WHAT'S IN A TREE?

With apologies to Joyce Kilmer, "Birds are chased by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree."(Please click on the photo for a good look at the action)

Why this tree? I was at the game club with my friend Jack and his great setter Chappy. We put out a chukar and the game was to get Pride to back Chappy on the bird. Being unschooled in "backing" I was not surprised when the clever little rascal stole Chappy's point!(I sorta' hoped he would clean her clock, which is a great method to teach backing, but alas, Chappy is much too much the gentleman.)

Your ever-alert gunner, me, flushed the bird. Now you wild chukar hunters will all wrinkle your noses at this because how could any PEN-raised(!) bird ever be so challenging as a wild one?? I have found that the birds we shoot will usually do one of three things when struggling to put lots of air between me and them: straight up and then angle away in about a 45° climb; straight up like a woodcock, pick a direction and then scoot; or, straight up, angle up and then a sharp turn left or right. I was moving left when chukar moved right.

I caught him hard enough to pull a few feathers but on he flew, in fact he went about 300 yards and we saw him cruise down around a big cottonwood tree.

Jack said, "Let's go get him." Off we went and Pride got there first. Hence the two pictures of her pointing under the tree. What made it memorable was Jack's exclamation as we approached, "She looks just like a Robert Abbett painting!" And she did.(Later on I found one with exactly the pose she struck.) The bird was hurt pretty bad but when I approached it ran out and then Chappy swooped down on him and retrieved to Jack.

Earlier this week Jack decided to put a bird or two out by the tree; hence, the rest of the pictures. Some great action grabs from video his wife shot of bird flushing and Jack and Chappy reacting.

This is what led to the appellation: Pride's Cottonwood. We have decided to name it in honor of her. Jack and Chappy both voted for her too!

This is probably not the most informative post you've ever read but then I don't suppose any of you would go nuts over your bird dogs the way Jack and I do. Not you folks. All you sophisticates. Grin.

Becoming a Bird Dog part 2

I apologize to those who might be weary of watching this "evolution of a bird dog" but to me it's absolutely fascinating to watch the "dance" between a dog (especially a young puppy) and birds.

I edited out a bunch of footage (gets kinda old just watching a dog stand there, unless it's YOUR dog!)but wanted to show enough of the sequence to adequately illustrate what was happening.

It's interesting to me that Sunny stood so long knowing the birds were there but at the end of the first clip you can tell from her body language that she becomes a bit unsure. Then she moved up and became VERY certain and stood a while again...then probably got a little cocky and moved up a bit more. Then the birds went. There is NO way I could replicate that kind of "lesson" in any kind of training situation. Perfect example of why birds are the better teacher.

From beginning to end, Sunny held these birds for about 5 minutes. She stood there so long I started wondering if she was really on birds or smelling something behind me like a mountain lion ready to attack! I admit getting a little jumpy and turning off the camera to look behind me (I have seen both bobcats and mountain lions in this area)!








It was a pretty cool thing to watch. There is nothing more thrilling and intoxicating to me than an intense, single-minded bird dog!

Becoming a Bird Dog

Here's a little clip I took yesterday of the female pup I kept out of Daisy's litter. I named her "West Mountain Sunny Days" (Sunny, good name huh, Andy :-)?).

She disappeared over the mountain and by the time I caught up, she was down the other side doing what she was supposed to be doing, finding birds!

The birds are paired up and holding pretty well. Our days for running on them are drawing to a close since they will begin nesting soon, but we've had a lot of good work on them this spring.

Sunny is an independent little bugger at almost 5 months old. I love how she moves through the country and I'm happy with how she's coming along. Her tail isn't real straight when she's pointing (or completely still!) yet but that will come with maturity and confidence. The fact that she's finding wild birds on her own and learning how to handle them is by far the most important thing.

THE FRENCH BRITTANY AND THE AMERICAN DREAM

In recent years America's friendship and alliance with the France has, to put it lightly, waned, especially in the wake of France's outspoken opposition to the U.S.'s war with Iraq. This, in turn, has caused many Americans to openly criticize France and to boycott all things French. I even heard someone go as far as trying to rename French fries, "Freedom Fries." I don't think this has quite caught on yet.

Despite this recent contention, let's give the French some much needed credit. After all, when we seriously needed their help, the French helped us seal the deal in the Revolutionary War and we gained our independence from Great Britain. For that we should be forever grateful!

General Washington's First Meeting with French General LaFayette.

The French also gave us the Statue of Liberty, which serves as a banner to the world of what America stands for:

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door."

("The New Colossus" by Emma Lazarus). Is this not a succinct statement of the American Dream?
The Statue of Liberty: A Generous Gift from the French.

And last, but certainly not least, they gave us the French Brittany (Epagnuel Breton). Believe it or not, the aforementioned items have more in common than you may think.

Before the French Revolution, France was an absolute monarchy with feudal privileges in the aristocracy. Under this regime, land in France was owned mainly by a privileged few. This meant that hunting and fishing could only be enjoyed by the noblemen and their fortunate guests. Generally, the common man was not allowed to enjoy these sports.

Legend has it that the Brittany was developed by the French peasants as the ideal poaching dog. As so aptly described by Michael McIntosh in A Feisty Little Pointing Dog, the Brittany was bred to be "compact and biddable, close-working and quiet, the perfect accomplice for clandestine sport and the companion of choice among those whose favorite game was someone else's." The landed nobles, with their big running pointers and setters, did not recognize these shaggy, tailless mongrels for what they were, bona fide hunting machines. Of course, this was all part of the ruse.

Brittanys are pointers with the natural instinct to retrieve. This is my Sunny Girl with her first retrieve on a sharptail.

Now, I'm sure you are asking what do French Brittanys have to do with the Revolutionary War, the Statue of Liberty and the American Dream? The answer is simple: If the legend is true, then the French Brittany was bred as a protest-if you will-against the landed aristocracy and their exclusive privileges. Underlying this "poacher's dog" is the unquenchable desire of the human soul to be free-a familiar statement that "all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." (The Declaration of Independence). Like the Statue of Liberty, the Brittany cries: "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" (Lazarus).

Because of its noble history, the French Brittany was destined to arrive on our shores to breathe our free air. By breeding, Brittanys are everyman's dog and they belong where they can run free without regard to some archaic, oppressive class system. This wonderful transplant is now as American as apple pie and baseball.

So dear friends, the next time you think about bad mouthing the French, please remember one of their greatest contributions to the American Dream-the French Brittany.

This is a picture of Sunny and her sister Halley. Notice the difference in size and coloring. This genetic variance is very common in the breed. Perhaps this was by design.

In A Fiesty Little Pointing Dog: A Celebration of the Brittany, Micheal McIntosh crisply summed it up: "Poacher's dogs. They'll steal your heart." No doubt they have mine.

Pride at the Game Club and a new Camera!

When last we left our intrepid bird finder, Pride the Wonder Dog, she was lolling about in the easy chair that used to belong to my wife, the lovely Joanne. So I sez' to her, "Pride, why don't you get off your keyster and we'll go off and find some more of those "chuckles" guys--chukar to the rest of you--and I will shoot and you will retrieve.?" The deal was struck and yesterday we had a grand time!

Surrounded by snow covered mountains, Yes, Virginia, this is southern California, we set out.




A front had gone through on Sunday leaving new snow in the higher altitudes, cold, breezy weather in the valleys.

On "chuckle" the second I was able to one-hand shoot these pictures with my new Canon A590is camera--a wonderful little tool with a big LCD screen, SDHC card and great zoom, macro and video featurs, plus more I haven't learned about yet!



Pointing into a 15 mph, cold wind. She picked up the
scent a good 30 yards from the bird.

She did her part and I did mine. One shot with the AyA XXV 12 bore and a nice retrieve.



Astute observers will note this "chuckle" is far from
dispatched. Oh well, it was windy! Enough #7 to get him
on the ground anyway.

The morning unfolded with two surprises. A couple of pheasants that were left over from shooters on the weekend surprised us as I was strolling back to the car later. Pride was sprinting downwind and as she turned back she must have caught the scent. She skidded to a point but the birds were too close. One flushed wild and I had no shot. I watched its flight thinking we could go after him later.

Never suspecting there was a second bird there, I was totally flat-footed when it flew. I threw a wild shoot through an old, dead juniper and caught nothing but dry limbs. It flew off it into the river bottom and I lost sight of it. Moral of this episode? Be alert, always, especially on the Monday after a busy weekend at the club. A few months previously I had been there on a Monday and got two bonus chukar--you don't pay for those that someone else left behind.

We tried to find the pheasants later but there was no sign of them. I also lost the last chukar I put out. It spiraled up from Pride's point almost like a woodcock and I foolishly let it figure out which way to go--of course that was downwind like a rocket! I was behind all the way but did pull feathers. We hunted after the bird on its line of flight. She found it crippled, on the edge of a thick juniper stand. I moved to the bird about the time Pride broke point and in the flurry the chukar dove into the tangle of limbs, roots and gopher holes. Never saw him again. Drat.(The lovely Joanne noted sagely that evening: "It's hunting, not going to the market." Hmm. May be something in that.)

The last little treat was a cooperative between dog, gun and new camera. This is an experiment for me here. A snippet of video with a retrieve. If the sound comes through you'll hear me coaxing her in with the bird--she really doesn't need much but it calms my nerves! You'll also hear wind in the background. Here' goes:






Well, that worked okay. Exciting, eh what, old chaps? I think Scolopax is affecting my mood. Powerful 'vibes' from the Orkneys today.

Stay tuned for more excitement in the days to come.

SAGEGROUSE ON THE MOON

I don't know about you, but I always seem to have a song rattlin' around in my head. Music has a way of bringing us back to past experiences or places we have been. When I think about one of my favorite sage grouse covers, the Police song, "Walking on the Moon," with Sting's unmistakable voice wailing the following lyrics, comes to mind:

Giant steps are what you take,

Walking on the moon.

I hope my legs don't break,

Walking on the moon.

We can walk forever,

Walking on the moon.

We can live together,

Walking on, walking on the moon.

You see, this covert was marred by the rugged flows of lava 2000 years past, but is now interspersed with islands of sage brush. To the untrained eye, this place seems like a barren wasteland--a moonscape if you will--hence its name. But to a bird hunter willing to put in some leg work, there is more than meets the eye. Huge flocks of sage grouse live in this unique area.

Every year, my family and I get together for a few days of hunting with our dogs for the variety of gallinaceous birds throughout southern Idaho. I have come to call this sacred time together our "Holy Jihad on the Gallinations." We all look forward to it every year. In "The White Wonder: Sniff it up Boys!" (see below), I wrote about one phenomenal day in October of 2002, during my family's annual crusade in pursuit of Idaho's smallest upland game bird--the valley quail.

The very next day, we decided to pursue Idaho's biggest, the sage grouse. In fact, in Western Skies, John Barsness, refers to these huge grouse as "Pleistocene Megagrouse, too big for the now." Before this day, although I had hunted sage grouse and even helped Idaho Fish & Game trap some for studying, I had never harvested one so my excitement and expectations were high.

The Crusaders sitting on a gnarly lava flow, the likes of which is prevalent at "The Moon."

Present with me on this leg of the hunt were Shawn, Eric, my nephews Joshua and Dylan, and Farley, my Elhew pointer. As we drove to our destination through the lifeless lava flows, we were blinded by the rising sun to the east. But upon approaching the first oasis of sage brush in the midst of the rugged flows, we witnessed, through the suns glare, a "Roadside Revelation" as a few almost turkey-sized grouse nervously crossed the road and then flushed into the distance. Considering this as a good omen, we continued on to our planned hunting spot.

Upon reaching the covert, however, Josh and Eric realized that they did not have the requisite sagegrouse permit as required by Idaho law. After a short deliberation, we decided to have Eric and Josh drop us off and take "Monty," my gold Mitsubishi Montero, back to the nearest town to purchase their sage grouse tags.

As the vehicle and the dust faded away, the rest of us followed Farles on foot into the barrens. In a shallow valley, we quickly saw two grouse flush wildly out of range. We followed Farley up onto a small ridge where he soon slowed to a stylish point facing a thick stand of waist high sagebrush. Feeling confident from some great shooting the day before, I thought: This should be easy. As if in slow motion, a large flock of sage grouse lifted thunderously from the ground. Startled, I promptly emptied my gun into the sky without touching a feather. Shawn, on the other hand, made a good shot on a big bird-of-the-year.

Farley, swimming in a sea of sage.

If the previous day was one of my best shooting days (in which I harvested eight quail), this day was one of my worst. In short order, I repeatedly missed birds on my first seven shots. Totally demoralized, I began to take out my frustration on far-running Farley. It did not take long before my young-but wise-nephew Dylan said: "Uncle Andy, quit yelling at your dog. You're just mad because you can't shoot worth a darn!" Convicted by my own conscience, I could not argue with the little guy.

After I calmed down a bit, another big flock got up and on my eighth shot, I finally winged a grouse that was quartering right to left. Knowing that the bird was only injured, I hollered: "Farley, go get that bird!" With absolutely no question as to what I wanted, Farles tackled the running bird and brought it to hand.

That little white dot in the middle is Farles on point. Double click on the picture to see his style.

Once we finally circled back around to our starting point, Eric and Josh soon arrived. Young Josh stepped from Monty with a huge grin and quickly pulled out by the feet a sage grouse that he had harvested not far from the roadside and with only one shot. Talk about beginner's luck!

Despite my own many failings that morning, I look back with fondness on this hunt. This is one of those times that helped me to learn that bird hunting is not necessarily about how well you shoot or the number of birds harvested on any given day, but rather, spending time with friends and loved ones and making memories. Walking on the Moon is an experience that any bird hunter would appreciate. The giant birds from another era flush with such noise and prehistoric flare that it unnerves even the best of us. Like me, you will be singing, "I hope I can shoot straight, walking on the Moon!"

Big birds = Big Smiles.

"Giant birds are what you take, Walking on the Moon"- My first sagegrouse.

The Isle of Woodcock, Part 2.

Standing in the gathering Hebridean gloom, a chill breeze blowing in from the sea, I strain my eyes to try to pick up the first, dark, batlike silhouettes, of flighting Woodcock.

The darkening sky.

I pull up my collar against the chill, and raise the peak of my tweed cap a little, so that it won't obscure my vision. Since the sun began to set on this short Winter's day on Skye - the temperature has plummeted. I feel the cold sting of the 20 bore's barrels through my fingers - but having never been keen on shooting in gloves, I am content to bear it.

"THERE. On your left" cries a voice. It's my girlfriend Emma, who all this time has been standing at my right shoulder. She has spotted the first flighting bird !.

In one movement I mount the gun, and swing on and through the jinking, fluttering 'Cock' - momentarily I lose sight of my target, against the dark wall of the Spruce forest before us. Then there he is again, and this time no mistake. I pick him up over the muzzles against the darkening sky, swing and fire.

At the shot he crumples, and seconds later I hear the reassuring, 'Thud', as he hits the heather, somewhere in the darkness behind us. "One in the bag", I think to myself. No time to dwell however - and I quickly eject the empty cartridge case, and re-load the little 20 bore.

As I do so, I hear a double shot, quickly followed by a single, away to my right. There are 5 guns in our party, and I hope that the others are sharing my good fortune. As I raise the little side by side, and rest it's butt upon the leather cartridge belt, around my waist - I catch a glimmer ahead of me, just above the towering blackness of the Spruce belt. "IN FRONT", shouts Emma - but before the words are fully out, my gun is already mounted - the shot taken - and the inert Woodcock, is falling earthward before us.

"A brace in the bag now".I can relax a little. Three more single shots to my right. The boys must be seeing plenty of birds ?.

The light has nearly gone altogether now - and I know that we will have to stop shooting, and pick up with the dogs, in five minutes or so.

Scanning the sky to my left, I luckily pick up the outline of another bird heading out of the woods to feed. This time however, my lead isn't quite so good, and I miss him behind with the first barrel. Moving my feet, ( as good shooting stems from good footwork ) I follow him, and swing through mightily, and fire. He too tumbles earthward. Emma pats me on the shoulder, and whispers, "Good shot". I realise that she must be as cold as I am, but she is beaming with excitement.

Reloaded, and straining to see against the now starlit sky above, I hear a ripple of two double, followed by a single shot, from the right hand side of the wood. I try to imagine how my companions are shooting - but knowing what good shots they are, realise that they will have a few birds to pick.

"Can't be long to go now", I think to myself - and as I do - yet another woodcock flits out of the trees, like a large jinking bat, attempting to reach it's nocturnal, moorland feeding. I know that Em has spotted it too, as she quickly plugs her ears with her fingers.

In a flash, I throw the gun to my shoulder - swing through the dark shape, and fire. A snap shot of the Robert Churchill school, if ever there was one !. Much to my astonishment, Em shouts, "GOT HIM !" - and I thank my lucky stars. Just at that moment, I hear Mike the Gamekeeper call that it is time for us to stop shooting, and pick up with the dogs.

Nocturnal picking up.

The Lady handlers, who throughout the day, have worked so hard with their pointers, now go into action to collect the fallen birds. Although we can scarcely see the picking up - we can hear whistles and commands, coming out of the darkness. I sleeve the 20 bore - and myself and Emma make our way over the moor, and back to the the waiting vehicles.

As we pass through the forestry gate, and meet the other members of our shooting party, we are delighted to learn, that the 15 minutes spent flighting Woodcock out of their daytime, forestry haunts, has added 9 more of these magical birds, to the bag.

The shooting party homeward bound.

Both guns and dog handlers are stamping their feet against the cold, and decide that the place to be now, is before a roaring log fire, Malt Whisky in hand, ensconced in our cosy, Highland Hotel !.

Who am I to argue ?!.

"Slaint'e".

Yours in sport,

Scolopax.

Some Scolopax History!

Having our new member from Scotland, a woodcock aficionado, jogged my memory this morning. Some will recall a post I made some months ago regarding a friend I had in the old Soviet Union many years ago who was a devoted shotgunner, dog man and upland bird hunter. I have kept all my old correspondence with him and here is the inside of a Christmas card I received from him in late 1983--please double-click the photos to better read the script:



"Slava", or formally, Dr. V. M. Shostakovsky, was an organic chemist in the Zelinsky Institute of Organic Chemistry in Moscow. His father was a well-known chemist and had won prizes in chemistry. They were, shall we say, privileged, because they were allowed to own non-Russian guns. At the time this was Verboten! He also visited the U. S. in the early 1980's and was a visiting professor at the University of Minnesota-Duluth Campus.

So you see, I have more than a passing interest in Scolopax! The two feathers are among my treasured possessions and I wondered if our Scottish friend saves these feathers too?

As an interesting aside, note his comments re: the Parker Shotgun that was built for the Czar. Apparently, it has resurfaced after many years. Please check this link http://tinyurl.com/csx5n6 for information on the auction sale last year to Jack Puglisi of Duluth, Minnesota. Interesting tangential connection between the gun, my note from "Slava" of 26 years ago and Duluth! Random, I am sure. Or fate? Who knows?

Just the ramblings of an old-timer.

The Dark Night of the Soul

St. John of the Cross coined the term in a famous book on the spiritual life. I never thought much about it until it found me. It has been a long trip for the past four months. I'm glad it's gone by.

Remember Pride, the English Pointer? I joined a game club once I came to grips with my physical slowing down. Wild bird hunting will have to be in smaller doses and less intense; those days are for memories.

However, there is plenty of action at the game club I was accepted into in January. Lovely place with over 1400 acres of mixed high desert cover, including a flowing river at this point in the winter!















Pointing a chukar along the road.


A very nice retrieve on a bird that still has some life in it. She had to run him down due to my sloppy shooting.









Each trip to the club to work planted chukar and pheasant brings more of her regal breeding to the surface. She is running very wide, quartering naturally, pointing with intensity and retrieving better with each downed bird. I couldn't be happier! Here are a few shots of her in the last two weeks, working chukar.

I put out one or two birds at a time and then give her a good 30 minute run in another direction so she gets some leg work. During those runs we may find some wild quail that inhabit the place too. Occasionally, a chukar that has escaped earlier shooters will be found on these runs and they are fair game and very sporty since they usually end up in the base of a juniper tree. Whichever side I am on, they are on the other!








Why do they wrap these durned things
in feathers!!!!!!!!!!!!!











A week after these shots were made I spent a few hours with some friends and watched their dogs work and put out some more chukar for Pride.

Another wonderful point!



Pointing "dead bird" on one that flew about two hundred yards carrying a bit of lead. These chukar are fat, sassy and tough to kill!

Pride is the delight of our life now. She is funny, serious, clever, quick to learn and as loving as any dog ever was. We wouldn't be the same without her.

I will report more from time-to-time.

It is good to be back. Thank you, Shawn. You are a wonderful friend, a gentleman and a kind soul.

The Isle of Woodcock 1.

The Isle of Woodcock.

With a whir of wings, the mottled, brown bird, flushed, and jinking, twisted up into the thick Birch canopy above. Trying desperately,to find level ground upon which to stand, amongst the tangled tree roots, rocks and bracken, I gripped the barrels of the 20 bore, and leaned into the shot.

In my heart I knew that I had missed, almost before I had pulled the trigger. The chance had been a fleeting one at best - just a glimmer of the departing Woodcock, as it flitted through the woodland canopy. The result of my shot - mostly twigs and moss - fell down around me, as the bird jinked it's way deeper into the West coast woodlands - doubtless looking for a dark, cool, shady place to rest - out of the reach of shooters and their pointing dogs. Easing the gun's top lever over, I ejected the empty cartridge case into my hand, and as I caught a whiff of burned powder, looked down at Alice, the Vizsla bitch, who had so stoically held point for me, as I blundered through the tangled trees, to reach her.

The expression on her face, was a mixture of disgust and disbelief !. "I know, I know", I exclaimed to her, "I missed him behind again". Seemingly unimpressed with my explanation - Alice headed off once more, in search of another point - another Woodcock. Replacing the spent cartridge, I closed the little side by side, and hefting it's weight across my right arm, set off in pursuit of Alice's tinkling collar bell.

These areas of Hebridean woodland, myself and a small party of friends, have come to know rather well, as we make our annual Woodcock shooting pilgrimage, each December, to the tiny Isle of Skye, on Scotland's West coast.

Being on the west coast of the U.K. - Skye is protected from severe frosts, and prolonged heavy snows, by the fact that it is warmed by the Gulf stream. This enables Woodcock, migrating from colder weather, in Russia, Scandinavia, and the Baltic States, to find reliable feeding, all Winter long. This of course does not apply to Skye alone - as all of the Hebridean Islands, and for that matter, the West Coast mainland, experience good numbers of Woodcock, whilst other parts of Europe, and indeed, the British Isles, are effected by heavy frosts.

Added to climatic conditions - the habitat of Skye also suites the Woodcock's needs. This applies particularly, to the south of the Island. Here the vegetation is made up of bracken, ( dead, orange, dried ferns ) Gorse bushes, and uncountable acres of Birch, Alder, and Willow. The thicker the latter - the better the Woodcock like them !.

The very nature of this dense vegetation, makes it essential to have good, well trained dogs to hand, if guns expect to have a few brace of birds in the bag, by the end of the day. Over the years, we have shot over Labs, Spaniels, and various breeds of HPR's. Although all work well, and produce birds - it is the latter which we find, give the guns the best chance of a productive shot. The Birch and Alder thickets are so dense, that a Woodcock flushed wild by Spaniel or Lab, will often fly away completely unseen. Working a brace of HPR's, wearing blaze orange collars, and bells, does at least give the shooter following, an idea as to where the dog, and for that matter, the bird, is !. So many times we have stood, ears straining, trying to discern the tinkling of the little copper, cow bell - only to realise that the dog is on point - and then stalk forward, frantically searching for the give away sign of the fluorescent collar - to show us where the pointer is.

There may be more exciting things, than walking up behind a Vizsla, or German Wirehaired Pointer - that is locked on point - on a Woodcock - in a Birch thicket; but just now, those things elude me !. All that I can recall is the pounding of my heart - through excitement, and the effort of racing over fallen logs, rocks, and through gorse bushes, desperately trying to reach the dog, before the bird will hold no longer.

Even if one has managed all of the above successfully - there is still no guarantee that the bird will flush into the open. Maddeningly, they seem to have an inbuilt instinct to jink behind a tree trunk, or into the thickest branches available. How do they know ?!.

Fortunately however, things sometimes do all come together, and the shot is successful. The dog is given the command to flush - the 'Cock' darts up and away - and the shooter, mounting his gun with matching speed, tries to lead the bird, and shoot - and all in the blink of an eye !. As beautiful as the Woodcock is - there is tremendous satisfaction, seeing the bird fold in the air, and fall earthward, amongst the Scrubby Birch, Heather and Alder. This achieved - the HPR can then be sent forward to make the retrieve.

I have long had a passion for chasing the mysterious Woodcock. This bird that arrives out of the October night, under a full moon, from only it knows where; but no matter how many I see or shoot, it's beauty never diminishes. It's mottled colours. It's huge, black, button eye, and delicate wader feet. Can there be a more striking creature in all of nature ?.

I am also happy to report, that my delight in eating the Woodcock, never diminishes either. They are simply delicious !. One may eat them in the traditional manner - undrawn - on toast - and with the lower body skewered by the beak - or - as I prefer, wrapped in streaky bacon, covered in tin foil, and roasted in the oven.

Sporting. Beautiful - and delicious to eat - Scolopax rusticola, the European Woodcock - must surely be the Prince of game birds !.

The Isle of Woodcock 2. Flighting Woodcock at dusk - to follow.

Yours in sport,

Scolopax, ( photos by kind permission of Luise Janniche )

THE A-TEAM

Do you remember that action sitcom in the 80's called, "The A-Team," with Mr. T as "B.A. Barracas?" I remember--as a kid--being so excited to watch that show and see Mr. T with his crazy mohawk say such things as: "Listen up, sucka!" Good times! They sure don't make TV shows like they used to.

Nowadays, I prefer to find my entertainment in the great outdoors and the Fall is my favorite time of year because of the abundant opportunities to chase birds with my brother Shawn and our birddogs. Sometimes we have as many as five dogs on the ground at once pursuing gamebirds. Needless to say, it can get pretty chaotic with all of those dogs competing for attention and birds. I fondly recall one early October morning, my late pointer, Dusty, flushing sharptails to the horizon on the Royal MacNab without a second thought for the hunters way behind him (hence the nickname "Bustin' Dusty").

On each occasion, however, usually one or two dogs step to the forefront and show the other dogs what this game is all about. On these special occasions, we designate the dog to the "A-Team" for the day.

Shawn made a nice shot on a hun. Too bad he closed his eyes for the camera! For that, I'm not sure he made the A-Team for the day.

The phrase originated from a banner hunt that Shawn, our nephew, Josh, and I had on my favorite valley quail cover named, "Trail to Quail" (See below, "The White Wonder: Sniff it up Boys"). On that day, Geppedo, Shawn's now tailless Elhew Pointer, was seriously injured and spent the day in her kennel. Left to hunt, were Ginny, Shawn's English Setter, Sunny, my young French Brittany, and Dusty, our Elhew. At six years of age, Ginny was what we call a late bloomer. Before this day, her performances were inconsistent at best and, although she was unbeatable as a companion, we wondered if Ginny would ever become a "great" birddog. However, with dominant Geppedo out for the day, Ginny girl stepped up and had a slammin' performance on quail. I would call it a Farle's-like performance (See below, "The White Wonder: Want to Trade Dogs?"). It seemed that everywhere we turned, Ginny found birds and held them with intensity with her feathers rippling in the breeze. "Shawn, Ginny girl made the A-Team today!" I complimented. "Brother, I know, Ginny became a firstrate birddog today," Shawn replied ecstatically. And that, my friends, was the beginning of the birddog A-Team.

Quail Hunter's Heaven: The Trail to Quail.
Josh and I make our way towards one of Ginny's exciting points.

Dusty honors Ginny girl's staunch point.

Sunny, my young French Brittany, also made some pretty impressive retrieves from thick inpenetrable willow clusters in the creek bottom. As Shawn and I walked back to the car, I said "Man, with that last retrieve Sunny also made the A-Team for the day." Although Dusty had a few good finds that day, because of his unwillingness to follow commands, he didn't quite make the cut (sorry B.D.!).

Since that time, it is always interesting to see which dog will step up and make the A-Team for the day. Just because a dog receives the honor one day, does not mean they make it the next time. Heck, with my shooting, sometimes I don't even make the A-Team. Even Bustin' Dusty had days in which he made the A-Team. The roster changes often and this is part of the fun of the hunt. In the timeless words of Mr. T, "I pity the fool" who does not have the desire or the opportunity to chase birds with birddogs each fall. The're missing out on the new A-Team.

Good times with the A-Team!

In loving memory of Ginny girl. There weren't many days afterwards, that she did not make the A-Team. She is greatly missed!

CHECK OUT "ROOTY" IN THE NEW PDJ!

I thought I would give you all quick plug on my first published article, "Rooty," in the March/April 2009 Pointing Dog Journal. For those who do not know, Rooty, a GSP, was my first birddog. The article is only one page long, but I think it is a good tribute to a great birddog. Fittingly, the GSP on the magazine's cover coincidentally looks a lot like Rooty Boy. I hope people enjoy his story and that this article is the first of many good things to come. And to think, it all started here in this blog. Thanks for all the comments, support, and encouragement.

For lovers of Pointing Dogs, there is no finer magazine that the PDJ. Check it out, you will not regret it!

THE WHITE WONDER: "WANT TO TRADE DOGS?"

When it came to effectiveness on multiple species of game birds, Farley was a "Jack of all Trades." In his three seasons, I harvested valley quail, scaled quail, pheasants, ruffed grouse, blue grouse, Hungarian Partridge, chukar partridge, and sharptail grouse over his staunch points. Had I been able to shoot straight, I would have added a lesser prairie chicken in Kansas to the list. He also pointed some bobwhites in Kansas, but I had no chance to shoot. Many consider the wily ringneck as the toughest game bird for pointing dogs to master, but they were not a problem for the White Wonder.

In Part Three below, I wrote about a trip in October, 2002 with Farles and family to hunt valley quail in western Idaho-awesome day to say in the least! The following weekend happened to be the pheasant opener in Southern Idaho and again, many of my family members wanted to follow Farles into the uplands. I used to think this was because they enjoyed hanging out with me, but after a few years of Farley's abscense, I now realize that it was all Farley.

Present for this occasion, were me, my Dad, my brother-in-law Eric, and my nephew Josh. We planned to hunt a public area and some private property in Idaho's Magic Valley. My brother-in-law Eric obtained permission to hunt around a private commercial feedlot, which was surrounded by irrigation ditches, sugar beet fields and unplowed sagebrush patches. The area is not much to look at, but the landowner left some good cover for birds. The plan was to first hunt the public area before it got pounded by the masses and then move on to the private property.

Just before noon, we parked at the head of a well-known public walk-in area. To our chagrin, a truck with Utah license plates belligerently drove past where we had parked so that the hunters could steal part of the walk-in area right out from under us. This action rubbed me the wrong way as I understood that the huntable ground for us had just effectively been cut in half. As a sportsmen, I try to respect others in the field and to give them plenty of room to hunt. Thus, it really gets my blood boiling when other hunters disregard commonsense courtesy and ethics (See "Covet Not Your Neighbor's Covert" below). This experience and other negative run-ins with hunters have caused me to totally steer clear of the pheasant opener in the Magic Valley.

At exactly 12:00 p.m., we pushed across a weedy field towards a big patch of cattails. Although we did not see as many birds in this cover as we have in the past, Farles found a huge rooster on the edge of the cattails, which my Dad flushed and dropped over the thicket. After a minute, my Dad located the expired bird and we all admired its extraordinarily long tail. Due to the spoilers, we quickly ran out of good cover to hunt.

Dad and his long-tailed rooster.

My hopes were still high as we drove towards our next destination, the feedlot. After we had arrived, loaded our shotguns, and started walking down a weedy irrigation ditch, we ran into some Mexican employees of the feedlot. They knew exactly what we were after and, although they did not speak English, they helpfully volunteered where they had just seen some roosters, by proclaiming, "Rojo! Rojo! (Red, Red)" and pointing us in the right direction. Sure enough, within fifty yards, Farles slid on point in some sparce cover along the ditch. He then did something that I have seen him do numerous times: First, he snarled and then struck like a viper and came up with a live, wild, bird-of-the-year rooster in his mouth. Wanting to give the bird a sporting chance, I let it go hoping it would fly, but it just ran. Big mistake! Farley chased it down with a vengeance and caught it. After we took this naive rooster out of the gene pool, we continued on down the ditch.

Farley soon made another solid point. For once, I was smart enough to stop and take a picture and capture the moment forever. I'm so glad that I did! When the rooster got up in front of us, I missed it cleanly, but Joshua's shot hit the mark and the rooster dropped in the freshly plowed sugar beet field.

Farles, putting on a show. I'm greatful that I have this picture!

In short order, Farles pointed a number of hens and roosters with his characteristic flare and style and we all blew some good opportunities. Dad too harvested a young bird over Farley's exciting point.

Apparently, Farley had an audience for his impressive performance. As we reached the end of the feedlot, we met up with two hunters with two goodlooking German Shorthair Pointers. We probably did not notice them because no shotgun reports were coming from their direction. The dog handler looked longingly at Farley and then me, and jokingly asked: "Want to trade dogs? I'll trade you both dogs for that pointer." Raising my eyebrows at the request, I laughingly responded, "No thanks."

For the final hunt of the day, we pushed through an unplowed sugar beet field. For those who don't know, pheasants love sugar beet greens and if there are some still standing this is an awesome place to hunt. As we moved across the field in a line, Farley pointed and the rooster flushed in between Eric and I. We both pulled up on the bird insync and the simutaneous reports were indistinguishable. With all that lead in the air, the bird fell limp to the ground.

Sugar beets + weeds = pheasants!

The pictures we took with Farley that flaming October afternoon are some of my favorite pictures of him. You can literally see the sheer joy of the hunt in his face. I can't emphasize this enough: Farley lived for the hunt! When you are in those special moments with your bird dogs, sometimes their magnitude is not fully realized at the time. None of it was lost on me that day! I realized I had a one in a million birddog.



Farles lived for the hunt!

As a final tribute to Farley, all I can say is: Cherish every second afield with your birddogs because they are with us for such a short time. I only had Farley for three brief seasons before he was suddenly and irretrievably gone. Sometimes, I wish that I could have just one more day hunting with Farley. For me, Farley is the standard; he is the measuring stick by which I judge all other birddogs; he is the White Wonder.

Farley wasn't just a "Jack of All Trades," He was a master! I wouldn't trade the hunting seasons we shared together for anything, my friend.

THE WHITE WONDER: "SNIFF IT UP BOYS!"

As we drove westward in the Ford Excursion, a very noticeable odor permeated the inside of the vehicle. "Ah man, what is that smell?" complained one of my brothers. "Farley, and he stinks!" exclaimed Shawn. Pretty soon all occupants of the vehicle were grumbling . . . all except me. "Sniff it up boys because by the end of the day, you'll be kissing that dog's butt!" I boldly prophesied.

The Wayment Clan: (right to left)Dylan, Josh, me, Jake, Dad, and Shawn. Oh, and I can't forget the hero of the story, Farley.

That early morning in Farles' third hunting season, we were heading towards southwestern Idaho to pursue valley quail in a place I have dubbed, "The Trail to Quail." Along for the adventure were my dad, my brothers, Shawn and Jake, my nephews, Dylan and Josh, and Bishop Maxwell (our ecclesiatical leader), a rowdy bunch if ever there was one. The family had all heard of Farley's exploits at this location the previous year and had seen the piles of quail (or pictures thereof) we harvested, and everyone wanted in on the action. Farles always had that effect on people.

On the last day of the season 2001, Farley, my brother Scott and our friend Troy, and I put the WWF Smackdown on some quail at "The Trail to Quail."

As we drove, I experienced great excitement in anticipation for the day because we were heading towards the best quail hunting spot I have ever experienced. That morning, I had that unmistakable feeling you sometimes get that it is going to be a banner day.

Upon reaching our destination, we observed a covey of quail scamper across the road and into some thick brush. As we all grabbed our vests, shotguns and shells, we could hear the distinctive Chi-qui-ta, chi-qui-ta, chi-qui-ta (I always want to reply with "Banana"), throughout the hills. I let Farley out of his kennel in the back of the Excursion and without even as much as lifting a hind leg, he instantly caught wind of the abundant scent, went to work, and strode over to the edge of the road where the covey had passed only moments before. Apparently, the birds had not gone far and Farley froze into a stylish point with all of my family witnessing. A few of us eagerly honored the point, kicked around in the bushes, and the large covey flushed in all directions. On my first shot, I uncharacteristically knocked down a low flying bird quartering right to left and Farles was on it post haste.

We pursued the bulk of the covey up the draw along a small willow-lined creek bottom. Another quail got up in front of me and I again made a solid shot and the bird dropped into a willow where it hung in open view. "You're shooting pretty good today," Shawn praised as I bagged my second bird. "Thanks," I humbly said, not wanting to jinx my good fortune.

Two shots, two quail. Not bad for a duffer.

My family and I all fanned out across the big draw and somehow Farley covered enough terrain for all of us. Not far up a sagebrush covered side-draw that slanted off to the right, Bishop and I happened to be near Farley when he slammed on point on a solitary sagebrush. With two birds already in the bag, I told Bishop to take this one and, upon the bird's straight-a-way flush, Bishop dropped it with ease.

For obvious reasons, Bishop warmed up to Farley very quickly.

We continued working our way up the draw. I specifically recall my brother Jake and nephew Josh missing multiple birds. "Man, I can't hit those little suckers," lamented Jake. Feeling like an expert shotgunner, I explained: "You don't aim a shotgun, you point it. Keep both eyes open, focus in on the bird, and point the gun at the bird. It's all a function of hand eye coordination." Pretty soon, with my advice and the help of Farles, Jake and Josh both dropped a few birds themselves.

By the time noon rolled around, we had multiple birds in the bag and we decided to go to lunch at the local Mexican restaurant. Can life get any better? I submit that it cannot (unless there was more hunting to be done with Farley).

If the morning hunt was good, the afternoon hunt was epic! We drove further up the draw than I had ever been prior to that time. At the top we witnessed an unequaled panorama of quail cover--a creek bottom with thick willows and side draws that shot off in every direction. And, as a testament, the birds were present in numbers you only dream about. In fact, as we pushed up the draw, we must have been pushing a chubby covey so big that it seemed there were birds in every willow clump. When I say this, I truly do not mean to exaggerate, Farles must have pointed over fifty times that day. All six of us (Dylan was too young to carry a gun) shot birds over Farles' mesmerizing points. Jake and I kept shooting at the same birds, and I recall that he (who earlier could not hit a bird to save his life) claimed about three of the birds that I know fell from my shot. Oh well, there was plenty to go around that day.

Dad and Bishop working their way up one of the finger draws in pursuit a quail.

When we reached the top of the draw and the willows thinned out, Farley began to point birds where there was no cover, only a few rocks in dusty ground-places where birds aren't supposed to be. My family and I were elated by the number of birds and a dog who was bound and determined to find and point every last one of them for the gun. In my mind, this day has no equal for bird hunting-not even a close second.

As we drove home that night, I simply smiled as all of those in the Excursion sang praises to Farley and his stellar performance, a sort of symbolic butt kissing if you will. When I think of that stinky dog, I can't help but think this was the smell of success.

The Wayment Clan and the spoils of the hunt.
This picture really says it all: Farles stands alone! He was the star of the show and we were the blessed recipients.

To be continued . . .