Amongst the Hemlocks by Justin Hager
Although it was a typical day in a sportsman’s paradise, western New York was showing its true colors– gray and overcast. I was eagerly making the day-long trek to my family’s hunting camp located just outside the Seneca Allegany Indian Reservation. Being the week before Christmas; deer season having concluded, I was certain we would have the woods all to ourselves. With one eye rakishly open, my one-year-old, tri-colored, male, English setter was patiently pretending to sleep while sprawled across the backseat.
A year and a half earlier, I purchased Chester from renowned breeder Peter Flanagan and the famous Grouse Ridge Kennels in Norwich, New York. What drove me to purchase a bird-dog was the mysterious pursuit of grouse, AKA “The King”. I wanted to afford myself the best opportunity at a fair playing field against a challenging competitor. During my youth, I had been bested by an on-the-wing grouse many a time. The usage of a bird dog seemed to be the winning edge. I had taken grouse before, but only opportunistically, either squirrel hunting or by breaking the noise ordinance and officially proclaiming a slow day of deer hunting. Basically, I wanted to get as much of an advantage as possible, and in my search for a dog, I stumbled upon a phrase stating, “Setters do it better.”
While inquiring into my family’s collective memory, nobody could recollect anyone ever targeting grouse on the property with the usage of a dog. To my delight, it was essentially an untapped covert. It quickly became a goal of mine to be the first to hunt grouse “properly,” on “my property,” with “a proper bird-dog.” Hence, I was making the trek from my current residence in Massachusetts back to western New York. Needless to say, since purchasing Chester, I’d been waiting for this day for over a year. Nearing the camp’s driveway we both could barely contain ourselves.
The previous night’s snowfall allowed us to make a quiet entrance as we pulled onto the shoulder of the road. The snowed-in, steep driveway confirmed we had the place to ourselves. The property, primarily founded as a deer camp, centered around a simply-built, cement pill-box-shaped camp constructed by my great-grandfather in 1960. The ninety-acre lot is best described as a narrow rectangle nestled in the base of a hemlock valley, steadily ascending to the summit of what western New Yorkers refer to as a “hill”. Oftentimes, deer hunters returning to camp would speak enthusiastically of numerous grouse sightings. The majority of these run-ins would occur amongst an infamous thicket of black forest hemlocks.
After walking the property perimeter to no avail, I had purposely saved the best covert for last, the “black forest” hemlock stand. Located roughly two hundred yards behind the camp, I was very familiar with the stand and the grouse it seemed to magically produce. Cautiously approaching, I began to pick up on fresh sign. Thin detailed pectalin tracks were easy to distinguish in the fine dusting of new snow. Although I noticed the tracks before my young companion, it didn’t take long before I watched a change in Chester’s demeanor.
As we both converged at the turn of a bygone logging road his bell went silent. The on-point beeper soon shrilled. As I squared up to face the sound, I noticed Chester locked up on a staunch point. A true olfactory nose point, wet nostrils flaring intermittently like a trout’s gills trying to retain those last droplets of water. As I had been previously instructed– and as many first-time dog owners are; oftentimes more in need than the dog, I shuffled around to approach the dog from a quartering side. I spotted a grouse starting to skitter away under the cover of a dense blowdown that was leaning up against a sturdy black cherry. As the grouse flushed right to left, I took a forward-leaning stance and produced my best attempt at a snap-shot. The ole’ hand-me-down sixteen gauge, a camp staple barked as the bird was just reaching its zenith. It collapsed in a thunderous ascent. The bird bounced up from the ground enveloped in a gentle puff of white powder. No retrieve was needed as Chester and I simultaneously arrived at the beautiful red-phased bird. To my dismay, the bird was still struggling, and I needed to finish the task before Chester would do what young dogs have a tendency to do and mouth him vigorously. For some reason, I thought that I had to use the technique that goose hunters do on television. I hurriedly picked it up off the ground and went to work, whirling it clockwise. After a few short spins, the body was again fluttering through the air, this time separate from the head still firmly secured within my glove. I inaudibly thought to myself, good luck getting Chester’s first camp grouse mounted now.
The next bell stoppage was not soon after in the long shadows of the hemlocks. As I ascended a shallow creek ravine and scanned the unfolding situation, something was amiss. He appeared to be pointing at the base of a large hemlock. The second bird of the day was perched on an adjacent low-hanging branch. Chester and I both conferred through a mutual look that it can’t be this easy. I guess untapped coverts can produce low-hanging fruit. Having been newly mentored by an Adirondack legend on all things, dogs, guns, grouse, woodcock, and sporting, I knew it was un-sportsmen to take a bird statued in a tree. Therefore, I came to a moral agreement on what I considered to be a sportsman’s and eager young man’s compromise. I leveled the barrel about one yard out from the direction of the bird’s beak and commenced to waiting.
Lo and behold, and to my dismay–yet again, this grouse was also still alive when I reached down. This time I thought I would just give it a little pull-n’-pop. I grabbed firmly at both ends and quickly pulled apart. What I didn’t realize is when I pulled the feet– I also dislodged almost the entire fantail. Three stoic feathers remained. The regal gray-phased bird now resembled a plump miniature road runner. Not necessarily the “POP” I was looking for. Although the act completed the necessary deed, when I opened my glove the feathers lazily descended to the snow. Intently watching, Chester took this opportunity to afford himself a bonus sniff. Now I verbally scorned myself, “There goes the mount, and good luck making a tail-fan out of that one.”
Chester didn’t mind and was unphased by my brief agitation. Ultimately, we had accomplished what we had set out to do. We had been the first to properly hunt this property. Just like any collection of pioneering explorers, we now had to document our expedition. As you can imagine this brace made for an interesting photograph. Nonetheless, Chester posed for a stately photo with his birds in front of the camp. His poised expression was beyond that of his natural years (year). In the end, the pan-roasted grouse tasted excellent, and those displaced tail feathers still served stupendously on a hook shank. In truth, this was not the pair of trophies I exactly anticipated for my prodigal return to the property, but this is one of the many aspects that make hunting great– the outcome and awaiting adventure are never certain. The memory is the trophy. Although I am obviously biased, I support the claim that “setters do it better,” and I am certain that I am thankful for sharing this experience with such a wonderful companion.
