As we finished our hunt the other day, and were milling about the truck a pickup drove by us and then backed up. The driver said, “Hey, just wanted to let you know I’ve got some traps up there.” We’d walked right past his traps, and of course our dogs did, too. He showed us some curly mylar ribbons he used to mark the traps; the ribbons were tied to bitterbrush and large sagebrush plants.
Although it was considerate of him to stop and tell us about the traps, it’s disconcerting to know my dogs could get caught in one more easily than I previously thought. Trappers have just as much a right – according to the regulations – as I do to hunt chukar. I hope all trappers are as considerate as this one was, but I’m not sure they are. I also hope that they place their traps well away from common access points to chukar terrain, which I’m not sure of now, either. The one objection I have to trapping, and trappers’ equal right to trap on public land, is that trapping has the real potential of harming bird dogs, or anyone’s dog while hiking on- or off-trail. My preferred use of this same public land has little or no potential to harm others. So, are all uses of public land “equal”?
Regardless of how you might feel about the issue, I found a couple of informative videos from Idaho Fish and Game about trapping that I thought were worth sharing. The first is an overview, and the second shows you how to release your dog from a trap. Hopefully it’ll never come to that, but it’s good information to file away. “Enjoy” (if you can).
We left the house amidst a blizzard and drove over the summit in 8 inches of unplowed highway. “What are we doing?” There’s a sense of wonder, always, when traveling to a hunting spot because rarely can you know what it’ll feel like when your feet hit the ground and you start hiking. Today didn’t look good, but we had planned to do this and, by god, we were going to do it. Plus, a couple of friends had driven from McCall to join us, so we at least had to make the effort.
Halfway down into Hell’s Canyon, blue sky and sunshine teased us. “It’s a sucker hole,” Dave said. “You’re a sucker hole,” I replied. “This is for real!” It was for real. My face got sunburned. We had sun all day, with scant clouds. Not a breath of wind. I took my jacket and gloves off within the first ten minutes, and still overheated during the climbs.
Two inches of fresh snow that hadn’t been there two days earlier made the hiking softer, and betrayed the movements of birds, most of which were down low. But we kept climbing. At the top, chukar crowed in some rocks above. Peat, Angus, and I made our way up there and, sure enough, within a few minutes Peat locked up, followed by Angus, who then crept his way through a maze of basalt. Angus’s nose and eyes pointed down a narrow chute of rock which I couldn’t see into even though it was just a few feet away. He was a statue, and wouldn’t move and didn’t blink. A canyon wren chatted and hopped around the crags. I waited, having found a two-square-feet level rock to stand on, surrounded by precarious footing. Several silent moments passed. Then, a shockwave of maybe 20 chukar burst from the tight cocoon of rock. Fumbling with my safety, I managed to hit one bird, which fell into the snowy bottom of the steep draw.
The dogs ran around below me looking for the bird. They couldn’t find it. I descended, thinking I could help. Although I’d marked the bird, the powdery snow had piled up to about a foot deep and I wasn’t certain it would even be visible, based on the trouble the dogs seemed to be having finding the bird. After a good ten minutes I was ready to give up, but Peat scampered to the termination of the draw, nowhere near where the bird had fallen, and picked it up. He bee-lined straight to me with the bird as if that were his business. No messing around. No damage, no torn tail feathers, no ambivalence, just the bird thank you very much. Not believing this attitude, I chanced giving the bird back to him. He took it in his mouth briefly, and then on “Give,” he dropped it back into my hand without hesitation. Crazy-Eyes had become a retriever. A Christmas Eve Miracle! Yay!
Happy holidays to everyone! May your bird hunting spirits be blessed with health, happiness, and grace.
On autumn’s final day, a bluebird one sandwiched between sheets of wet gray weeks, I headed to an old favorite spot from a few years ago when we lived in the city. I got there to find way too much snow even to make an attempt on the ridge. So I kept driving, looking for the slightest bit of open ground. On a sage-brushy flat a covey of chukar got up and flew toward the river. I stopped the truck, got the dogs out, and went after them. As we wove through the snow and sage, half a dozen chukar scurried away from me toward the cliff. Peat was in the way so I couldn’t shoot, and the birds managed to drop down to the water and land on the other side. While the dogs ran around filling their snouts with alectoris molecules, I stood on a rock listening to and watching dozens of chukar laugh at us while they gathered and relocated to a sunny patch down on the opposite bank of the river.
A certain slant of light, winter afternoons, oppresses like the heft of cathedral tunes (Emily Dickenson)
This is a bittersweet time of year. We badly need the snow and rain, but it severely dampens bird season. I feel like a spoiled brat who wants his triple layer double chocolate cake and his dignity; impossible to have both. I lack confidence finding birds, or imagining strategies for hunts when all ground, even the south-facing crotches of draws – chukar concentrators in most other times – are covered in white. So I sulk when the gorgeous snow comes down. I’m looking at the mountain outside our living room window, illuminated by that rich winter morning light, the slopes and meadows and draws and rocks and dense stands of fir all covered in a uniform, clean, glowing white. The sky is that ephemeral blue like a meaningless reprieve, and grayish clouds moving from west to east across the peak suggest it won’t last. NOAA confirms this. I need to get out. The dogs, especially Peat, need it more. Where?
While watching the chukar across the river, the ones higher up the hill, in the sun, near some burned off greenish dirt, a chorus of what sounded like hundreds, began crowing. So there they sit, still, safe. I continued on, and on, and on through spectacular public land, nobody in sight. Quiet, calm. I found a spot that had a few little ridges crowned by rockpiles, so I parked and headed up the snowy hill with the dogs. Before long we cut some fresh-ish chukar tracks heading up toward the ridge. Five minutes later, I saw a dozen or so chukar running up the snowy spine about 40 yards above. I moved to the other side of the ridge hoping to sneak up to them, but they crossed over to my side and kept going. I went back to the other side, and so did they. Pointless pursuit. I decided to start running, as much as one can run in knee-deep crusty snow. This got the birds to fly.
They sailed down the draw, across one ridge, and landed near some rocks. I cut across the slope at the rocks, keeping the dogs on heel, and as soon as we appeared on the leeward side of the rocks, the covey busted. I picked a bird and knocked it down. Then another. Then another. Only my second triple ever. Unreal. But could we find them?
Angus got the first bird, which Peat was attempting to steal as is his wont. But Angus had the bird in his mouth, pinning it against a bitterbrush so Peat couldn’t get it. Then they each found the remaining birds, and I managed to get Peat’s without much trouble.
We tried hiking to some similar terrain, but the snow just got deeper and deeper and tougher to walk in. Angus was leaving little blood spots from his left rear foot because of the abrasive snow. So we headed back down to the road. I felt great with three birds in my vest and was happy to call it a hunt. The dogs were beat from the extra work caused by the snow.
As we neared the truck, I saw a couple chukar run across the road from the river side up toward the ridge we’d just hunted. I waited until the last one crossed, and then ran toward them, hoping to catch up to them on the lower slope. But then they busted back toward the river. I stepped below the road and took a prayer of a shot at one just as it crossed the cliff which dropped straight down to the river. I hit it, but had no idea where it might have landed, and couldn’t get to the edge to see because of a huge pile of boulders in my way. Somehow Angus knew where to go, and he found a route down to the river and disappeared. I sat there with Peat and waited about 10 minutes, starting to worry. Then Angus came back with the bird. Unreal.
Peat’s staying put. All the comments we received from readers were really helpful. Dale’s comments hit me hard because I trust his judgment as much as anyone I know when it comes to bird dogs, so I was sick about his recommendation to re-home Peat. It still might be the best thing to do, but I don’t want it to be so we’re doing everything we can to make it work. We’ve upped the work with the e-collar, and prioritized the discipline and exercise (crappy time of the year to do after-work lessons, but so it goes). Angus still isn’t thrilled with his putative brother, but we’re trying to limit their 1-on-1-ish time. We’re also making an effort to curb his barking inside – something we tried ignoring, to absolutely no effect. So far it seems we’re making some progress with simple positive reinforcement to “quiet!” He’s still a pain in the ass, but I can see how it’s possible he won’t be that way permanently, and I’m learning – as one of you kindly suggested – to, maybe, become a better dog person. That alone is worth it.
Fur
Saturday was the only day we got out last weekend, and we chose an old favorite spot that wasn’t a good choice for birds. Too much snow, too little bare ground and not enough cover. Still, both dogs thrilled their ways, separately and together, across and through the snow as the sun played hide-and-seek with the storm clouds. Wind blew fiercely, and it was chilly, but it was a cathartic hike for us, for all four of us maybe. Dogs slept well that night.
Sometimes potential ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Right? Isn’t that the Billy Beane story line? Peat’s got tremendous potential, but can we survive him? That’s the latest question around here. Angus is sick of him. He’s wearing us out. But in the morning he’s the sweetest thing since evaporated milk, and he just wants to play (usually much too roughly) at all other times. Peat humps and batters Angus, and Angus has begun shaking in terror when Peat barks, which is often, and at ear-splitting volume. Lately, Angus retreats to the bedroom when Peat’s running around during playtime, and I shut the door. Last night was the first night in Angus’s life that he didn’t come sleep on the bed. I assume it’s because of Peat. I feel for the old dog (even though he’s only 8). Often I feel like an old dog. I am an old dog (although I’m younger than Angus in dog years).
I wrote two emails this evening offering Peat to some people. I didn’t send them, but they’re ready to go. We work with Peat every day on basic obedience and retrieving, but it’s painful and painfully slow progress. Often I feel like Sisyphus. Our dogs are family members, pets, they sleep with us, they ride inside wherever we go, which is not how all hunting dog owners relate to their canine partners. But that’s how we roll, and Peat’s lopsiding our wheels more than we’re used to. More than we enjoy. This whole saga makes me feel like an idiot. I am an idiot. I wrote a post about that not too long ago.
Still, we’ve had some great experiences with Peat, and we’ll still go no matter what happens with him. But in a way, he’s made me wonder which is bigger for me, chukar hunting or my bond with my dogs; they’re intimately connected, but it’s a question I’d never pondered until now. I’m not sure what I think about that. Anyway, here’s a little of what we’ve seen the past couple of weeks in our confusingly beautiful pastime.
