Bustin' D. Dusty Devlins

After reading Andy's tribute posts to Dusty (below), I was reminded of a photo I have of Dusty on point. Andy and I were hunting valley quail on this day in Idaho. This photo is of Dusty on point on an enormous covey of quail! Dusty did have some days where he shined brightly! I'm sure it had to do with the fox trotter that clocked him in the melon! He definitely had a few loose screws...why do you think I gave him to Andy?

DUSTY BOY: PERFECT MEMORIES OF AN IMPERFECT BIRDDOG, Part 2

Continued from Part 1 Below . . .

In addition to Dusty’s sporadic but memorable points, Dusty had some good retrieves that ought to be mentioned. On Thanksgiving Day, 2004, I thumped a rooster that dropped over a ridiculously high and tight barbed-wire fence--a real crotch ripper--that I wasn’t too excited to cross. Before, I could even try to figure out how to maneuver the fence, Dusty crawled under and made a perfect soft-mouthed retrieve to hand like a Labrador retriever. “Good boy, Dusty Boy” I praised as I took the big rooster from him. I thought to myself: Man, you’ve been holding out on me. Later on that morning in a willow thicket, Dusty stretched into one of his most intense points that I can recall. The sight got my heart pumping so hard that I missed the screaming rooster twice as he rocketed away. Sorry Dusty, that point deserved so much better.


There’s not much to report in 2005. As I mentioned earlier, Dusty did not get to hunt hardly at all in 2005 because of his surgery, but I did let him run over Thanksgiving on chukars. After not having hunted for over a year, Dusty took to his old ways and flushed copious chukars to wind. I was fuming mad and angry shouts echoed off the surrounding rimrocks. It may have been that Dusty gained other nicknames that day such as: “D. Dusty Devlins” or "Dusty Bottoms." Looking back, I don't blame him one bit as he had been cooped up all hunting season for his recovery from surgery.


The following year, however, Dusty gave me his most memorable retrieve. That September morning, my dogs and I hunted this old logging road at the top of a mountain pass. When we came to the end of the road, we continued hunting down the same ridge. As we stepped out of the timber into a sagebrush and snowberry covered hillside, Dusty struck a nice point. As I approached, the blue grouse got up so low as it flew downhill that I let it fly away unscathed (because I did not want to shoot Dusty) until it was at the extreme edge of my shooting capacity. As the bird hooked to my left, I swung the gun ridiculously far ahead of it and threw out a Hail Mary. To my utter astonishment, the bird was marginally hit and it careened down in a wooded draw over seventy yards below us.


I made my way down to where the wing-tipped bird had landed, but Dusty and Sunny made it there much quicker. When I got to the scene, I witnessed Dusty--like a fox in a hen house--chasing down the fluttering, running blue grouse. “Get that bird, Dusty!” I excitedly hollered. Dusty did not disappoint and retrieved the big blue grouse to hand. Not only was that Dusty’s best retrieve, but it also happens to be the best retrieve I have ever witnessed. Maybe Dusty was just an infamous underachiever. Who knows?

Sharptails were the birds of Dusty's heart.


If I had to choose one bird that Dusty excelled on, I would have to say it was sharptails. They were definitely the bird of Dusty’s heart. We share that in common. The bulk of my fondest memories of Dusty took place in October on sharpies. On one of my first hunts on the Royal MacNab with Matt Lucia in 2006, I first left Dusty in the vehicle due to the concern that he would interfere with Matt’s elderly black Labrador, Logan's hunt. I shot well that afternoon with Sunny Girl and had my limit in no time. However, Matt uncharacteristically struggled with his shooting and had only one of his two bird limit.

Matt Lucia and I on another awesome Sharptail hunt with Dusty. Notice Dusty Bottoms wantin' in on the picture! He tore it up that day on sharptails in a covert we call "Shanghai Noon."


After a quick dinner at the truck, we set out again looking for more sharptails—again without Dusty. Although we hunted hard, we did not find a lot of birds on this swing either so we headed downhill to the west toward the truck. With the lack of birds, I suggested to Matt, “Maybe Dusty will be able to cover more ground so that we can find you some birds.” Matt agreed and we let Dusty out of his kennel for the rest of the hunt.

What followed is one of my all-time favorite memories of Dusty. As I mentioned earlier, sometimes I called him “Bustin’ Dusty” because of his tendency to flush birds like a Springer Spaniel, but he was all about business that late afternoon. I recall numerous intense points and Matt missing a bird that flushed wild but in range. No big deal, I thought, Matt won’t miss again.

As shooting light began to slip away, Dusty froze on a solid point on the rim of a deep ravine. I signaled Matt in to honor the point and he walked in behind the statuesque pointer. As if scripted, the bird rose up giving Matt and easy straight-away shot, which he missed twice. “Dang it!” Matt hollered in frustration as darkness descended. Matt had failed to obtain his limit, but it wasn’t Dusty’s fault.


To sum it up, hunting with Dusty was like that. When I was shooting decently, he was usually scattering birds to the four quarters of the earth. Too voluminous to record are the times that Dusty bowled through coveys out of range. Sunny and I usually harvested what leftovers we could where Dusty was not.


Writing this, however, has helped me to realize that the problem was not always Dusty. More than any of my other dogs, my own shortcomings as a wingshooter (and a dog trainer), were brought out by Dusty. When Dusty was on fire and hunting for me, I usually got way too excited (I would liken the feeling unto buck fever) and scattered shot every which way but loose.
In short, Dusty and I were like water and oil that does not mix. We rarely pulled it together at the same time. When we did, however, it was special. Even when he was in all his knuckleheaded glory, Dusty brought a comedic element to the hunt that I sometimes miss (Notice I said sometimes, mind you).

In all seriousness, I assure you that all of Dusty's aforementioned nicknames were spoken only with affection. Despite his numerous faults, I loved Dusty and I still miss him very much. I like to think the feeling was mutual—even with all of my own glaring imperfections.
Dusty Boy, I'll see you in the covert in the sky and you can flush sharptails to your heart's content. I'm sure I will be able to use a good laugh. I love you buddy.

DUSTY BOY: PERFECT MEMORIES OF AN IMPERFECT BIRDDOG, Part 1

It’s now been a year since we lost Dusty Boy—the day after Christmas, 2008. For a dog I lovingly called, among many other things, “Knucklehead,” I figure it is time to record some of his shining moments—good and bad. I owe him that much.

Dusty Boy, one lovable Buckethead.

Dusty was an Elhew Pointer born in the summer of 2002. With his light orange-colored ears and eye patches and small freckles that dusted his white body, his name matched perfectly his appearance. I’ve often heard Dusty’s coloring described as “lemon,” which seems only fitting. In many ways, he was a lemon when it came to his obedience and bird hunting abilities. However, characteristic of his Elhew breeding, Dusty was very affectionate and loved to be praised and petted. Despite his shortcomings, Dusty was a super nice dog. You couldn’t help but like him for that. Before he was my dog, he belonged to my brother, Shawn.

From an early age, Dusty was plagued with bum luck. When he was young, he got kicked in the head by a horse. I have to wonder if this trauma knocked a few screws loose as afterwards Dusty always wore a goofy grin and held his ears in such a way that made him look like a droopy beagle. For the rest of his life, he wore a nasty scar over his right eye. Later in his life he blew an ACL and had to get knee surgery. This put him out of commission for the 2005 hunting season. The following spring he blew out his other ACL.

In the fall 2006, Dusty had a run-in with a porcupine and lost terribly. Afterwards, his mouth had so many quills protruding from it that he looked like he tried to eat a canister of white hot chocolate straws at the same time and they all got stuck. His chest looked like he had been attacked and shot by the darts of 1000 pigmy warriors. It took me two hours to pull all of the quills out one by one. With his poor luck, you couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy, but more on that later.

One of earliest memories of Dusty was from a sharptail hunt at a covert my brother, Shawn and I dubbed “The Royal MacNab.” At the time, Dusty was still Shawn’s dog. As we stepped into this special covert with the sun rising from the east, we heard a strange sound, which sounded like chickens clucking in a chicken coop. I have never heard anything like it before or since. The rolling CRP covered hills literally were alive with the sound of sharptails. My brothers and I felt this—hard to describe—thrill that we were in for a banner day.

Apparently, Dusty felt it too. As we let the pack of dogs loose, one setter, two brittainies, and two pointers, Dusty promptly proceeded to run wild flushing dozens of sharptails to the horizon with the hunters watching helplessly from hundreds of yards away. I make it my rule to never criticize another man’s dog, but I definitely whispered some expletives regarding Dusty’s shenanigans under my breath. Let’s just say, I was not impressed and, from that point forward, he gained the nick-name, “Bustin’ Dusty.” When Shawn finally put Dusty in the kennel, we ended up having the red letter day we all dreamed of.

In the Spring of 2004, Shawn offered to give me Dusty assuring me that he had some redeeming qualities including hunting ability. Desperate for another Elhew Pointer to fill the void left by Farley’s loss, I accepted with high hopes for Dusty and a plan to utilize a shock collar to curb his wayward tendencies as exhibited the year before. Opening weekend, I tried to use the E-collar, but unlike hardheaded Farley, Dusty did not take well to “electrical persuasion.” Instead, he just shut down and followed behind me the remainder of the hunt. Luckily for Dusty, my E-collar soon kicked the bucket. Just as well, as I didn’t have the heart to use it on the unlucky sucker anyway.

I don’t mean to give the impression that Dusty did not have his good days. To the contrary, every so often, Dusty really shined. Later on that same September, I hunted Grouse Rock, one of my favorite forest grouse coverts, with no success. With it being early, I decided to hunt across the canyon from Grouse Rock. As I headed to the other side, I was greeted by a Fish & Game warden, who checked my license. Not having seen any blues in Grouse Rock, I asked him, “Do you think the blue grouse might be out in the sage brush benches?” He looked at me like I was stupid and said, “Blue grouse are found in the timber. That’s why they call them forest grouse!”

After some more chit-chat, we parted ways and I hiked up the hill opposite of Grouse Rock. About fifteen minutes into the hike, Dusty stopped and gnawed at his paw (there’s that bad luck again!). I could see cactus spikes protruding from his tender pads and carefully removed them one by one.

Up further on the bench, there were a few service berry and choke cherry bushes surrounded by sage and buck brush. Under one of the larger choke cherry bushes, Dusty locked up on point, but his tail flagged. Remembering the warden’s insulting comment, I doubted my dog. I also thought: I hope this isn’t a porcupine! Looking back, I believe I was subconsciously thinking this because I had just pulled cactus quills from Dusty’s paws.

Dusty moved off point, but relocated and locked up solid. Something was definitely there and I knew I needed to honor the point. I walked toward where he was pointing and a big blue grouse flushed out the opposite side of the bush. Of course, I missed an easy shot. I should have trusted Dusty! Dusty is not the only member of the team who sometimes left something to be desired.

A few weeks later, on the opening weekend of sharptail season, Dusty further showed his worth on the Royal MacNab. Again, the sharptails were present in abundance. In contrast to the fiasco a year before, Dusty worked with me in range. In fact, as we crested one of the bigger hills in the rolling CRP fields, Dusty cranked down on point and a sharptail flushed nearby flying right to left. I swung out well ahead of the grouse, squeezed the trigger, and dropped it like a stone. This was the very first bird that I took over one of Dusty's points.

First Sharptails with Dusty. Notice the goofy way Dusty held his ears.

In November of that same year, we returned to Grouse Rock and again hunted the opposite side. We came into this birdy-looking saddle and Dusty struck a nice point in a berry bush, but this time his tail was not flagging. Remembering my lesson from earlier, I honored the point and a ruffed grouse got up in front of me. I whiffed my first chance, not once but twice, but marked the bird down. On the second flush, I missed again, swung hard, and caught the bird just before it tried to duck behind a huge pine tree. Despite my poor shooting, I count this as a bird taken from one of Dusty’s points. I named this covert, the “Blazing Saddle,” because of all the powder I burned trying to harvest a bird over Dusty.

To be continued above. . . .

THE END OF THE ROAD

Yesterday, as Sunny and I approached the Royal MacNab--my favorite hunting covert in the world--we found a big snow bank, left by the county snowplow, which blocked our progress. This was the end of the road for Red Ed, my Ford Explorer, but not for Sunny and I. We would hoof it through the deep snow to the quakie-filled draws that held (hopefully) the object of our pursuit: ruffed grouse.





Once we got off the road, we found deep snow that made for tough going for little Sunny and me, but we trudged ahead in hopes of one last encounter with a wild grouse.












Beautiful, long hoar frost covered everything at this high altitude.



I had in mind a particular place for Sunny and I to hunt. My brother Shawn and I have a favorite spot on the Royal MacNab where it is very likely to find both sharptails and ruffed grouse. In fact, last year, Shawn had a huge ruffed grouse burn him royally in the thick timber. After this experience, he wrote: "I'll be dreaming of the ruffed grouse that THUNDERED out of that aspen choked draw of the Royal MacNab, without offering me a shot, for years and years to come!"


If the truth be told, I've been outsmarted more than once by one (or more) of that bird's ancestors. In the words of Grandpa Grouse (Gorham L. Cross), I have certainly been tempted to "grudge" (Bill Tapply defines this as: "(v.) -- to curse; 'Grudging is equivalent to putting a ju-ju on a bird. It is a challenge and duly respected by all.'") those birds, but how can you hold a grudge against such magnificent creatures?

At the top of the draw, Sunny girl became very birdy near an elderberry bush, the fruit of which had been shriveled by the sun and blown about by the wind on the snow. This happens to be right where we always run into this character and there were bird tracks all over. My heart started to pound heavily.

Sunny soon located the source of the scent and struck a stellar point. The picture below does not do her justice. I'll never forget watching her nostrils flare as she sucked in the mesmerizing scent. As they often do, however, the wily bird snuck out from under her point.





With the intensity of Sunny's point, I knew the bird had to be somewhere nearby. So I stepped outside the top end of the cover and pushed toward the head of the draw while Sunny worked the cover below me. At the very end of the cover, the bird felt the pinch, flushed not five feet from my position, and gave me an easy shot as he dived back down into the heavy cover. Of course, it took me two shells to get the job done. Honestly, as I smoothed its plumage, I felt remorse for the demise of this gorgeous grouse.

It's moments like these that help me to appreciate Sunny girl. She may not be the best bird dog in the world, but I will say, without reservation, that no dog ever tried harder or loved the hunt more.

Over the years, an old combine has been a favorite place to take pictures of the fruits of our hunts. It seemed only fitting to honor this beautiful bird and this wintery hunt with a quick stop for photos.

The sun gave a good faith effort to pierce through Winter's veil all day, but to no avail. Yet, with the thrill of success and the physical exertion, I glowed with warmth as Sunny and I made our way back to the vehicle. I can't think of a better way to end a season.

As we hiked back to the car, I couldn't help but reflect on the symbolism of the whole experience. As the big snow bank had marked the end of the road for Red Ed, this hunt marked the end of the road for our grouse hunting for a season. Ol' Man Winter will soon be in total control.

However, the sun's faint attempt to shine through the clouds reminded me that just as suredly as day follows night, spring follows winter and fairer days will come again. Sunny and I will be together in the uplands again next year. Memories like these give me the hope, patience and wherewithal to wait for such future days.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, my friends!

GHOSTS OF DECEMBERS PAST AND FUTURE

Farley's last blue grouse hunt.


Bird hunting in December is vastly different from the summer-like days of September, the colorful autumn days of October, or even the crisp, shorter days of November. There is a confidence and ease that one feels in the uplands while following a dog and toting a shotgun during these kindlier months when the birds are more abundant and naive. It's hard to describe, but you feel like the sky is the limit and that you will get plenty of opportunities to be afield with the dog and make good on your shot.


In December, however, with the bone-chilling cold and the accumulating snow, I feel a sense of urgency or desparation while bird hunting--a realization that I cannot pass this way again until next fall. I don't know about you, but for me, shooting is mostly mental. When I feel confident, I generally shoot well. If I am having a bad day or a bad week, this sometimes negatively affects my shooting. After eleven years of bird hunting, I admit that I generally do not shoot well in December. Too many times to count, I have missed easy shots in this frigid month.


But that is not always the case. This morning when I awoke, I naturally reflected on a blue grouse hunt that took place almost seven years ago today, Saturday, December 7, 2002. At the time, my family and I lived in Picabo, Idaho near the famous Silver Creek. The area was experiencing a drought and, even in the surrounding mountains, the scant snow had not cut off access. This was the end of little Sunny's first season and, by this time, Farles was a seasoned veteran--a once in a lifetime bona fide bird dog.


That morning, a good friend, Tom John, and I decided to chase blue grouse not too far from the Hailey area. For those of you who do not know, blue grouse are the only grouse species that reverse migrate, which means that as winter sets in and the snows deepen, they actually migrate to higher elevations as opposed to lower elevations like other grouse. Thus, because of the snow pack, you cannot always get to where the blue grouse are in December--the tops of the mountains. The year 2002 was a welcome exception to this rule.


To get to our destination, we had to drive through a narrow steep canyon. The ground was covered with only a few inches of snow, but with Monty, my Mitsubishi Montero Sport, the roads were easily manageable. I'll never forget, however, driving across the little ice-covered creek and suddenly dropping one foot into its depths when the ice gave way. For a moment I thought we might get stuck, but Monty charged through safely.



The mountains around Hailey and Bellevue, Idaho are generally very steep, but one will quickly notice an absence of timber. While living in the area, I learned this is because the miners cut down all the timber in the 1800's to smelt their precious metals. Galena, a natural mixture of lead and silver was the prominent find in this area. It is amazing how long it sometimes takes mother nature to recover from this type of abuse by mankind. Fortunately, the northfacing slopes in this area have begun to recover and the forest is returning, which creates the habitat needed by blue grouse.


Tom, Sunny, Farley, and I embarked up one such steep slope. All I will say about the difficulty of the terrain and slickness is that chukar hunters have nothing on late season blue grouse hunters. As we hiked upward, we came across an old abandoned mine shaft--evidence of the aforementioned history.


We saw no sign until we were about three quarters up the steep slope. However, we soon began to see the three-pronged prints of grouse, which sight caused the heart to quicken some. Farley even began to act birdy. In fact, he locked up on point a few times, but we found no birds to flush. False points were not a regular occurence for Farles. With the chill of the morning air, I said to Tom, "Maybe the birds have not yet left the roost and Farles is smelling them in the trees."


As we followed some grouse tracks towards a lofty pine tree, a grouse caught us off guard by ripping out of its roost downhill in a noisy flush. This is tough shot even when you know the bird is there, but somehow I recovered and instinctually threw up a shot which caught the grouse at about thirty yards. With the steep slope, the limp bird fell almost double the distance from where it was hit. "Good shot!" Tom complimented. To be honest, I was surprised I had made it myself.

This seemed like a pretty good way to end the Idaho grouse hunting season. I did not know at the time that this would be Farle's last blue grouse hunt. The memory has a bitter sweet feel for me--like a ghost of December past.


Ghosts of December Past and Future: Farley, Sunny and I on one of our last hunts together.


Tiny Sunny, who was along for the hike, definitely had big shoes to fill. While she can never accomplish all that Farles could because of her breeding and physical limitations, she has given me something entirely different, but every bit as special. She has been my trusted companion and friend for seven years now and we have shared many unforgetable days afield together. What she lacks in natural ability, she makes up for in heart. I wouldn't trade my time with her for anything. As Solomon stated in Eccesiastes, "For to him that is joined to all the living there is hope: for a living dog is better than a dead lion." (Eccl. 9:4). Here's to the hope of future Decembers with Sunny girl.


Little Sunny and Farles. Sunny had big shoes to fill, but she has held her own and won the heart of this hunter.

ARTHRITIS AND OLD LACE or An Old Folks Outing at the Game Club

The wild, wild west!

Joanne and Pride at the start of the adventure.

The family took a little outing last week to the wonderful game club I belong to in Southern California. 1400 acres of wild high desert country of varied brush, grasses, shrubs and lots of rocks. We arrived at noon on the first day, planted and shot a few birds over Pride. I put out three chukar, one at a time. We make it last. She has to work to find them and we get some exercise too! The game club is my only opportunity now to shoot birds over Pride since severe arthritis has become a factor in my life. With some good meds and by the grace of God I can still get out with her. Having Joanne along just made it all the more special. She is the "combat photographer". I think you will agree that she does a great job!

The first point! Ilove the tail. Having shot mostly with Brittanies all my life I really relish the "pointer tail" See below for a good reason to have that wonderful sign of bird-under-the-nose.

Being able to shoot birds with my lovely, old AyA XXV sidelock is a special treat. The gun was imported last year from Scotland. I found it in a used gun list from Graham McKinley of Glasgow, a very good dealer. He handled the export end very well and I am lucky to have it.



A great result and a very happy dog! Pride's retrieving has improved dramatically this year and she is becoming adept at finding cripples that go down at a distance. Yep, I occasionally tickle one and Pride is charged to make me look good in those cases. She has never lost a cripple yet.

Note another symptom of the aging gunner. I shoot left-handed; left eye dominant but right eye crossfire. It is so bad that at skeet shooting I have to cover the right eye completely with a frosted lense. It is really tough on right-to-left shots if the eye isn't blocked. If any of you are having trouble with crossing shots that look good, but the target doesn't fall/break, this may be your problem. It comes on with advancing age. Most eye doctors who know about shooting sports will confirm this.

I plant the chukar "hot", with minimum dizzying. They really bust up and out of the brush. Often they will turn me around and I have to really pay attention when they go.

This is the case the gun was shipped in. The gun was built in late 60s and is about 40 years old. It is bored IC and Mod and is the perfect bird gun. There are those who shy away from the 25" barrel guns. The theory is they don't swing as well on longer shots. However, see below.


On the second morning, after spending the night in a local motel and just taking our time to get up and get going, we put out two more chukar. In two days I shot five of them. Later in the morning I asked our club manager to put out one pheasant in a brushy area set away from the main fields of the club. We hunted Pride away from the area where the bird was located for about 15 minutes and then swung around. About 100 yds in front of me I lost sight of her in the brush. I searched left and right and then, there it was! Voila! That great tail, standing straight up above the mesquite shrubs. I got moving as fast as I could but when I was about 50 yds away that rooster rocketed up and out. He was nervous and wanted no part of us. To my surprise, instead of flying dead away, he quartered round and headed back on a line toward me, but at good range. I threw the first barrel away, I was so surprised. I said to myself, "Oh crap! Get your head down and focus on the white ring." At a measured 40 paces he went down. One ounce of #6 nailed him. Here's a pointer with a mouthful!



Robert Churchill knew the truth about his creation--they kill birds dead under all conditions. This long crossing shot I made might have been easier with 30" bbls. I don't know. I have used this gun on skeet and at 5-stand with light loads and have shot some of my best scores at the latter game. It is quick and deadly.

A wonderful climax to our Old Folks outing. Arthirtis at bay, birds in the cooler, a happy dog and time to rest our creaky joints. A little bag lunch at the clubhouse and then home. We'll do it again next month, God willing!