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.