This past weekend was the onset of fall and it was the first time I truly felt the season’s change. Sitting in camp, surrounding by aspens up on Steens Mountain, I knew the time had come. It was perhaps one of the most comfortable, perfect nights anyone sleeping below the stars could ask for. Cool temperatures enveloping you from all sides, a light breeze moving through camp like waves on the sea, and a sky so filled with stars the idea of counting all of them seems silly and utterly overwhelming. And it was this night in particular that was the setting for what we really came into the wilderness to do, the real motivation behind our excursion, and that was to hunt sage grouse. A magnificent bird that not only symbolizes what the west once was but which also characterizes the ongoing struggle between the humans and wildlife. But, just like this blog isn’t about the infinite cosmos above, it’s also not about politics, and therefore, I again, come back to what this blog is about, and that, is hunting.
Because our trip encompassed many days and many beautiful landscapes I’ve struggled over the past week to put down the experience in writing. I mean, what defines a hunt? What defines an adventure with friends? How do we take all the parts that make these weekends so special and summarize them? I guess, I don’t know. I suppose the only true conclusion I could come up with is that you can’t. You can’t summarize them, the story must simply be told. It must be told either in its entirety or you can pick out moments; moments and more definitively, images, which will stick with you for the rest of your life. A mental picture album if you will. Because no matter how much I write or how many pictures I have taken, it is those pictures that will remain with me forever. Those images you carry with you, the ones you tell tales about, each one having its own unique narrative.
O O O
PART I:
As the sun fell towards the horizon and moved ever closer to the sagebrush I bathed in the cool air breeze, a welcome relief from the days early heat. James and I, along with our friend Laci, had been hunting
throughout the morning and after some recovery time back at camp we had set out
for the afternoon. It was during that time that I would enjoy the first of two distinct moments, or images, that would define our trip and our pursuit of grouse.
Having searched high and low through shrubs and grasses I
had already snagged my first bird of the day and from there on the afternoon held a certain
degree of confidence for all. We traveled the range, hiking in and around rolling hills but the only things before us were cows and habitat that was less than promising. It was then, after returning to our truck and heading several miles down
an old, worn out two track that we once again came across the bird we were
looking for. Out ahead of us, just making her way out of the remnants of the
road was a hen grouse, eyeing us and then quickly loosing herself in the brush.
We looked around and could only smile as we had been out on our boots
all day only now to come across these birds, ironically, face to face just
ahead.
For Laci, this was her first true immersion into an upland
bird hunt and it was a moment we had been waiting for. A moment when there were
known birds in the area and the likelihood of flushing up a group of grouse was
almost certain. So, with James and I bringing up the rear we sent her out ahead
of us to take lead; all in hopes that the hen and as of that point, unknown
number of birds, would flush up right ahead of her. As it turns out, it couldn’t
have gone down any better.
With Laci out ahead I called to Farley, who, like us, was most
certainly aware of our proximity to birds. I let him loose and the hunt was on.
As he searched through the crowd of shrubs, grasses, and forbs, the
anticipation of what was about to happen had me almost too excited for words
and then, like lava bursting forth from a volcano, the grouse began their
exodus and the landscape came alive. But it was the first bird to flush that
made the moment I would remember, a moment that would serve to reinforce the
iconic image of upland bird hunting in my head.
As the first of the group thrust out of the sagebrush I immediately
saw the silhouette against the bright blue sky. The bird, lifting itself above
the fray like a mallard from a lake, powered itself into the air and I could
simultaneously see Laci raise her shotgun. Then, a girl new to upland bird
hunting forced back the
trigger of her shouldered firearm, conjuring up images of Annie Oakley, and a crack broke out across the mountain.
With no fluttering and no question, the bird crumpled over and dropped from the
sky. The bird was down and I could only imagine the joy that resonated through her body.
The landscape would fully erupt in the seconds to follow
with birds flying every which direction but that moment, the moment when Laci
took down her first sage grouse almost seemed to stop time. It almost seemed
to define the scene. In fact, it couldn’t have defined it any better. One shot
was fired, a bird was down, and the inevitable smile of success was
soon to follow.
PART II:
As we kicked the dirt and continued to encourage the dog the days hunt continued on. We retreated to the truck for a quick break and then began weaving ourselves in and out of the thick understory. And as it would turn out, within an hour of our previous encounter
we would find ourselves once again in the midst of birds, this time by complete surprise.
During the shootout that left Laci with her first bird I had
shot my second grouse and was now changing my role from hunter to photographer;
a role that I readily welcomed as I have been taking photographs much longer
than I have been hunting. But this new role came with some challenges, first
and foremost, making sure that should there be another group of flushing birds,
I was not in the line of fire. So I stood back, snapped away, and tried to get
my little brown dog interested in hunting out in front of someone else.
Trying to follow the birds that had flushed up during our
most recent encounter, we set off in hot pursuit. We would arrive at the presumed
flushed site a few minutes later but, to our surprise, there were no birds to
be found and the only thing in front of us was one of the deep Steens canyons. Farley,
intent on investigating the scene, was equally unimpressed and while he did seem
to imply that birds had been there at some point, without any real cue or serious
indication we were left scratching our heads.
Walking the hillside we kicked up shrubs, pushed our way
through the site but, in the end, there wasn’t a soul to be found. The next
closest patch of good habitat was now a good half mile away, across a thousand
foot gorge and our hopes were quickly dashed; the long walk back would now
begin. But then, out of nowhere I heard James shout across to me, “There they
go!” and without any conscious thought I immediately dropped down to the ground.
I saw James take three leaping steps to get around me, only now realizing that
I was in the exact position I hadn’t wanted to be, between them and the birds.
Being so low to the ground my perspective was completely
new. With James landing his final step I saw one of the remaining birds bust
out from below, set its feathers into the winds and take flight. The silhouette
of James now stood above me, a background of aspens, sagebrush, deep canyons,
and blue sky completed the scene. Then, a boom cut into the silence and the
flushing bird seemed ever steady in flight. Just feet above me James quickly
slammed back his forestock and thrust another shell into his shotgun chamber. A
second boom was sent out and before I could comprehend the event the bird
dropped from the sky and fell onto the ground, Farley in quick pursuit.
It had all happened so fast, so rapidly that my reaction had
been pure instinct. Very unlike Laci’s moment that had seemed to unfold before
our eyes this moment happened within seconds. It happened without warning, without any precursor and now, like a roll of film, the set of images in my mind
seemed a mile long. I had once again, within the span of an hour, seen a
miraculous hunting moment. It was a moment and series of events that would
forever be collected in my mind. What a gift.
The three of us would walk over to the bird and just like it
had been done several times that day before, James lifted the bird and slid her
into his bird bag; now happy with the success and joining the collective in a
successful day out on the mountain.
O O O
With a short walk I roll over into my bed and the window remains
open for the night. I have added a few extra layers and comforters to hold me
over until morning. It has now been far too long since I felt cold and needed
to warm up. Far too many nights spent tossing and turning to escape the heat.
As I lie here and close my eyes I’m reminded of my night in the mountain. I’m
reminded of the anticipation that night held and the fulfillment of a weekend’s
journey the next day; of of my good friends and of the moments we
have shared together. I am reminded of how much I love to be outdoors and
moreover, the satisfaction one can get from two moments in time so short as to
be utterly insignificant in the spectrum of our universe but so incredibly
significant to the short time that is, my life.
No comments:
Post a Comment