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Posts Tagged ‘upland bird hunting’

In this country, rush hour is a herd of whiteface cattle who refuse to stay in their own lane. There are more cows than people here, so we usually yield right of way to them. Besides, what’s the rush?

enchanted canyon on the horizon

Through the windshield: enchanted canyon is at the end of this asphalt rainbow

It’s easy for me to say, when I actually choose to end my hunt early because it was so good.

I don’t mean a vest overflowing with birds, not even close. But enough, in the right places. Dog work to match. Both left a satisfying heft in the bag and the mind.

A creek bed thicket offered one covey of valley quail, a bird dropping into a small forest of alders and willows only Buddy could negotiate, dropping it gently in my palm. A single against the steeply dropping bank, again, only found thanks to the marvelous canine nose I’m privileged to feed twice daily.

No, this trip ended early because the senses were sated, all of them, in very special ways.

I pointed the rig north beyond familiar canyons and draws, looking for new coveys. My eye turned west, drawn to a brilliant yellow vein of aspens snaking downstream, tracing a small creek’s route out of a towering rock cleft straight from Lord of the Rings. The road ended at the lava gateway to this mountain range, and we hunted every inch of the watercourse.

Not a single wingbeat interrupted our visit to this enchanted place, and after the fact, I’m grateful. Yellow, gold, red and amber leaves formed an unbroken ceiling above and covered the desert floor. The stream bottom was similarly paved, deserving of a magazine cover (and me without my camera!). It was as a Narnia-like world, where fantasy meets reality, and you’re not quite sure which is which.

But my camp was still miles away. A small desert lake, void of anglers this time of year, was my destination. I reveled at the chance to cherry-pick my spot, and headed for the far side. The tallest fault block mountain on the continent dwarfed our little camp. A fan of bare sand forms my personal beach, and soon a fire is crackling and the Scotch is poured.

Buddy roams, unfettered by neighbors or responsibility. He doesn’t quite know what to do, unleashed and free, so stays close to me and the warming fire. Together, we watch a flock of Canada Geese graze in undulating lines toward the lakeshore, stalked by a coyote. He hides, they move, he creeps, they adjust the distance. Eventually, the geese prevail, reaching the water, well fed and safe for the time being.

From both ends of the lake, mule deer materialize in ones and twos. Soon, two dozen are drinking. At the far south end the dominant buck emerges, four points on each side, regal in his aloneness. Stars soon carpet the sky, a few shooting, all sparkling.

In the morning coffee’s sharp jolt kindles a brief memory, leading to the only logical conclusion: how could you top that?

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Shhhh! Results of a quieter, more observant human.

Shhhh! Results of a quieter, more observant human – and dog.

I think we all agree, the basic idea is to shoot birds over your dog’s point. But if you sound like the circus coming to town, you’ll scare away every bird in the county. Game birds may not be as spooky as whitetails (sharptailed grouse might get close), but they are still very cognizant of predators and the sounds they make. So stuff a sock in it.

I’ve snuck within inches of birds by treading more carefully and taking the jingle-jangles off the dog’s collar. Even though I own a dozen e-collars most times I’ll go unplugged. I try to ghost my way through brush, not bulldoze it down. Commands are by hand, not voice or whistle. My footfalls are those of an elk hunter, not a linebacker.

Sure, I like Monday-morning quarterbacking yesterday’s game as much as the next guy, but when my mouth is shut, my eyes seem to open wider. I enjoy more of the dog work, catch on quicker to his birdiness, savor the scenery and shoot more birds.

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For me, it's all in the dogs. How about you?

For me, it’s all in the dogs. How about you?

… about bird hunting?

Yep, we talk a good game about the wonders of the natural world, cycle of life, camaraderie, miracles large and small performed by our dogs. But if you had to narrow it down to a single, specific item that would stop you from hunting any more if it were absent … what would it be?

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No matter the language, we can all relate to this.

No matter the language, we can all relate to this.

Howdy. Buongiorno. Hola’

I was digging around on my Facebook page’s “Insights” and was struck by the number – and variety – of fans from around the world. From Iraq to Indonesia, Iran to Brazil, Canada, the U.K., Italy, Mexico and Pakistan we are talking daily to fellows-of-the-scattergun via the miracle of the Internet. These are people who you would likely get along with despite language differences should you encounter them in the field.

After all, they love the same things you do. We do. I do. Wide skies, rambunctious dogs, wild birds and primordial environs.

We might pursue different species (chukars in Paki, exotic pheasants in Indonesia), but the pursuit is universal. Our passion bridges language and social divides. To a degree, we have our friends across the miles to thank. After all, hunting was born in many of these places millennia ago … chronicled in stone, tapestries and ancient song. The descendants of those ancient hunters are our brothers and sisters, sharing the bond of chase and smell of blood. Their hearts race too, when a dog’s tail stiffens and the thunder of wings breaks the silence.

Some use antique firearms, others stones and sticks, a few point army surplus shotguns at their prey. They dwell in the famed valleys where artistry in steel and walnut are practiced, and in dusty villages. Their birds are driven, or pass-shot, or flushed by village kids and mongrel dogs.

But at the end of the day, we all celebrate the same thing: fellowship of like-minded people, the dogs that honor us with their hard work, and the feast that celebrates the conclusion of our days afield.

To you all, wherever you are, صيد جيدة, buena caza, berburu baik, and “good hunting.”

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Here I am trying to explain to Buddy why not finding any birds is okay, once in a while.

Here I am trying to explain to Buddy why not finding any birds is okay, once in a while.

My Little League team lost every game one season. I know a bit about being skunked. So when not a single primer burns, no feather clouds drift with the breeze … well, that’s when you dig deep for something – anything – to justify your trip.

And that’s before the spouse greets you at the door with a snarky “You went all that way and didn’t shoot anything?”

That’s your cue to tote up the balance sheet, hoping for um, balance. Sometimes it’s easy. Other times, you gotta get creative, gin up a rationale out of the irrational.

Or do you?

I’m a firm believer in the “less is more” philosophy when there’s nothing in the ice chest. Maybe you too. We can focus on the other things, often as (or more) important than obtaining free-range protein.

Pro’s: the dog still got some exercise; it was a beautiful spot; I still got some exercise; the birds will be there “for seed;” I found an owl skull; time spent with new (or old) friends; no ammo was harmed in the making of the hunt (cha-ching!); it wasn’t raining; no birds to clean; I can cross that spot off the list; no gun to clean … well, you get the idea.

Con’s: no birds to clean.

Yep, it’s a pretty short “con” list. Or am I missing something?

When nothing flies, the adrenaline stays firmly in its glandular garage, and the game bag is empty, what do you put on your mental balance sheet?

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