Digging Holes- A Good Death

Digging Holes

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blue Grouse Hunting in Wyoming

Snakes

Snakes

 

“Cheh... Cheh………Cheh.”  

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

 

The Red-Legged Devil

Chukar

 

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

 

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

Randy heading for the bench.

 

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

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

 

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

Looking back up from the bench.

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

Friends

Friends

 

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

 

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

Ace
Photo by Nancy Whitehead

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

 

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

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

Ace

 

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

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

 

 

 

Looking Ahead

Looking Ahead

 

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

 

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

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

 

Wally and Shack

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

 

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

The Doldrums

The Doldrums

 

I don’t have any use for summer.  Except for an hour after sunrise, it’s too hot and humid to train dogs.  The pasture grass is too high, and the ticks and fleas are nasty. Unfortunately, we have plenty of summer here in Georgia. The dogs get a few months off.  Shaded kennels and a huge shop fan keep them happy and cool.  On really sweltering days, they have “The Condo”, an insulated room with air conditioning and a dog door. But I think that may have been a waste of effort.  They really don’t use it much, and prefer to lie on top of their DogDens, in the shade, and keep an eye out for renegade squirrels.  

 

A few years ago, our old house started feeling like a prison with the brutal heat and humidity outside.  We decided to take a camper trip out west.  We wanted to try fly fishing, so I bought an outrageously expensive fly-fishing outfit from Bass Pro.  It even had a little tube to put the flimsy pole in.  I was impressed. Rod, reel, and line set me back close to a hundred dollars.  Then, I had to buy fake bait.  I drew the line at waders, boots, vest and all that stuff.  

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We headed west and I made a phone call to a guy I met at a few NSTRA trials over the years.  Gary lived in Ennis, MT.  He and Martha were both fly fishermen, I remembered.  Gary said come on by.  He said he’d be glad to take us fishing.  We showed up with the camper, parked it, and stayed in his guest house.  The next two days, he rowed us down the Madison in his drift boat.  We learned so much about fishing!  Gary was the consummate host as he gently instructed us on casting and attaching the flies, etc. At one point, my wife’s Bass Pro Shop reel self-destructed.  Martha took it off and went to the local fly shop.  “I hope they can fix it,” I said.  She looked at me, bemused, and said, “Randy, I’ll get her a nice one, don’t worry. This one can’t be fixed.”  That is when I learned about good equipment.  It’s just like a nice shotgun, or bird dog.  It’s not cheap. About halfway through our stay, I noticed we were using their rods, reels, and flies.  I fell in love with one of Gary’s setups.  I can’t remember the name of the rod (Wilson?), but I do remember it effortlessly put the fly just where I was looking - every time. 

 

We left our amazing hosts and drove down to the park.  We saw bears, Elk, deer, geysers, steam and amazingly beautiful scenery.  We also saw some awesome rivers.  Fishing rivers. Yellowstone NP has a lot of great fishing.   I noticed, and it appeared I was hooked (pun intended). We drove to meet another Gary who lives in Wyoming.  I met him through a Facebook Group friend of a friend.  My wife calls these meet ups “facebook dates”.  This Gary is also an expert fly fisherman.  He met us at our camp in the mountains and arranged to take us down the Big Horn River in his drift boat.  Again, I noticed he gently took my wife aside to get her a nice Cutthroat using his own setup.  I thought I would get excited when I had a big fish on the line. My wife got even more excited.  Gary knew exactly what he was doing. It helps that he is a licensed fishing guide and a pro. 

BJ with her Cutthroat Trout

 

Since that trip, we make time to break up the summer with a trip out west.  The Madison, Gallatin, Big Horn, and Missouri Rivers, and numerous smaller trout streams were destinations.  The equipment, of course, got a huge upgrade.  I ran into trout bums from all over the country.  Some that even made their own rods from bamboo.  One year, my wife and I flew out to fish Yellowstone N.P.  We found a wide stream meandering through a broad meadow and put out on the trail that ran along side.  She was very concerned about bears and was uncomfortable about fishing there.  She took two cans of bear spray and settled in not far from the car, while I eased up the stream for a short distance.  I met two old men walking out toting bamboo rods and worn-out fishing vests.  They said the fishing was great. I cautioned them not to act like a bear up around the bend in the trail or they’d get two cans of bear spray in the face.  We all laughed, but I noticed them looking where I was pointing.  A short distance up that very stream is where I stalked and landed my first wild Rainbow trout.  Later, my wife said she heard me whoop!

 

My first solo Rainbow

Years after those first few trips, I am still a novice fly fisherman but with nicer equipment. And, while the tug to fish might not be as all-consuming as the yearning to be in the field with my bird dog, I will use the heat of summer and fishing as a great excuse get out west again.  After all, I don’t know who said it first, but “Trout don’t live in ugly places.”  It’s true. 

 

 

Some pretty good dogs I have known. By Scott Linden (Guest)

Baron

Some pretty good dogs I have known

 

By Scott Linden

 

I am the luckiest guy on the planet. I get to hang around bird dogs. Some are mutts, others are refined canines of the highest order, with pedigrees boasting an alphabet’s-worth of capital letters.

 

Some have entrenched themselves in my memory, become the stuff of campfire stories or inspire subtle smiles during business meetings. I’ll bet you have sigh-inducing recollections of dogs that shared a field with you. Maybe they’re like mine …

 

Missy was a mutt, half Lab, half Brittany. A pint-sized bundle, she never ran fast or far. But her tiny body contained a gigantic heart. The quail covers we hunted were peppered with blackberry thickets, and the flushing half of her DNA would propel her to their darkest, prickliest corners. She would emerge, ears bloodied, just long enough to retrieve quail we’d shot. Her owner still carries her memories on every hunt and so do I.

Scratch

 

Scratch the shorthair is a walking (okay, running) miracle. You would never guess one front leg had been crushed and skinned by a jeep wheel. He pants and slobbers through quail covers at fever pace, outward evidence of his demonic obsession with birds. Owner Nancy Anisfield deserves a medal for channeling it. Considerable effort with numerous setbacks finally resulted in this inspiring dog earning a Versatile Champion title at the recent NAVHDA Invitational. 

Scratch

 

Duke, also a shorthair, is an introvert. A mid-season replacement at a Montana hunting lodge, he gazed right through me when we met, searching for – what? – universal truth? The meaning of life? His thousand-yard stare drew me like a magnet, finally intrigued enough that I asked if we could hunt him the next day.

Duke

 

He wasn’t “finished” by any means, but he employed every skill, all his natural abilities, all the tools he’d learned in his short life toward serving us. He found birds. Pointed. Okay, he flushed some. He retrieved, even honored another dog’s point, sort of. All with a workmanlike style (if you could call it that) I would love to see in my employees. He’d shown us everything a young dog should, in bits and pieces, dribs and drabs, ultimately defining whatever word is the opposite of “flash.” Poise?

 

Someone shouted “point” and two TV cameras, two shooters and a guide scrambled toward Duke’s trembling form. Bird up! Bang! Bird rolling downhill, and Duke watching, staunch. “Fetch” shouted by his excited new owner, and soon the bird was delivered softly to hand. Cool, calm, unfazed. If he could talk, he’d have said “all in a day’s work.”

Baron

 

Baron is a Deutsch Drahthaar, and his noble demeanor reflects both his name and Teutonic heritage. He methodically works the wind, moving with a minimum of wasted effort toward his ultimate goal – a bird in the air. When I want to know we’ve covered a field from corner stake to corner stake, I ask for Baron. Being German, he would probably show up on time, too. At home he will survey his domain from a porch bench – you’d think. But he’s really watching out for his human while she gardens, intently scanning the horizon for danger. Or birds. 

Harry

 

Harry’s coat was black as coal on a moonless night, the young cocker’s eyes shone like the only two stars in the galaxy. His unbridled joy at hunting infected all of us, and enchanted the 16-year-old we had invited for her first hunt. 

Harry

 

He is the protons and neutrons of a highly-charge atom, orbiting a nucleus of even more energy. He vibrated. Stub tail a blur, he would wriggle under palmetto branches to put birds in the air, then retrieve with an ecstatic yip, launching himself into his handler’s outstretched arms to thank him for being allowed to GO HUNTING. 

 

Just 35 pounds of over-caffeinated elegance, a little setter in California would slam into the scent cone as if it were a brick wall, quivering until a shot was loosed. She would never be a trial dog, streaking away at the flush. But she was as earnest as any I’ve met, concentrated dog-ness bursting from her tiny body. Even her “drive-by” retrieve manifested the extra measure of hunt in her; she barely slowed while dropping the bird at her handler’s feet. At the end of the day, she slept the sleep of the righteous – knowing that no dog could give more than she had.

 

You have your own list, misty recollections of long-gone dogs. Go ahead, take a moment and look back on them. I’ll wait.

 

Dog memories make long hot days of summer go faster. Misty at first, becoming more clear as leaves turn russet and gold. There might be a genetic connection to your current dog, or that pup you’ve been eyeballing. You might be reminded of a long-lost hunting buddy. Whatever the link, it is often sweet, sometimes bitter, but always worth another look.

Baron

 

Randy:  I've known Scott for many years.  Initially, only by his media and online presence, but that changed one rainy day in Idaho.  I heard he was at a sports store in Boise, doing a whatever it is he does.  I was tired of slogging through mud and the dogs needed a rest, as well.  I drove to Boise, went to the store, and introduced myself.  We had a long chat and connected as bird dog friends with a promise to hunt one day.  So far, we haven't made that happen.   I think mainly because trying to get a retired, traveling bird hunter together with a famous author, blogger, and TV personality is much harder than it would seem. I've been on his podcast twice and we chat every year to catch up.  One day, I'll trap him and we will have a day or so together that we can lie about.  Until then, I stay up to date by connecting to his amazing BLOG "Scott Linden Outdoors".  

Hunting Trucks, Mud, Sand, and Snow

 

It’s the eternal problem of bird hunters all over the country from September to February.  Not only can you not expect good roads, you should plan on mud, snow, sand, and rocks. 

Let’s go over some items I carry and a few things that are just part of the truck. 

First, 4-wheel drive. I know you could drive all over dirt and gravel from Montana to Arizona in your 2WD vehicle. I’ve done it. I had a 1989 F150 with a positraction rear end that went everywhere. Until it didn’t. I met a nice Georgia farmer with his tractor that day. Every truck I’ve had since then was 4WD. I use it every trip all over the country. Is AWD the same thing? No. I’m not an expert, but I’m assured 4WD is more flexible and locking hubs are important. 

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Second, good tires. I have Michelin LTX AT/2E tires on my F250. I have put 60,000 on a set with plenty of tread left over. (They get rotated every oil change ).  I drive 1500 to 2000 miles, one way, to get into birds, it makes sense to have good, solid freeway tires. But, they need some good off-road tread, too. These tires do it for me. I would expect you may find a different set-up. One year, in North Dakota, I was stretching the mileage on my tires, and a farmer drove up, looked at my tires and commented how I’d probably end up in a ditch. He wasn’t wrong. You need good tread. 

Third, tow straps. I have two types. The wide, flat type, and the “snatch rope” type. Both are 30’ long and rated to over 30,000#. I also have an apparatus to hook the strap(s) to my receiver hitch.  I can pull someone, or they can pull me out. Mandatory equipment. 

Fourth, traction devices. I carry two sets of Go Treads.  12' long plastic ramps, basically, that will allow your wheels to have traction and get out of mud hole.  In addition, I carry Track Claws which strap on to the tire to get traction out of mud.  A while back, I bought some plastic chains that are easy to install in snow or mud.  They worked great. I no longer have them for two reasons.  The first is that (and this was my fault) when I was a trying to tow my camper over soft ground, the tires started spinning in the chains and became useless.  I'm positive if it was only my truck, they would have worked as advertised, however.  The second reason is more serious.  They have a shelf life on the compound used for the chains of 4 years.  They aren't cheap.  My first set, when I needed them in South Dakota muck, literally broke while installing them.  Useless to me. They were stored in my truck for 6 years.  I complained to the manufacturer and they sent me two new sets, and that's when I learned about the lifetime limit.  They are awesome, and they work.  For 4 years.  Recently, I've been searching "tire socks" for snow.  They seem to work.  I haven't used them, but I see a few issues.  They don't work in mud. Mud is the medium that is my nemesis.  Second, is they may tear and become useless.  There appears to be a limit on the uses before they need replacement.  Third, they are becoming more expensive and are approaching the cost of a set of chains.  Lastly, there are chains.  They work. A pain to put on and take off, but it's hard to find a problem with them- sometimes they are required, too.  

Fifth, Your Brain!  We all know when it's just plain stupid to drive on the two-track.  I am a classic example of impatience, and I don't want to lose a day in the field.  But, wisdom is creeping in over the years. Take a day off and/or remember that if it's frozen on the way in, it may be impassable on the way out.  Also, don't tear up the farm roads.  You don't have to live with the ruts.  

What am I forgetting? This is what I use, but I'm sure there are other items that would be a good idea to carry, or equip your truck with.  A winch, perhaps?  Leave your comments.  #abirdhuntersthoughts 

I am not sponsored by any of those products listed. 

This one is a pistol.

Jade (JD) 10 mos. 

 

JD and me- AZ Desert

Maybe it's just me, but puppies seem to be getting smarter.  OR, I suppose I'm not. This little demon might just be the end of me.  She is 100% what I asked for from the breeder.  Like an idiot, I said "big runner, on the ragged edge of control, tough, smart".  You know the adage, "Be careful what you pray for, you may get it."  

She is not two years old, yet.  But, she just finished her second season hunting 6 western states.  I put no pressure on her at all.  What she learned was to quarter, stay in the county, and keep me in sight- all good stuff! I did break her to retrieve, and she's really good at that and enjoys it immensely.  Her pointing and steadiness were spotty, however. 

The last two months all that changed.   We are using pen-raised quail, but she hits them like they are Sharptails in the alfalfa.  By the time June rolls around, I'll have a steady little bird dog ready to join in the line up.  There are few feelings of satisfaction more gratifying! 

One tough SOB

I came across this picture of my Brit, Cap, from NM 4 years ago. We were hunting Gambel’s Quail around an old corral. The initial cast was away from the corral, up in the hills. The whole time, Cap kept slowly working toward the corral, and I would call him back. Eventually, I told my partner I was going to swing down that way. I saw probably 100 quail in several coveys over the next hour. Cap knew where they were. The issue here is that there was plenty of old, low-slung barbed wire in the area. His tracking, pointing, and retrieving took him over and under a lot of it. I did not see when he got hung up, but when I saw his bloody tracks, I called him to me. He had a pretty good slash on his left front leg. Some blood stop, antiseptic, freshwater cleanse, and a staple gun took care of it. He didn't like it, but he took the rest of the day off. He looks like an old boxer after a hard-fought fight. I wish I was as tough as this guy is.

FlyBoy Ace's Delta Captain (Cap)