, then bent a knee and waited for the old dog to bring it in.  "Maybe by this time next year, Buck, we can have us a little ball of hair-on-fire setter up here for you to train. Us two old guys need to pass on what we know, before it's too late for either of us to get up the hill."  They walked slowly, deliberately, back to the truck.  The old dog and the middle-aged man walked together.

A Swan Song

7 weeks old-Ruby

It was 92 degrees. 

 

Once again, I was in the middle of a CRP field, just off the end of the International Airport runway in Great Falls, MT.  Joined by 40-50 of my NSTRA (National Shoot to Retrieve Field Trial Assoc.) friends,  I was there to compete with my bird dogs before I headed out for a week to ten days of bird hunting  on the Montana prairie.  It was the end of August.  August!  And, it was 92 degrees.  Somehow, spending most of the long summer in Georgia, I  missed the part about it being real hot in the heartland.  In my parochial, shortsighted vision, I think I assumed anything north would be cooler.  (The background laughter is distracting.)  The heat was all that more penetrating, because the sun was beating mercilessly on anything crazy, ignorant, or trusting enough to be outside the shade. That included handlers, judges, dogs, field marshals and spectators.  Shade was sought and hoarded.  Cold water was trading across the board for fizzy drinks.  A cool breeze was heavenly.  Wet heat, dry heat. It's all hot. The difference is the shade.  In low humidity, when you are in the shade, if you stay calm and collected, it may even feel comfortable for a few minutes. Shade and a breeze made life possible.  

Of the five bird dogs I carried with me, two were already NSTRA Champions, Cap a three-time Champion (3XCH-derived by points and placements), and Ruby a two-time Champion (2XCH). Cap was retired from NSTRA, he had nothing to prove or gain by running more field trials.  At ten and a half years old, he would be my top hunting dog as long as he wanted.  Ruby was even a little older than Cap, by just a few months, but she needed three more points (3 pts.-first, 2 pts- second, 1 pt.- third) for her third championship.  She was healthy and running, and she was, far and away, the smartest dog I ever owned. At least twice in the past, I saw her run straight to a spot she worked for a bird earlier, but didn’t produce it. Then, she would point and I would get the bird up. Both times were in the last few minutes of the brace. Both times, it was a bird that enabled us to advance to the next round. 

 I thought she deserved another championship.  One more championship would also qualify her for another award, when coupled with her two victories in the 2016 and 2019 Georgia Region NSTRA Championships.  She was the only Brittany to ever win that trial- and she did it twice.  At seven and nine years old.

 

As we walked to the line, Ruby bounced around and pulled on the lead. With some dogs, I would insist on them walking at heel.  It was a safety issue.  They are big, strong dogs, and they could trip me up or cause me to slip on muddy ground.  So, I took a few days, and added "Heel" to the list of commands they know.  But Ruby, at 34# soaking wet, wasn't a problem.  I always figured her antics were like a Sumo wrestler banging his chest and psyching himself up for the contest.  Ruby was excited.  I let her get more excited.  

We were in the 15th brace, out of 16 total braces for the day.   Ruby had a good run on the other field, and was currently in second place over there.  I knew second would gain her two points, and we'd need to wait for another trial.  I was hoping her second would hold up though, and I could get at least a third with her on this field, then I'd have all the necessary points for her third championship.  And her retirement.  

 

The dog who currently held first place did good work earlier in the day.  He had four finds and retrieves, good ground coverage and obedience scores.  I noticed he lacked a score for his back, most likely because he never had the opportunity, since he found four of the five birds planted before the brace began. 

At the line, Ruby steadied.  I unsnapped her lead, but held onto her collar.  We both waited for the lead judge to tell us, "Turn 'em loose!" The other dog, and handler, were to our left.  The wind was right to left, coming out of the greater portion of the field. The command was given, and I let go of her collar.  She shot out, full speed in a few strides, straight ahead, then turned sharply to the right, into the wind. I took a few steps, loaded my gun, stowed my lead, and started my watch, all the while watching Ruby.  She went out about 100 yards and began a long, looping turn to the left right back at me.  I knew to walk slowly, because she was now looking for the "gallery bird", as she passed me and made another loop to the right, having swept the area off the line in a "figure 8" pattern,  I felt confident, at that point, we hadn't left any behind.  I learned to trust her nose.  Of all my dogs, she is the one I trust the most.  

 

(Photo by Nancy Whitehead)

 

3XCh Flyboy's Ruby Deux

 

I named her Ruby Deux, or Ruby #2.  My first Ruby was an English Setter from years gone by.  Ruby Deux was fast.  Lean and long-legged, and she was always fast. At 8 weeks old, after I picked her up in North Carolina, the week before, I took her on a walk to the barn to meet the big dogs and start her awareness of the world around her.  We sniffed the big dogs, and, without saying a word, I started walking out of the barn and along a tree line down to the creek about a third of a mile away. I glanced back and smiled as she noticed me missing, sighted me, and came flying along my track.  She passed me up and ran out about 20-30 feet in front. moving from right to left.  Still not saying a word, I waited until she moved out a little farther, then I stepped into the treeline and hid.  Usually, the pup will notice I'm gone, start to panic, and I'll magically reappear to "save" them.  They learn to know where I am at all times.  That little game reaps huge rewards later on when they are running a ridge line 300 yards out, and I see them glance over towards me.  Or, I can't see them glance at all, but they will swing by 50-100 yards away, keeping me "in sight".  

Ruby, however, played the game a bit differently.  She turned, noticed I was nowhere to be found, whimpered once, reversed course and took off at full speed back up the trail.  She went by me like an orange blur. I called to her, but she didn't even blink.  All I saw was the tail end of an 8 week old Brit pup, hauling her fuzzy butt back to the barn! I took off running, trying to catch her, but she was going away by the time she reached the barn.  She ran right to the pen with the big dogs, grabbed some water from the bucket, and laid down.  By the time I arrived, she was panting, but not hard.  At least she was glad to see me.  He little stub tail was going a mile a minute.  I could only think it was the horseback breeding of her mom coming out.  Ruby was a runner.  She liked it.  Later, she lived for the wide open stretches of the grasslands.  Her dad was Nolan's Last Bullet, a 33X NSTRA Champion, and a multi-National Champion and in the Hall of Fame, a master at the game of NSTRA, but her mom was a horseback trial bird dog, a runner. 

 

Ruby and me

After cleaning the field in front of the start line, Ruby took off again to the right, into the wind.  She swept back and forth, cleaning huge chunks of grass of any birds.  Five minutes went by, then ten, and I was beginning to get concerned.  We had 20 minutes left. We covered a good portion of the field, and had zero birds on the card!  Approaching the boundary, I didn't need to say a thing to her.  She hit the mowed strip and turned to the left to work the corner of the field.  I thought perhaps she needed some water, so I raised my whistle and started walking to the flag indicating a water barrel.  Right then the judge yelled, "Point!"  I snapped my head around, and smiled as I saw her 50 yards away, still as a statue.  I flushed the Chukar, shot it, and she retrieved it to my hand.  I told her, "Good girl!  Get in, Ruby!", my command to get into the water barrel nearby.  I pointed the direction, and she headed that way until she saw the barrel and jumped in. She didn't stay long, only a few seconds.  Energized, she took off, down the back boundary, breeze at her back.  She worked back and forth, fast, full strides, until we got to the very back corner. It was 20 minutes into the brace now- ten minutes left on the clock.  I could tell she was tiring in the heat, she slowed and looked at me, as if to say, "Boss, I've done everything I can think of, and I'm not having any luck.  You got any ideas?" Yes, I did. "C'mon, girl," I said.  I turned back into the wind, and headed back across the field, on a different line now, one that crossed close to another water barrel. She passed me by, tongue out, slowing, but still game.  "She's about out of gas," the judge said. "Yeah, she is, judge.  She might have given me all she has today.  POINT," I yelled!  The instant before, Ruby spun around and pointed, about 30 yards ahead.  I moved as quickly as I legally could to her, scanning for the bird.  Her back legs were shaking, but that nose was steady, eyes locked on a shrub not far off, and she was "eating scent", mouth slowly opening and closing.  The bird was there, and tried to escape by flushing behind me.  I heard the wings, turned and dropped the bird.  Ruby was on it in a flash and dropped it in my hand.  Five minutes left in the brace, I looked toward the water barrel, back towards the gallery, and decided she needed water more than anything.  I whistled her back to me.  She turned reluctantly, slowly, and started back.  POINT!  "Move!" I thought to myself.  The bird popped up, and flew directly at the judge.  "Safety," I yelled!  The bird flew out of bounds (we get an average score for that retrieve.).  

 

Three birds on the card now and four minutes left.  "Ruby, get in, girl!", and I pointed to the water barrel.  It was important to make sure she was cool for the last few minutes.  A very successful trialer once told me, "Randy, don't let her run out the clock if she's hot and not smelling anything!  Make her get in the barrel and hold her there.  Put water on her belly, chest, and head.  Make sure she's soaked!  Then, let her finish out the run with a working nose, and a strong stride!"   She jumped in the barrel, and I put my gun down, and wet her underside, head, and face.  After 30 seconds, I sensed a renewed energy in her.  "Let's go, Rubes!"  She jumped out of the barrel, and immediately became birdy!  POINT!  I only had a minute or two left, so I move quickly to the bird.  I saw it running on the ground!  It saw me and changed direction- "Flushed bird, Judge!"   "You got it," he said!  The bird took off right then, and I dropped it.  Ruby was on it, and slowly brought it to me, and placed it in my hand.  I knelt down, and stroked her head.  "I am so proud of you, Ruby Deux!  You've got all the grit a dog can have," I told her.

  

The last ones standing.  You know you won.

 

We had four birds on the card, with only seconds left in the brace.  So little time was left, I didn't even check my watch.  I expected to hear the judge call "Time!" any second.  I stood to get my bearings, and heard someone say Point!  It wasn't us, so I looked left, and there was my bracemate on point 40 feet away!  "Ruby! Here," I yelled!  She started to me, then past me, saw the other dog, and froze.  "Back," I shouted!  "You got it, Randy.  It wasn't pretty, but it was a back."  "Time," said the judge.

 

Laughing, I walked to Ruby and knelt beside her.   I pulled her to me.  Her scoring was over.  Four finds, four retrieves (one a safety), and a back.  In 92+ degree heat, at ten and a half years old.  I took her head and breathed in her nostrils, and tucked her under my chin.  She let me catch her this time, and sank into me.  I'll never forget that time we spent in that open field, me kneeling down, holding my dog, Ruby submitting and letting me love on her.  "That dog has a lot of heart, Randy.  I was proud to see her work.  Good job!" said the judge as he rode by.

 

Ruby won  the trial by 11 points.  Her other field's standing did not hold up, and she was fourth.  Her win gave her the three points needed for her third Championship.  She is now retired from trialing, and concentrates entirely on bird hunting, with the occasional growling roll-over of the new pup, Blue, from her last litter.  "Don't give me any lip, Junior! When you get two Region wins and three championships behind your name, I might listen.  Until then, shut up and learn!" 

That's my girl. 

 

 

Public Land! A Unique Blessing

 

    I loaded the Beast one more time- dogs in the back in their crates on top of the bed slide, and even one more crate on the back seat, now that I'm taking all five of my Brits with me.  They will rotate through the passenger seat during the three day trip to Montana.  I swear they know when it's their turn. If I forget, or I'm rushed and can't remember, I can scan the crates and the one who's up next will let me know it's his or her turn- usually vocally. The camper is loaded, tires new, propane topped off, generators serviced, refrigerator packed.  I'm ready for a 2000+ mile drive to hunt birds, one of many I will take this year. 

Montana Sharptail Country

Almost every trip, I will hunt public land.  Meaning: anyone with the proper license can hunt the same land.  Many states have programs in which bird hunters can hunt private land that is available for the public through various programs, and I include that in the public land category.  (E.g., Montana Block Management, etc.).   But the vast majority of the public land I hunt is Bureau of Land Management (BLM) land or State land (State of Montana, State of New Mexico, etc.). 

I realized I just take this blessing for granted.  It's always been there for me, and I assumed it would always be there. But, this privilege is almost unique to our country. Unique in the world!  Remember, the game animals in this country are owned by the public, not the landowner.  When taken into account with other facts, such as great roads, motels, gas stations everywhere, vet care in every town, sporting goods stores, gun stores, ammunition stores, truck repair, and safe, stable living conditions and no requirement to check in or report to the government, or cross through checkpoints, etc., this resource is a one-of-a-kind on this planet. And, it's available to any citizen.

  

Chickens, Sharptail, Roosters on Public Land 2019

What other countries have a system like ours?  Europe would be the closest to our system, but they've relegated themselves to a system of private ownership that is expensive for the common man and exclusive.  What about Asia, Africa, etc.?  In many locales, I'd be concerned about driving, much less hunting.  The availability of accommodations, fuel, and land make hunting in those areas problematic.  Yes, hunting can be done, but it's Public Hunting for (relatively) free, and safety that we are considering. South America and Central America have plenty of game birds, but once again, we are stymied by the availability of Public Land.

 

Perhaps the closest I've found to our system is in Australia and New Zealand. Australia has a vast amount of land available- millions of acres- regulated by each state.  Citizens are encouraged to hunt invasive species, especially rabbits, camels (?), dogs, and others (it's an interesting list!), but also, there are several types of quail, pheasant, ducks, etc.  Also, New Zealand has almost a million acres of public land available to hunt, and an outdoor lifestyle is common in one of the most beautiful countries in the world. So, this country isn't totally unique (and I apologize, in advance, for any areas I missed), but when all the conditions are tabulated, I believe we have a resource second-to-none. 

 

 

Shack and me. North Dakota 2016

How much land are we talking about? Well, here's where it gets interesting.  I'm loaded and heading to Montana. How much land, in Montana, is available for me to run my dogs?  (I'm excluding any private land, including Block Management Land.)  Montana has a little more than 30 million acres of public land.  Ponder that.  30 MILLION acres.  Sure, a lot of that is vertical, or not suitable in one regard or another.  Some is even landlocked by private land with no public access and therefore not accessible to us.  (A continuing bone of contention in many states.)  But, that's a lot of land.  More than all five of my Brits can cover in a day.   Some states, like Wyoming, have even more land available (31 million acres), Nevada (53 million acres), and, finally, Alaska (271 million acres).  The top 12 states have 558 million acres of Public Land (358 million acres, excluding Alaska).  The total for the United States is 697 million acres.  Two thirds of a BILLION acres of land for anyone to hunt in this country.  A half BILLION acres  excluding Alaska- the numbers are truly staggering! .  

 

Being a flat-lander from Georgia, I'm often asked if I'm "hunting private land?".  The answer is "yes and no".  The land I hunt may be private, but it will be open to the public through one program or another.  Or, it will be outright public through BLM or other Federal or State program. Generally, in the East, a bias is given towards private land, in that it's assumed it will hold more birds, less pressured birds.  Perhaps.  But, like I tell friends, the limit on pheasant is three roosters per day. How many do you need to shoot at to get three?  Besides, I try to find public land in which the bird populations are close to the private land numbers.  It's not hard to do. Remember, it's perfectly acceptable to access BLM land on the other side of fencing, State land when not in standing crops, etc.  You should visit the  Bureau of Land Management website and learn the rules.  There are many BLM offices in every western state, where you can access detailed maps for a nominal fee. 

 

Blue Grouse Country Wyoming

When I reach Montana, my biggest problem is not access, it's sorting through what's available- a good problem to have.  As I stand and look out on a prairie so vast it is disconcerting to some, I remember to take time and thank God I was born to this country, the greatest on Earth.  I encourage you to do the same. 

#abirdhuntersthoughts #endlessoctoberbook #flyboybrit #turnemloose

#1 Bird Hunting BLOG

I just received notification that my bird hunting BLOG is in the Top 10- #1 is what the list shows! While I am curious as to how the list was developed, I'm happy with the results. 

https://blog.feedspot.com/bird_hunting_blogs/

End of a good day in New Mexico 2019

Intro to Woodcock for Blue 2018

Two tired Chukar hunters- me and Cap 2015