Sage Grouse and Fall on Steens Mountain

With the last lamp in my house extinguished my trailer sinks into a deep shade of black and the stars begin to illuminate the universe above. The windows are cracked, a cool breeze sweeps across my uncovered arms and my hair instantly stands at attention. It is the second night in the past week that I have become keenly aware that the shift to fall is now very real. Soon the images of green wheat fields and clouds of road dust will be replaced by shades of reds and yellows, by pumpkins and ghoulish monsters. Soon the woods burning stoves that are the heart of our small town will fill the midnight air with a hazy smoke, painting the sky hues of white and grey. It’s by far my favorite time of year, a time when our global climate is drastically affected by the ever changing angle of our earth to the sun. But I go too far, for this blog is about hunting, not astronomy.

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.

 

 

Blues, Ruffs, and the Elkhorn Mountains: Part II

Following the success of my blue grouse hunt I decided that the next day I would head out in search of another grouse, but this time it was of the ruffed variety. It was yet another bird that was a bit of a mystery to me; a bird that I had no idea where or how to find and one that I had never attempted to hunt before. However, with a little research, I acquired just enough knowledge to feel proficient and set off for the Elkhorn’s. It would be my first attempt at these forest dwellers and the excitement had me up early.

Having flushed a few of ruffs out of a nearby creek bottom several weeks earlier I figured that same site was worth revisiting. When I arrived I stretched my legs, dropped the tailgate, put on my vest, and let the dog loose. And now, many thousands of feet lower than I was yesterday and with heavy thickets ahead of me, I found myself in a completely different world but, oddly enough, still looking for grouse, just smaller ones, in surroundings that made the gravel slopes of the previous morning seem a million miles away.

 

With the dog running full steam ahead, I could immediately tell that on this day there was little doubt as to what we would be doing and, to my delight, within minutes of entering the woods I found myself surrounding by flushing birds. Their speed and grace was something to be admired but there was little time to think. As I watched them spring out of the grasses I quickly realized that, looking only about as big as quail, I had to pass, I had to lower my gun. They were young of the year and late hatchlings at that. And, I suppose that while my ethics are based on a situation to situation basis, shooting juveniles that small just didn’t interest me and I decided to push forward. I decide that if there were chicks wandering about in small groups, the adults would be close by, hiding in the woods, ever vigilant of my movements. They would be the primary targets of the day.

The creek side was rich with dogwoods, cottonwoods, and aspens. Twisting and winding left and right, up and down. It was dark and quiet with only the distant mooing of cows lifting above the volume of the flowing water. Then, just like the high mountains, a bird crashed forth in front of me, dead ahead, with a force so great the entire forest seemed to shutter. I raised my gun and got off a single shot, the bird fluttered and then lost itself in the distance. I took another step and another bird from the tree line lept forth and was quickly, just like the other bird, lost in the woods. They had both been adults and I knew that my first chance at shooting a ruffed grouse had come and gone. Now, all that was left were the few feathers of the first bird, scattered along the small game trail snaking across the forest floor. How I wished I could have that shot back. The moment had gone.

But keeping my head up despite the miss, it was in that moment I realized three things. First off, just like yesterday, the birds I was seeking were not flushing out at 25-30 yards like I had expected, but rather, they were practically flushing out right in front of me; to the point I was almost stepping on them at times. So, trying to learn from my encounters, I switched out my modified choke for an I.C. and over from low brass to high brass shotshells in hopes of increasing my knockdown power. And finally, I realized that in order to hunt these birds effectively, I needed to give myself more room to move, room to swing my gun, and room to see where the birds were not just flushing from, but where they were flushing to. So, I tried to change my approach and prayed for the best.

Once again, I evaluated the habitat, noting that this spot was particularly cooler than others I had been in before and that it was also much more open to the water. So, working this strategy I walked the creek for some ways, keeping my eyes and ears open. Pushing through the understory I would eventually hear one of the birds flush out from high above but the moment was fleeting. From that point on I never saw either one again. I searched the area over and over with Farley in case the aforementioned hit bird had fallen, but it was to no avail, and I decided to try another stretch of water just to the north.

After a short break I arrived at the same creek some two miles upstream. This time I began working the outskirts of the thickets and with the dog squeezing and poking through holes left and right, I felt good that we were working in the right direction. Following the little one it was not more than ten minutes in when the first of another group flushed out ahead of me. This time, having given myself the necessary space, I leaned over to my right, dropped below a set of branches and fired a shot. The bird dropped straight out of the air and in an instant Farley was over to secure the scene. After a miss only an hour ago I now had my put my first ruffed grouse on the ground! The whole sequence of events played out perfectly and as I approached the bird I once again had the sense of accomplishment I felt yesterday. I was also happy with the changes I had made during the afternoon and quickly bent over to praise the dog. What a good boy!

I would sit there for several minutes, looking at the bird, taking pictures, gushing over the dog, and taking it all in before I would move to put the bird in my bag and continue on. It was at that moment, upon standing up and without warning, the woods once again exploded with sound; almost as if the birds had been waiting for me to make my next move. One bird flushed out ahead of me through a web of branches just over 20 yards out. I raised my shotgun, pulled the trigger and watched my second bird drop onto the forest floor. Without any hesitation, a third burst forth just behind me and letting another quick shot off I watched as the bird sailed off into the woods into the cover of the dark. And finally a forth bird, off to my left, flew in the opposite direction. Without any shot I could only watch as it lost itself as the other had in the woods.”Now that was exciting”, I thought to myself.

As I walked into the stand of dogwoods I found Farley, once again, on top of a bird that had fallen into a twisted cottonwood stump. With his mouth comically filled with feathers just like the previous day I patted him down and took a look at another grouse. Wow, two ruffed grouse. This was turning out to be the weekend I could have only dreamed of.

But knowing that I had one more bird to limit out and with the afternoon sun still high, we pushed on, looking for others. I would wander here and there and flush up several solo birds but all of them too deep in the woods to see or follow. However, as time would pass, as if gifted to me, I saw one flush out straight ahead, down into a small shrub patch. It was out in the open with empty space all around and with some cover on my side it was the ideal spot to stalk up on. And now, knowing I had the advantage and a dog, I moved towards the patch and tried to really use the dog, like a true bird dog, to flush the grouse out.

As I approached the shrub patch I tried to be as quiet as possible, leading the dog into position and when I was within fifteen yards, I put myself out in the open to take a shot and sent the dog in. Being patient and after a somewhat confusing path to the patch, Farley finally got wind of the bird and moved in hard. Then, almost exactly as I had drawn it up in my mind, the bird flushed out, out into the open sky, and as my 870 pressed back into my shoulder, I saw my third and final grouse fall to the ground. Even now I can’t get that image out of my head. My praise for the dog was uninhibited and the joy I felt in that moment will be hard to ever match.

I had just shot my first limit, ever. My first limit of any bird and it had ironically come on ruffed grouse, a bird I had never hunted. Who would’ve thought? It was almost too good to be true…almost. But it did happen and I am so thankful for all the places I get to go and all the adventures my dog and I get to have together.

And so, as I sit here after a long Labor Day weekend I have blue grouse on the grill and ruffed grouse in the cooler. This moment was surely made possible by all the other moments and all the hours on the ground and all the hours spent shouldering my gun before I went to bed. This was an amazing opening weekend. It was an amazing feeling to be out with my dog, in the woods and on the mountains, not only looking for these birds but bringing them home. This is why I love to hunt. This is why I love to bird hunt. These are memories that I will have with me for the rest of my life, and ones that will be shared with generations to come. It was without question, a joyous two days.

Blues, Ruffs, and the Elkhorn Mountains: Part I

It was now just over a week ago that I wrote in anticipation of the bird season opener and all the promise that it held. The promise of a new season and new challenges; a chance to seek out new species, new landscapes, and begin what will ultimately be the little brown dog’s second full season putting his nose to good use. And as I lie back in my chair today I can only smile as I have birds in the cooler and some of my most memorable hunting memories to date.

Heading out on Saturday morning I reflected on the great many moments I could recall being out in the field: shooting my first bird with James in the waning evening hours of a January day; the first bird Farley ever tackled; the first double I ever shot, amazed and elated at the scene; and watching Farley track down a bird almost 100 meters away. Those are memories you can’t replace or pay for. And this weekend I am excited to say that I added bagging my first blue grouse, shooting my first ruffed grouse, and subsequently bring home my first limit of birds to that list. A pair of days that has had me smiling from morning till night.

When I arrived along the Elkhorn Crest Trail on the opening morning I could feel a cool breeze in the air. High elevations and the early dawn sunshine had me restless with anticipation. I was there to seek out a bird I had only had passing glimpses of but never before brought home. A bird that was there in an instant and gone the next. But now, with the dog in tow I entered into this game of cat and mouse with a new outlook.

The hike began by working my way down the trail and eventually off onto the rocky cliffs above, scrambling my way up the mountainside. I had decided early on that this would be a day to test my legs, work them as they had been worked in the past; remembering to “push through the obstruction”. I made my way up the gravel embankment and was soon on my way, off with the anticipation of my first encounter.

A little unsure of where to find these birds I had only my memory to work off of; thinking back to places I had seen them and trying to recall the landscapes. But here it was different. On these ridges the cliffs and wilderness were vast, the mountains bare. Looking out there was forest and valley as far as the eye could see. I had so much country to choose from and not really knowing where to start I just started, well, hiking. Knowing that, as has become a bit of a motto for the Haines Hunters, if I could just cover ground then good things would happen, and happen they did.

Working the slopes I began encountering clusters of greenery and stepping into a thicker patch of firs and spruces the moment I had been waiting for arrived. A grouse, starting up like a two-stroke engine, burst out of the trees in a flash, down the mountain and out of sight before I could blink. It happened so quickly I barely had time to comprehend what was happening but even before it was over I was quickly evaluating the scene. Looking around for clues, figuring out what had just transpired and working to see how I could improve my odds at the onset of our next engagement. And so, I got to work.

When I first started chasing birds James taught me one of the most important lessons in my young hunting life; a lesson that in my years of traveling has now proved invaluable. He taught me to not simply accept that I had just happened upon a bird, but to ask myself, “why?”, “why was the bird here and not over there”? He instilled in me early on that it was not random chance to find a bird sitting here or there but rather there must be something in particular, a micro-habitat of sorts that brought that bird to that spot. And that’s not to imply that every place you flush up a bird will subsequently reveal some absolute fact about their preferred place on the landscape, but that through many encounters and many flush sites, you can begin to put the pieces together and find a theme or pattern as to a birds whereabouts. As such, satisfied with some sound logic, that’s what I’ve done in the past and continue to do until this day. As it turns out, it can be quite effective.

What I found next to this flush site were small berry bushes, a wealth of short fir and spruce trees, ranging from two to six feet, and spots where shade was abundant. I began using this information to refine my search and bouncing from patch to patch I was not only covering ground with more purpose but with a heightened awareness of what might be coming out. And I also began to position myself differently. One of the reasons I had not even had a shot at the first grouse was because I was uphill of the bird. Flying away from me and using the surrounding vegetation cover to his advantage, the fight was over before it had even begun.

So, with my newly found knowledge I approached the game from an entirely different angle. I worked patch to patch, on the downhill side, and let the dog do the thicket searching; sending him uphill to push through the trees, hoping his nose would once again realize where we were and what we were doing. However, I must admit, it’s been a year since we chased birds and when we started the day I think it was safe to say that the dog was only after squirrels. Either way, having him run into the trees could only help. And help he did.

After travelling for several hours, on difficult terrain with little to no stability upon the gravel mountain side, I saw the dog circle into a small patch of trees and soon heard the sound I had been waiting for again; the sound of the engine starting, roaring to life. Right above me, there he was, flying with speed and power beyond belief but this time, I was prepared. I took my first shot at less than 10 yards, miss. The bird flew right over my head and a second shot rang out, miss. Finally, with the bird sailing off in the distance, I took a third, final shot and the bird dropped, falling out of the sky and down onto the hillside. As I watched Farley run down the slope to the still fluttering bird, I could feel my cheeks tighten and a sense of pride wash over my body. I hadn’t done it; we had, as a team. It was our first blue grouse, and with feathers clogging up the little dog’s mouth, I could tell we were both blissful with the season’s return.

Looking over bird I couldn’t help but admire the size, feathers, and feet. It was a big male, with bright eye combs, and the colors reminded me so much of the other grouse I have had the privilege of seeing up close. And the weight was incredible. Never before in my life had I put a single bird into my bag and felt the weight change so significantly. It’s the weight that causes you to smirk. The weight that you know signifies all the hard work you have put in for the day. And it’s the weight that lets you know you aren’t going home empty handed.

After walking for another hour or so I returned to my truck satisfied and to the pleasant sight of two mountain goats hanging out on an adjacent hillock. A sure fire way to cap off a great day. As I sat and cleaned my bird I gave the now ceremonious heart to Farley, a sign of appreciation for all his hard work, and then put the carcass in my cooler. The day was over, my hands smelled of birds, and I was on top of the world, both literally and figuratively.