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Posts Tagged ‘quail hunting’

What a weekend! Terry Wilson’s Ugly Dog Hunting Co. hosted a get together at Arlington, Georgia’s Quail Country Plantation and we were invited. It was a chance to enjoy true southern hospitality as well as a traditional plantation hunting experience with a twist: UGLY DOGS were doing the hard work.

We were treated to an incredible exhibition of finished versatile hunting dog work, particularly of Terry’s wirehair Tank when braced with Tim Clark’s shorthair Troy, a NAVHDA versatile champion. Watch the point and steadiness to wing-shot-fall. If only I’d had a wider lens you could see Tim’s dog honor both the point and the retrieve! [You'll see much better video when Lynn and director Tad Newberry's footage finds it's way to Wingshooting USA next fall. For now, you'll have to put up with my very raw amateur video.]

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(Back by popular demand, Scott’s six-year-old German Wirehair has posted his next blog. His nephew, Manny, is still learning to type but Buddy says he’s progressing nicely and will soon be filing his own reports from the field. Here is Buddy’s latest account:)

We’re a pretty good team, The Pup and I. He’s a diamond in the “ruff,” but that beard and those eyebrows sure hold promise!

That day The Boss took us a long way in the box-on-wheels-he-yells-at. When we finally jumped onto the cold white stuff we were happy. Cold good, we smell easier. Not smell better, The Boss says … he thinks dead deer pieces we roll on bad; we LOVE. Better birrrd sniffing, though.

The author

The Pup sniffed three-toe tracks on cold white stuff, up one bump and down another. Me too. Big smell stopped us. Birrrrrds go up and boom stick loud! I look for more, The Pup carries still birrrrd to The Boss. Boss learning: give back to Pup for more sniff-lick and he is happy, won’t swallow birrrd. Good human!

Bang! Boom! Stick works good, for a change. Little birrrds fall down. We bring for extra sniff and taste, get to go again. Two booms and one birrrd on white cold stuff. But The Pup not watching The Boss … playing in wet splash. Sniff-lick for me and go again but I know: other birrrd in sticks by wet splash.

The Boss stroke my top and scratch my floppy hears when I mouth second birrrd to him. Big kibble after!

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(In the interest of diversity, fairness and as part of his new contract, Buddy will be writing his own blog post once in a while. Here is his first submission.)

The Boss let me have the laptop tonight, sez he’s tired after our hunt today. Him tired? I was doing all the running, up to the top of the peaks for those running things that go “chuk-chuk.” I slide over the snow, jump over boulders and scrape my pads on the scree, just to watch them streak off the cliff, and not even toward my human!

The author, with his nephew/apprentice, relaxing between hunts

My feet are killing me! And I have twice as many as The Boss. But it was worth it to help my nephew grow as a hunter. The Pup’s got potential, if he’ll just pay attention to The Boss … and me! Sure, I’m “older” but can still teach him a few new tricks, like that last bird today. He thinks the job is over when his tail goes up and he raises his front paw. The Boss gets all happy, saying the good-boy words while he puts his boom stick together.

Then the birdy goes brrrrrr and gets away (they always do, so I don’t bother trying to catch them), but The Boss’ stick goes boom and it falls in a big bush by the cold wet splashy stuff. The Pup tried to poke his nose and head between the sticky sticks but they were sharp! Boss asked me – nicely for a change – to help and I could smell those sweet, delicious feathers once or twice. But then he talked loud just before I jumped off the cliff to look down there for the smell.

I watched over The Pup as he raced from sage to wild rose, (they’re so cute at that age) snuffling at old feather smells and dead deer pieces, but you gotta give him credit for trying. Too big for his collar sometimes, but his beard and eyebrows are nice and bushy, so The Mommy likes him.

I ran and ran, ignoring all the dead cow pieces and other fun stuff, putting one foot in front of the other and the other and the other. But that bird in the bush was suddenly worth two in the paw! When The Boss turned us back toward the box-on-wheels that he always yells at, I snuck back into that thicky-sticky bush. He didn’t see me go, but the sticks were bumping me and rattling like two chew toys in a big box at Christmas.

I knew the tweet-tweet thing would soon make me go back to The Boss, so to keep him happy and show The Pup how it’s done, I used both nostrils and zeroed in on the little dead flying thing real quick. Ooh, there is nothing sweeter than holding them, tasting, inhaling, drinking in the feather smell after the stick goes boom and we find them on the ground. Or in this case, caught in the sticky parts of a bush only a Big Dog could reach. You won’t see The Pup doing that … at least for a while!

Yep, it’s a ruff life. But I can handle it.

Signed,

Three Devils Yankee’s Buddy

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Psychologists say a quality life has many “peak experiences.” I just had one, so life is getting better by the day.

This is the place.

Got to the place I’d been craving to hunt all season on a crisp, 15-degree day … shirtsleeve weather, if the shirts were made of polypropylene and wool. But weather wasn’t the point behind the epic hunt … instead, it was the setting, the dogs, the birds … WOW! We snake along a small-but-raging creek, the bed a tangle of willow, alder, cattails and wild rye. The valley quail were in scattered bunches, their heavenly scent wafting upslope to Buddy and Manny when they were running the top bank, clouding in the thicket to tempt them when they were busting the brush.

Points were rampant, often followed by covey flushes then the suspense of sussing out singles. Three weeks away from the hunt, the pup soon glommed onto his job, working independently of his uncle. Buddy was his usual incredible bird-finding self, ghosting from brush patch to willow thicket, crossing the creek confidently to seek and ultimately fly valley quail from their streamside hiding places.

Manny backed, even brought a few birds almost back to me. I remembered a lesson from trainer Doug Burnett, and gave them back for a few minutes. Dead bird soon lost its allure and he raced to the stream for more live ones. He leaped cross-creek with abandon, bird scent beckoning.

The only point I was willing to risk a photo on!

A wild flush at my feet was quickly followed by a shot and Buddy was all over it. Then, silence. He didn’t return from where it dropped.  I hustled over to find both dogs on point, a dead quail in Buddy’s mouth. One bird flew upstream and soon fell to the gun’s report. That triggered another flush from the same sagebrush, the cockbird rocketing downstream until it splashed it into the creek at my shot.

I caught my breath, looked at the robin’s egg blue sky, the massive stone pillars watching over us, two panting wirehairs at my side, and a brilliantly-colored quail in my hand. Time to go, as it couldn’t possibly get any better.

So, have you had any “peak experiences” lately? Spill!

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What does a guy do after two weeks on the road hunting in front of television cameras? Um, well, it was opening weekend of chukar and valley quail season, so take a wild guess.

Manny carries the torch: every dog I've owned has posed with this ridge in the background.

Despite viruses (two out of three of us), sweltering weather, traffic jams and honey-do’s, we convened in the usual place for the usual activities. The upshot? Challenging. Fewer birds, scattered from valley floors to rocky peaks and everywhere in between. Young birds (multiple hatches, we hoped) seemed to dematerialize  after vigorous chases. Dry beds where creeks usually provide life-giving fluid to animals great and small. 

The view from chukar camp

Birds flew – virtually always away from me, but Dave and Mike got shots. As the sun climbed, so did we … into the lava rock that seemed to hold vestigial heat from it’s original source. We heard chukars, flew many at a distance, ultimately earning a few long and desperate shots.

The next day, more of the same, Buddy and Manny racing in a doggie pas de deux, sometimes in unison, other times mirror images on opposite sides of the draw. As Mike and I wheezed up a slope Buddy locked solid, uphill from a flat boulder a football field’s length away. We hightailed it, still slower than the rattled nerves of a trio of partridges. They skirted the ridge. We followed, sidehilling over shale and sloppy soil. We flew that bunch twice more, me taking a couple Hail Mary shots to no effect.  

Mystery bug - anyone know what this new one (for us) is called?

When both dogs sought the scant shade of boulders every time we slowed, I knew it was time to head for camp and the creek, and call it a day.  A small rattlesnake reminded me how warm and early it was in the season, standing (slithering?) his ground as I directed dogs away and left him to his quest for a den.

The small pool in the stream was a welcome sight to all parties, dogs slurping and splashing in relief and joy – their human, too.

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