Some things are rituals. It was never discussed on Saturday but over the course of the last four months it was customary or tradition that we’d bird hunt on every Sunday.
Last Sunday morning while sitting in front of the wood stove drinking coffee and looking out the living room window toward the mountains, Bob said, “Let’s go for a hike after I get done grading papers. Just because the season is over doesn’t mean we can’t go for a hike. Besides, we all need some exercise.” I agreed wholeheartedly.
I grabbed my upland bird pack from the garage and transferred things from it to my day hiking backpack. It was always a practice during hunting season that I’d have a mental check list of things to add to my pack so not to forget something important. It was routine to fill my hydration pack with water, look to make sure my gloves were still in there, to add some dog treats and snacks. Of course this time I didn’t need to worry about packing enough shotgun shells or to remember to put my shotgun in the back of the pickup. One ritual we didn’t break this time was to bring GPS collars for the dogs. Bob accidentally forgot the collars once so as we would drive away from our house, I would always ask him if we have the dog collars. We don’t really need GPS collars if we’re not hunting but Angus is deaf and senile sometimes and it’s comforting knowing we could track him if he wanders off, which he did a couple of times this season.
We drove through town and past a couple of churches with parking lots packed full of big pickups and cars. We’d always joke on our way down to the canyon on a late Sunday morning that we were going to the 24-Hour Church of HELLS Canyon.
It was a beautiful February afternoon. We started up a steep ridge, and the ascent felt easy. We continued our climb for another hour through the sage and bitterbrush, and the dogs went on point down below me near Bob. The sound of a covey busting filled the air. Out of habit, I was expecting to hear the sound of Bob shooting, but it was strangely quiet and I wondered if the dogs were confused why we didn’t shoot. Did they know we weren’t carrying a gun and it’s the off season? Traversing up the ridge we found a few more coveys of Huns but no chukar. We’d hunted here once before earlier in the season but the dogs had found only chukar and no Huns. Weird.
We hadn’t spent a lot of time in the canyon this season, but spiritually I feel like the hills are sacred. The hills are my church. We eventually turned around and headed back down, and I stopped to admire the view of the distant snow-covered mountains and to watch Peat and Angus running through the golden bunchgrass and I knew at that exact moment that this spot I was standing on was where I want to scatter some of Angus’s ashes.
Heading up.Angus with his subtle point. It’s the way he’s always done it.Peat backing Angus who’s way below him.Catching the wind.Strange not carrying a shotgun in my hand or on my shoulder. A couple of HunsPeat watching them fly.A single that busted after the main coveyFunny Peat laying down while honoringPeat honoring Angus again.Sacred hills.Angus of the chukar hills.So long, farewell, and just like a habit we’ll be back next season.
My dogs look like they’re onto birds. I sense it from subtle nuances and have learned from training and experience how to read their body language. If I’m hunting with just one dog all my focus is on that one dog. If both of my dogs are in the picture, I have to decide which one to trust more and which one to follow more closely.
I remove my shotgun from my shoulder and hold it in ready position and carefully pick my way through the loose rocks without trying to look down. I see Angus through the thick sagebrush. He has stopped and is motionless. He’s on point. Out of the corner of my left eye, I see Peat rushing up and stopping just behind Angus.
Angus with his beautiful show dog gait starts creeping forward. Peat stays put. Scanning the tops of the sagebrush, I’ve consciously made myself focus softly, not knowing which direction the birds might bust. I slowly start moving into position in front of Angus.
Like a flash of lightning, more to my left than I’d anticipated, a small covey of chukar busts flying at top speed away from me. I quickly mount my gun while taking the safety off, then point the end of the barrel with the fleeing partridge’s arc, my index finger goes onto the trigger, and I squeeze. Everything happens so fast I don’t have time to think, relying on muscle memory from past experiences.
The dogs hear the noise of wing-whirr made by the covey of chukar taking off, and the sound of the single shot, and they get excited and run in the direction of where the birds flew hoping to pick up some scent on the ground of a downed chukar. They run back to me and give me that look: why did you miss? The sequence of usual events gets messed up this time and we don’t have a retrieve to make it complete.
I berate myself, making up all kinds of excuses and asking questions. Was it my stance and posture, my gun mount, or that I didn’t focus on the bird and follow through? Some or all are true. It messes with my head.
The three of us move on and we’ll try this spot again next year.
The initial point and honor, with Angus about to creepThe approachPeat’s backing the invisible AngusBust and shot: birds just above the sageWhy’d you miss? Do you know what I went through to find those birds? Can you not hold up your end of this bargain? Would it kill you to practice once in a while? Do you think I’m doing this for my health? Do you think I’m getting fat? Why do you give me so many treats?
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.
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.
The week started off bad. The week also ended with many firsts.
Tuesday started with Angus throwing up his morning kibble in the backyard. Later on, he refused a dog treat from the treat jar. This was a first time in his life that he’s ever not wanted one of those multi-colored square snaps treats. In the afternoon, he still wouldn’t eat or drink water. Just as soon as Bob got home from school we loaded the dogs in the car for a trip down below for both of us to get our annual eye exams, appointments made weeks in advance. Appointments that we didn’t dare miss. Where we live is the upper country, and anytime you drive south down to Weiser, Ontario, or the Boise Valley, it’s called “down below.” Living in the upper country requires many trips for most services like eye exams, tire rotations, trips to the pharmacy, and jury duty, for example but also for groceries that you can’t find in the local market like garam masala for making chukar curry for the students. We also go down below to restaurants that serve a decent selection of IPA’s plus food since we don’t have a restaurant in town that offers this service.
On the drive, I told Bob about Angus’s condition that morning and afternoon. The remainder of the trip it was quiet. After our eye exams, I walked the dogs in the parking lot. Angus peed, a good sign his tumor wasn’t blocking is urinary tract, but he still refused to drink water. We stopped for dinner in Ontario at our favorite place to eat. One of the new beers on tap at Bert’s Growler Garage was an IPA called F* Cancer. Bob ordered it and we sat down, and instead of our usual “cheers” or “slàinte” (meaning “to good health” in Scottish Gaelic) we both said “F*ck Cancer!” As we somberly sat there waiting for our food we decided this might be the end and we’d probably have to call our vet the next day to get an appointment but we also need to ask him who can do dog cremations “down below” when that day comes.
The next morning, Angus was was prancing around and super excited to get his cup of kibble. He gobbled it down and acted normally the rest of that morning. I’m not sure what was wrong with him the day before, but this is probably the start of good days and bad days. I’m not ready for it. Not knowing how he’d be on weekend, I opted out of going out-of-state on a hunting trip with Bob and a friend because, knowing Bob, hunting with him usually results in thousands of feet of climbing and many hours and miles of hiking. It’s not that I’m against doing this, and I do this when I hunt alone, but I was just worried that it might be too much for Angus and I didn’t want to leave him home.
So on Saturday morning, Angus, smelling the scent on my pack from the last hunt, got super amped up while I was putting on my hiking boots and filling my hydration bladder in the kitchen sink. That was a good sign; he was ready to hunt. We drove out of town and I took him to a new place because I try not to go to the same place twice in one season, plus it’s fun to see new country and you never know if you’ll find a goldmine of chukar. I try to find areas far from roads and places where the UTV’s can’t get to but not too remote for my safety in case something happened. The long steep hike up to just below a ridge paid off. Angus’s nose to the ground snorting at the dry earth, tail fluttering — he was super birdy. He had located a covey hunkered down in the grass next to a patch of sage and went on point. I got up to him and didn’t know where the birds might bust because the direction the dog is looking isn’t always where the birds are. Focusing softly, I took one more step in front of him and the covey busted slightly to my right and I managed to hit one chukar. Angus ran down the hill and immediately found the bird and headed up to me with it in his mouth.
The end of a very long retrieve
Text book chukar hunting moment it seemed to me, that is until just before arriving to me, he changed directions and headed a different direction with my bird. Tail fluttering again, he was onto more birds and he kept going. He eventually stopped and I could see him from a short distance on point again. He still had the chukar in his mouth. I was stunned. The only other time I’d seen something like this before was when Peat went on point last year with a deer leg bone firmly gripped in his mouth. A bird dog pointing with a bird in his mouth was a first for me. I wish I’d taken a photo, but wanted to honor the point by being ready to shoot with the Benelli. The second covey busted wild before I could get up to Angus and I watched them fly up around the next ridge. He turned around and delivered the belated bird right to me, but it still wasn’t dead. Dispatching birds myself is something that I hate to do, and I get teary-eyed almost every time. There’s a saying in the chukar hunting world that goes something like, “The first chukar you kill is for fun, the rest are for revenge.” I think it’s a ridiculous saying. I respect these birds that live in these harsh environments, and killing one is never for revenge.
I put the chukar into my bird pouch and we changed our intended route for the day, and ended up chasing those two coveys that had busted into smaller groups and singles busting wild for the next two hours, at one point going in circles before Angus located and pointed some of them down in a deep draw. The covey went up, I shot once and hit two. I was stunned for the second time in one day. This was a first time I’d seen this, something that I’d never even seen Bob achieve. It was either pure luck, my shooting is improving, the new shot gun shells Bob loaded for me are the ticket, or the tenacity of a bird dog that will never give up. Maybe it was a combination of everything and my stars were aligned that day.
Scotch double
The following day after Bob finished grading student papers we decided to head out with both dogs to go look for birds. It was a little late in the day, but after some intense negotiating on where to go, and weighing the pros and cons we decided on a place we hadn’t been to in a couple of years. Angus had a slight abrasion on one of his pads from the day before so I wrapped it up and covered both back feet with some dog booties we’d bought a few years ago and never used. This was a first for Angus; in all his years of hunting rough chukar terrain he’s never had to wear booties or have his feet taped up. He took to wearing those dog socks like he’s worn them all his life, unlike Peat, who isn’t a fan of booties.
After the long drive to get to the starting spot, we only had a few hours of daylight left. Our goal of the day was to cover as much ground as possible but hunt close to each other so the dogs could work together as a team. If you’ve never witnessed a dog honoring another dog’s point, it’s a beautiful thing to see. Within 12 minutes of the hunt, Peat bolted in a straight line like he was running for his life. As most of you know, when you hunt with your dogs a lot, you learn their body language and whether or not they’re hot on wild birds. Sometimes there are subtle nuances, but with Peat it’s usually more forceful and you better damn book it in his direction because he’s about ready to point. Angus is more methodical about it, and if he doesn’t check back in with you within 2 or 3 minutes during his circular rotation he’s usually on birds.
Golden sea of bunch grassNot bad for an old lady and old dog
Much of the terrain where we were hunting was wide open without much sage and antelope bitterbrush, which gave both of us good views of the dogs working all the nooks and crannies. The dirt from not having rain for a few weeks was dry as a bone and the green-up from early season was already drying out. The dogs worked together taking turns pointing, but getting to either dog meant usually going a long way down a steep hill. It was challenging because of all the loose rocks underneath the grasses. After dropping halfway down to the bottom where Angus was pointing a covey of chukar with Peat backing him, I was almost temped to pick up and throw a rock downhill below me to get the birds to bust so I wouldn’t have to go any further. The covey busted and I got off two shots but only hit one bird. Peat retrieved it and ran past me and up the hill to give it to Bob.
Peat heading to Bob with my chukar. .
One of the many highlights of the day for me was seeing a huge black bear hauling ass away from me down the mountain towards the creek. This was the first time I’d seen a black bear while chukar hunting this season. I watched it until it faded away behind some trees at the bottom. I felt bad that it had to burn so much fuel doing so when winter hibernation is just around the corner. A herd of mule deer also busted single file from the thick brush in a different draw a few minutes later. I watched them bounding away until they also disappeared as if I’d never seen them.
My third chukar of the day. Peat brought it to me!Late blooming phloxAnother one for Bob
After a lot of vertical feet gained, lost, and gained again in just over 7 miles we were all pretty tired when we got back up to the vehicle. Bagging a few birds that day was bonus, but the late afternoon light illuminating the golden hillsides, the full moon starting to rise over the mountains, and the time spent together on that day was what made it perfect. What a great way to end the week! During the hunt, I remember saying to Bob, “If today was Angus’s last hunt ever for the rest of his life, what an amazing life and two days of hunting he’s had.” It’s days like this that will be ingrained into my soul for the rest of my life.
Late afternoon lightRare tailgate photo with a couple of hardworking, tired dogs
