ANCIENT PROVERB ABOUT DREAM CRUSHERS

For those of you who have followed the blog for a while, last March, I wrote a funny blog entry called, "Dream Crushers" about the spouses in our lives (or our hunting companion's) who sometimes put the kibosh on our collective sporting pursuits. While many readers loved the story, some people (they who must not be named) did not think it was funny--at all. Don't bother trying to find this story in the archives as I deleted it to keep the peace. I even went as far as to publish a public apology (which was also been deleted after the storm has passed). Sorry if you missed it!

I was reading the Bible tonight and came across an interesting scripture that touched upon this very issue. While I have no desire to reopen the previous wounds, I simply could not resist the temptation to share this passage:

It is better to dwell in the wilderness, than with a contentious and an angry woman. (Proverbs 21:19).

Amen to that! Now we know for certain that since biblical times, mankind has--pursuant to the instruction of their leaders--sought refuge in the great outdoors from angry members of the fairer sex. It's official! Maybe we should make Brad Paisley's "I'm Gonna Miss Her" an official church hymn. Can you imagine your church choir singing ". . . Looky there, I've got a bite"?

(Of course, this is all in fun. To any who are offended, my apologies in advance. To all who can relate, I'll see you in the woods, on the river . . . or in the dog house!)

QUOTE OF THE DAY ON PHEASANT HUNTING

Today, I'm home spending time with the family. So Sunny-girl and I will not be out chasing pheasants until Thanksgiving break next week. However, since the soreness and pain (physical and emotional) from last week's difficult hunt have subsided (see "Hunting the Hell Hole" below), I'm ready to get after those roughneck roosters once more. But I won't lie to you, my success with wild pheasants over the years has been sketchy, at best. They are not a gentlemen's bird like the blue grouse or the sharptail. They will give you no quarter! As Datus Proper so succinctly stated in Pheasants of the Mind: "[A rooster pheasant] has only one song with one discordant line: 'Don't let the bastards wear you down.'"

To meet them successfully in the field requires an almost crazy man, who schemes and laughs like a diabolical villain and absolutely relishes and gloats at the demise of his quarry, or cusses like Yosemite Sam when they get away ("Riggin', Friggin', Dag' Nabbin' Roosters!"). Does anybody else feel that way about wily, wild rooster pheasants?

I recently reread one of my favorite hunting stories, Steve Groom's, "Blizzard on the Race Track" from his unequaled book Pheasant Hunters Harvest. In my opinion, this is the best book on pheasant hunting ever written. Anyway, in this story, he tells a funny little anecdote about a fast and furious pheasant hunt he and a friend had in South Dakota on a public walk-in area:

. . . The rest is quickly told: two hours, eight chases, six rooster flushes, six shells fired, six retrieves. And every bird ran like a cat with four soup cans tied to his tail. It was the most aerobic pheasant hunt I've known. We had done a 10K marathon in shell vests and boots, toting over-unders. Our shortest chase might have been sixty yards, the longest three times that distance.

Back in the car, Bill drew an arrow on the map toward the management area and carefully penned the name we'd give it: "The Race Track."

"Jim Layton should have seen this," I said as we drove off in search of a place to sleep. Jim had been our pheasant hunting host in central Iowa for years. A canny pheasant man, Jim was also an incurrable optimist. He'd squint at the skies each morning and drawl, "Awww, it looks super. I bet them ol' roosters will be settin' real tight today." And he was wrong every time. Every damn time. Whether the skies were gray, blue, or chartruese with pink polka dots, we never once found Jim's late season roosters willing to hold tight.

Bar none, the best book ever written on pheasant hunting.

I don't know about you, but when it comes to pheasant hunting, I can relate! Pheasant hunting is an exercise in frustration with a few glorious moments mixed in. But hey, those moments make it all worthwhile and keep you coming back for another butt kicking. Just don't forget to brush up beforehand on your villainous laugh and cursing. They should come in handy.

HUNTING THE HELL HOLE

Anytime someone tells me they have just killed a limit of pheasants in Idaho, I have to call into question their honesty. Are they hunting the same birds and places that I am hunting? I guess this could happen occasionally on opening day with naive birds-of-the-year or on a WMA, but I am willing to bet that it never happens with three wily old roosters, and never where Matt and I hunted yesterday.

For the past three years, Matt Lucia and I have hunted the gnarliest cover in all of the world-- a place so steep and nasty that it had to be carved right out of hell. In fact, though it has a name, Matt and I call it the "Hell Hole." The entrance to this godforsaken place is so steep it would seriously help to have one leg shorter than the other. Just pray that the shorter leg is on the uphill side as the footing is terrible and it is a long, long way to fall. The steep places I have pursued chukar in the past have nothing on this spot! The Russian Olive and willow patches are choked with scary plants that grab, poke, scratch and trip. This covert is not for the faint of heart.

And the devil and his minions live there too. A rooster pheasant has an appearance too gaudy for the real world. Pardon me, but with all its seductive colors and glamour, it reminds me of a woman of the oldest profession of the world. When the writer Proverbs wrote the following, he could have been describing the Chinese rooster pheasant:

And, behold, there met him a woman with attire of an harlot, and subtil of heart.
(She is loud and stubborn; her feet abide not in her house;
Now is she without, now in the streets, and lieth in wait at ever corner.)

Over the years, Matt and I have taken a serious beating by these evil pheasants. In 2007 and 2008, we came home empty handed. Because of our bad luck, we call it "the Curse of the River Roosters." More than once, Matt has declared: "I have hunted pheasants all over the West, including South Dakota and Kansas, and nowhere have I found more difficult birds than here. To be sure, the birds are here, but they are the wiliest, wariest, runningest, and fast-flying birds I have ever hunted." Having now experienced the curse three years in a row, I have to agree with Matt's assessment. These birds will kick your butt and take names. When hunters brag of their pheasant hunting prowess, I want to take them here and watch them eat a fat slice of humble pie.

Yesterday morning, not long after we dropped off the near vertical rim to the brush patches below, Sunny locked up on point on the topside of an impenetrable willow tangle. Over a three minute period, she relocated numerous times to try to get a better bead on this tight holding devil bird. Meanwhile, I was telling Matt, "Sunny has this bird nailed. Get ready!" Matt's yellow lab, Darby started to crash her way up to us through the thicket and Sunny pushed her way toward the source of that mesmerizing scent. Soon the stubborn bird had had enough and flushed hard and fast presenting me with an easy shot. Of course, I missed with both barrells and so did Matt! "These phantom birds are supernatural," Matt yelled in frustration. These roosters truly get into your head!

My friend Matt is one of the best shots that I know so it seriously surprised me when he missed another close flushing rooster with both barrells. With a perfect view of the whole fiasco, I couldn't help but laugh out loud. "Sorry for laughing. You know you're the best shot I know, don't you?" I hollared up to Matt to try to salve his battered ego.

As we hunted up this densely vegetated hollow, I took the left side and Darby and Matt worked the bottom and right side. From my perspective I watched birds run and flush ahead of Matt, which he could not see. One rooster flushed near him, but he never saw it because of the foilage. However, as we scratched our way through tangle, Matt caught a glimpse of a flushing rooster and folded it midair into the cattails below. "Finally, I broke the curse!" Matt jubilantly stated. When he found the downed bird, he reported that it was a bird-of-the-year. Multiple hens flushed wild at the end of the draw, but no more roosters.

After hunting the whole day, Matt and I hunted another steep hillside with a manmade canal carved in such an unlikely place. The canal and its surroundings hold some birdy cover for pheasants. With the half-inch skiff of snow, we could see tracks from pheasants running ahead of us. Multiple times, I witnessed birds slinking off uphill in the distance. Pheasants were definitely there in abundance.

The dogs were down with Matt, so I just followed some tracks along a well developed trail following the canal. Pretty soon the tracks left the trail and headed uphill. When Matt, Darby and Sunny caught up, I stated, "Matt, send Darby up this hill into that thicket, I know there are some birds up there." Sure enough, one rooster flushed a little beyond my range, but I sent out a salutory shot anyway. Seconds later another rooster flushed. Matt shot first, but missed, and the bird fell hard at my shot. "Good shot!" Matt congratulated. We both thought this bird was dead in the air. I hussled down to where I had marked the bird. We instantly found feathers, but after looking for almost an hour with the help of the dogs, we never found that wily rooster. I went from the feeling of elation to dispair in a matter of seconds. These river roosters will do that to you. For me, the curse continues.

In the timeless words of the writer of Proverbs, I warn all who pursue the feathered harlots of Hell Hole:

Hearken unto me now therefore, O ye children, and attend to the words of my mouth.
Let not thine heart decline to her ways, go not astray in her paths.
For she hath cast down many wounded, yea, many strong men have been have been slain by her.
Her house is the way to hell, going down into the chambers of death.

Yep, that pretty much sums up the experience of hunting the Hell Hole. But you know what? After the glaze of time softens the blows and heals the wounds, I'm sure Matt and I will be back next year for some more punishment. Maybe, one day I'll even break the curse. Wish me luck. Heaven knows I need it!

NOVEMBER

November. The kindlier months have come and gone and Ol' Man Winter grows stronger each day, eager to rule his kingdom with his icy grip.

Little Sunny's first rooster, which she backed Farley on.


The harvest is over, the leaves have long since bloomed with color, wilted, and trickled to the ground where they are tossed to and fro by the cold wind. What is left are skeletal tree trunks and branches, harsh lighting, and shadows.

If we're lucky, the month may give us a few warm Indian Summer days. Such days afield with birddogs should be savored as a gift. However, the birds are much scarcer, warier, and less apt to wait around to see what predator is in pursuit. The birds seem to have even more of an advantage in November.

Yet most diehard hunters are not willing to hang up the game bag or to put away the shotgun for the year. The dog still wines eagerly in her kennell. Instead, we welcome the challenge and even chase after the more difficult species, like the Chinese dragon or the fast-flying demonic birds of the near vertical, rimrock slopes. When we and our dogs occasionally connect with a wily November ringneck, it is truly an accomplishment--a reason to celebrate.


Bishop Maxwell with Farley's last rooster.

November is an opportunity to sit by the fire and reflect on what has been and what will be. In November's scarcity, the bounties of the past spring, the summer, and the harvest seem almost embarrasing. We realize that we have taken things for granted. November is a time to give thanks, to count our blessings, and to pull close to us those things that matter most. November is a time to pray for better days to come.

When it came to November valley quail hunts, Farley really shined.

Better weather for pheasants.

Better weather for Pheasants.

After days of torrential rain the weather finally broke, and yesterday, we enjoyed a beautiful day working the dogs on pheasants at a local estate shoot.

The day dawned cold and frosty with a temperature reading of -2 C on the thermometer. For the first time this autumn I found a thick coating of ice on the yard gate, and my breath billowed out in clouds.

As soon as the sun rose however, the early frost vanished, leaving us with the most perfect, still, clear, autumn day.

Personally, I can think of nothing finer than to be out in the field working the dogs, in such glorious weather, and if the dogs could speak I am sure they would agree!

The cover worked throughout the day consisted of a mixture of woodland and game crop, and with conditions being fine and dry, most birds were to be found out feeding in the crop. Certain fields simply exploded with pheasants as the dogs pushed forward, flushing birds for the waiting guns.

Hazel, my cocker bitch, now four years old, has really come into her own, and is at the top of her game this season.

I was thrilled to see her make numerous long and difficult retrieves, and one on a wounded cock bird, that had run back 100 yards into heavy brambles, truly made my day.

Such occasions make all the time and frustrations of training worthwhile.

The bag at the end of the day. 66 head. Mallard, Pheasant and Woodcock.

To quote Rasmus Hensen, "Give me dogs and give me winter, and you can have the rest".

Couldn't have put it better myself!

Yours in sport,

Scolopax.

Great weather for ducks!

Dear All,

Apologies for not having posted in a while, but my career as an amateur sporting writer has taken off with surprising speed, and that, along with the furniture making business, has kept me rather busy!

No one is more surprised about the writing than I, believe me, ( no, really!)

I cannot thank Shawn, Andy and Walter enough for their words of encouragement, as without their ushering I probably wouldn't have written a word.

Things in the Scottish highlands are going well, apart from an uncommon deluge of rain that we are experiencing at the moment.

Sunday saw 1 1/2 inches of the wet stuff tip down on us, causing all of the local rivers to burst their banks, leading to widespread flooding

The wet weather has rather snookered us on the duck shooting front, as just about every field is flooded, and the mallard and teal are scattered far and wide.

Prior to this, we had been getting around 30 to 40 duck flighting in to our pond at dusk, affording us wonderful sport!

Willow and Rowan our Lab litter sisters are now 18 months of age, and have made their entry into the shooting field.

Last Saturday saw them both out flushing and retrieving on their first big pheasant day. A team of 8 local guns finished with a total of 76 pheasants, 1 woodcock, ( we saw 5, which is promising for October) and a pigeon.

Willow made 2 super retrieves, and both dogs flushed countless birds from cover. Rowan has been out duck shooting with me, and last week retrieved a wounded mallard from the pond, entirely unassisted, and in total darkness! How do they do it?

Hazel, the Mighty atom, waiting for the off.

Tomorrow we are out on another big driven day, on an estate where birds are driven over the Salmon fisher's dream, the river Spey.

This kind of work calls for good swimmers, and the labs will be in their element.

Enclosed are various photos from last Saturday's driven shoot:

Emma and Willow standing behind the guns on the 3rd drive, waiting to hoover up the fallen birds.

Two highland blondes!

Me, soaked through after a heavy shower. Wet, but still smiling.

More sporting photos and snippets to come over the following months.

Yours in sport,

Scolopax.

EDEN DAWN

You ever wonder what's in a name? I have tried to name each of my children after someone or something special in my life. My wife and I named our third daughter, Eden Dawn, for reasons that I will share in this story.

If you follow the blog, you will recall that a few weeks ago Eden was sad because she did not get to go hunting with Dad. I made a promise to take her the next weekend, but did not because on Friday a cold front and storm set in which dusted the earth with snow. This hardly seemed like the type of a day to take a four year old out for her first hunt.

Yesterday was different. The forecasts were for a high of sixty-eight degrees, and although the air was crisp, it was not bone chilling as it had been last weekend. I recruited my second daughter, Nessy, to come along with us to help me with little Eden. Of course, we stopped at the local Maverick in the dark for some treats. You can't take a kid hunting without treats!

As we drove east to our destination, we were rewarded with a stunning view of the sunrise with the mini-Tetons in the background. The view was somewhat tainted by the wind power generators that plagued the horizon. (Double click on the picture to see the Tetons).

I decided to try a wildlife management area which is reputed to hold sharptails for our first hunt. Not having hunted this area before, we found some decent looking cover and began to hike.

Little Eden kept up for a while, but struggled through the tall sage and CRP grass. All in all, she did okay for her first hunt.


After hiking through the thick sage and CRP grass with no birds, Eden began to get tired and teary. Since the object of this hunt was for Eden to have a good time, I decided to put her on my shoulders and carry her the rest of the way back to the car, while Nessy carried my empty shotgun. Back at the car, I asked Eden, "Do you know why we named you Eden Dawn?" Eden responded, "No, Daddy." "It's because I love being out in Nature and Dawn is my very favorite time of day. It's always so hopeful. Every day is a brand new with new opportunities. That's why Mom and I gave you this name." I'm not sure that she understood the full meaning of this, but maybe someday she will.

I think this was Eden's favorite part of the whole morning.

Speaking of hope, as we drove back down the dirt road we had come down, I said out loud, "We need a Roadside Revelation!" For those of you who have not heard this phrase, a Roadside Revelation is when you spy birds from the road, which points to-- or "reveals," if you will--potential new coverts. Over the years, I have found some of my very best hunting spots from this tactic and even wrote an article of the same name that is going to be published soon by The Upland Almanac. Can't wait!

As if on que, not one minute later did we see a solitary sharptail fly across the road. "That's a sharptail!" I told the girls in the back seat as I marked him down. "Should we go see if we can find him and some of his friends?" I asked excitedly. "Let's do it, Dad!" replied the girls.

After we parked and stepped into the CRP, another huge flock of sharptails (i.e. 20 to 30 birds) flushed back across the same road and landed only seventy-five yards or so away from where I had parked. I had them marked down perfectly. I asked Nessy and Eden to stay well behind me so that the gun shot would not scare Eden. Sunny and I quickly set out to where the birds had landed.

I could instantly tell that the scenting conditions were good as Sunny locked up numerous times on point. I kept wondering: Why aren't the birds flushing? And then about twenty yards ahead, I saw the craning neck and head of a sharptail. "Yah, Yah! Get outta here," I yelled as if I were driving cattle. Sure enough, a large portion of the flock got the message and flushed. I missed the first one with my bottom barrel, but recovered, and took a closer bird with my top barrel.

After Sunny retrieved the bird, I handed it to Nessy to show Eden and let her carry it back to the car. "Sunny and I are going to see if we can't get one more for our limit." Sure enough, within twenty yards, we busted up another group of sharpies and I made a poor shot which wing-tipped the bird. As we approached where the bird went down, it tried to flush, but only got about two feet off the ground. Recognizing the situation, Sunny charged in, tackled the grouse, and made an excellent retrieve. "Good girl, Sunny girl!" I praised.

Eden carried the second bird back to the car where we took pictures of our freshly made memory.

I realize I have made numerous posts this season in which I have addressed the joy of taking kids hunting. I'm sorry if you, the readers, are getting bored with this theme. However, I cannot even begin to describe the richness of these experiences with my own kids. I do not mean to disparage any of my hunting buddies--who are great to be with--but I would rather be in the field with my kids than anyone else. It has added another layer of pleasure to my hunting and fishing that is hard to describe. In honor of my third daughter, to sum up this hunt, it truly was an Eden Dawn to be remembered. I'm glad I kept my promise.