Written By: Herb Evert. Cottage Grove, WI
Camped on the bank of the Peshtigo river in far northeastern Wisconsin, that stream of deceitfully quiet water between stretches of tumbling rapids, my brother and I, with a quartet of Springers between us, relax as the setting sun closes out a spectacular Indian summer day. All day we tramped the forested terrain in search of thunder chickens and timber doodles and we are bone weary. The grouse families of summer have already dispersed and the woodcock have not yet begun their southward trek so flushes have been few and far between. Add to that the colorful but as yet unfallen leaves and those birds which did rise before us disappeared in mere fractions of a second. Nevertheless, in that glorious technicolor terrain on an early October day we do not wish to be anywhere else. With temperatures in the low 40’s by night and the high 60’s by day, we just plumb wore ourselves out. But first we brush the dogs clear of burrs and ticks, then watch as they voraciously consume their kibble and drink their fill before they doze off in their kennels with their legs still twitching every once in awhile. Now we are
content to sit before a campfire and review our day.
This is an annual pilgrimage for us, a brief sojourn, or two, or three, early in the season just to work out the kinks in our own legs and give our dogs a chance to sniff out the scents not available to them in the southern half of the state. A couple three trips like this each autumn condition us and our canine pals to deal with the heavier, greener ground cover we will face with the pheasant opener in our own
neck-of-the-woods. So we load up our campers and, with our wives, come north to sweat and swat our way through the breathless popple and alder thickets in the hope of bringing home a few toothsome ruffed grouse or liver-flavored sheitpokes before we get serious about pheasants.
One problem these early trips too often generate, however, is that the poke-and pull nature of bird hunting in heavy cover can destroy the take-your-time swing through-and-pull method appropriate in more open pheasant habitat. So it is not unusual for one or both of us to go into a shooting slump in making the transition.
Misses of that nature cause more than one of our dogs to look back at us when that happens as if to ask, “what’s going on with you?” But in these early days of the fall seasons such problems are still ahead of us. Right now our job is to keep walking, following our dogs as they weave in and out of cover while keeping them close enough to give us a chance if they do encounter a bird. Hunting grouse and woodcock behind flushing dogs is not for those inclined to conversation and relaxation! It’s a keep-your-head-in-the-game or giveit-up proposition. And that’s a drain on one’s energy as well. But a HAPPY drain!
Morning finds us refreshed and ready to face the elements once more. My brother Ken is hunting behind Ripp and Reuben, an uncle and nephew pair that would be hard to beat anywhere, while I follow Jett and Ace, a mother and son combo in which I take great pride. All liver-and-white field-bred Springers of our own breeding, these dogs have the energy and stamina to hunt all day. But we each loose one dog at a time and return to the truck for the other about every two hours, more to give ourselves a break than to spare them. As long as we carry enough water for our dogs, for which they return to us whenever they want a drink, we just keep going.
This morning is bright and delightfully cool, with a good drop of dew making for decent scenting conditions, and the first two dogs we release are rarin’ to go while the other two make known their disappointment. Ken and I go our separate ways, each following one of the myriad logging trails, some mere traces, through the woods. It isn’t long before the sharp report of a twenty gauge lets me know that
Ken had gotten first chance. That serves only to hustle me on, and it seems to have the same effect on my dog. At the edge of a clearing a tight-sitting grouse holds until Jett almost catches it on the ground and then rockets away across the clearing —my best chance of the trip so far. At the bark of my own twenty gauge, the mature gray-phase grouse slants down but Jett is on him in an instant and delivers the beautiful cock bird to hand. She noses it a time or two and then looks up at me with shining eyes.
Most of the grouse in northern Wisconsin (which some of the old-timers up here still call “pa’tridge”) are of the gray-phase variety, but every now and then a redphase will be found, all the more striking for its relative rarity. There are subtle variations of shading in both color phases, however, so it is always interesting to compare the ruff and tail feathers of the birds we take. Gordon Gullion, THE authority on ruffed grouse, counted some thirty shadings or combinations thereof in his Moose Horn study area in northern Minnesota. With the first bird of the day in my vest I am feeling on top of the world as I fumble to reload. Wouldn’t you know? With my shotgun still broken, Jett springs another bird into orbit. No chance at that one. Fair thee well my feathered friend! Regaining the trail, Jett arcs off to my left. Just as I’m about to whistle her back, I hear the “whoosh” of another grouse taking off. Well, at least I know there are birds in these parts.
The trail slopes down to a seep where suddenly Jett puts up a woodcock. In typical fashion, it rises straight up before leveling off and gives me a clear shot. In mere seconds Jett is hupping before me with the long-bill in her mouth. I praise her lavishly as I take her prize, letting her know for the millionth time how much she means to me.
As we pause there I hear, in the distance, two shots separated by about two seconds. Ken must be finding a few birds too. So rather than get our feet wet at this point, we turn back for the truck.
Meeting my brother at our trucks gives us a chance to tell our tales as we share a cup of coffee and let all four dogs wander around and water the flora. What a morning Ken has had. He not only got a grouse with his first shot but collected another two with those two separated shots I heard–not a double but closely consecutive flushes. So three birds for three shots. That’s highly unusual! The oftcited standard is that you will probably get a shot at a third of the birds you flush, and down a third of the birds at which you shoot. That’s certainly been borne out in my experience. But my kid brother is a guy who, in his late teen years, once stood in one spot and downed three consecutive-flushing birds with three shots from his old Remington 870 in the presence of witnesses: our Dad, our middle brother, and me. Lest his head swell too much, I remind him of the superlative job I must have done as his elder brother in training him to shoot like that. Lucky kid!
Break over, we kennel the dogs and drive to our next cover which, for some reason is greener and more dense than the last. Releasing the pups, Reuben and Ace, brothers from Jett’s last litter, we head out, each in our own direction again. And again, we find birds. Aside from ranging out a bit too far on occasion, the pups respond well to our whistles but neither of us gets a shot in that heavy foliage. So no retrieves for the pups this time but at least each of them got a snootful of scent. That afternoon we each flush several more grouse, one of which falls to my gun, plus a few woodcock. That one bird is hugely significant however because it falls before my pup Ace. Finally he’s gotten a wild bird retrieve on this trip, and he handles it with aplomb. That’s what I came for. As he hups before me with his prize I fuss over him like he’s just graduated from high school which, in a sense, he has. A few more of those and he’ll be ready for college!
The following day we make up for the previous day’s good fortune by reverting to form with several misses apiece. In other words, things average out. That’s earlyseason grouse and woodcock hunting for you.
We break camp and head for home the day after that, leg-weary and well scratched up but happy to have celebrated the onset of another autumn. Our dogs sleep most of the five hour trip except for one pit stop at the halfway point to let them out and stretch our own legs.
But we’ll be back. Always, every fall, the northland calls and we answer. And we will do so for as long as we are able.
