We rambled in chukar country last weekend, looking for grouse with the gun. Didn’t see any, but found plenty of chukar. We found partridges along rivers and reservoirs, in large (30+) coveys. A much better outlook than last September. To say the least.
Angus is ready (perhaps too ready; he chased down and retrieved a chukar, to my horrified delight). So am I. So is the boat. We’re hoping to see a lot of new country this year courtesy of that vessel, places we couldn’t access previously without great travail and even more time.
“May I hop ashore, cap’n? Methinks numerous alectoris await!”
Getting close. We’ve taken to sitting in the boat in the evenings now, imagining, strategizing, speculating, expectorating, and imbibing IPA.
Chukar have serenaded us during every fishing trip this summer. Angus has filed away their crowing coordinates.
We took a hike last weekend through a favorite late-season spot (which is the same place we took photos for an earlier post), which is bone dry now – I just wanted to walk and get Angus some hill work, and didn’t expect to see any birds or sign. I didn’t. There’s nothing for partridges to eat there yet. I did notice a plant (see photo below) that looks like cocklebur spread everywhere the cattle have been, but as far as I can tell it’s not cocklebur.
What’s this plant?
Anyone have any ideas on what it is? I’d never noticed this plant here before; if it is a cocklebur, we’ll avoid that area in the fall because Angus has a real talent for collecting them, which adds an unpleasant hour or two to every post-hunt ritual.
Finally, I bought a new domain for this blog (decaled on the boat: chukarhunting.net). It shouldn’t affect how you get here, or anything else. Just shorter.
Hang in there, I tell Angus and Leslie. It’s almost time. But I’m really talking to myself. It happens a lot this time of year.
Angus, I think, continues to struggle with his off-season routine, or lack thereof. The combination of repeated, unsolicited, bad haircuts, bombardment with daily sessions of depressing bagpipe music (“Unjust Incarceration,” “Ronald MacDonald of Morar’s Lament,” “Too Long In This Condition”), unpredictable feeding times, boating, numerous nomadic sprinklers throughout our property (lifelong hose-hater), and – now – a robin family with extremely protective parents has left Angus off-kilter.
Earlier this week, four robin chicks fledged from their nest cradled in our DirectTV dish above the garage door, too early in my opinion. The fledglings displayed their weak aviation skills every time we walked outside, launching in serpentine flight patterns like a drunken balloons buffeted by the breeze. We could see their apparent destinations, our cringing increasing as their accuracy decreased such that they would miss their targets by wide margins. Striving to land on the shop roof, a baby robin collided with the wall two feet below the target and crashed straight to the ground 15 feet below. How many times can a baby bird’s little legs or organs handle that kind of impact? But it gets worse…
Pointing fish
Yesterday I was out watering. Angus followed me as he likes to do. Heading back to the house I heard a sudden commotion of bird shrieks and turned to see two adult robins dive-bombing Angus, who was trying to juke his way between the sorties while carrying a screaming fledgling toward me in his mouth.
“September 21, come on!”
My response taught me something about my priorities. Despite how much I love bird hunting and marveling at Angus’s expertise as a bird dog, my instinctive shout at Angus to drop the baby bird trumped everything else. I didn’t want that baby bird’s blood on my hands. Hunting is blood sport. For me, yardwork ain’t hunting, and shouldn’t involve blood, mine or anything else’s. But how could I blame Angus for not knowing the difference? I suppose I could squabble over species differentiation, and how he should have known better than to go after a robin. But really you can’t expect him to know the difference, especially since baby robins aren’t much smaller than a quail.
So I yelled at him, implying his instincts were wrong and to drop the bird, stat. He complied, and was rewarded by more aggressive robin attacks, even as we fled in another direction. I tried to distract him to dilute his confusion by getting him to play chase. Mama and papa robin interfered in this, keeping close eyes on us despite moving far away.
Things calmed and I went on about my watering in another part of the yard on the other side of the house. Angus hovered, looking through the tall grass nearby. While moving a sprinkler, I noticed the robin parents following Angus. The next thing I know he’s got another baby bird in his mouth. I yelled, “NOOOOO!” He dropped the bird and ran toward me but didn’t see the sprinkler head between us and got nailed by the stream of water, causing him to bolt away. He stopped and looked at me as if to ask, “What next? Will the sky fall?” The poor boy. September 21 can’t come fast enough.
I just happened on a youtube video of Rock Partridge in Greece, and it’s one of the most captivating films on partridge that I’ve seen. Some of the terrain (which I assume is in Greece) is strikingly similar to the Hell’s Canyon hills I hunt. These birds look and sound like alectoris chukar, but apparently differ a bit. Anyway, check it out…
