[NOTE: This is the “winning” retriever story, by Trevor Henderson of Twin Falls, ID]
Quinn and I were hunting chukars in the rimrock country of southern Idaho, the kind of steep, unforgiving terrain where birds run fast and fly faster. The dogs were working well that morning—Ryder and Joker ranging close, casting along the rocky edges. Then they froze—solid point. We stepped in, and the covey blew out like feathered fireworks. Amid the chaos, I squeezed off a shot and watched a bird fold, but we lost sight of where it went down. We figured it landed somewhere near where Ryder and Joker were already nosing around.
Five minutes passed. No bird. The dogs worked hard, but came up empty. Then, from far below, I caught movement. Ellie, my little liver-and-white sweetheart, had broken off from us, over 200 yards down the canyon. I whistled once, unsure what she was doing way out there. A few moments later, she crested a rocky rise, tail wagging, chukar in her mouth—our chukar. How she knew where it fell, how she found it when the others couldn’t… that’s something only Ellie could do.
That was Ellie—heart, drive, and nose like no other. She gave everything in the field, day after day. Last season, she was shot and killed by coyote hunters while we chased chukars in that same country. It broke something in me I don’t think will ever fully mend.
But I hold on to days like that one. When she proved, again, that she was more than just a bird dog. She was my partner, my friend, and on that hillside, the best damn retriever I’ve ever known.
Rest easy, my sweet girl. You’ll always be on point in my memory.
Ellie bringing back a chukar. (This and the featured photo of the author and Ellie are both courtesy of Trevor Henderson.)
A week later, the withdrawal symptoms have begun. Peat’s evening hotlaps have intensified. Angus seems more lost than his age and illness can explain, insisting on some daily me-time around dusk to see if any game birds have interloped on our plot. Leslie made the video. I’m having more meltdowns than usual, at least in my head (and seem to be sleeping much less). Arg. I hate the off-season.
But, as you can see in the video, it was a season worth looking at. All the numbers were better than ever, even if it felt like there were fewer birds than ever. The numbers say otherwise (that’s why it’s good to keep a log, to keep your memory fair).
So enjoy the video, and — if you’re anything like me — hang in there until next September.
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.
“What’s in a name? That we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” –William Shakespeare
I’ve never called myself an upland hunter. I don’t know why, but maybe it’s too broad of a term. I don’t hunt quail or pheasant, and don’t usually go out of my way to hunt ruffed or dusky grouse in the deep draws with thick pine trees or hawthorn stands like Bob fancies doing. These days, when I do feel the urge to shoot a grouse it’s because it busted wild from the ground and wasn’t near any trees whatsoever. The first bird I ever shot was a big ruffed grouse from a tree limb down by a watery creek bed. My shooting it was probably more from the frustration of Peat’s insistent high pitched barking at it rather than me wanting to get my first bird under my belt. According to his breeder, Peat had come “from a long line of barkers,” and at the moment I shot that bird the pup was yapping his head off while standing on his hind legs at the base the tree with his little tail stub wagging furiously. Peat’s immediate retrieve directly to my hand shut him up, but I learned that I prefer shooting at a moving target in the air or one that I don’t have to think about too long before pulling the trigger. I wept for that bird on that early September morning and all the others that have since followed. That grouse was the first thing I’d ever purposely killed besides maybe spiders (which I try to avoid anyway because it would mean getting close to them to do it).
I like hunting chukar, or I might say I’m obsessed with chukar (alectoris chukar) and the wild and expansive open spaces they call home. I thrive on the adrenaline rush of not knowing where a covey might bust from after a sustained point by the dogs as they work together in beautiful harmony. Hunting chukar also suits my competitive personality. Hunting with Bob, I’ve been known to recklessly traverse a steep scree slope just to beat him to a point. I like the challenge of putting myself into position near the dogs to see the covey rise, up close.
The past two months so far, the boys, Angus and Peat haven’t been finding and pointing as many chukar as I’d prefer, but instead they’ve been finding gray partridge (perdix perdix), also known as Hungarian partridge or “Huns” as we call them. I’ve been busting these Huns often in prime-looking chukarish terrain. I’m talking about higher elevation rocky outcropping or just below these rocks on the steep sagebrush covered undulating slopes.
Uphill point on Huns
Recently, I was very surprised when Peat brought a retrieved bird to my hand only to discover it was a Hungarian Partridge. What’s in a name, anyway? Maybe I should start calling myself a Hungarian partridge hunter instead of always referring to myself as a chukar hunter.
In chukar country, when a covey busts, most often flying away from you at rapid speed, you sometimes shoot regardless of whether you know if it’s a chukar or Hun. Most times you don’t have a chance to identify the species beforehand. In the hand, Huns don’t look anything like chukar and are typically smaller, and they usually don’t hold as long as chukar and often don’t often make any noise when they bust. I’m no expert, but I’ve been hiking the chukar hills for years and it’s still hard to tell the difference in that split second the birds take off. Ask any seasoned chukar hunter and they’d probably tell you the same thing.
Chukar partridge and Hungarian partridge hunting season here in Idaho coincide with each other, which is a good thing because I’d feel terrible to shoot a bird out of season. If any of you are reading this wondering why on earth anyone would shoot at a bird she can’t identify haven’t hunted chukar in habitat that is also home to Hungarian partridge.
Peat backing Angus on a covey of Huns
Ridge top Hun
Hun and gun
When Peat brought that most recent Hun to my hand, I said in disappointment, “Oh…it’s just a Hun!” Thinking back on it, I now feel bad for my lack of gratitude while stuffing it into my bird pouch. Have I turned into a chukar snob or connoisseur of fine chukar? Lately, my shooting has been way off, so any bird I can manage to knock down — even “just” a Hun — is something to be grateful for. Do the dogs care what kind of bird it is? Do they even know if it’s a chukar or Hun? I think they’re just happy and proud to bring any kind of bird to me so they can be lavished with the thanks and the praise that follows.
Peat backing Angus on flatter more typical looking Hun terrain
Bob heading to a covey of Huns, Peat was pointing earlier this season
Like many of you, I spent much of the summer trying to get in shape for chukar season. I ran about 10 to 15 miles a week, rode my bike, hiked, and — for the first time in a long time — did a little strength training. To be honest, I’ve been a little nervous about it all since — because of the low bird count around here — I’m expecting to do a lot more hiking and a lot less finding. So, on opening weekend we hunted, for our first time, along the Salmon River because we’d heard there were a lot of chukar down there; I wanted to maximize the chance Leslie would bag a chukar on her initial outing as a hunter.
Castles
The bird report, from what we saw, was right. We saw plenty of chukar on both days. That report, though, didn’t help me visualize the experience of hunting there. It is steep and rough, nothing to be trifled with. My physical fitness, which I felt was good going in, was not a comfortable match with the terrain. And Leslie — because we “strategically” split up for a while on the first day — ended up hiking farther than I and ascended about 2800 feet, 400 more than my toughest climbing day since I’ve been tracking my chukar hunts. Much of that ascending, for each of us, came in the shape of climbing boulder piles on ridge spines, which was easier than scaling vertical walls to get out of the numerous steep crevices and ravines we ran into all day. I did actually climb a couple walls (the shotgun sling made this possible, if not smart).
Going down
Climbing wasn’t the only challenge. After gaining all that elevation, we had to get down, and by then our legs were jellifying, and the old quads (the ones God gave us) began feeling pretty shaky over the loose steep dry rocky terrain.
Crossing over
Going up
This all almost sounds like a complaint. It’s not. It was awesome because it was new ground, and the birds were everywhere. The big rocks, though, and our dogs’ dry noses seriously curtailed the number of pointed coveys. I never actually got a shot over a pointed bird on the first day, but it seemed as though I shot all day long at wild-busting birds, or birds that Leslie bumped above me, or vice versa.
Leslie reflecting on Recoil
And Leslie’s maiden voyage as a hunter was impressive, even though she didn’t bag a bird. She got the first shot of the day off a pointed single chukar that Angus held for a long time, allowing Leslie to get into position and experience the unpredictability of a “sure thing” point. She also learned, the hard way, that footing when shooting pointed chukar is important: when the bird flew, it wasn’t exactly where she thought it was, so she had to move her feet before shooting, and in the process lost her balance (assisted by recoil) and ended up on her ass. I have it on video, but she’s asked me to refrain from showing it to anybody. Maybe later…
The second day just Peat and I hit the hills a bit downstream, which were just as steep but more open than the rocky castles we’d endured on Saturday. Peat pointed many coveys. I shot miserably, though, which greatly irritated me until I remembered I was chukar hunting.
Listening to and watching lots of chukar
And when we were done, we were loaded with way more memories and lactic acid than dead birds. The fact that we did what we did, to us anyway, confirms we’re not old despite what we might think a lot of the time. Because that is no country for old men, or women.
The question then becomes, since Hells Canyon is easier hiking than the Salmon River “hills,” would we rather hunt closer and find way fewer birds or drive all the way down there and find lots more birds but under much more strenuous conditions? We’ll most likely return to the River of No Return.
The river was a great place to relax after the hike.
