One summer while home from college I waited tables at an Italian restaurant in Laguna Beach run by some racist Milanese who’d recently emigrated from apartheid South Africa. How they ended up in Laguna I’m not sure, but their attitudes about people struck me as not only offensive but ironic considering that the kitchen and busing and cleaning staff were entirely Mexican. One of the other waiters was Reynaldo, a guy I liked, from Brazil. I’d been listening to a Brazilian musician (Nana Vasconcelos) whose latest album was titled “Saudades,” and I asked Reynaldo what it meant. Reynaldo, by the way, spoke English better than I did.
Reynaldo’s answer was my first lesson in the poverty of my native tongue. I can’t remember exactly what he said, but I remember pretty clearly his frustration at trying to translate into English that single Portuguese word. Google’s definition (above) comes close to his translation but maybe because the concept the word conveys resides in the darker emotional spectrum Reynaldo’s exasperation still resonates with me: it can’t fully be said. It must be felt. I envy language like that.
So, with about a week left in the chukar season, I’ve been feeling very saudade. This season is the first time in more than 20 years I haven’t sighted a chukar behind one of my dogs. If you’ve read this blog, you know I’m prone to self-pity, and it’s peaking right about now. I admit it, but am determined to do something about it. I’m not sure what, but it’s worse than I expected: missing the season was one thing, but missing it with an increasingly remarkable Brittany puppy and another beloved and accomplished chukar dog in the prime of his short life, both of whom have had to make do this fall with one bitterly cold, snowy quail hunt and the occasional spectral ruffed grouse, is something I hadn’t anticipated.
We’ll get ’em next year.
Breakfast in the hotel the morning of our last hunt of the season: snowing sideways, 12 degrees.Leslie moving ahead of pointing Bloom and backing PeatBloom pointing quailPeat backs BloomBloom’s first retrieve of a game bird: a huge relief (considering Peat ate the first 6 birds I shot over him)
I can’t imagine being an insomniac; sleep has never been a problem for me. Almost every night like clockwork Bob wakes up around 2:30 or 3 and turns on the bedside lamp and starts reading a book and will read for at least a couple of hours. Most nights, I’ll wake up, glance at him and roll over and go back to sleep, but last night I woke up and stared at him in the glow of the light. I squinted to see what he was reading because it’s usually something different each night. He was reading a book of poems by Wallace Stevens. He turned off the light and said, “I remember the poem.” I said “What are you talking about?” He then started reciting the poem out loud and it ended with the words:
Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
I whispered to him so that I wouldn’t wake up Peat who was nestled in between us still sleeping. “That’s a really lovely poem, thanks for sharing.” I tell him goodnight for the second time and I toss and turn and try to get back to sleep and start thinking of frost, the boughs of pine-trees crusted with snow and junipers shagged with ice and spruces rough in the distant glitter. I start thinking about how much I miss being on the mountain, so I start retracing my footsteps, my path up and down, one slow step at a time, the upland version of counting sheep I suppose, and think about a season that went by so fast that it almost seems like it never happened. I turn over one last time and reach over to stroke Peat on his back. I can hear him sigh, and then I fall asleep and start dreaming.
I dream of zigzagging through miles of golden bunchgrass, lichen covered rocks, and dense Antelope bitterbrush and sagebrush forests so thick where sometimes I’d lose track of Bob and Peat. I dream of traversing huge wide open landscapes and the unknowable vastness of it all, and creeping across steep scree slopes while trying not to slip, and how it always seemed that Peat would point on just the other side of a barbed wire fence that I’d have to cross over or crawl under. I dream of those hot and smoky and super dry early season conditions where I ran out of water a couple of times and that covey of chukar that busted wild over my head and we didn’t even know it until we got home and saw the photo. I dream of borrowing beautiful young Custer and how much fun and exciting it was to hunt with two dogs again and also to hunt with Peat’s dad, Sioux, the Mouritsen family, and other Sunburst Brittanys.
I dream of trudging through knee-deep snow covered with hoarfrost just to get to the top of the ridge and not finding any birds after all the hard and painful work just to get there. I dream of those staunch points and retrieves, and missed shots because my fingers were so bitterly cold to the bone that I couldn’t take the safety off when the birds busted. There is also in my dreams that somber exhilaration when everything finally does come together. I dream of Bob finding a matching set of deer antlers that are such an amazing part of nature, and on another hunt seeing a Peregrine Falcon cruising overhead just before it swooped down and carried off that chukar Peat was pointing. I dream of hunting in late November when the sun sets so early and seeing the pink alpenglow on the distant mountains and how I was so happy and relieved, still over a mile from the pickup, that Bob was the one who’d packed a headlamp in his hunting pack .
I dream about busting through the thick brush in a deep draw and being tripped, tangled and caught by brambles and branches, and on so many hunts in December and January sliding on my butt on the icy, slick, and muddy slopes and watching Bob do the same thing.
I dream about the old rattlesnake skins on the mountain left behind like ghosts. I dream about those yellow shotgun shells Bob so lovingly made for me with just a wee teaspoon of Angus’s ashes carefully put inside each one so I could spread his ashes in all of my favorite hunting spots. And the favorite thing I dream is how, just before going to sleep after a day on the mountain, the sweet but spicy and bitter smell of sagebrush lingers on Peat’s fur and which I inhale when I kiss and bury my face in his head and neck.
Not just one dog but two. Not much more work having two. They get fed at the same time, go to bed at the same time, and adapt to each other’s miscellaneous routines at home, like, for example, keying off of each other when it comes to hearing something outside, both of them to end up running full speed through the kitchen and out the dog door barking their heads off. We’d gotten use to having two dogs around all the time at home and on the mountain. The one thing that I loved most about having two dogs was watching them hunt together.
Last June when Angus passed away from cancer it was an adjustment, and a void for everyone, including Peat who now has to do all the work by himself finding the birds. It wasn’t that he was lazy, but he was smart. He was like one of those co-workers that we’ve all had at one point in our lives, the ones that sit back and watch everyone work and then when the donuts arrive from the boss on Friday rush to thank everyone for a good job, and he’d be first in the break room to get the only maple bar. Peat would be the first on the bird for the retrieve, a covey of birds that he didn’t find in the first place but he’d bring the chukar to hand and get all the immediate praise that followed while Angus continued to hunt.
Peat this season was definitely forced to step up his game by being the lone dog. His average mileage used to be three times ours, now it’s four times. He can find birds and he’s the relocation specialist but his nose is either super sensitive or not fully refined because he’s really cautious on pinpointing the covey’s location and getting close enough. The birds are either just very jumpy and busting wild for other reasons. I don’t know if it’s because he spent so much time as the co-pilot.
The main thing I’ve missed this season is watching him honor another dog. Peat in action is a beautiful, mesmerizing and sometimes funny sight to behold. It’s by far my favorite part of seeing a pointing dog work. Looking back, I think he purposely let Angus find all the birds just so he could honor him. They had a beautiful relationship.
Before the season started, we stopped by to visit Angus and Peat’s breeder, Katie and Gabe of Sunburst Brittany’s and I casually suggested that maybe they could loan us one of their dogs. I wasn’t entirely serious and thought that it was stupid to even suggest in the first place, but in November they lent us and entrusted us to keep Custer, their young liver and white American Brittany for a few days. I was excited to have another dog to hunt with again, and I was equally excited just to have the presence of another dog in the house.
One-and-a-half-year-old Custer arrived, and from the get-go it was evident that he hadn’t been around cats before. He went on point when he saw Seamus for the first time. Peat soon took notice of what was happening and acted like he’d never seen a cat before, either (despite getting his ass kicked by Seamus on his first day with us almost 6 years ago!), and both dogs chased Seamus and both got a full set of claws in their furry snouts. From that point when Custer wasn’t tethered to me, he was in his crate on the floor. My 15-year-old cat continued to taunt him by sauntering past his metal crate door within an inch. Cats are masters of intimidation. Trying to train Custer, a kennel dog, to be a house dog that lives with cats in one day so he could be loose in the house was very optimistic.
The following day, to give the cat a break from all of us, we took Custer out hunting with Peat to a place on some BLM land not far from where we live. We started out initially wanting to have Custer only hunt with me but realized that he hadn’t bonded with us yet and he wanted to hunt with Peat. About 20 minutes into the hunt, my Garmin beeped that Peat was on point. I headed his direction and could see Peat pointing and Custer honoring him through the tall bitterbrush. It almost brought tears to my eyes seeing two dogs working together again. Instead of getting into position to shoot, I pulled out my phone to photograph and capture the moment.
Custer honoring Peat for the first time.
The next covey of chukar we found, Custer was the first one to point. I slowly got into position and out of the left corner of my eye, I could see Peat running full speed right past him! Instead of honoring Custer, Peat ran right through the covey and busted them. Freaking Peat! I don’t know what he was thinking. I’m no dog psychologist, but on the next covey Custer found later in the hunt, Peat honored him. They took turns on a couple more coveys and we hunted with both dogs together at least six more times before returning Custer back to Sunburst. We would have preferred to have kept him longer if it wasn’t for the cat. I love my cat. That darn cat.
It was a beautiful thing to see Custer, Angus’s nephew, move with the same show-dog gait as Angus. He’s got the same sweet personality, and whisky colored eyes, and is a natural on the chukar hills. Custer is a miracle and a bright hope for the future where next spring a new puppy will be in our lives or maybe one of them will be in yours.
Merry Christmas and Peace on Earth. Enjoy the video!
Custer backing Peat again.Sunburst’s Custer and Peat, November 2020.Peat honoring Custer on some chukar. December 2020Custer post retrieveAngus and Custer, January 2020
I’ve hunted chukar for two decades now, and once in a while I’ll have a hunt that causes some kind of fundamental reevaluation of my identity. I earned an Ivy League Ph.D., and even I’m proud of that and view it as an accomplishment. At times, I’ve even thought it meant I was at least a little smart. As I struggle to hold onto some sense of myself as a responsible adult involved in a complex of relationships with obligations to and grace from a variety of creatures past, present, and future, what I’ve accomplished seems to matter more to me, and I’m suspicious of that mattering yet take some comfort in it all the same.
There are occurrences, though, that can jettison the whole bit. Usually, it’s kind of a delayed response. “What did I just do?” “I can’t believe I did that,” and it’s not the I’m-so-awesome-because-I-did-that. Instead, it’s the why-the-hell-did-I-do-that?
Yesterday was that kind of hunt. From the boat, based on my extensive knowledge (I’m being sarcastic) of all things chukar, the plan looked promising. Rocks? Check. Water? Check. Cover? Check. Green-up? Check. Tight draws? Check. And, almost as an afterthought: Steep slopes? Check-mate.
So, we tied off the boat and got our gear and dog ready and headed up the hill. We didn’t hear any chukar calling, but that didn’t mean anything. Peat wasn’t birdy and that didn’t evaporate hope. The paucity of partridge poop — ancient or contemporary — didn’t sway us from our quest. Hope is the thing with feathers, so up we continued.
I must have thought it twenty times before I said it to Leslie: “I’m sure Peat’ll point any time.” He didn’t. And so more up.
Just before the summit, which we never intended to reach because we’re so damned smart about this game that we just knew there’d be a bird bonanza at the most halfway up the wall, Peat did point. The birds held in the bowl’s bunchgrass, and Peat was a statue. It was gorgeous to behold. Leslie and I edged closer. The small covey of chukar exploded from where we thought they were, and flew the direction we believed they would. It was perfect. We both whiffed.
A few minutes later, at the summit, .9 miles and 1750′ above the boat, we marveled at the view: snowclad mountains in every direction, another big valley with a little town down in it, a bucolic foreground of gently rolling golden native grasses punctuated by swales. This late fall light is unbeatable. There’s a certain ecstasy paid for mounting a ridge like this. Maybe it’s really what motivates the attempt, but we tell ourselves we’re chukar hunting and hunting chukar.
On top, which is more Hungarian partridge than chukar turf, I managed two birds on lovely work from Peat. I would never disparage a Hun (except maybe Attila), but we’re seeking chukar. So back we went to the ridge and the rocks.
Within minutes, Peat points again, just at the crest of the ridge, looking toward the water. He’s much more cautious than Angus was, so I expected the birds to be a fair bit below him. Leslie and I dropped down the screed slope at least 100 or 150 feet before the chukar busted at least 30 yards below us. Tough to make those shots. We didn’t.
But we followed them: they flew north, and we relocated them, a bit lower than they’d been originally. It was deja vu all over again. Another follow and relocate (Peat is an incredible relocation specialist), and this time Leslie killed one. My missing streak was still alive! At this point, we’d reached the end of the drainage, so the birds scattered more high and low and far and wide.
This was the point I began to realize how gullible I was. They’d suckered me into losing half of my elevation. It does not feel good to realize you’ve been toyed with. It feels even worse to remember that this is not the first, or even the 20th, time they’ve done this to you. Being gullible means you take things you shouldn’t at face value. Check-mate.
I know they’re just chukar and have a brain the size of a dehydrated pea. But on their turf, without a new-fangled new brain to get in the way, their intelligence far surpasses mine. I could hear them calling close and far. Some of their muezzin seemed settled on the rocks just above me. I looked at my altimeter and it showed 1989′ of climbing so far. 2,000′ is a really hard day for me, and I felt toasted. But they lured me up. Plus, Peat was climbing into a creep following the ascending partridges; I knew a point was imminent. One must always honor the point.
I stood at the bottom of a tall rock pile. It was climbable, barely. It sounded like the birds were perched right above me. So I climbed, imagining I was a much older Alex Honnold with a shotgun strung to his shoulder. At one point I even did the karate-kick move they talk about in Free Solo. I nearly peed myself with delight. But when I’d scaled the “peak” it was just more rocks. And the birds seemed to have moved higher to an equidistant spot from me. So I pursued. Up another terrace. No birds, yet the calling continued all around me.
And then it hit me: they’re just f-ing with me. They got me to drop down all that way, and then they got me to climb back up another 800 feet after I was fried. Then I saw Peat point at the base of a rock wall near the very top of the ridge. The birds had no more vertical opportunity, so — as I figured they would — they flew horizontally to the other side of the draw. I could see them hopping around, smirking. I swear one even pulled out a Camel Light and lit up. They were about 100 yards straight above me as I watched them — one by one for at least 5 minutes — march triumphantly up the chute to the summit and out of sight.
This is the dumb way to hunt chukar. I highly recommend it, especially if you feel you could benefit from a total identity makeover.
Our route, which consists of two counterclockwise circles. The second, smaller circle is solid evidence of my stupidity. Industrious hot-spotters could probably figure out exactly where this is. I don’t care. Be my guest. Let me know how it goes!
A friend responded to a Facebook post I made the other day in which I stated that Leslie made two of the best shots on chukar I’ve witnessed. This is my account.
Since you asked…
The first shot was at a single that busted wild about 25 yards above Leslie on a steep, steep basalt ball-bearing incline. She was moving the opposite direction of the bird, and by the time she moved her feet 180 degrees and swung on it (not easy when you’re side-hilling), it was at full speed and heading away fast. I was just about to yell, “Don’t shoot” when she triggered the shot and I watched the bird fall like a sack of spuds. It was probably 40 yards away when it dropped.
This was her first bird of the season, and using the new 3″ 1 oz. #6 20 gauge steel loads buffered with Angus’s ashes (FPS is probably around 1300-1350). When I asked her how she made that shot, which I definitely would have either missed or passed on, she said that she looked at the bird and swung the barrel just past it and squeezed, keeping the barrel moving. Easy peasy.
The second bird Peat pointed in the brush near the creek. A big covey (maybe 25 birds) busted at a really wide angle fairly close to her, and she picked the farthest left bird, and hit it going away just before it cleared the Hawthorn trees. Like the one before, it fell like a rock, but right in the middle of the dense vegetation. Peat had no trouble retrieving it, though.
Both birds were very large adults, super healthy looking. The second was the easier of the two shots, but what made it tough in my opinion was that so many birds busted at the same time right near her but pretty spread out. I always have a panic-hesitation response to these wide, big covey busts and usually take a flock shot and miss because I can’t pick out one bird. But her focus and patience was excellent, especially considering we haven’t practiced at all this year. These two shots were probably the 6th and 7th shots she’s fired since last January.
I’m shooting 12 gauge steel loads now, too, and pretty happy with them so far (1-1/8 oz., 2-3/4″, #6, about the same FPS as Leslie’s). I was also quite impressed with the number of birds in this spot, which was a place we’d never hunted before. I followed her with the camera and had a great time watching Peat hunt for her.
Starting outA little bit of ground out therePeat is learning to be THE dogThe first birdAlmost 58. She can kick and stretch, too.Second bird just before the bust (Peat’s pointing lower left)It’s hard to imagine Peat stealing from Angus and eating the first 6 birds I shot during his first season. He’s a retrieving machine.Peat’s last point of the day — the covey busted wild before Leslie could get in position. All in all an excellent day.
