Not just for the birds

Tag: chukar hunting

  • 2019-2020 Chukar Season Reflection

    2019-2020 Chukar Season Reflection

    This has been an angst-filled season (and it’s not quite over) but it’s also had some unprecedented good things.

    Here’s what I’ve learned this year that contributed to the angst:

    • Leslie, in her 3rd season, gained confidence and skill, as well as an independent hunting style, as any good hunter should; this proved difficult for me since I’m stubborn and pig-headed and want to hunt my way, which differs from hers. So we often disagreed over where and how and who would get which dogs to hunt with.
    • UTVs are becoming more of a nuisance and negatively impacting habitat, bird numbers, and others’ experiences. I’d heard of folks with big-running pointers driving UTVs along the roads in the Andrus while their dogs scoured the land, and that they’d stop when the dogs went on point and walk over to them. I doubted many did this, and thought about my neighbor Sam, an octogenarian (who only uses his UTV to get to spots to hike; he doesn’t road hunt with it) — I can understand older folks not able to scale the steeps still wanting to taste the chukar medicine, so I kind of forgot about this issue. Until I saw it first-hand: a bunch of able-bodied dudes in their 30s and 40s with multiple UTVs bedecked with custom aluminum dog boxes driving along the road, waiting for their pointers to beep on birds, and then they’d park the UTVs (sometimes right in the road), release the little setters to help bolster the pointer, and mosey over for the murder. I’d say, “To each his own,” but — if you’re able to hike — this is an absolute bullshit way to hunt chukar, and definitely not “fair chase.” This is what the nouveau-riche do on game farms in Georgia and Texas. In case any of this is unclear, I’m not calling out all UTV use in chukar hunting (although there’s a difference between hauling out a limit of chukar and hauling an elk, both of which can be done without a machine). I do worry, though, that public land and wildlife agencies are coming under increasing pressure from lobbyists and manufacturers (and the politicians in their pockets) to expand UTV use as hunters become more swayed by the idea they must have one to do any kind of hunting. Just because you can (and have enough cash), doesn’t mean you should.
    • Long-standing bird populations in certain “popular” areas have relocated, most likely due to increased pressure. Idaho Fish and Game, and other agencies across the nation, report that hunting license sales are declining. Chukar hunters, however, in Hells Canyon and other growing population areas (such as Boise, Bend, Twin Falls, and Ontario) have noticeably increased (Idaho license sales have actually increased 14% since 2011). We’ve noticed this, as has every other hunter I’ve talked to who’s hunted chukar in Idaho and Oregon for more than 5 years. The biologists at the Andrus WMA will concur. The angsty part of this fact is selfish (I’d like bird numbers to improve), but also relates to the previous point about UTVs: when motorized vehicles and big-running dogs cover (often on consecutive days) 40 miles or more per day in prime chukar country (which is 4 to 10 times what a hiking hunter would cover), birds are gonna move and their numbers diminish resulting from what I’d consider unethical harvest and stress (road hunting is not “fair chase”).
    • Covey sizes, birds per mile, and individual bird sizes are down (this is only based on my personal experience and informal surveys of other chukar hunters’ experiences this season, as well as my log over the past several seasons). The season in Idaho starts too early and the harvest limit should return to 6. I’m as guilty as anyone for hunting when Idaho’s season starts because I can’t help myself (and I do feel guilty about that). Neither can lots of people. We want to get out there. But the early start means lots of downy feathers and shrimpy-sized chukar, as well as smaller and more scattered coveys later in the year. Give the new birds a fairer chance at reaching adulthood, when they might fly well enough to beat the odds and live long enough to breed. And I’m sorry, but nobody needs 8 birds a day; based on the tailgate shots I’ve seen this season (often with a UTV in the frame), it seems lots of folks have no problem shooting a limit. I’ve always been able to find birds, but even if I shoot my absolute best, I’d have to hike 16 miles to harvest 8 birds; I’ve averaged about 5 miles per hunt this season, which is a record for me, so unless I double my shooting percentage and miles per hunt I’m pretty safe from limiting (I’ve averaged 2 birds per hunt this season, another best, which includes grouse and Hungarian partridge).
    • Medusahead Rye is getting much worse, exponentially taking over some areas it didn’t exist in three or four years ago. Biologists in Oregon and Idaho are concerned because it quickly eliminates other vegetation and cannot be controlled or mitigated in chukar habitat, and chukar do not stay in mono-typic ecosystems.
    • Chukar will be all but extinct in Hells Canyon and other places in Idaho and eastern Oregon within 20 years if things continue the way they are. Medusahead by itself might accomplish this impressive feat. But with increased pressure, the expansion of UTV use, the early season start, and excessive harvest limits chukar hunting does not seem sustainable. I’m not a scientist, but I know Fish and Game biologists are aware of and concerned about these threats yet they don’t have the budget to conduct studies that affirm these concerns, and the agency and its myopic legislative overlords want to make hunters happy in the short term (i.e., sell as many licenses as possible!).
    • Social media has creepily colored chukar hunting (along with the rest of existence). I’m talking mainly about Twitter (which I never use but only know about because it has become, surreally, our country’s governance platform), Facebook, and Instagram; I don’t consider blogs per se as social media because it takes more time and effort to write and read a blog post than it does to post something on Instagram or Facebook or Twitter — has helped publicly enable and amplify our most vitriolic and inhumane traits; this is obvious to everyone who uses these things. If you’ve followed this blog this season, you’ve seen that attitude leak into some of the comments and a couple of my posts responding to this disturbing trend. If you follow Instagram, you might have noticed several upland hunting wannabe “influencers” out there whose main goal appears to be to promote themselves to get “sponsorships” and amass “followers” and “likes” (which can be, and are, purchased by the “influencer”). One of these wannabe influencers in particular, who’s distinguished himself by posting photos of himself with dead game birds in compromising (highly sexualized and disrespectful) positions, and who was the focus of a mostly slow-motion video by a well-known upland hunting promotional group (which deletes any comments on the video that aren’t hagiographic, as is their right), recently stated that he wanted to be the “badly-needed figurehead” of upland hunting (since when did upland hunting need a “figure-head”?). No, this is not a precis for a bad novel, although the thought has crossed my mind… Predictably, this post generated a mass of attacks from other wannabe “influencers” on Instagram, one of which appears to exist solely to make fun of hunters who take themselves too seriously but actually seems to be focused more on attacking a specific conservation group and its president. And on and on. These little wars and battles. This discourse. Three years ago I was unaware of any of this and obliviously torturing myself in pursuit of public land partridge. Thus my new year’s resolution to unplug from it all: I have enough angst from other, more honest, sources.
    • Small American manufacturers, some of whom make bird hunting vests, don’t appear to be faring too well. The three best known vests for their popularity with chukar hunters have been hard to come by this year, if not impossible. While I have no idea what’s behind this for these particular companies, it’s frustrating and weird (angsty) in the 2020 economy, which is supposed to be so amazing, to see obvious production slowdowns or outright stoppages. Soon I’ll have a review of the vest I waited over a month for.
    • Angus getting cancer.

    Enough ranting. The good things:

    • Angus appearing to beat, or at least hold off, cancer, for now. Diagnosed on August 30th and given 1 to 3 months to live, we allowed ourselves to hope only for one chukar hunt with him. We were ecstatic on opening day to have him with us. He’s hunted the entire season as well as ever (with a few more days off than before, but he is, after all, almost 13).
    • We’re hunting harder than ever, if not smarter and better. This is why I keep a log. In all the categories I track (miles, duration, elevation gain, dog miles, shots, kills, and averages of these per hunt), this season is better than any previous season, with the exception of my shooting percentage, which continues to hover just around abysmal. After last year’s spine surgery-abbreviated season, I’m thrilled my body is working well enough to continue this insanity.
    • We’ve hunted a bunch of new places (thanks partly to ONX Maps) and have been fairly successful finding birds in each one. It’s good to know that if a place looks like it should have chukar, it probably will (although I will admit that we’ve yet to find any place that has as many birds as we think it should).
    • I started reloading our own shells. While I’m pretty sure this is not an economically sound endeavor, it’s been fun and a challenging learning experience. I haven’t found “the perfect load” (open to suggestions: send me your recipes!), but have had some apparent improvements with some loads (although the data set’s pretty small to come to any solid conclusions; biorhythmic theories might hold more water).
    • Peat is better than ever. That’s saying a lot, because he was already really good, and has been since the end of his first season. This season he’s just been great, in both solo and partner situations. He’s become stealthier, and yesterday he showed me more clearly than ever that his number one concern when he finds birds is to hold them or — at the very least — make sure they don’t bust before I’m within range. I’m convinced he knows exactly what my shooting range is and isn’t, which I find remarkable. Yesterday he found a covey of chukar and pointed them from a reasonable distance. The birds slalomed through the sage, but Peat didn’t want to risk busting them so he held still. Angus came along and — as I’ve always known he’ll do — crept past Peat and followed the ambulating chukar carefully. Peat, the consummate backer, wanting to stay connected to the action, executed his short bursts toward the birds, at one point (see photos below) wedging himself discretely between a large rock and sage bush! He’s covering more miles and slightly extending his range and, as a result, finding more birds than ever. He’ll be 5 this spring, and I’m already lamenting (very prematurely, I know) his demise. I should probably take comfort in knowing that he’ll far outlast my ability to hunt these birds (if they don’t go extinct before then).
    • Sunburst Brittanys is not only still in business, but doing very well and still producing phenomenal chukar hunting dogs that naturally point, back, and retrieve. Just as wonderfully, their dogs are good family dogs. This sounds like an advertisement, and maybe it is, but it’s heartfelt. Not a day goes by where Leslie and I don’t marvel at our canine-caused joy, whether it’s somewhere on a ridge during the 4-month season, floating down the Missouri in a drift boat, poaching heat and affection from them in bed, or watching them enjoy being the dogs I’d trade my life to be.

    So there you have it, the bad, the good, and the no-good-to-look-at. And there’s still a few weeks before that sad, long off-season. I hope I haven’t bummed anyone out too much, but it is what it is. At this point, if there’s even one person still reading this, I’d count it a success. Best wishes to all for a good 2020.

    chukar hunting dogs pointing chukar
    Peat moving up toward Angus on point (Angus on the right, mid-frame). Peat bounded to a low spot between the sage brush behind Angus and wedged himself, on his belly, between the sage and a rock (see next photo).
    Peat hunkered between sage and a rock, waiting for his next move toward Angus (top center).
  • Blessed

    Blessed

    As usual, chukar hunting, like some of the best things in life, continues not to make much sense to me. What does make sense to me is that the fact that it doesn’t make sense is probably the reason I keep doing it, not necessarily so I can find some sense in it, but because it’s not subject to the rules of things that should make sense. Things that should make sense are problematic because when they don’t make sense, which always eventually happens, then you get all warped up and try to force something that can’t be forced. Something breaks, or needs to. There are things about chukar hunting that make sense, such as — duh — you need to remember to bring your gun, and your dogs, and all that other crap to make it happen. But that’s not the hunting. I’m talking about hunting. It makes no sense. I love it. That I’m able to do it and not feel obliged to understand it makes it my favorite blessing. I guess that’s why I’m writing about it on Christmas instead of doing it; I’d rather be out there, but there are things that need to make sense today that got in the way. Writing about it is a way of trying to have it make sense, but I’m not afraid I’ll turn it into an understood thing because it’s hunting. Hunting can’t make any sense. When it does, I’ll stop.

    So I’m glad I’m not yet sleeping in an alabaster chamber, partly because I’m not really sure about my level of meekness, but I’m happy to report that I’ve been touched by morning and by noon, several times, in the past week of hiking the chukar hills with our family. It’s been a particularly blessed week.

    Partly because we’ve made a more devout effort this season to hunt areas we’ve never hunted before. Surprise: it’s paid off. Everyone has his or her go-to spots, and ours seemed to have dried up this season, which is good and bad but overall a blessing I think. If the familiar spots had contained the numbers of birds we’d been accustomed to, we wouldn’t have expanded the repertoire and would have missed what’s been there all along but untouched by our feet. I hope there’s a lesson in this we can remember.

    Another blessed thing is that, as the season winds down, I’m amazed that each season we seem to lap more miles, elevation gain, and bagged game. This sounds like bragging (maybe it is), but it’s notable to me because it speaks of a growing desire for something: maybe it’s time with the dogs, especially one whose season itself is a miracle but also the other one who’s getting better each hunt (miraculous in itself when considering our beginning together). Maybe it’s a proof thing: can we do more even though our bodies don’t look or feel as fit and young as only a few seasons ago? Maybe we’re just dumber. Who knows? It makes no sense.

    I’ll take it. I feel blessed. I wish you all the same.

    It seemed miraculous that the antler-rubbed shavings still sat in a pile months after being scraped
    Peat’s ruffed grouse
    Peat’s dusky grouse
    Double chukar
    Peat’s haul Christmas eve: dusky grouse, chukar, and Hungarian partridge
    Peat and a Hungarian partridge
  • The Allure

    The Allure

    A big part of the appeal of chukar hunting for most of us is the beautiful places where these wild birds live. These captivating and lonely places are hard to get to, and they challenge us mentally and physically, but they continue to seduce us to them year after year.

    We daydream about the solitude and the spirit of these kinds of places when we’re not there, and we long for the slippery snow underneath our boots, the loose scree, the damp fog coming up from the valley floor, the sight of a dog pointing and retrieving, and, especially, the intoxicating views from the top of these sacred mountains.

    I can’t wait to go back.

  • Recovery

    Recovery

    Most of the snow lay clean and unmarked. We could tell nobody had hunted this spot since this first big snowstorm of the season, three days before. We were jacked. It was cold outside and early in the day, the pine trees, bushes, and grasses were frilled with snow, it was magical and beautiful. Hunting chukar in the snow does have its advantages; seeing fresh chukar tracks in the snow, you know they’re there.

    Somewhere?

    Chukar were here

    The snow was also unwelcome.

    The first mile uphill, I lead the rhythmic march following the legible impressions left in the snow by the dogs whenever they were running in a straight line. Angus stopped to pee ahead of me. I got up to him and stopped to examine the hole in the snow. It was a cruel reminder that his urine was tinged with blood, something we’re seeing more often recently.

    Following Angus

    Bob followed behind in my footsteps and as I slowed he’d take over. I felt like I was walking on a beach in deep thick sand. We rounded a corner and the strong wind once at our backs was now in our faces. I pulled up the hood on my jacket and Bob stopped to take off his hunting pack and as he was pulling out his wind shell he said, “I can’t believe I’m actually cold.” He’s never cold when we’re hunting. I stood there for a minute waiting for him until he said to go ahead, and once I reached the saddle I should turn left. Angus turned left before the saddle so I followed. We got to the top of a ridge but the windswept snow drifts were up to my knees. I saw Bob from a distance across the other side of the ridge and could see him signaling me over to him. I slowly made it over to him, threading my way through the sage and wobbily walking across the baby-head rocks and larger boulders underneath the snow, trying not to slip. From the top of the ridge we could see an area in the distance on another ridge where the snow was burned off. Bob said, “I think we should go over there, and get out of this wind. I bet the birds are all out of the snow right now.” I agreed.

    Don’t let the sun fool you, it was bitter cold

    We headed down the ridge and came across a perennial deer path worn by hooves heading up and down the mountain. We followed it for a while until we could see Peat and Angus looking birdy down in a tight draw. Angus immediately went on point while Peat was above him honoring him like a statue. Bob, below me, was slowly heading down towards Angus. The covey of a dozen chukar busted and flew like missiles straight downhill and around a corner. A single busted later and Bob got one shot off and I could clearly see it getting hit but it kept flying downhill until disappearing into the bushes about 400 yards below us. “We have to go get it!” I yelled over to Bob, “I saw where it landed!” We headed down and recovered it after Peat found it, only a wing sticking out of the snow.

    There are definitely times when you don’t shoot chukar no matter what for fear of not recovering the bird. During every point you analyze the situation and imagine where the birds might bust and fly, and, if you do manage to hit one, where they might land. Some dogs will go to the end of the earth to find a downed bird; Peat and Angus are that way and it’s not worth risking losing them by having them go down a super steep rocky cliff wall and fall or get stuck.

    Some people also say they don’t hunt birds in the snow because it’s unethical. Yesterday, I think the birds had the advantage on us because of the icy and slippery conditions, and getting to a point before the birds busted wild was almost impossible.

    Waiting with Angus

    Towards the end of the hunt, Bob and the dogs yesterday searched for at least 45 minutes for another chukar that went down. Bob saw it fall from the sky after shooting it and saw it hit the ground on a snowy, rocky hillside across a different ravine. I didn’t see it go down but he said he marked it and then yelled at the dogs, “Dead bird.” At this point in their lives they know what to do. Peat seemed part mountain goat, part house cat as his lithe body scoured the wall of snowy rocks, zigzagging back and forth and up and down, nose to the ground. I cringed from below, fearing he’d slip. He’s careful and cautious but also a little half-possessed while looking for downed birds. Peat couldn’t locate it, so Bob crossed the ravine to the other side to look for it while I stayed and watched from below. Once he got over there, the bird was nowhere to be found. Angus stayed closer to me and further below by busting through the brush looking for it. Between Bob, Angus, and Peat they couldn’t find the bird. Maybe it was buried in the snow? Maybe it landed only winged and stunned and then flew off and we didn’t notice.

    Heading up to look for the bird

    When do you give up and walk away?

    The sun was starting to set behind the mountain and it was getting colder by the minute. We’d already trounced around in the snow for 8 miles and were getting tired and the dogs were wet, it was time to start heading to the pickup before it got dark.

    This wasn’t the first time this season that one of us has lost a bird we saw fall to the ground. I’m not sure what my odds are because I don’t keep records, but I’d say that of 20 birds this season, I’ve only lost one. Bob hits more birds so I’d say his odds are slightly higher.

    It’s never easy leaving a dead or wounded bird behind, but it’s just part of hunting. I can still hear Bob’s choice words ringing in my ears when not finding downed birds; I’m sure nobody hates losing birds more than he does.

  • Granted

    Granted

    We’ve never been huge-mile hikers. We’ve never logged more than 9 miles on a chukar hunt, and I think our average hunt is less than 5 miles. But for some reason, each season we seem to go longer. Last weekend I hunted Saturday and Sunday, and totaled about 17 miles, which is a lot for me.

    Angus did about 44. Something about the sensitivity to his condition, and wondering how much he can take, made me realize that I’ve taken for granted the fact that we do this together, human and dog. It’s deliberate, intentional, the heading out, returning together, and everything in the middle. All that cooperating. Checking in. Communicating. Sometimes the obvious things are the most interesting because we take them for granted. Not a new idea, I know, but when you think about what happens between you and your dog(s) on a hunt, it’s really pretty amazing.

    I’m not the kind of person who’s used to tributes being paid to him (one can only hope), but for a dog to hunt with you, you’re being honored. The irony of my just now noticing this is not lost on me since the last post I wrote focused on how Peat honors Angus. Both dogs honor me simply by putting up with me, but to spend most of the day looking for birds I can shoot so they might be able to bring them back to me is ridiculous. It’s idiotically sublime, and kind of a source of shame; it makes me think of that saying, “I’m not sure I want to belong to a club that would have me as a member.” I do a lot of dumb, thoughtless things. What did I do to deserve this honor?

    The answer is: nothing. Dogs grant us themselves. It’s an act of grace, “undeserved merit.” Yeah, we might think that without us the dog would be nothing. We might think that since we spent some serious cash rescuing them from someone who’d give them a more horrible life than we do that they owe us whatever we get from them. We might think other dumb things. Humans do that a lot. We think the world was made for us, that “lower” creatures were made to serve us. Our founders thought this justified slavery. They were wrong.

    This Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for my dogs and their unfathomable and bottomless generosity. I’m thankful for their beauty and grace. I’m thankful for the fact that we go places together to do things together, and that we get out of the truck at the same time, hike in amazing country pursuing a variety of pleasurable experiences and recognizing each other in the process, and return to the rig together, continuing the bond of trust that threads my life together like the golden stitch. I’m thankful they want to be with us no matter what, that they’ll spend day after boring summer day baking in the bottom of the drift boat while I get increasingly grumpy from putting down countless trout. Like the honey badger, they don’t give a sh*t: they’ll still love my sorry ass.

    It’s not like I never realized any of this. But it just hit me after two wonderfully long days with a dog living on borrowed time: this is a partnership only because he’s willing. It can’t be forced. He’s granting me himself. He’s done it, without fail, his entire life. That right there, that’s worth thinking about.