Arizona Mearns Quail - And the Buddhist English Setter

From the tailgate of the truck, Pistol stared at me, eyes bright with anticipation. She was war torn from months of battle in the upland fields. I ran my hand over her chest, feeling for the small sharp scabs that appeared like braille, telling stories of the hundreds of miles covered in search of whatever upland bird the land decided to donate. 

I knew she’d follow me into any battle without the slightest hesitation. That bond has been earned over the miles of cactus, granite strewn mountain sides, ice covered creek crossing, scorching hot sands, broken stalked corn fields and countless barbed wire fences we hurdled together.

We had fought together before, we’d be doing the same this day.

Arizona’s Mearns quail, or Montezuma quail, country is no joke. The flat bobwhite territory of the Midwest was long ago in the rearview mirror. Standing before us were the rolling mountains of what looked more like Hungarian partridge country to me, not a place where quail would like to take up residence.

But who am I to tell a creature where it is they should lay their head.

The ritual of prepping this sleek little 32 pound bird seeking missile went underway without notice. It has become a habit, as much as tying your boots without remembering you’ve done so. 

I pulled her into a heel as I locked down the truck and prepared for departure. With the amount of abandoned “runners” backpacks and other nefarious paraphernalia I’d witnessed since our arrival, I figured a full lockdown of the vehicle that was carrying all my worldly possessions would be in order.

We eyed up the hills that soon turned into mountains and looked for habitat that begged to be hunted. My Citori Featherweight found its way into the well worn notch of my shoulder as Pistol set off in search of a familiar scent.

I proudly watched her as the distance increased between us. Tweety birds scatter and she took little notice. Finally. This victory is no small one and would be easily missed by someone who hasn’t watched the progression. A diamond set in a ring didn’t look that way when pulled from the earth.

The low angle of the mid winter sun crawled its way over the horizon. The frost covered grass would soon be wet once the sun fully awakened. We were perhaps a bit early to start chasing quail, but I hated to waste a good sunrise.

We gained elevation along with the sun. The grass was tall and thick, a far cry from the Scaled quail territory we had frequented not so long back. Some humans like cities while others like the country I mussed, quail are no different with their preferences.

I continued to watch the white streak quarter the hillside. Perhaps it wasn’t as awe inspiring as the birth of my firstborn, but watching an English setter work terrain like this is a close second.

There was some oak lacing steep cuts in the hillside and Pistol was pulling us in that direction. Her instincts were good. She was beginning to understand what features attracted game. That or I was overanalyzing my birddog, acting as a parent who thinks their child is the next Einstein. We want to be a part of something special, even if we have to make it up in our mind. She could just be looking for a bit of shade.

My legs pumped oxygen into the starving muscles. Climbing fifteen feet up a treestand and sitting for hours at a time, the only exercise being moving my eyeballs from side to side had done little for my cardio. Whitetail hunting was a mental game, certainly not a physical one. Don’t let Instagram tell you otherwise.

She was out of sight at this point, the cuts in the hillside made it tough to keep her in my line of sight. I knew her general direction and the GPS collar confirmed my suspicions. A couple hundred yards out and still on the move.

I still had a lot to learn about this pup. Reading her body language had eluded me thus far. She was either on point or she was birdy. There was no in-between. Braker, my pudelpointer, for instance was as calm as a bomb until he picked up scent. At that point his stubby little tail would wag like a metronome moving to the beat of drum and bass.

Not Pistol. She seemed to treat every blade of grass, every bush as if it were loaded up with the next covey. Her white flag of a tail would swish the air like a defeated army in surrender. 

A beep from the GPS unit pulled me out of my contemplations, telling me to get to my birddog and see what she’s up to. It could be one of three things.

1. She stalled out, waiting for my wheezing body to catch up. The high octane race car idling while the lead clogged jalopy attempts to catch up with her.

2. She’s on a rock solid point of some nearby cattle.

3. See #2, subtract the cow and replace with Mearns quail.

I decided not to test her resolve and double timed my step.

I crested a small ridge to find her in full concentration at a piece of ground forty yards in front of her nose. Unless Arizona has grasshopper sized cattle, she was on quail.

As elusive as she is with signaling me that she is picking up scent, she wears her point on her sleeve.

There is absolutely no mistaking when there is a game bird in front of her. A statue couldn’t hold as still. Her tail doesn’t wag, her heart doesn’t beat. Her eyes bore a hole in the spot she is looking, so much so that you think that the ground before her would start to smolder. The concentration is so complete, so beautiful, that I often don’t know if I should reach for my gun or my camera.

I fear disappointing her, so I double checked that there were two shells seated in the barrels and snapped the over/under shut.

I approached the point she was concentrating on at a ninety degree angle. Although she has been approached from her six o’clock plenty of times without budging, if at all possible I’ll avoid it. She’s a rock, but given enough pressure, even a rock will break.

My habit of placing pressure on the safety kicked in as I went through the scenarios of how this could go down in my head. A straight away shot would be ideal. No angles to deal with, just put the bead on the butt and squeeze the trigger. If they were going to break perpendicular to me, I’d prefer to my right. It has always been an easier shot for me. It is naturally smoother to rotate forward, but then I’d be shooting into the hillside. I like the sky behind my birds. Give me that uncluttered silhouette and my chances go from a whopping 10% kill rate to around 15%. I liked those odds.

I was moments away from taking my calculator out and breaking down the percentages for success when the explosion of feathers went off.

Not a covey, but a solo male Mearns quail. He obviously hadn’t been listening to my dissertation on what was going to work best for me and my shooting abilities because he decided his best course of action was a full on frontal charge.

I felt the disturbance of air as the quail rocketed past my head. I pivoted on my heel as I seated the stock of my shotgun home. It felt right because there was no thought behind it. I know I’m screwed when I have to think of each motion individually. When it feels natural, feathers tend to fall from the sky.

A single shot erupted from my top barrel. A cloud of lead enveloped the bird in a blanket, wrapping it up and sending it towards the earth.

Pistol breaks loose, looking for more in the covey. To her that bird was the past, and her being a buddhist and all, she practices living in the present. There are more birds to be had and if I felt like wallowing in nostalgia, I could go pick up the damn bird myself. 

A setter through and through. The offseason will be a rude awakening for her.

I scooped up the pristine male Mearns quail. Another first amongst an upland road trip filled with firsts.

I pulled Pistol off the chase as I sat down, pressing by back up against the post of a barbed wire fence. She reluctantly came over, not sure what all the excitement was about over a dead bird.

I tried to force her to see it from my perspective. I wanted her to see the satisfaction of accomplishing our goal. She was more interested in the process of obtaining it, not the end result.

I respected that, but I still wanted to gloat. Our first Mearns together. 

/

/ Fred Bohm

Quail Hunting in New Mexico - Keeping Your Bubble Small

A stiff north wind wreaks havoc on the thirty-three-foot camper being pulled behind my under-gunned Ram truck. The kids and woman are asleep, giving me the silence I rarely get on such a trip to mull over the last week.

We have been chasing scaled quail near Carlsbad, New Mexico with little luck. Rumors are rumbling through the landscape that the quail numbers are way down in the area. Top that off with attempting to hunt these wary birds near the end of the season and you have yourself a recipe for disappointment.

The decision was made to head closer to the Arizona border in hopes of finding more quail and of different variety. Scaled, Gambel’s and if lucky, Mearn’s quail would be chased in good numbers. We have a week left to get it done. The goal is to get Hazel her first quail, have the kids run free in the desert wilds, show Braker, our Pudelpointer, enough birds that he becomes sick of their smell and for me; the much sought-after New Mexico quail trifecta.

I watch my gas gauge plummet faster than lifestyle changes from kids. From dirtbag hunter to KOA visiting, kid toting modern-day Clark Griswald. Change happens, often without us taking notice, until one day it is as evident as an elephant in the room, or in my case a house on wheels.

Upon arriving, we lay down camp in quick fashion. Get the essentials taken care of, a cocktail for dad to calm his frazzled nerves from white-knuckling the windstorms, and prep for a hunt.

OnX is fired up on the phone and we head off to what looks like promising terrain. Braker is shaking with anticipation in the rearview mirror, staring out the back window at the passing mesquite bushes with the concentration of a fighter pilot. The kids’ boots are laced up, ready to unleash endless energy that only toddlers are blessed with and grownups look on with envy.

Hazel drops me off on the upper end of an arroyo that I picked out. She’ll take the kids to the lower end and meet me towards the bottom. She knows me all too well, I am either blessed or cursed with the drive of a field trial dog. If some of that steam isn’t released the engine could blow.

Braker and I plan on putting in four or five miles before we reach them, finishing out the hunt with the full crew.

I’m daydreaming of the new opportunities in new territory when a bush explodes in front of me. Dark outlines of Gambel’s quail fill the sky momentarily and as quick as they appeared are dispersed like confetti into the wind the next. My Browning Featherweight is clutched in my right hand, never moving from its original position. I see Braker looking back my direction with his ever disappointed eyes.

I grin at him sheepishly. He holds the stare a bit longer to drive home the point.

“Alright, alright already. Get after them,” I say as I release him from his point.

He tears off like a possessed demon. By the time I catch up with him he’s locked down like a statue. I make my approach at a poorly thought out angle and two Gambel’s quail with rocket boosters blast into orbit at opposite directions. 

Paralysis by analysis. I can’t decide which way to swing.

In any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing.

Damn you, Theodore Roosevelt.

This time I refuse to make eye contact with my judgemental birddog.

We edge near private property and I decide to pull anchor and head further down the arroyo. In the world of cameras behind every bush, I’m too paranoid to even piss past a barbed wire fence that’s bordering private land.

We walk through terrain that belongs at the end of a Google search for ‘where do you find quail?’

I have my game face on now. Disappoint my gun dog once and he’ll let you know it. Twice? He’s telling his friends what a lame hunter I am. Three times? Well three times, and he’s looking for a new owner.

He cuts the country apart like a Samari sword, throwing pebbles and clumps of sand in his wake.

Any and every square inch of this place could contain birds and he’s determined to leave his mark on all of it. 

We make our way down the arroyo and closer to the little bouncing orange dots that is the family before his stumpy tail picks up cadence signaling to me that I best get ready. I crack my over/under and check that I didn’t pull a knuckleheaded move like forgetting to load it. I’m on thin ice as is.

Braker scales a ten-foot eroded creek bank with the skill of a mountaineer. As he crests the top he locks up. I take a few steps forward and another covey explodes in the four cardinal directions. I lock in on two and with the determination that comes from a man staring down a third strike, I pull off a double in a fashion
I’m not accustomed to nor deserve.

I break the barrel and two smoking shells arc for the sky. I grab a fresh one from the pouch and as I slide it in the top barrel another Gambel’s takes to the sky. I close her up and mount to my shoulder in one move.

Another puff of feathers and I’m looking my birddog’s way for that eye contact he was so desperate for earlier.

“Eh?! Hope you include that in your story to your little friends,” I quip with raised eyebrows.

His only response is to find the nearest downed bird, not wanting to acknowledge in my childish remarks. We round up the fallen birds and decide it’s time to see if we can accomplish one of the original goals of getting Hazel her first quail.

I pull Braker off the scent of the now long gone covey and head towards the family. A sizable portion of the birds headed their direction and they will have had plenty of time to settle down and let their stink coat the area.

I wave Hazel over and we converge in the middle, about a mile from where she has parked the truck. I can hear two bouncing kids following on her heels asking her a million questions from where does the sun go every night to what’s her favorite dinosaur. Little carbon-powered voiceboxes with feet.

I point her over to where part of the covey landed and back off with the kids to let her and Braker go to work.

“Did you get any Dad? How many more do we need before we can make quail chicken nuggets?” they ask without slowing down for an answer. They’ve been away from dad for about two hours and they have earth-shattering stories to tell of their exploits during that time. I kneel down, crack open the scattergun and take it all in. Hearing the excitement from my two favorite little people in the world starts to make my eyes well up.

I listen and fill in explanations where I can. I watch Hazel work out in the mesquite, pausing at random bushes as Braker locks up on birds that were there only moments ago. They’re running, as desert birds will, and he has to figure a way to lock them down in order to get Hazel a shot.

I see the glimmer of steel as she raises her Ithica pump, a bottom ejecting 20 gauge that is older than she is, up to her shoulder. There’s a crack in the air that silences the little ones.

“Did mommy get one?” my son asks.

“Wahooo!” reverberates back to us from here position.

“I think so buddy, should we go find out?” I ask.

We’re running over her way, little feet pumping like pistons, powered by curiosity.

By the time we get to Hazel, she’s holding her first quail in hand, slightly dampened by Braker’s saliva. The kids pet the bird and ask more questions. Life and death can be a heavy subject for any human, but presented this way it appears more natural, easier to explain.

Hazel and I look at one another, knowing the significance of these moments. To the kids, it’s another day, absorbing the world around them and the role that they play in it.

We walk back to the truck, happy with the day, happy with the way we’ve decided to live our lives, and just simply happy to be together. We’re in a bubble. Outside our immediate area, nothing matters. Not politics, not ranting social media posts, not the world’s problems. 

I hesitate at the handle of the truck, knowing that when I open it and we move on we enter back into the world. It’s cowardly to avoid it so I relent. I know a piece of that bubble will come with us and as long as we keep doing what we’re doing right now. These memories will continue to build and more of what is really insignificant in our lives will become less and less relevant.

I smile, help load the kids up and look forward to tomorrow, and the tomorrow after tomorrow. I look forward to keeping my bubble small.

// Fred Bohm

The Pointing Flusher and Flushing Pointer - Upland Hunting With Birddogs

I could see the muscles straining throughout his corded torso. They threaten to deceive his training and ruin all that he has worked for. The devil on his shoulder encouraging him to explode forward, ignore the bond he has with this human playing God and let loose the instinctual demon within.

“Sit.” Comes my calm voice.

My eyes work off in the distance to the rigid dark brown pudelpointer, Braker, who has gone rigor mortis.

A whimper of disappointment leaves my lab’s throat but he holds up his end of the bargain and concedes while his brother from another mother leads the show.

A pang of guilt hits home as I start to walk off towards Braker.

I look back to reassure myself, but knowing it is unnecessary to do so. Sage my ever loyal lab would be exactly where I asked him to be. Unfailing and unwavering in his commitment to please me.

“Damn it,” I say to myself. I hate when I feel inferior to my dog. That type of loyalty has brought a tear to my eye in the past and threatens to do the same now.

But I have a job to do. Braker has earned the right to be the center of attention and I can’t let guilt get in the way of that.

I slowly approach from behind and downwind of him. These quail have been cutting into the heavy winds all day and I’m hedging my bet as to what direction they think the safest evacuation route is.

“Whoa Braker, whoa.” I soothe him as I near. Unlike Sage, I’m a bit more nervous about my pointer’s intentions. I know from past experience he is closer to human than dog. Often he gives into his wants, with my involvement in the hunt being an afterthought.

I inch nervously ahead giving it about a fifty-fifty chance as to whether I am going to put the birds up or his impatience is. I know in the back of his mind he suspects Sage will come careening into the center of the covey to steal his hard-earned find.

He holds true.

The quail scream into the wind and in a rare showing of marksmanship by twin barrels take the same in lives.

Before I finish “Bra…” he’s off in the direction of the first puff of feathers being taken into the wind as easily as dandelion seeds.

I look back over my shoulder knowing that I would be receiving a scowl from my tried and true retriever. Sage a student of the finer things in life is steady to wing and shot. Braker, well Braker is his namesake to the T and rarely lets a thing like discipline slow him down.

“Amateur hour. I know.” I say in an apology to Sage.

Braker has the first bobwhite. Half the feathers in his mouth, half stuck to his peculiar dog beard. He comes racing towards me and I know he has no intention of stopping. Like an Olympic relay racer there is no slowing down for the hand-off.

He spits the bird out in my general vicinity and heads out for round two.

However this time it doesn’t go so smoothly. He tries to get downwind of where he thinks the second bird fell, but the scent is lost in the covey’s former grocery store and he doesn’t have the advantage of a freshly wounded and flopping bird as a visual aid.

Sage lets go a grunt that is the tell tale sign of his annoyance with such incompetence. I know that he could make short work of this situation, but that would be breaking the rules.

The rule of finding the birds first? They’re yours to retrieve. Well that’s as long as I do my part, which is not always the case.

I let Braker take his time and lean against my smoking Citori, knowing this could take a while.

He eventually picks up the scent and with it the dead quail, then prances back with the obvious intent of pissing off Sage.

Kids…

Now don’t be fooled, it wasn’t always like this. I have yet to find anything more frustrating in hunting than the initial phases of teaming up a pointer and flusher. I about exhausted the urban dictionary and it’s array of four letter words trying to get these two to work together, but in the end it was time and vocabulary well spent.

The conflict of such a setup may or may not seem obvious to some. Their rudimentary philosophies of how a bird should be properly handled is on opposite ends of the spectrum. In football, placekickers and nose tackles don’t have the same job and for good reason.

The Pointer’s Argument

From the pointers perspective he could feel rushed and territorial on his point. It can be difficult enough to have them hold steady with a hunter walking up behind him. They are just as tempted by the adrenaline rush from sending tightly held birds skywords as we are. Now throw a flusher in the mix that has no restraint or respect for the birds personal space and you have a pointer waiting to develop bad habits.

If they feel they have the chance of losing the birds to some boot-sniffing brush buster, you can place a bet with house odds that they are going in for what is rightfully theirs.

How did I resolve this? Have my lab sit as soon as the pudelpointer goes on point. This requires you to pay attention, but you’re hunting over a flusher so you should always be on edge. If your flusher is trained well he’ll sit tight and let the pointer do his job.

The Flusher’s Testimony

The major problem to overcome was keeping my flusher within shooting range. When hunted alone he knows that if he outranges my 20 gauge, his mouth will go featherless. This gives him the incentive to hunt close. But when I threw my pointer in the mix the competition between them was too fierce. He wanted to roam out as far as the pointer, which is not practical for a flusher for obvious reasons.

I had to call him back in range time after time. Only after he learned that if he worked different areas than what Braker had already navigated, he could stay within range and still outwit him. Being that he finds seven out of the ten birds sent into the air, I would say he’s doing a fine job.

The Verdict

I will start off by admitting this was not a combination for everyone. It was certainly unintentional from my end; Sage came from pointing lab lines and I never thought for a minute as a pup that he wouldn’t eventually point. Just like you can’t force your kids into a particular career no matter how hard you plead, the same applies to a dog. Eventually you come to respect and then love that they chose the path that they did.

I benefited above and beyond getting a dynamic hunting team. The training process retrained me in what I thought was possible from our hunting buddies. It also taught me the patience and understanding sure to have rivaled Mother Teresa and in doing so dramatically expanded my sailor-like vocabulary of words I’m less than proud to know.

If you’re up for the challenge, this can be one of the most exciting ways to hunt birds. You get the best of both worlds; the enjoyment of watching the precision that only a pointer can provide and the white knuckle excitement that is inherent in flushers. And as a added bonus, you’ll expand your vocabulary beyond what you ever dreamed was possible.

// Fred Bohm

The Road to Chukar

“Uhhh… there’s a what?” I stammer out in stupefied confusion.

“Yea, right behind you. Comes all the way to the top.” Our newfound friend eagerly feeds us the locals’ inside information.

“All the way from the bottom? All the way to the top?” Bryce points off the cliff that our camp is so precariously perched on. “Like a road you can drive on, with a car?”

“That’s usually what they’re for. Driving on. You mean to tell me you guys hiked all the way up here with all that camp gear, enough water for yourselves and your dogs and those heavy rifles?” our inquisitor asked.

“Shotguns.” I murmur.

“Huh?”

“They’re shotgu… Never mind.” I cut myself off, not wanting to explain the not so subtle differences between a shotgun and a rifle to guys that prefer the comfort of spandex to upland pants.

“All to catch some birds? Hell you can buy birds to eat from the grocery store in the town below!” He laughs as he takes a tug from his post ride beer.

I hold my tongue, also not wanting to explain that it wasn’t just about coming up here to ‘catch’ something to eat.

Moments earlier Bryce and I watched these two mountain bikers as they powered their way up the same trail we grinded up earlier that day. And grind we did. I’ve rock climbed in areas that were a lesser grade than this.

Both having strong mountain biking backgrounds, Bryce and I discussed earlier what an epic downhill this little piece of singletrack would be. That being said we also questioned if the way up was worth the way down. You’d be earning your turns on this one, there was no doubt about that.

Bryce and I turn the discussion more towards mountain biking, knowing that this would be a common ground between us. Trying to explain why we hunt to non-hunters has never been an easy feat.

The sunset was too stunning for an argument. We talk for a bit and the two say their farewells.

As our cliffside campfire crisps the chukar taken from the sky today, we watch the bikers scream down the near vertical mountainside, sending up rooster tails of dust into the sunset.

“A road huh…” Bryce breaks the silence.

“Yea, must have missed that one when virtually scouting the area.” I say somewhat apologetically.

We both know that means we wouldn’t have aching quads from the four mile, 3,100 vertical gain hike in. We also wouldn’t be rationing water right now in order to keep all parties on this upland expedition hydrated.

“To hell with it. We earned these birds the hard way and I don’t get to keep my fine girlish figure from riding a truck around, blasting critters from a window.” Bryce says in his best redneck accent.

Want to find a good hunting partner? Prerequisite number uno. Find someone who doesn’t bitch about a little hard work. Not a complaint left Bryce’s mouth.

I stoke the coals and check the meat as the pups settle into the dirt for their night’s rest.

We pick at the meaty birds and look out over the valley as the sun melts away and the darkness takes on its eerie job.

“Let’s go check the ‘potholes’ tomorrow and see if its holding any chukar. Besides, the dogs need a good watering.” Bryce says.

“Sounds like a plan to me.” I respond. With little water to be had in the desert, sometimes small holes eroded into the sandstone flats can hold water from the last rain and attract just about every animal in the vicinity.

And with that we crawl into our respective tents and let the day’s beating slip us into a coma.

Before the morning sun breaks the horizon, the dogs are up with the intent on introducing themselves to every bird on the mountain.

We head out in a loose direction towards the potholes, letting our bird dogs do the navigating. I have full confidence in Sage and Goose to accomplish what they were put on this earth to do; to find birds.

And birds they find. A covey bursts into the sky as Sage’s wet nose prods them from their morning nap.

Two shots sounds off from my over under and two birds fall from the sky.

“Got ‘em!” Bryce and I say simultaneously.

“Got what?” I ask, “A good view of that perfect double I executed?”

As often happens with hunting partners, shots fired at the exact same time, at the exact same bird leaves the other confused as to who actually put the bird on the ground.

“You shot the one cresting over that cedar as well huh?” Bryce laughs.

“Aye.” I say. “Looks like I’m at one and a half and you’re at a half for the morning. How does the Department of Wildlife decipher half kills in the rule book?”

“They give the kill to the taller guy.” Bryce says with a straight face.

I’ve heard the Department of Wildlife had a bias towards taller people, but I didn’t know that it would go as far as taking food out of my mouth. I concede to Bryce’s kill, not wanting to break the law.

We find the potholes but nothing is stirring. The dogs lap up the pools of cool water as the humans rest their legs.

I look out at the vast emptiness that lies ahead of me and smile inwardly. Something about undeveloped and unspoiled lands makes me feel like a rowdy little kid on Christmas morning. You have no idea what’s under the wrapping paper. The only way to find out is to dig in.

I grunt as I get up and look over to see if Bryce is as sore as I am. He hides his aches well and points in a general direction.

“That way?” he asks as much as he tells.

“Sure.” I respond with a shrug. Honestly I could care less. It’s all good hunting ground and I’m in no rush to get anywhere in particular.

The dogs peel themselves away from their water holes and set the pace.

We roam the mountainside as the bird dogs work together in perfect harmony. A pointer and a flusher, who would have ever thought they could work so together so seamlessly. One hyper and with and unbelievable drive to find birds that he often finds on sheer effort alone. The other, calculated and precise using less effort to accomplish the same mission.

I ponder the old adage of a dog being the product of his owner’s personality. I look at Sage as he works the cedars in a foamed mouth frenzy. He’ll find them, but damn is he going to have to work for it. It’s not natural talent that is creating his success, it’s sheer determination. I hope to be half the dog he is someday, I think to myself.

We push through several coveys making some lucky shots, but mostly missing and embarrassing our dogs.

Towards the end of the loop that will end our trip, we come across the road that could have carried us effortlessly to the top and planted right smack in the middle of chukar country.

“So this is the express lane to chukar success I suppose.” I say to Bryce as we examine tire marks pressed into the dusty road.

I can tell that he’s feeling the same disappointment I am. There always seems to be a shortcut to get to the same place. An easy way and a hard way. A way to get to the same point, but one takes a hell of a lot of more effort than the other. Does the actual path to get there matter or is the means worthless and only the end really matters?

We walk on in silence towards camp and the trail that will take us down the mountain to the truck.

“When we coming back?” I ask Bryce to break the silence.

“Just as soon as my legs recover so I can make that brutal hike up again.” Comes his unexpected response.

I smile as I kick a rock off the trail and watch it pick up momentum as it careens towards the valley floor.

“The means.” I laugh under my breath and I see Bryce smile as if he heard the whole conversation in my head. I know I don’t need to explain to him the difference between a rifle and a shotgun.

// Fred Bohm

Chukar Hunting in Colorado

Chasing the Sun

“Chukar in Colorado huh?” I reply into the phone at Bryce’s request to go chase something new.

I’m a bit leary. I’ve seen one or two of them scampering around the fractured desert back in the day of mashing gears on my mountain bike. I was pretty sure at the time these were rogue birds trying to escape the restrictive drinking laws of the bordering Utah.

I like Bryce’s thinking however. Why the hell not? So what if we only see tumbleweeds, it ain’t about the killing, it’s about the adventure. Plus, I’m about to lose my shit in Denver if I get asked one more time by some teenaged vagrant if I could break him off a piece of bud. The loose weed laws here in Colorado have really attracted some high class citizens, I can vouch for that. Time to wander the mountains.

“I hear they shack up in some pretty steep terrain.” Comes my delayed response. “I’m in.”

“Uhh, yea.” Is Bryce’s only response. The hairs on my neck prick up at the stunted answer. There’s something he’s not telling me.

Bryce is the only guy I ever met that loves to blather on as much as I do about bird dogs. The four hour drive flies by as we gyrate in our seats in excitement, talking about the development of his young pup, Goose, and me telling him about the latest foreign object Braker decided to “challenge” his intestines with.

We wake up in an unfamiliar canyon at the nut freezing temperature of 20 degrees. I’m notoriously bitchy about the cold, believe me, when I find great bird hunting in the tropics, I can promise you I will be there.

I stare in amazement of the near vertical sandcastles that make up the Book Cliffs. The angles of the impervious cliffs and chutes make me think that Dr. Suess has something to do with it’s creation.

Bryce well above the desert floor.

The sun blesses the top of the mountains with its presence. I look up enviously at the warming mountain top. It’s only a mere sixteen hundred feet separating us and from what I understand, they won’t be sitting on the canyon floor with bullseyes on their chests waiting for us to scoop them up. With frozen fingers and shivering dogs, we all know what the answer is.

“Let’s make for that sunline.” Bryce vocalizes our thoughts.

When plans are made, God is known to laugh. The series of tombstone like cliff bands that separate us from our goal says otherwise.

“Well they ain’t on the canyon floor, so let’s get to gettin.” Is my response.

The approach consists of tucking our I/Os in our packs as we use our hands as much as our feet to scrape and claw our way towards the heavens. My thighs burn and sizzle as I can feel the fat burning off.

“Christ…. and I thought….. grouse hunting….. was hard.” I wheeze between gulps of air in attempts to slow Bryce’s pace.

A welder and fly fishing guide, this dude is built out of steel. While he is lugging around wrought iron and dragging clients through the wilderness, I’m logging serious time behind the twin glowing screens of my computer.

Time to rethink my career.

We push through the burn as the dogs run laps around us. Sage, my lab, keeps looking back and wondering what is taking the bipeds so long. Bryce’s new pup, Goose, keeps the pace with Sage and I can tell this dog has something special in him by his confident strides.

“You got a run for your money with this one.” I mutter under my breath to Sage.

We come to a halt to snap some photos and allow our lungs to catch up with us.

Bryce’s eyes train on a cliff about five hundred yards from straight up from us.

“That’s an interesting sound.” I offer.

“That’s chukar.” He responds as a long finger points up to the vertical wall that appears to be infested with fleas.

“Nooooo.” Is my long winded response. How could it be? There must be a hundred of them up there. I mean this is Colorado, it’s not exactly known for it’s chukar population.

“Well we found them, now how the hell are we going to hunt them?” I ask. “We have a better chance of infiltrating Fort Knox that we do finding a weakness that will allow us to penetrate that cliffline.”

“That I don’t have an answer too.” Comes Bryce’s uncertain reply.

Book Cliffs of Colorado

I sit there and ponder the remedy.

A. We can hang glide in from above; dive bombing in like a squadron of peregrine falcons.

     B. Launch mortar fire from down below and hope for a few pieces of shredded meat in the leftover remnants.

1. Man up, hike up a near vertical sandbox, send one of us to the top to flush them over   and pray to God that gravity is taking a break today.

Just as I’m about to hop on my satellite phone to call in a favor with an Army buddy with “creative” means to acquiring non-civilian weapons (mortars) Bryce pipes in.

“Three… we’re going with three.”

“I said all of that out loud huh?” I sheepishly inquire.

“You really gotta work on that inner monologue buddy.” Bryce smiles as he toe kicks into powder dusted hillside. “And “C” comes after “B”, not “3”.

We press on, legs filled with adrenaline as they scream for a short reprieve. This would be all of our first wild chukar, if the hunting gods see us fit for the taking. We press on not wanting them to think us weak and therefore not allowing us to take the birds from their mountain.

This cliff proves to be impossible for us to hunt. It’s irrelevant as we hear another covey on the same contour line about 800 yards off.

We’re on them.

Sage punches through the middle and the covey reluctantly takes flight. I fire two shots and two birds fall from the sky (which actually turns into a third, which we find out the next day).

We watch as the rest of the covey drops over a cliff that eerily resembles the White Cliffs of Dover.

“Their escape routes certainly have a feeling of finality to them, don’t they?” I say to Bryce as I scoop up the second bird from the ever loyal jaws of Sage.

“Next covey it is then.” Bryce replies as he hefts his twin barrel and takes off.

He is itching hard to get goose on a solid point.

We spread out a bit to give our dogs room. Sage just has too much experience and speed to allow a young pup to learn his own pacing.

We work a ridge with Bryce and Goose on the steep side and me and my pups on the more open terrain. Perfect for Braker to stretch his legs and look for a point, while Sage works in close to me, making sure no rock goes unturned.

It’s an interesting combination working with a pointer and flusher on the same hunt. I wasn’t sure how it was going to work out, but over the year or so I’ve been doing it, I learned how to let each dog hunt with their own style.

My only job is to put the dogs in a spot that has potential of having birds, other than that I leave it up to them. What I love about bird hunting is the lack of plans. There is no predetermined direction picked out once we get in a birdy area. Let go of control and let the dogs do what they do best… find birds.

I’m pondering these oh so important thoughts when I hear a single gunshot go off.

Bryce and his wirehaired griffon, Goose.

“Good job Goose!” comes the following report.

A smile comes across my face as I gather my pups up and head towards the sound.

As I approach, Bryce is already giving Goose a thorough scratching behind the ears and repeatedly telling his pup how universe now revolves around him.

And it damn well does.

There is absolutely no feeling when that connection between a hunter and his dog is proven by the hunt. NOTHING COMES CLOSE.

The research in the breed that matches your personality, the long wait after you put the deposit down, the countless hours reading books on how to train him during this wait, the arrival, the early bonding stage, the daily walks in the field and woods, the personal talks you have together, the frustration as he eats your socks, the absolute joy he gives you as he is by your side doing what you’re doing day and night, the informal training, the formal training, the promise of an amazing season to come that will probably get you a divorce with the amount of days you plan on hunting together…. and it all comes down to THIS.

That first time you work together as a team, as one single unit, headed towards a common goal… and for the love of God, you achieve it!

I have heard of stronger bonds in the world, but I haven’t experienced it. This animal becomes an extension of you and vice versa. The ability to understand one another without saying a word is something I’ve never experienced with another human being.

Telepathy? Hell I don’t know. Sounds a bit too hippy for this guy, but there are those of you out there that know exactly what I mean.

And I have the joy of watching a good friend fall into the fold.

I look at the two of them, then at my pups and hold back a tear. I know how important this bond is, even if Bryce doesn’t at the moment. That’s the funny thing about life changing events, we don’t know they happened until we get the opportunity to look back at them. I know he will look back at this time and place many times over the years and it will always bring a smile to his face.

I’m just happy to be here to see someone else experience it.

Long live the gundog.

// Fred

Hunting Dusky Grouse in Colorado

Permission Granted

“My permission slip is signed, pick me up at 3:00 am.” I whisper into the phone held tightly to my ear, not wanting Hazel to hear me in fear she might change her mind. Looking at my newborn in my other hand I think to myself, honestly, she has every right to.

“Done. Have coffee ready.” comes the reply.

Shaun can be a man of few words when appropriate, but more often, a man of many. He can sense my urgency to keep the call quick.

A couple of hours later lights shine through my front window. The Citori is thrown hastily into the car and Sage and Braker, my hunting pups, load up. They whimper with energy, annoying to others I’m sure, but to me, it might as well be Shakira serenading me.

“I love this time of morning” Shaun remarks. “The streets are as desolate as a showdown in an old western. All the drunk people already swerved their way home after last call and it’s a bit too early for the early shift workers to slide into their vehicles. The witching hour.”

All four of us ease in for the long drive ahead. To Sage this is old hat, Breaker however thinks every turn or stop is a cue for him to blast out the back of the car and lock into some birds. Oh youthful exuberance, how I envy him.

Shaun and I babble on the four hour drive like two kids guessing what they are going to get for Christmas. Oh middle age exuberance, how the dogs envy it.

I don’t have a ton of secret spots, but where we are headed is my Nirvana. Up until a couple of trips ago I would blindfolded any hunting partners, spun them in a circle ten times, load them onto a plane for three connecting flights and blast death metal into their ears (in case they could recognize the sound of this area’s particular gravel crunch) until they screamed for mercy. Then when they were properly broken of spirit and mind and promising to keep my secret, we would hunt.

This strategy proved to be a problem since Shaun was driving.

I look over to him for what must have been the fortieth time.

“I know, I know. No more pinky toes if I open my mouth.” Comes his response to my baseless threats.

The sun starts to peek out as we head up the mountain. We pass a “For Sale” sign or two as I awkwardly squirm in my seat. I can see Sage do his morning stretches in the back of the car as I make a plan to where I think the birds might be given the temps and time of year.

We pull into my first choice. We are greeted with a pack of Great Pyrenees rolling six deep that are just aching to show my pups their best Ronda Rousey impression. The herd of Q-tips behind them watch to see how the confrontation plays out.

“Uh yea, Braker is kinda a big baby and I like Sage to much to crush his ego. Flip a bitch.” I say.

Shaun’s already on it.

We hit my second choice. The area where “Point Covey” resides. These birds must have bred with turkeys at one time because they are nothing short of massive.

“Only flushing shots, right?” I throw in as a reminder.

“Wouldn’t want it any other way.” Shaun says as he walks in.

Fifteen steps in and Sage is nipping at the rear of a football sized dusky grouse. I am momentarily mesmerized by the roar of the wings, but my concentration comes back in time to send him cratering to the earth. Sage’s first for the year and he doesn’t skip a beat. The bird is back in my hand before I can reload.

Big dusky grouse.

Shaun looks over. “I can see why you’ve been hiding this place from me.”

“Why’s that?” I ask.

“Because with me being as good of a shot as I am, I would have cleared this place out long ago!” He throws back.

Just for that I keep Sage closer to me. Let’s see how he does without the dog master lobbing him in softballs.

I walk the woods with a smile on my face. Nothing but the moment. I am a rock climber, mountain biker and adventure athlete. Nothing has ever come close to the feeling I get when I’m in the woods chasing grouse. Maybe it’s the lack of intensity that is so saturated in every other aspect of my life. Maybe it’s just the clean air, my pups and a good friend.

But I think it is more than that. Maybe it’s just that this is me in my most raw form. The mission is simple and clear. Walk the woods and enjoy yourself. Breathe in that freeing gulp of air that so many others will never get to breathe in the same way.

It’s a special thing to hunt for your sustenance. A feeling that you can’t describe to people who haven’t done it. It’s a feeling of total self reliance, something that is extremely hard to come by in the age. We rely so heavily on technology and mass production that walking the woods to look for our food has become nearly extinct.

Ahhh, whatever. I’m preaching to the choir. You all wouldn’t have made it this far into the article if you didn’t feel the same way.

We hike through the morning working the dogs hard and bringing down a few more birds. I take a seat at a perfect little watering hole and let the dogs splash around.

My thoughts fade back inward as I look out over the valley. Up until this point in my life, I saw a hundred year block. This would be the maximum time (good God, if I was lucky!) allotment for me to wander this earth and squeeze everything I could out of it. Anything after that, well to hell with it, I was dead so it was irrelevant.

I can feel your eyes judging me as you read this. Hell, I’m judging me. But that all changed a month ago when my son was born.

I wonder if my son will get to experience what has moved my soul for so many years in it’s same raw form. The “For Sale” signs we passed at the bottom of the mountain make me think that maybe he won’t. I ponder the deeper meaning behind “for sale” for a bit but pull myself out of that rabbit hole before I got too deep.

Ahh human progress. The killer of all that is natural. But hey, people have to live somewhere I suppose.

We make our way back up the mountain, following cliff lines that would lead us back to the car. As we walk a few birds flush, but our guns remain on our shoulders.

I’m happy to see that Shaun isn’t using the state limit of birds to guide him on his take. We are more than content on what we have taken, two birds each, and let the rest go for another time.

The short trip is just what I needed to rejuvenate my soul. A quick reminder to keep fighting the good fight down in the city so I can have more days like this.

As we drive down the mountain I turn away from the “For Sale” signs. A problem for another day I suppose. Right now I want to enjoy the right now.

“Good shooting up there today.” I say to break the silence.

“You too man. Your pups were on fire today. And I’ve never seen so many birds!” He replies.

A smile always comes to my face when I hear a complement aimed towards my dogs.

“Just remember, no more pinky toes. Imagine how hard is it going to be to hike without pinky toes.” I say as I look over.

Shaun smiles and pins the pedal to the floor. Back to the chaos.

// Fred

Colorado Pheasant Hunt

I stood over the kitchen counter,  jaw gaping, as I poured over the autopsy report. The results were in and there was no use questioning it. I mean facts are facts. "You've got to be kidding me." Was all I could manage to get out.  "Not a single BB, not a broken bone, nothing. There is no damage to this bird."

"Maybe he had a heart attack Doc. Did you run your diagnostics on his circulatory system?" Came Hazel's grinning retort.

At this point I think she was tired of me harping on the subject. But damnit, it was a subject well worth harping over. CNN worthy, maybe not, but Fox news will air any damn thing, so this should be running as their top story by morning.

I mean one pheasant down and not a single shot fired all weekend. There's a story there and I would love to be the hero of this drama, but I'm afraid I wasn't. I was walking along, an audience member gawking up at the stage just like the rest of the hunters that witnessed the events.

I carry on. Let's get to the meat of it.

Eastern Colorado

The sun was just making it's lazy appearance over the horizon as Hazel, some of her more adventurous family members, two hyper dogs and I pushed out into the field. We spread out wide, letting the dogs work between us. This field has often produced an appearance by a ringneck or two, the problem being the undergrowth is usually so dry that they hear us from a mile away.

That day was no different, add some crunchy snow to the mix and we might as well have called them on the phone to let them know we were coming.

"Are those pigeons taking off out ahead of us?" Came an accented question, thick with the ring of Tagalog. (Don't worry, I thought that word had something to do with a bad guy in Lord of the Rings as well, until my girlfriend filled me in. They speak it in the Philippians.)

"No those aren't pigeons." I grumbled. "That's what a pheasant looks like at three hundred yards."

I hate bringing new hunters out only to show them how not to do things.

We pushed towards thicker cover, hoping that they might be holding tighter in its security.

Sage was out in front, so birdy that I was waiting for the sound of a cracked whip to come from his tail.

"That good,  huh buddy?" I whispered to him as words of encouragement.

At this point he might as well have been in another universe; zoned in, doing what he was born to do. A single motivating purpose, not flittering between twenty different things like the rest of us A.D.D. riddled humans, but a precision focus to rival any Olympic athlete.

Sage in the Morning

God I love this dog.

I was not the only one taking notice. My fellow hunters were starting to put an eye towards him as well.

His hard work paid off and he was tight up on a bird's ass. I readied myself with my Citori, naturally working its way to the most efficient  snap position, but there was no need.

Out went Sage in a fury. Up rocketed a beautiful ringneck pheasant in a picture perfect takeoff.

Before my double barrel began its approach to my shoulder, Sage was in the air, stretched out to his full length and meaning business. Three years of flushing countless birds for me and this time, well this time he was taking one for himself.

Just as the bird's landing gear came up, Sage had his mouth wrapped around him. Down they both went in a tumble.

"Haaazzzeellll diiiiidddd yooou seeeee thaattt!!!" Came the slow motion response to the utter disbelief of what we all witnessed.

She shook her head, knowing that this incident would give me one more reason to put my pup up on a pedestal.

Sage trotted over to me, pulled in tight to my side and held the bird until I gave him the release; just as he had done a hundred other times.

Proper hunting dog etiquette be damned.

//Fred

Your pup ever pull off a stunt like this? Let's hear about it in the comments below!

Southeastern Colorado Scaled Quail

I'm a mountain man, to that I have no doubt. Ninety Nine percent of the time I'll take to the steeps, leave the flatlands  for those wanting to milk cows and mow grass. The mystery the mountains possess have kept me entranced since I was a little scooter  wandering the Appalachians with my BB-gun. That "What's over the next ridge?" mentality pushed me deeper into the woods than a little fella should have been, the same holds true for this not so little fella today. So you got your calculator out and did the math; that leaves a lingering one percent floating around, right? If not the mountains, then where?

The plains of course! The ones I was just poking fun at of in the opening paragraph. Hypocrite, I know.

Though my gravitational pull will always be towards the vertical world, the plains certainly has its own charm.  Like the ocean, it's vast expanse is almost intoxicating in a homogonous way. Its unobstructed horizon has a beauty and magnificence of its own, not for its neck craning majesty but certainly for the magnitude of its vastness.

It was time to get lost in some emptiness. The dust bowl region of southeastern Colorado would do just the trick. The quarry? Quail. Scaled quail to be exact. Two days of wandering aimlessly through native grasslands with the occasional broken down homestead was in order.

The Jeep was packed, foot on the gas with enough caffeine consumed to keep the eyelids pried open until the next millennium. This raiding party was headed out when the rest of the heathens (I like to call the that when I take the rare instance of not joining them) were headed home from last call.

Birds were shot, dogs were worked and we were all tired and happy. My fix of the plains was thoroughly satiated.

Enough of my babble, enjoy the pics... I have some cows that need milking and a lawn to mow.

Pheasant Hunting with the Family

My sister, Becky, and I never really got along as kids. This following statement won't be a revelation to anyone; most siblings don't get along at a young age. But we had a distinct disadvantage and I won't candy coat it for you; I was a dick. Most kids squabble over who gets to name the cat. Not me (oddly enough that was what she ended up naming it, Not Me), so long as I got to "decorate" her cat. The screams ensued while I looked helplessly at my parents, figuring I improved the situation by making  the ugly fur ball into what looked like an Amish quilt with legs. I mean who doesn't want their cat painted in a plethora of colors from Sharpie pens? And what's more, who wouldn't want them coated  from head to tail? Time went on, she may or may not have forgiven me and we both moved away to different colleges. As often happens with distance, lines of communication were stifled. After school I made my way out west as many people do to find themselves. What is it about that cardinal direction that brings us hope in starting anew? Perhaps it was the western movies I grew up watching with my dad that told me the answer was out there. Funny enough, it was.

She one upped me and moved further west to San Diego. Maybe she had more to figure out than I did. We gained a few things in common;  we both lost our vegetarian ways and we both started to take on the mountain-man attributes of our father. She got the beard and I got the affinity towards flannel. I guess we both made out ok.

Thanksgiving for my group of friends has been a long tradition. A Friendsgiving of sorts, created out of necessity. We were all poor and didn't have the money to get home to see our families. My sister and her husband Chris have been making it out for the event for quite a few years to join in the debauchery that we loosely called a holiday.

This year was the same, they made the long drive out from San Diego, with the car packed down, looking like they were headed to a booth at the local flea market.

Hunting became a part of Becky and her husband, Chris's, life and for the second year in a row we were going to head out to the eastern plains of Colorado to get them their first pheasants. That was the unsuccessful plan last year and it continued to be the plan this year.

We left for the plains at 3:00am on Black Friday. Along the way I hyped them up on stories of a successful opener this year and how the cover had made a comeback to rival the New York Giants 2012 Super Bowl win.

Sunrise in the Colorado plains.

The morning sun set the horizon into flames as we parked at a field that looked to have potential.

"Let the dogs do the work, you just worry about knocking the right ones out of the sky. Look for the long tails and gaudy feathers, those are the ones you want to hit." I said with a smirk as we spread out into the field.

They must have smelled my confidence coming and high tailed it, because there wasn't a bird to be found.

Field after field the same rang true. Panic set in, as this felt awful familiar. If this was anything like last year's hunt, I might lose my big brother's guide status. These two have never shot at a pheasant and I desperately wanted to  instill a sense of success with them.

We pressed on until our legs could take no more. Off to the hotel, maybe a good night's sleep would reset the frustration button.

The next morning  was a glorious previous.  We set out into the fields in search of that one pheasant dumb enough to stay within shooting range. There had to be at least one left that had been held back in the first grade. There was and let me tell you we searched high and low for him.

We were creeping the car down a non-distinct back road that at first looked like all of the others, completely barren, and then there he was, standing in a flat field no further than 150 yards from us.

"There's one!" I whispered to the other two who were nodding in and out of sleep. With the way things had been going, I somehow rationalized to myself that these birds had bat-like hearing and cleared out before we approached the same county.

"In the middle of that bare field? There's not a blade of grass out there for him to hide under!" Becky said.

"He's trapped with no cover, and he sure as hell is gonna fly." I replied. " Let's see where he wants to go."

Shutting the doors quietly, we made a bee line for him. There was no way to conceal ourselves, so a straight shot at him was our only chance. Luckily we were on a big tract of public land, so unless he was headed south with the Canadian geese, we would find him.

Sure enough he rocketed off well out of shooting range. He took flight across the desolate field and made his way to a set of trees in an old stream bed.

"Look at that, he even picked an obvious landmark for us. We should drive around, I'm not sure if that field  was just seeded and I'm not looking to piss off any farmers today." I said while double and triple checking the landmark.

We moved the car and made a plan.

"Becky, you take the top, right next to where the field meets the grass edge. Chris you take the thicker cover in the middle of the stream bed. I'll work the dogs in-between you two." Came the directions.

We were walking for about five minutes when I noticed the dogs weren't with us. Observant, I know. I turn around to see them both sitting. There is only one thing that would cause them to do that.

"Cactus." I muttered under my breath.

Their paws were so saturated with them that you couldn't find even find their pads. Out came the tweezers and the next ten minutes consisted of us pulling out these porcupine impersonators, then the dogs hopping into another patch just to start the process all over again. Much to their protest, Chris and I end up carrying the dogs out to the safety of the car.

"Let's try this again." I say with a sigh. "Same plan minus the dogs."

The wind was pushing straight at us. I knew this would slow the bird down on his flush, that was if he was still out there. I had a bad feeling that the temporary veterinary clinic that we had set up might have given the ring neck time to make the slip.

I kept my mouth shut about my fears and we pressed on; after all we were running out of options. At least we knew one was within the same vicinity.

There was the double tree landmark. I slowed down a little bit to allow Chris and my sister to get head. I wanted to see this, probably more than they wanted to find the bird.

Then it happened. Like a painting out of Gray's Sporting Journal, the rooster exploded out from my sister's feet, leaning his head forward, gaining speed, fighting for distance between himself and his executer.

One shot rang out.

A second later came a smile over my sisters face that I haven't seen since we were young children.

She picked up her bird and cradled it like a pet, smiling at it. The gesture made me thankful that she understood what she just did. Aside from his love of the outdoors, our father also instilled in the both of us respect for taking life.

"Way to go sis." Were the only words that I could get out of my mouth, poetry I know. My mind was racing with too many emotions to formulate anything more eloquent than that.

There was little else to say as we walked back to the car. My emotions eventually settle down and I realized I hadn't even picked on her yet.

"Guess I won't have to paint this pet for you, the man upstairs already did that." I nudged at her.

On the drive home, she took the bird in an out of her game bag, blown away by the beauty of the feather's explosive colors. I don't know what see was thinking about at that moment, but I was sure glad that I was there to see her get this victory.

"So we're hunting California for quail over Christmas right?" I asked as I looked at her through the rearview mirror.

"You're damn right we are."

//Fred

Pheasant Hunting, LaCreek, South Dakota

We have four days to get in, lay waste and get out. Heading up to South Dakota to chase pheasant has become a tradition for me over the last few years. I love my state of Colorado, but let's face it, it doesn't come close to the pheasant Mecca of South Dakota. Greg, Bryce and I, along with our four-legged crew packed up Greg's F-150 to the hilt and pointed her north. Lacreek is the destination, a National Wildlife Refuge that offers a fair amount of terrain to hunt that's an ideal distance from where we pay our mortgages; a mere six hours away.

There is a common theme with the trips Greg and I go on; we spend as little as possible and get the full value out of the day. This will be my first trip with Bryce, so his vote was already outnumbered. If he was hoping for a cushy hotel room, he had a rude awakening coming. He was going to be spending four glorious nights packed into the bed of a truck with two other stinky dudes. I always wonder why I get a sideways look from my girlfriend when I leave town explaining this exact plan. Women.

This obviously isn't Bryce's first rodeo when it came to road tripping on the cheap. Not a complaint was heard.

We come to a stop around 1:00 am at camp and crashed out with high hopes for the morning. Hopefully I haven't hyped up the area too much as I tend to do on long car rides. Neither of these guys have hunted this area and I'm sure they are looking to make some stories of their own after I regale them for endless hours on past feats of wing shooting in these hallowed grounds. They heard every irrelevant story that I could think of, and I now have the sneaking suspicion that they pretended to be asleep just to shut me up.

We woke up at a leisurely 8:00 am to cook burritos and coffee, getting the day started right. I won't lie and say that I don't like the enforced later start that South Dakota mandates. Taking your time before a hunt is a rare treat, we take full advantage of it.

Day 1

Thank God. The birds are everywhere. The pheasant gods have not made me a liar. We pummeled them hard in the rare warm weather the day offered up. I take the guys to the spots I know that have held pheasants in the past. They seem to have held to these same spots as if glued there. We all limited well before closing time.

Sage and Braker Sniffing Pheasants

Day 2 & 3

Now this was more like it. The temps dropped considerably as the winds pick up to a point where I kept looking for the engine of a 777 over my shoulder. The weather was brutal and the hunting even more so. As we leaned into the winds and searched for cover that we thought would protect the birds, we consistently saw them take off hundreds of yards ahead of us. It didn't matter if we were walking into the wind or with it, they spotted us. I know they get a little paranoid in the wind, but this was crazy. I looked to Greg and Bryce to see who had the guiltiest look.

"One of you two tipped them off." I said under my breath.

Due to some impressive shooting on the other guys' part, a few more birds were taken down in spite of the conditions.

Day 4

The cold and wind hadn't eased up. Actually it more than likely increased. We weren't stopping however, this was the last day and we wanted to put some birds on the ground. We started off in some fields I hadn't tried before. No more than 50 steps out of the truck and up flies a barrage of them. Bryce quickly puts one down and we moved on. The wind increased as we leaned into it and our eyes teared up from the cold.

I looked over at Greg and his pup Tikka as they stared at a bird hovering in the air, trying to gain distance from them in the headwind.

"Shoot it!" I yelled in the tearing wind.

Nothing.

I slowly mounted my 12 gauge to my shoulder and squeezed off what must have been the easiest shot I'd ever taken. Down plummeted the bird from its holding pattern.

"I forgot to tell you there are Sharpies out here as well!" I yelled over to Greg. We gathered around to take a look.

"First time I have seen one of those, looked like a hen pheasant with its tail feathers shot off." Greg relayed.

" There will be more." I warned as we headed off.

And there were. Maybe 60 or so more, but they weren't letting us near them. They took off at a mere 300 yard rifle shot from us. No dice.

The day was getting long and we decided to hop out of the refuge to check some other fields. Smart move. We saw some of the thickest cover of the trip and decided to barrel in head first.

Pheasants were everywhere. Gun shots rang out as birds fell from the sky. Birds were stuffed into game packs as closing time neared.

"One hell of a way to end our trip." I said to Sage, my lab, as we made our way out of the field.

The corners of his eyes were bloody with scratches from the thick cover, but if it hurts, he's sure wasn't showing it. This dog is a warrior. If they gave out Purple Hearts to canines, this guy would be lined with them from nose to tail.

We all make it back to the truck just before dark. Birds were cleaned with frozen hands in front of the piercing headlights of the F-150. Freezing and tired, we were nothing but smiles.

"There's no doubt, we're all starting a tradition out of this, right?" I asked as we cleaned.

Both looked at me like I was an idiot for even asking.

"Without a doubt. But with this tradition starts a new one. Stop being so cheap. Next year it'll be a cabin and the girls come up. No more sleeping next a bunch of dudes in the back of a freezing truck." Was Greg's reply.

"Done." Came my elated response.

I think my days of Ramen noodles and sleeping like a hobo are limited. It's time to welcome a bit of the good life.

//Fred

Colorado Pheasant Opener

“Nobody looks good in Speedos, nobody.”

— Lewis Black

Don't worry, you won't have to divert the children's eyes, all pictures are from the waist up. I'll spare you the Speedo shots.

That was about the only way to keep cool in the sweltering heat in the plains of Colorado on the pheasant opener. Al Gore might have a leg to stand on after all.

"So what time you wanna take off?" Is the question coming through the phone from Greg.

"Well lets see, sunrise is at 6:30 so we can start hunting them at 6:00. We should leave Denver at 2:30 am." comes my logical reply, thinking nothing of it.

"Oh, I see, pheasants are morning birds, huh?" then an awkward pause. "I should just be walking out of a show at The Boulder Theater by 2:30 am. That might cause a problem." Greg says in complete innocence.

Oh boy. I proceed to explain to him that in the plains for some reason, everything likes to get up early.

"Yea, they don't drink out in the plains like us mountain men do. Their birds don't have the common courtesy to make themselves available for shooting at a decent hangover hour." I reply.

The decision is made to meet at a parking lot at a more forgivable hour of 6:30 am, then make the three hour venture out east. We'll let the droves of orange clad flat-landers head in for a country breakfast, then pick up their scraps.

Four humans and five dogs (don't ask) pile into Greg's Ford F-150 and lay into the pedal, pointing towards the sun.

As the caffeine infused conversation rolls out, I take numerous double takes out the window. I notice that the cover is looking good, I mean really good. This could be promising.

We pull into one of my favorite spots and quickly have to double check the Walk in Access brochure to make sure we didn't get the date wrong. Aside from a cow or two, the land is empty.

I laugh nervously as I look at the brochure, then check my watch to make sure the dates line up.

"Yea, unless you hit 88 mph and threw the flux capacitor and we went back in time, it's the right day." I verify.

"It must be our timely arrival." Greg suggests.

And with that, the truck was thrown in park and everyone and everything fell out of our circus vehicle.

It felt good to walk the fields with my friends and a slew of dogs. After pounding the mountains and scrambling it's darn near vertical slopes chasing Duskies all fall, gliding along the horizontal prairie felt like a just reward.

What felt even better was to see the flatlands in remission. The barren wastelands that resembled a scene from Mad Max just a year ago, now showed signs of life. I wouldn't say it was a full on Grizzly Adams beard, but more like a Brooklyn hipster trying to imitate a lumberjack. The stubble looked promising.

The honey holes provided their honey. Out of the three flushes of the weekend, all three were roosters. I'm convinced Sage is learning to find only the males, an obsession of sorts, which might explain his love affair with his male brother from another mother, Braker.

"What can I say, my dog likes boys..." I say to no one in particular.

I'm a man of the times, I can handle my dog's "tastes".

We pack up and leave the rolling plains for the foothills of the Rockies. Everyone looks thoroughly exhausted as we settle in for the drive.

"I thought this flatland hunting was supposed to be easy." I half complain as I kick my boots off for the ride home.

"Try it on a few hours sleep." Greg says as his hands grip the steering wheel.

"I left a bottle of whiskey behind for the birds. Maybe that will put them on an equal playing field for next weekend."

The Broncos blare through the radio as another opener comes to a satisfying end.

A Hunter's Guide to Dusky Grouse

There isn’t an animal out there that is more exciting, explosive, frustrating and satisfying to hunt than the Dusky grouse. Well, at least in my mind there isn’t. Years have gone into research and scouting in order for me to just flush my first bird, let alone to recover from the ensuing heart attack caused by it’s thunderous take-off to get a hurried shot off. You may think I’m a slow learner and I would have to agree with you, but sometimes the things hardest learned are the things we learn best. Easy money is easily lost, right? Same goes for the hard knocks of the outdoors and grouse hunting. So here is a guide to what I have learned chasing these mountain chickens every fall for the last few blessed years. You may disagree with every tactic written below, hell I would expect at least some of it to raise some eyebrows. Keep an open mind and use what you can to help you out. If nothing else, look at the pretty pictures, smile and think to yourself, “At least this guys isn’t going to wipe out the population for the rest of us.” Enjoy.

Escape - Know What They Are Thinking And Use It Against Them

This quite simply can be the single most important factor once you have a general idea of where they’re at. We’ll get to food and elevation shortly, the two other important factors in finding them. I’ve walked through perfect habits, I mean the correct elevation and a buffet fit for a grouse king and not seen a single bird. What I started to notice is that there are plenty of areas at the right altitude and food, but the ones that hold the birds alway have a quick escape route close by. And what constitutes an escape route for these bombers consists of is quick elevation change. They love it steep, pure and simple. They are used to being chased by coyotes more than humans, so the trees is a logical spot to avoid them. If they can flap their wings five times and make it to safety, they’ll call it good enough and do just that. So the steeper the ground, the quicker they can get to the tree tops (think back to those trigonometry days… you there yet? Wow, you were quicker than I was, good job!)

A nearby cliff works just as well. I find they are more likely to be in flatter grounds if there is a cliff within a couple hundred yards. Same laws apply as above.

So how do we take advantage of this information? One way is to get in-between them and their escape route. Walking uphill and flushing them can throw them for a loop and make them a good bit easier to shoot at. Coming at them from this angle usually forces them to fly straight up to clear you (or your four-legged friend) before they maneuver themselves downhill and nine times out of ten, they will fly downhill. This helps us look like rockstars behind the scatterguns and keeps the pooches happy when your not shooting inches over their head. This works as well with cliffs by having your dog or hunting buddy kick them out and you cut them off. Important Note*: Careful hunting your dog around drop-offs for obvious reasons, they don’t always think before they go chasing after the retrieve. (Yea, yea, get your dog steady to wing and shot and this isn’t a problem. My pup’s current Union contract clearly states that these rules don’t apply to him.)

Classic dusky grouse terrain.

Elevation Usually Equals Food

Reverse migrators, a quirky habit of these guys. When you start your season you’ll be chasing them in the lower elevation sage brush/aspen edges. Just as the snow starts coming in they pack their bags and head up higher to the conifers. Now, I never claimed they're logical creatures. But I guess in a certain way it makes sense. They are following the food. It goes something like this. Bugs, berries, leaves then needles. Now this isn’t an exact science. I’ve seen bugs, leaves and berries in the gullets all at the same time. So this is useless information right? Not really. Here is a breakdown on where and when I hunt them. Please note this can vary according to where you live. I’m in Colorado and hunt the Western Slope. This is also assuming it is a “normal” weather year (I know, there is no such thing in Colorado, let’s make pretend). It could be totally different in Idaho. So I won’t give you exact elevations, but I think you can put a good guess on what it will be like in your area according to this:

1st - 3rd Week of September: I hunt sage fields that have have aspen patches nearby. Again, some type of angle to the land is crucial. Escape always applies. If you see grasshopper jumping about, you’re in a prime food location and they should be around. Berry patches (currants) are a slam dunk as well. Look for small trickling streams. This is super important this time of year as it can get damn hot out and they like to cool their throats down. If the heat is cranked up, I also look for nearby, small patches of conifers where they tend to hide in the shade, attempting to cool off.

4th Week of September - 2nd Week of October: I’m getting into the denser/taller aspens by now. I never really find them in the sapling aspens like I hear that Ruffed grouse love so much, but rather the bigger trees where they can get a purchase on a solid branch after they flush. The trickling stream isn’t quite as important as they’re feeding on leaves that probably give them enough water at this point. If there are any berries left, hunt around them.

3rd Week of October - Mid November: All the good tasting stuff is gone so we’re in the pines. This is their primary food source for the winter. Again a good angle seems to be the preference. If there are aspens mixed in they will tend to fly towards the pines for cover. If there are no leaves on the aspens they don’t usually fly to them because they will stick out like a sore thumb while sitting on the bare branches. If there is snow on the ground you can sometimes find their tracks. If you do, get ready, as they are nearby. Unless the tracks are completely iced over (therefore being old) I almost always find them nearby. This may be a little counter intuitive if your a pheasant hunter, because when I’m out in the plains that’s all I see; tracks but no birds. Grouse don’t run like pheasant do so you’ll often find them close to their tracks.

*** A little tip for you: When you find them, stay within that relative elevation. Once I find them, I’ll mark it on my GPS for future studying and then just follow that contour. It works pretty well.

Dusky grouse tracks.

Weather and Time of Day

These two factors draw many similarities. If it’s stormy and the weather is just breaking, they tend to act as they do in the morning. Under these conditions they tend to clump up in their coveys. This is when you have the best chance at a covey flush. As the day progresses and they feed uphill, they scatter and you’ll get into them one at a time. Again, I’m generalizing here.

In the evening they will fly downhill to roost in the trees for the night. Many an evening while getting camp set, I was dive-bombed by a squadron of grouse making their way to their sleeping quarters.

Online Scouting

All of the above information is well and great, but if you’re not in the same zip code as these guys, no amounts of pounding the terrain is going to help you. You need to find good habitat and then apply the above information. In steps technology. Some complain about it (it’’s not like the old days!) but I love it. There’s no denying it’s benefits and it’s here to stay, so jump aboard gramps or get left in the digital dust.

Those satellites whipping around above that we all think are spying on us (is your life really that interesting?) can prove to be beneficial. We now can see just about every tree in the forest. I’ve even found camp spots ahead of time by seeing other campers parked in the woods. Big brother is watching, so don’t do anything you wouldn’t want to show up on Youtube out there. While we’re on the subject of technology, I figured I’d stay with the times and use it to help show how I use it to find my potential honey holes. Watch the video below for the breakdown of how I find my spots. I’ll use a generic area that everyone knows about so no on gets butt hurt. If you think this is your secret spot and the next time you go there it will be swarmed in a sea of orange, you obviously hunt with your eyes closed. There’s more orange here than in a October pumpkin patch. So here’s the breakdown.

There’s the short of it, in all her glory. Feel free to comment below with your advice to those frustrated beginners out there in need of a little guidance. Grouse hunting is a brotherhood (and sisterhood of course), there’s not many of us that take in the joys of hiking miles of vertical terrain for the potential chance of shooting at one of these glorious birds. Lets hear what your thoughts are on the subject in the comments section.

//Fred

Male and female dusky grouse.

Chasing Dusky Grouse in the Orange Forest

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Another?” I mumble under my breath as I bump into yet another Under Armor, orange clad hunter sitting under a pine tree. I tip my hat towards him and reel Sage in closer to avoid an unwanted interaction between the two.

I reckon I should have taken a look at my calendar, now realizing this was opening day of Colorado’s second season for elk.“Well, I guess I have as much right to be here as they do.” I tell myself to justify my presence. I think this and try to believe it, but regardless a pang of guilt hits me. These guys have been waiting all year for this hunt and I know having some guy and his mutt zig-zagging through the woods is not the scenario played out in their heads while sitting in the office, praying for this day to come.

I decide to move into the woods a little deeper, as everyone I see so far has an ATV parked off the road, not a hundred yards away from where they sit and wait for a lazy elk to tromp by. A little over a month ago I was after the same quarry, although perhaps looking for them in a different way, but hunting the same animal none the less. I felt it peculiar however that I felt such a disconnect with these hunters.

Sage and I dig in deeper and we see not a soul. The tension in my shoulders melts away. Grouse hunting in the fall, just a man and his dog, this is the way God intended us to dawdle away our time. My thoughts are pointed inwards towards how the minutes of my life are being distributed, when as per usual, Sage kicks up a bird not 20 yards from me. A huge male takes flight.

Sage

“Sorry boy.” I sheepishly apologize to my hard working pup. I always feel guilty when this happens. And make no mistake about it, it always happens.

“Promise, I’ll pay more attention to ya.” I plead with him, hoping this doesn’t steal his motivation to find me another.

He accepts my apology and kicks up the paired female. The top barrel in my over-under cracks as she falls from the sky. Sage is on her,  mere moments from when she hits the ground.“I see you accept my apology.” I say to him as he heels up, waiting for me to take the bird.

“Let’s go find her mate."

He’s off. He saw where the male flew to and leads me that direction. I slow him up, wanting to give the big bird some time to leave the safety of the trees he’s been chased to and hit the terra firma.

The plan works and he blows out of an old mining road tucked deep into the woods. He choses the path of least resistance, down a perfect opening in the pines. He choose wrong and my #8 shot catches up to him and makes him pay the ultimate price.

Dusky With My Citori

When Sage comes back with the bird in his mouth, I take him along with his female counterpart and lay them in the snow together. I know they’re not monogamous creatures, (I’m sure this rascal has seen his heyday) but they seem to just fit together. I’m happy in an over-thinking and weird way that one doesn’t have to go on without the other.

“Alright buddy, we got what we were after. Let’s head out and give these elk hunters a fighting chance.” I say to Sage as we flip a 180 and head back to the truck.

We drive down the dirt road as the hunter orange trees appear at regular intervals. Hoards of ATVs kick up dust as they peel down the road looking for the elusive ditch elk. I smile at Sage and he returns it, nothing needed to be said.

// I have be writing a short guide to hunting Dusky grouse that I plan to release soon. Sign up to the newsletter to make sure you get it when it comes out.

Duck Hunting the Mountains of Colorado

“It sounds like an old man is dying.” I whisper to Greg.

“I’ve never heard anything like it. It’s like a mix between an obnoxious roommate advertising that he finally broke the dry spell and a clogged up New England fog horn.” is the whisper back.

"Well whatever it is, it sure sounds lonely” I mutter. I notice Greg is fidgeting with his safety as well. If that zombie or whatever it is tries to flank us, it’s going to catch a couple of rounds of #3 steel shot.

"I hope it stops before the ducks start flying. There’s no way we’re gonna call them in with that dying beast throwing out it’s death rattle.” say Greg.

“Yea, that’s going to be the cause of the ducks not coming in. I’m sure it will have nothing to do with our calling.” comes my retort.

The sounds subsides as we bury ourselves into the blind for a bit more cover. Several teal land a few minutes before shooting time as is customary in duck hunting. They take off as the dogs' whines plead for us to shoot them.

Go time. Ducks are spun out of the sky and three eager pups make retrieves in the frigid Colorado. I can’t imagine dipping my little toe into that icy water, let alone fight someone else to be released  and be the one to dunk my whole body into it. Then again I’m sure my pups look at me every morning and wonder why the hell I take off to work instead of roaming the mountains hunting with them.

The fury ends early and we pack up, deciding on heading north to explore some potential new spots. As we’re loading the trucks all three dogs go on full guards, back hairs pointed towards the sky.

“What the hell?” comes out of my mouth as I take a look in the direction their eyes are fixed on.

There’s a rustle in the willows no further than a Payton Manning’s pass behind where we were set up.

Greg is standing by my side by now.

“Well we might see the old man after all.” he says.

The old man comes busting out of the bushes. Six foot tall at the shoulders and shooting snot from his nose.

“Would you look at that. I guess he was lonely. And now he’s found a little honey to keep him company.” Greg notes as a huge bull moose comes charging out of the bushes hot on the tail of a female.

“Mystery solved. Let’s head north.” And with that we head out in the search of new hunting grounds.

Ducks, Calling and Breakfast Burritos

“Have you been practicing your duck calling?” Blares the voice on the other side of the phone. “Well…” I whistle through my teeth. Guilt sets in. I cycle through the reservoir of excuses I have stored just for such an occasion.

"Why do I need to call?" I think. This guy's from Louisiana. State law requires they only speak duck from birth to five, then their parents teach them a few guttural grunts that pass for English, they grow beards, then construct duck blinds that are more extravagant than my house. I smile at myself, knowing how dead on my perception of reality really is.

“Alright, I’ll carry you for another season. See you at the parking lot Friday morning. We’ll put a flag in our spot, it’s going to be busy up there.” Dane says and hangs up the phone.

I roll out of Denver and make the trek into the mountains bright and early Friday morning.

"Twenty-four hours before the opener,” starts the conversation with the dogs. “This year we’re getting our spot locked down. Hope you two have been taking those swimming lessons seriously that I paid so much for. Mr. Phelps doesn’t come cheap, though for some reason he agreed quicker than I thought he would. Something about Colorado’s lax laws. I’ll have to look into that…”

The conversation goes on like this for the two-hour drive and by the time I see Dane in the agreed upon parking lot a Murdocks, my jaw is cramping. The dogs bolt out of the truck. Hmm, must not have agreed with my improvised monologue of the Gettysburg Address.

“Ready?” Comes the question from the gentle giant.

I nod.

Shells are bought and we head out. We should have the pick of the litter being here so early.

I’m dumbfounded as we drive by the dirt parking lot after dirt parking lot filled with trucks and bearded men. We pull over.

“This place looks like a Walmart parking lot having a Duck Dynasty DVD signing on a Black Friday. I didn’t know this many people even lived in Colorado.” I say in exasperation.

“Yea, slim pickings, let’s mosey,” Dane replies, unfazed by my wit.

We run through plans B through H before we find something suitable. Text messages are sent out to the rest of the crew meeting up with us tonight. Food is eaten, fires are put out. Time for a few hours of shut-eye.

Reluctantly, we pull ourselves out of our sleeping bags at 3:00am. Coffee is fired up in the Jetboils AS we head towards the Colorado River. I learned this tactic on long drives down to Mexico in search of dorado. The driver attempts to keep the vehicle on the road while the passenger boils the coffee in a Jetboil. Pee in a Gatorade bottle and call in the Air Force for on-road refueling, cross the border at 60 miles and hour and hope there isn't machine gun fire. Another story for another time, back to ducks.

As we approach our predetermined spot, we realize our mistake. We should have slept in the parking lot. Illegal, yes, and apparently we were the only ones to get the memo. Everything is full.

I’ll spare you the frustration and cursing that pursues. Let’s fast forward.

We squeeze into a spot with just enough room to swing our guns. The blinds are made and dogs tremble in anticipation as Dane and I go about setting up the decoys. The quarter sized tear allowing the Colorado river to fill up my waders to the ankles can’t get me down, this is freaking opening day.

“One minute boys. Oh, and girl. On my signal, unleash hell.” Dane says in his best Russel Crow imitation.

Hazel, Shaun, Dane and I are tucked in the willows, everything is temporarily silent. We see some movement in the air, then the whistle of air as it interrupted by high-speed projectiles. We assume they are ducks, or possibly invading Russian mig jets.

D-Day. The moment arrives with a wall of lead in the air. Guns roar in every direction. What has been a peaceful nine months turns into a nightmare for these unsuspecting ducks. This must be close to what pilots and their crew experienced over France while frac pummeled the skies and their planes.

Birds are everywhere as Dane feverishly howls on his calls. A pang of guilt hits every time a bird comes in closer because of his expertise. Next year, right? Right.

We bag a couple of birds before the sun creeps into the bluebird sky. The dogs retrieve flawlessly. Their nine months of unemployment doesn't erase what hundreds of years of breeding instilled. At the strike of 9:00am the faucet is turned off. As fast as the action started is as fast as it stops.

"Breakfast burritos." Hazel smiles at the thought, not realizing her words were said allowed.

I love tradition. Almost simultaneously everyone murmurs the same in unison, "Breakfast burritos."

Decoys are packed and we head out. Crazy as opening day is, I don't think I'll ever skip it. Yes, it's busy, but busy by other like minded people enjoying it for the same reasons I am; friends, ducks and breakfast burritos.

// Fred

Hunting Sage Grouse in Colorado

Sage's Sage

The dogs paw the slug trails from their eyes as I wake them at the God awful hour of 3:30 in the am. I’m not sure they’ve fully recovered after their backbreaking duties of the previous weekend, entertaining me and four friends in the grouse mountains of Colorado. They’re troopers, and I’m pretty sure they’d both hunt with broken legs if need be. I wish I had half the drive as they do in certain areas of my life.

Today’s agenda is to take a new friend and hunter, Ross, out to hunt the precious few days the state allows for us to chase sage grouse. From what I’ve seen from Ross so far, he’s a pretty stand up guy. I think the Army instills those characteristics in many of their men and women and Ross happens to be one of them.

Ross went through two tours in Iraq pushing the front lines as an Army scout. No matter what my feeling are on the current wars, I have the utmost respect for his service. This won’t turn into a rant of any sorts, hell I don’t even have a leg to stand on in this one as I don’t know how I feel on the subject completely. I do however want to introduce you to one of our soldiers and fellow hunters.

The morning couldn’t be more perfect, which happens all so often in Colorado. Not for one second have I regretted the decision on my migration out here from the armpit of the east.

So the question of family asking “When are you moving back home to New Jersey?” are usually answered in hysterical laughter.

“Just as soon as MTV invents a time machine, goes back and gets Congressional permission to deport the cast of Jersey Shore to Nigeria instead of giving them that God-awful reality show.” is my alternate response. That’s also when they ask if I’m still seeing my therapist.

We get an early start, the sun hasn’t shown it’s smiling face yet. Just the alpenglow, two dogs and two content hunters. We press the sagebrush.

Sage, my yellow lab, hits the ground with the focus of a Ritalin infused CEO. He’s all business when he’s out here and takes his job very seriously. Braker, my girlfriend’s pudelpointer, on the other hand... Well let’s just say he is that CEO’s hormone infested teenaged son in need of his dad’s prescription.

After a few miles the routine sets in. The dogs are quartering like champs. Ross and I are separated by a football field’s worth of sagebrush. It’s quiet, like it’s supposed to be out here. There is no other place in the world I want to be, other than the rolling field I am standing in right here and now. This is one of the things that gravitates me towards bird hunting. With the chance of a flushing bird at any given time, it reminds me to stay in the present moment. To enjoy this exact second, craving more to follow.

I snap out of my stupor as Sage gets birdie and I call Ross in closer. I haven’t have many years experience with bird dogs, so maybe this is common among all of them, but when Sage is birdie an observer from a jetliner above would notice it. His tail wags so hard it seems to defy inertia. According to the laws of science, it should be spinning him in circles.

In he goes and up goes a grouse, a sage grouse to be more specific. Two guns roar only a second and a half apart. My finger might have been a little faster but Ross’s aim was just as true. Before the feathers touched the ground Sage has the bird in my hand.

This was the first time seeing a sage grouse up close. Bigger than a dusky and a good bit more pungent for sure. Like an alcoholic expelling his intake from the night before, this grouse exuded such a strong odor of sage that I celebrated my chance to find something that my girlfriend couldn’t cook to perfection.

We wander the rest of the morning thorough the foothills, not seeing much more action, but not caring either. With a handshake and future plans of antelope hunting Ross and I part ways.

There’s a smile on my face as I drive back to Denver. The Broncos take there second win of the season on the radio and from time to time I look over at the two passed out dogs next to me in a comatose state, dreaming of next weekend's hunt.

Yea, New Jersey doesn’t stand a chance, Snooki or no Snooki. I’ve found my home.

- If you enjoy my blogs, sign up and I’ll email them to you as they are ready.

// Fred