Yeah, rain! Had a great weekend hunting in Hell’s Canyon. Lots of birds, lots of greenup, gorgeous fall colors, plenty of dog action, good friends, warm-ish weather. Yes.
The first point I’d seen from Angus in weeks and weeks yielded a nice covey of chukar rising from bunch grass, just 30 minutes into the first hunt. And, wowee, I knocked down a bird with my first shot. Angus quickly retrieved it but Peat stole it from him, ran off with it, and ate it. Despite seeing at least eight more coveys that weekend, on great points by Angus (and backing by Peat), I went 0 for 14. Or something like that. Here’s a little clip…
But who cares? What I like best about this activity is watching dogs get birdy and point. The rest is falling action, so to speak (not literally, at least with my atrocious shooting; I recently discovered I was left-eye dominant and since I shoot righty I might have an excuse, but then how do you explain going three-for-three on a single covey, twice – long ago, though…).
Plenty of dog action: the four Brittanys on the right are all from Sunburst Kennels in Emmett, Idaho
Another thing I really like about chukar hunting is getting with friends who understand it, have the patience – with themselves, with me, with their dogs, and with the difficulty of the endeavor – to enjoy it with sincerity.
Peat, Paddy, Quigley, Angus
And the other thing I love about it is having my wife come along, even though she doesn’t pull the trigger, except on the camera. More than her great photos and video, her company, her sensibility, her appreciation for the venture and adventure of it, her advice which is almost always much better than my ideas, and her patience with me, are all more than I deserve.
Oh, and did I mention that I fall deeper in love with the landscape every time I go out?
One of the things I most like about chukar hunting is that it provides endless chances for me to set new standards of idiocy, to epitomize increasingly precise definitions of moron, and to share these achievements as perhaps some kind of penance or verbal self-flagellation in the hope that I might one day afford a ticket, third class as it most probably would be, on the Clue Train.
Not that stats matter all that much, but they help illustrate what I’m talking about here. The last six times I’ve sought chukar to shoot I’ve hiked a total of 22.35 miles, ascended 5,715 feet, been in the field about 24 hours, driven about half a million miles, fired all of three shots, and hit one itsy-bitsy chukar chick, which I miraculously recovered in an all-out sprint against a determined Peat (let’s hear it for small victories). After a great opening weekend, this season has stunk for me and it’s mostly because I am an idiot. Here’s why.
Mainly, I choose to hunt when it’s 80 degrees, and then get angry that my dogs can’t find any birds. That’s like hiring a blind person to be a photo editor. A dog needs a few molecules of moisture for its amazing nose to detect with any accuracy birds’ scent. It’s been so dry when I’ve forced Angus to hunt that I swear I hear him squeak when he lopes by, or maybe he’s cursing me under his breath like Popeye did to Brutus. If I’m frustrated, Angus has got to be homicidal. I’ve seen Angus point twice this season. He’s trying, but I’m not letting him run around until it’s so hot that he can’t go two minutes without bee-lining back to me for a drink. I don’t know why I don’t learn better. I wasn’t going to go out again until it cooled down and we got some moisture, but yesterday Peat was driving me crazy while I tried to grade papers and I finally said, about 1:30, “Hey, I have an amazing idea, dogs: let’s go chukar hunting.”
So I drove about 75 minutes in 80 degree aridity on powder-dust, washboard roads and set the mutts loose in some of the bleakest terrain I could find. It was so hot my lightweight, wicking upland pants began fusing with my epidermis. The sun was so high in the sky the only shade anywhere was under my pickup. Even north-facing slopes contained no escape from the sun, and the only few blades of green grass grew scantly at the bases of a few tall bunch grass tufts in a wee tight ravine, at the very bottom of which, unbeknownst to me because of the tall sage and bitterbrush hiding him, Angus pointed three of what were surely the most poorly hydrated chukar on the planet. I learned this only after hitting the shock button on his e-collar by mistake, which no doubt caused Angus to flinch and the birds to bust out of range. Idiot move.
The day before, while on a drive when it was, yep, 80 degrees, I insisted on getting out of the truck with Angus and having Leslie pick us up “at the bottom.” This was Hell’s Canyon, which is pretty big if you haven’t been there; its “bottom” is bigger than Beyonce’s after a bon-bon binge. Anyway, I thought there had to be chukar down there, so I took off with Angus and Leslie drove off. I’d never been to this area, but could see the water way down below. More than two ankle-thrashing hours later, after finding no birds, we hit the road but had zero idea where Leslie was because one of our radios was dead (because, um, I’m an idiot). We walked for about a mile before she found us. She waited politely for Angus and me to get our sweat-soaked bodies situated before telling us that she saw hundreds of chukar along the road, all the way down to the bottom.
This idiot thing isn’t new, either. Four years ago, I did this:
I know what to do. I just don’t do it, and I really can’t explain why. That makes me an idiot. At least.
It’s so dry in chukarland that finding birds, easy on opening weekend, has become tougher than gristle on roadkill. In three days of hard hiking up, across, and down some very good looking habitat, we witnessed a total of five or six coveys, most of which busted wild. With temperatures in the mid-80s continuing through this week, and no precipitation forecast, it doesn’t look like next weekend will be any better.
Heading
Still, getting out is better than staying home. A friend with a year-old Pointing Griffon made the long drive to our area for his first taste of chukar hunting. He and his dog did fabulously, with Talisker making the only point on the first day. We saw a few more birds the second day, both high and low, but only managed one pointed covey and a couple birds. Rob and I will remember the rock-bound chukar laughing themselves silly at us while we stumbled down the talus slope in defeat.
The Kid is back
The next day, which was the first time I’ve hunted chukar for a third straight day, saw the return of The Kid. If you’ve followed this rag for a while, you’ll know I’m in danger of becoming the World’s Worst Chukar Guide when it comes to hunting with this intrepid youngster. I’ve dragged him up and down some horrendous stuff in search of his first chukar. He’s seen points, wild busts, false points, short, medium, and long creeps, gotten a few shots off, and watched me miss plenty of times. But he has still yet to bag a chukar.
The Climb, half-way
So I was determined to change that last Sunday. We hunted some new ground that looked promising. After hearing a group calling up high, we put the sneak on them, which turned out to be the most difficult single pitch climb I’ve ever done, more than 1,000 feet in an eighth of a mile. But we did it, and found some nice old sheds right at the peak, which prompted The Kid to deduce we were the first folks up there in at least a couple years. Despite being a bit beat up from a football game the previous day, The Kid matched me step for step. It won’t be long before I’m telling him to slow down and wait for me.
Tops
We slowly worked down and across, following Angus and Peat (who managed this outing without any trouble). Soon Angus got birdy, and then locked up in some tall grass on a steep decline. The Kid and I both got in good position on either side of Angus. The chukar eruption that followed was sizable, but neither shooter could pick a single bird to shoot. All escaped. Out of water, we opted not to chase, and – aside from one long Angus creep on evaporated birds – that was that.
The end of every chukar hunt should look like this
There are lots of birds out there. We couldn’t find many in three days of hard work. We need rain. So do the birds. Pray for it.
When the season consumes you, you don’t worry about much else. When it’s over, you worry about everything else. Filling up that worry with good things to carry it away like water helps. Yesterday was one of those good days between seasons. We collected a painting we commissioned and hung it up. It is working already.
We’d admired Rachel Teannalach‘s work for quite a while. Her eye for light and spirit in landscapes resonated with us. We lucked into taking her for a hike into one of our favorite spots, and she got to work, after we subjected her to what seemed like thousands of “favorite” photos of Angus in Hell’s Canyon.
Not being a painter, I’d never studied her work closely, but having this on our wall now gives me the chance to see, maybe, what good painters see and translate through and onto their media and make into spirit and feeling.
Detail: Brownlee Reservoir
Detail: Angus pointing
Only connect. Yesterday my teacher Bruce Gandy won a major bagpipe competition. A year or so ago, after watching a video I’d made about connecting things (one of which was chukar hunting with Angus), he thought he’d found the subject title to one of his piobaireachd compositions. “Salute to Angus of the Chukar Hills” was title he settled on. Having two works of art in sight and sound is good. What’s best for me is the connection between people and animals and landscapes and sounds that make me feel connected.
Yesterday, we picked a puppy brother for Angus. Peat’ll be ready to come home in a few weeks (more on that later). We also went to a track meet and watched some of my students run well. Bruce won a major competition. We got a gorgeous painting. Ripples in water, crossing each other, making me smile inside, washing away worry.
After the last couple hikes with Angus, I’m feeling pretty lucky.
With Leslie away, it was just my best friend and me. We went to a new spot, the opposite direction from our normal compass bearing. Filtering through private land, endless rolling hills, creeks, basalt scatter, barbed wire in various states of repair, muddy tracks betraying several weight classes of vehicular passing, we reached some large parcels of BLM land. I picked a spot with some inviting chukar habitat and we set out.
Break time
Within minutes, Angus pointed. One bird went up, and I managed to wing it, but I knew it would run. Angus disappeared over the ridge top. I checked where I saw the chukar hit the ground, and found just a few feathers. Five minutes later, Angus appeared with the bird.
It went like that all day. A few singles, then a covey or two, then more singles. Angus was birdy all the time. Almost seven miles later, we made it back to the pickup. The next day, we went back to the same area, but hunted on the other side of the road. Carbon copy day. Chukar lucky.
