Category: Hunting accounts

I don’t think I’ve ever seen as many chukar in one day as I saw yesterday.

I also have never seen so many chukar and took so few. Zero to be exact. Not for lack of trying: in 3 hours we hiked about 3-1/2 miles in the snow, climbed 2,000 feet, shot 12 times, all in the 35-40+ yard “wing-and-a-prayer” range. Yes, the birds were busting wild, but also – like Tucker’s Chukars’ Larry wrote recently – it was just really tough to get close to a pointing or creeping dog.

After driving to burned-off spots in Hell’s Canyon for the past several weeks, places which have been hunted hard by many people (judging from shells and footprints, and the frustrating commonality of wild busts), I thought it would be a good idea to take the boat on Brownlee and find some promising ground where birds might not have been pressured so much. That made for a pretty chilly start, but after surveying several spots from the reservoir, we motored into a bay which looked like it would afford a good hunt for two people starting in opposite directions and working toward each other. After tying up the boat, though, I noticed bootprints in the snow, probably from the day before. I’ve never felt crowded or annoyed by the hunting pressure on Brownlee, or in Hell’s Canyon generally, and I’ve yet to run into another chukar hunter in the years I’ve been doing this. But it struck me as pretty ironic that my plan to find some untrammeled ground had obviously failed despite the extra effort of taking the boat (it was 10 degrees when we left), especially since I’d noticed no boat trailers at the main put-in the last three weeks. Sure, we could have relocated and found a spot that hadn’t been hunted, but it was very cold and windy and we wanted to get moving.

Which we did, and soon were into lots and lots of day-old bird tracks in the snow. I was amazed to find chukar tracks heading up deep snow drifts to the top of a snow-covered ridge, all of which led to a cluster of big sagebrush. A pair of bald eagles soared overhead against the slate sky. I dislodged a large herd of mule deer as I neared the peak, and then, hunkered even deeper into the bowl, an even bigger herd of elk. Oddly, the bird sign got fresher the farther up the ridge, maybe the result of the hunting pressure from the day before, or maybe just one of those mysteries for which this bird is famous. Or infamous, depending on your perspective.

Finally, Angus kind of pointed. Snow seems to have a weird effect on his nose; maybe this is true for all pointing dogs. He’s either way, way extra cautious or completely clueless in it. I can’t draw any conclusions and have no theories. I’m sure there’s a good scientific explanation for his erratic work, but I don’t know it. Sometimes, though, it works out, and on this one I actually got into a decent position for the bust, which was uphill slightly, and – as was to be the case all day – came in at least three waves of birds, followed by one or two singles farther down the slope. I missed all three shots, none of which was high-percentage as the birds were tailing around the curvature by the time I drew a bead on them. Okay, not a bad start. Birds at least.

I chased the remnants of that first covey deeper into the snow toward the termination of the bowl, hoping to send them back down in the direction of my buddy hunting below me and back toward the water. It didn’t work. The birds just kept busting wild and going higher up and eventually out of the drainage altogether. So I turned around and headed toward the undulating, frozen but (treacherous) open south-facing slopes and began seeing lots of sign. In fact, I have never seen more chukar poop scattered over a large area than in this drainage. Most of it was a couple days old, but all was pretty recent. I’d only seen a small covey so far, but knew there had to be larger numbers somewhere.

They were lower down. I started getting into them about halfway down from the top. Angus was birdy all the time. His tail stump must be sore today from all the oscillating it did yesterday. But the birds were either in totally open ground so it was nearly impossible to sneak up to them, or wedged in spring crevices that amplified our traverse so that they busted before we even knew they were there. Still, every crack held birds, and I must have seen at least 250 chukar during the last hour of the hike. It’s nice to know there are so many birds this late in the year, and I hope they fare well over the winter and into the critical spring season. Think good weather thoughts if you have a moment.

With a month left in the season, it’s hard to imagine much more, or any, decent hunting given the weather we’ve had and will continue having. But I believe I’ll test it at every chance.

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.

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.