Written By: Matthew Farr. Sequim, WA
Red dirt stained my boots as I strode down an old two-track. A young aspen stand stood to my left while my young pup was ahead to my right. She looked back at me with anticipation noting both my tightly gripped shotgun and uncertainty in my eyes. Without past experiences to reassure us, we were relying on the stories of others. We were there searching for validation from a proverbial king, which neither of us had seen before. I strained my vision into the thicket and glanced back to my dog. “Ember,” I commanded, “run it up!” She circled back and disappeared into the dense cover. I tried following her path, but the branches pushed back leaving sharp stings across my cheeks. “TING!, AH Ring, ding, …” The sound of Ember’s bell softened and then went still. The “beep” from my GPS confirmed my suspicion, and my throat tightened. I suddenly felt my nerves. The leaves beneath my footsteps sounded as loud as eggshells cracking. Or was that the cracking of my confidence in knowing how to approach my unseen dog and the hidden king. Any elegance that I had left me in that moment, and I fought and stumbled forwards. “BAH!, PAh!, Bah, pah, ba.” My lack of grace must have been offensive, as the king of the uplands denied me an audience. Whether it was ignorance or defiance, but likely both, my shotgun rang out all too late. A hopeful tune that never had a chance to be felt by this king, and unbeknownst to her, Ember searched diligently for a prize I knew had already slipped away.
We emerged from the woods, though empty handed, not devoid of a learning experience. And also, a feeling that comes from being refused something you so desperately desire. That feeling of frustration that all new hunters know from missed opportunities, which leads to more trips, more miles, and more “learning experiences” in pursuit of success. And so, this was only my exposition to grouse hunting, and my song and dance with the king was not over.
Two years later, I returned to that same red dirt and aspen thickets of Iron County, Michigan. This time we came prepared with many “lessons learned,” and also confidence from successful hunting of other grouse in other places. But, here, was where and when it had started for Ember and me. Here, we needed proof. Proof that our inexperience was a thing of the past. That we were grouse hunters, and not just a man and a dog. Maybe a silly thought to an old-timer, but maybe not, as we were all greenhorns once. Like a reprise to a familiar song, the beginning of a grouse hunter’s journey takes them through growing pains, yet determination and a good dog may take them far.
Weaving my way behind Ember, I followed the sound of her bell, “Ting, Ah Ring, Ding.” We searched and searched to no avail. Those old feeling started to creep back into my mind. But before they could take root, “Thump, thump, thumpthumthumthumthum.” Drumming in the deep of the woods. The song of the king! With a fire alit in my eyes, I hollered, “Run it up Ember!” Onward we went. We found our quarry on the edge of a glen, and I made sure that it was not Ember nor I who would be making the mistake this time. Ember froze. I steadied. And, in one quick moment, we were all witness to the rise and fall of a king. Ember brought to my hand the end of this song and my story. The Ruffed Grouse.
