Blog

  • Fake

    Fake

    We’ve bragged for years about our dogs. It’s part of the game, I think. Part of the culture. Everybody does it, or badly wants to. The dog work this season, though, has not begun as expected. The theme so far has been The False Point. Maybe the chickens are coming home to roost from the two years the dogs spent pointing ghostbirds in the timber farms on the Olympic Peninsula. There were birds there, both ruffed and sooty grouse, and the daily walks sometimes witnessed actual birds, sometimes by sight but more often by wing sounds when they busted. Most often, though, probably by a real-to-fake ratio of 1:100, it was Bloom pointing scent, backed spectacularly by Peat. This pattern grew increasingly boring for us, especially because the “forest” was so dense that you or the dogs literally could not penetrate into it at all off of the logging roads to try to relocate the birds. We did not, though, suspect that this daily routine might be damaging our dogs for chukar hunting.

    Maybe I’m wrong about this. Maybe the preponderance of false pointing so far this season is just a phase and evidence of their incredible noses working to “recalibrate the stations of the [living].” “Never doubt your dog” has always been our mantra, but it’s being tested, and frequently conflicts with another mantra: “Never lose altitude.” I’ve lost track of the times this season that Leslie or I have descended far down a slope to reach a pointing Bloom, only to learn it was fake. This is a new one on us. Even Peat, whose batting average isn’t quite as high as Angus’s (I don’t recall Angus ever false pointing) but is still stellar, has begun fooling himself and, thus, us.

    We don’t want to lose faith. Losing faith in your dog is like wondering if the sun will rise tomorrow, and really not knowing. You don’t want to go there. One hunt last week, Bloom false pointed at least 20 times, and never pointed actual birds. Leslie and I were nearly despondent, and afterward pored over the Internet searching for answers. There were as many differing opinions on the matter as there were people giving them. We decided that the most sensible thing to try was to speedily walk past Bloom when he pointed, letting him know we didn’t acknowledge his fake, and hope that eventually he’d find and hold real birds, whereupon we’d fire, hopefully hit one, and get him a full cycle out of the deal, re-cementing what’s supposed to happen: point – hold – bust – shot – retrieve. But the very next hunt, he nailed five straight real points, so that plan went out the window, thankfully. We thought, “Oh, we’ve been too neurotic about this whole thing; it was just a phase.” But on the next hunt, he only false pointed. Numerous times. And Peat did, too. Arg.

    So we’re back to scratching our heads. I considered keeping this quiet because it probably makes us look like idiots (nothing new), and because I didn’t want to malign in any way these incredible dogs from a fantastic breeder, but I’m wondering if the smart people I’m used to hearing from here might have something helpful to say about it.

    Classic Bloom false point on a logging road near Neah Bay, WA on a bizarrely sunny day.
    This one, yesterday, was real. Of course it’s the one I shot with my camera and not the gun.
    The classic double false point, or “Point-off.” The upside is that we have two dogs that love to honor.
  • Real

    Real

    About 24 years ago I caught a few steelhead on the 6-weight fly rod my brother had made me years before. He was fishing with me, showing me what to do, wading in shallow, clear water of the Columbia River near Richland, Washington. Seams. Green Butt Skunks. The fish were incredibly big and strong.

    The next spring I moved from what I’d always thought would be my forever home of the San Francisco Bay Area to Boise, Idaho, where I didn’t know anyone and didn’t have a job. Those fish were the catalysts for the gyrational push and pull that sent me north. Aside from a recent two-year diversion, I’ve been an Idahoan since.

    Looking back, I might say the move was adventurous, but somehow — in the moment — adventure never registered. Fear, for sure. Excitement, too, and a little loneliness. Part of the plan was to get my first dog and figure out how to hunt birds with it, another thing my brother introduced me to. After I screwed up the first dog, limiting my time chasing birds with her, I got a do-over with my second dog, Angus, who was the catalyst for this blog, which in a way has been the most stable thing I’ve ever had.

    And so it goes. We’re at the beginning of a new season. Oregon hasn’t even opened yet. While knowing I’m in the worst shape since beginning to hunt chukar 23 years ago I’m grateful to be able to get out, and the hills don’t scare me. That hasn’t changed despite the degradation of muscle mass. Until we started climbing, I thought I’d fear gravity but it’s almost the opposite. Life is full of surprises: I’m still excited. I’m glad to say that.

    Another surprise, which I’ve deliberated on for a while now about sharing here, is what I’ve started doing in my “spare time.” I’ve decided to try being a realtor, and am both scared and excited about it. I’m sharing this here as a brazen advertisement of my services, and will only say that if you’ve ever thought of moving closer to chukar country I’d like the chance to help you find the right place. I’ll be the first to say that Idaho is a weird state, but it has a lot to offer if you like public land. Anyway, I’m working with the biggest broker in Idaho (Silvercreek Realty), and have started Chukar Hills Realty as my business. If you’re interested in seeing what’s out there, you can search property on my website: robertmcmichael.silvercreekrealty.com. If you click on the link, it’ll ask you to set up an account, but that’s only so I’ll get the lead. You might get some spam, but you can always unsubscribe. So there it is, and that’s all I’ll say about this here. Thanks.

  • Landslide

    Landslide

    45 years ago today my 16-year-old mind and body awoke in the dark at the usual time to find things amiss. The wood shingle roof was making popping sounds. My mind needed some explanation. It’d been hot. Perhaps rain was falling on the tinder-dry shingles, causing them to expand dramatically, thus the popping. Feeling confident of this explanation, I continued getting dressed to head out the door for my morning cross country workout with the other devotees on the team.

    I was wrong. What unfolded from that point on irrevocably impacted my life and the lives of those living in the other 28 or so houses destroyed by the landslide in Laguna Beach’s Bluebird Canyon. My mother, for example, a 39-year-old schoolteacher, was raising two teenaged boys. My soon-to-be stepfather living with us wasn’t quite yet 30. Several single elderly women owned houses in the neighborhood in the town now known for astronomical property values but which at the time was the epitome of modest. I don’t recall anyone being wealthy. Regardless, everyone faced a new challenge in a real estate landscape about to blast off: homelessness.

    Life, as they say, as if they thought nobody would understand this if they didn’t say it, is full of surprises. I couldn’t have known then what a chukar was, for example. I wouldn’t have dreamed I’d end up living on a golf course, or that I’d be a school teacher, or a professor, or a bagpiper, or a brewer, or someone who failed to appreciate avocados until after he left the home whose landslide swallowed the two big avocado trees (and my brother’s surfboard) that supplied my mother with gallons of guacamole she did not try very hard to convince me was delicious.

    And today on my way back to the truck after a hunt I found a very weathered $800 at the base of a bush . That was a surprise.

    Another surprise is coming. Stay tuned.

    Oh, birds seem to be surprisingly plentiful so far this season.

  • Here, here

    Here, here

    …a thrush sings…
    Its fresh-peeled voice
    Astonishing the brickwork…


    Philip Larkin

    Gestation

    Thanks to my mom, I love birds. A barn swallow pair made a beautiful and precarious mud nest this spring on a beam just below the ceiling of our front porch. Their second batch of chicks is about to fledge.

    I Am Here

    I began this fourteen years ago as an attempt to share my attempt to understand what I liked so much about chukar hunting. My focus here has changed over time, more toward an attempt to share my attempt to understand what for me was the most vivid paradox I’ve had direct contact with: why I wanted to kill something I loved. Eight years ago, about, I began writing a story I thought would try getting at that in some other way. Like this, I’m still working on it.

    A little more than two years ago Leslie and I experienced what I hope will turn out to be our purest direct contact with evil. It led to leaving bird country which led to many other unpleasant things. Now we’re back here. And we’re both hopeful and grateful.

    Again

    Grouse season opened two days ago. We didn’t go out and still haven’t. Lots of reasons. Chukar season starts soon. Yesterday, Leslie asked me if I was excited to get out there with the dogs. We’d yearned for a long time to be living in this place this time of year, and now it was here. Finally. I wasn’t sure how to answer. I’m muddled. But the best I could come up with was, “I’m identifying too much with the birds.”

    Will

    Anyone who hunts must sometime recognize the fact that taking an animal’s life means denying its will to live. Whether it goes beyond that depends on the hunter. Many will question from where or why they adopted or assumed that kind of power, and possibly wonder or even question if they’re okay with that.

    Late fall in northwest Washington meant lots of varied thrushes, the cover bird on Sibley’s field guide. Until we lived there, I’d never seen one. We had lots of them in our yard. I felt very lucky. One day one flew into one of our windows. It lay dead on the porch. I went outside and picked it up, still warm. A drop of blood, globular and viscous and contained, had escaped through and sat on its nare. Its eye was open and I watched it change from reflective to opaque. I thought, “I hope it didn’t know what it hit,” and took it to the dense foliage on the other side of the fence, where I left it, safe from the dogs.

    There are accidents and there are intentional things. Hunting is no accident. Duh. Unlike our ancient predecessors, we don’t hunt to live. Some of us live to hunt. But that’s a different story. My hunting story is a now downward-trending sine wave of desire that’s more or less loosely affiliated with my will to live and somehow affiliated with the will of whatever I’m seeking to kill. It’s that affiliation that continues to baffle me. But one thing’s clearer now than before: the more I try to understand it the less sense it makes. There’s a string that runs through everything, and no matter what you do to that string or what happens to it, it’s still there. You can fray it, burn it up, throw it away, lose it, but that doesn’t get rid of it. It’s Hart Crane’s memory all “things nurse.”

    Grateful

    Cree hunting tradition poses prey as grateful. With certain conditions. Animals will gratefully give their lives to hunters as long as there’s some kind of mindful reciprocity given back and acknowledged by the hunter. Usually this means, at the very least, making the most of the animal: food, clothing, tools. They are glad to know we understand and appreciate what they’ve given to us. Most of us have learned this, and try to remember and abide by it as much as possible, but inevitably we fall short. At least I do, more often than not. Even Cree today debate the practicality of this and some even disavow it.

    This, falling short, requires reflection, which is a form of grace in constantly changing form. I know that soon we’ll go out with the dogs and when I have a shot at the first covey that busts I’ll try to kill as many of them as I can.

  • Hand

    Hand

    Went on a short walk with the dogs today. Following them across a freshly snowed baseball field, I noticed their prints paralleling each other, in sets of four paws, like words on a page. Morse code. Tab (if you’re a guitarist). Braille in the negative.

    Then I noticed the two dogs’ sets were mirror images of one another. Peat’s tracks are right-handed, Bloom’s are left-handed. The first and last paw of each dog is on the same side; Peat’s on the right, Bloom’s on the left. Bloom is Leslie’s dog. Peat’s mine. Leslie’s left-handed. I’m not.