Uncle Larry's Model 99

When I was eight my Dad mounted a mule deer rack in the garage to serve as a coat-hanger.  He's told me the story of how that deer met his demise many times.  In prepartion of a Nevada deer hunt my Dad borrowed his Uncle Larry's Model 99 Savage.  This wasn't just any Model 99; it was a .270 Titus, sometimes called a .270 Savage.  The Titus, so I've read, was developed by gunsmith Bliss Titus of Heber City, Utah.  Essentially the .270 Titus is a 300 Savage necked down to accomodate the .270 projectile.  They are purported to be very accurate.

Anyway, Uncle Larry handed over his rifle with a box of hand-loaded rounds, and my Dad made some comment that he "only needed one," but Larry scoffed and sent my Dad on his way with a full ammo box.  The next day, as the sun rose over the Nevada desert my Dad spooked a nice mule deer in the bottom of a ravine.  The deer charged up the other side and my Dad squeezed off a round just as the buck reached the top and the sun's light  flooded the scope.  In the early morning silence my Dad heard him fall to the ground and die.  The shot was 450 yards and the bullet entered the deer's back between the shoulder blades.  At his van a pair of road hunters asked if he had seen any deer, to which my Dad, with blood all over his clothing replied "nope, not a one."  Back in Reno my Dad returned the rifle, ammo box, and empty casing to Larry, probably with some smart ass comment about how he only needed one.

I'm hoping I'm as lucky this year as I try to take my first deer using the same rifle my old man used to take his.  She's a real beauty and I feel honored just to be able to take it out of the house.

Honeymoon

Since it's pretty cold all over the US, I thought I'd share something I put together for some friends telling the story of our honeymoon.  Yes, it's November, and finally we are hunting birds in Kansas, but a part of me still wishes I was on a flat somewhere in 80 degree weather.

We boarded a plane early in the morning on Sunday, and with some creative plane switches and good timing we were over the Bahamas early that afternoon. As we flew south over the Exuma Cays the flats were quickly apparent. There must be bonefish everywhere down there.

We were shocked, floored, completely surprised by our accommodations for the week. We had been upgraded to “the Castle” because of a broken pool pump at the other villa, and upgraded can’t begin to describe it.

We later talked with the developer and he told us this is the nicest house in the Exumas. Completed just three months ago, we were the first guests.

We spent Monday learning to drive on the left side of the road, buying groceries and booze, exploring the beaches and George Town, enjoying the private pool and hot tub, and whatever else honeymooners do. The weather was perfect and we always had the place all to ourselves.

 

The local beer is called “Kalik,” after the sound a cow bell makes. I bought a case and taught the wife to bring me another every time I screamed “we need more cow bell!”  (I get to use some artistic license, right?!)

 

 
Tuesday marked the day I was to receive my official wedding present from Hannah: a day on the Bahamian flats with an experienced bonefish guide. We met Martin Clarke, of Moss Town on Tuesday morning at a pier down a rough road. His house and pier were only a couple minutes from our villa, but we were still late. Long night, ya know.

We motored down a narrow mangrove-choked channel until the banks opened up to reveal the vastness of the ocean. The tide was up, but falling, and we checked out two small beaches in protected coves to the north. Neither yielded bonefish, but he asked me to cast for him, to size me up I imagine. I did my best impression of a double-haul and sent the new line flying through the guides and he smiled, “oh, okay, we going to alright then today.”

Further north we came to a flat that looked like it extended the rest of the western coast of Great Exuma. It just went on and on and on. The goal was to catch the fish coming out of the mangroves. Martin directed my casting and stripping and we got the skunk off early.

Then I got another.

 

I saw neither fish but both ate the gold-assed Gotcha willingly and pulled hard. Just as Hannah was falling asleep we came across a school of fifty fish, and I caught a few more. Soon the water was getting too low and we had to leave the flat or be stranded. We headed far south and anchored the boat in a channel bisecting two enormous flats. Hannah stayed behind to sun bathe while Martin and I left to wade the ankle deep flat.

 

It wasn’t long before Martin softly commanded “stop!” and pointed out tailing fish in front of us. And so it went for an hour or so, he’d spot fish, I’d cast and either hook up or spook them. After lunch we were motoring to the other side of the channel when Martin called out “that’s a big fish!” and pointed to a nine pound bonefish on the edge of the channel. Just as I sent my fly sailing he turned away, and just as I was picking up the cast he turned back and spooked. Damn.

We anchored and were into fish immediately, bigger fish, too. We saw a dozen fish in the nine to twelve pound range, but none were hooked. I did manage to land my largest fish of the day, about six pounds. I’ve seen it written that the average Exuma bonefish is about eight pounds, but my average was probably three or four pounds. Martin fished us a full day and we both had a great time.

The next day I wanted to find a spot to wade on my own. The highway that runs the length of the island is called the Queen’s Highway, and it’s really the only good road on the island. It runs the ocean side, which is more scenic and therefore where all the developments are. There aren’t any bonefish on the ocean side, they’re on the flats side of the island. But, an adventurous soul could brave the badly dilapidated secondary roads to nowhere in search of flats. So, despite Hannah’s pleas to turn around, despite my fantasies of finding a long lost tribe of pygmies, we pressed on and found our own private piece of bonefish paradise. Well, it was someone else’s piece; there was a small boarded-up house on stilts over a concrete pad, right there in the middle of no-where, and it’s backyard of lava-rock and mangroves was the only easy access to the beach and miles and miles of endless white sandy, muddy flats. Hannah sunbathed as I waded aimlessly. Unfortunately I was unable to spot any fish; maybe they were there, maybe they weren’t.

Hannah decided she'd rather fish again than go sailing like we had planned, so we booked the next day with Martin. This time we arrived on time and were slowly feasted upon by no-see-um’s until Martin arrived late. The tide was way up as we motored out and we hit the same two beaches directly to the north. The first one yielded a large school of bonefish that were gone as quickly as they appeared. The second beach was unproductive as well. In the higher water we decided on a yellow Deceiver pattern I had to get down quicker than a regular Gotcha pattern. But, there was a trade-off…the heavier fly often landed with a splash that would spook the fish.

After the two beaches we hit an area close to some mangroves. With the wind and the falling tide there was a strong out-to-sea current, and TONS of bonefish, and they were stacked up like salmon. We could see shadows and flashes for over and hour, mostly out of casting range, but some close enough. The first fish I hooked was taken by a lemon shark just twenty feet from the boat. I caught a couple more before we had to motor off the now much shallower flat. 

We hit several places that, to my untrained eye, didn’t look like the best bonefish water. The coast was perforated lava rock, and although the bottom was the white sandy mud, the water was still four feet deep. However, Martin directed my casting to fish and I was able to catch a couple more. Motoring across the open water was a little rough, and each time the boat fell to crash on the water there was a jolt that shot through my ass and up my spine like how it must feel to have a Mexican featherweight boxer go to work on your kidneys. We finished the day wading the same gigantic flat that we fished on Tuesday. The water was higher than last time, but dropping. We didn’t see any fish as we walked several hundred yards from the anchored boat and I could tell Martin was frustrated. We turned to walk back and started seeing fish. I caught a few, but something seemed off. They weren’t eating like they were the other day. Shadows from aerial line would spook them. They were picky. Martin thought maybe it was caused by the hurricane passing off in the distance to our east.

My greatest feeling of pride came on the walk back where I actually got to point out a fish to Martin. He had seen every other fish before me, up till that point. Dozens and dozens of fish. He would see schools coming directly our way a hundred feet before I could make them out. He would look out over a flat and comment how there were lots of fish out there, but all I saw was waves and sand. Anyway, to finally spot one before him probably meant I got lucky, but I hoped it meant I learned something.

On Saturday we went back to the private flats and Hannah waded with me for a couple hours, but still I wasn’t able to spot any fish.

Overall, it was an awesome trip. I will go back to the Exumas again.  It’s more affordable than you think.

Priorities

It's been nearly two weeks since we've returned from our fall classic in Montana.  And I've yet to make a post here, or anywhere else for that matter, to share any stories or pictures.  The reason?  The upcoming nuptials are only 10 days away, and that means the flats of the Bahamas are only 12 days away.  So, I beg your pardon, but I'm sure you understand the box needs to be filled.

Long Distance Relationships

Remember when you were a kid and you met that special girl at summer camp?  She wasn't like the girls back home, she was different.  You fell head over flip-flops for her.  You came home and thought of her often, you longed for her.  You told your best friends about her sandy blonde hair, about how she was driving with a farm permit at 14, and how she liked to go muddin' in her truck.  A truck!  What kind of girl drives a truck?  The best kind.

You might have begged your parents to call long-distance, and surely you traded some hand-written letters (complete with Elvis Presley stamp, to let her know how cool you were).  High-school resumed, and even with myriad distractions she wasn't far from your thoughts.  Summer began to give way to autum, and the dank mornings were replaced with a refreshing crispness that confirmed the changing seasons.  You decided you would ask her to be your date for Homecoming.  Then, one by one, the logistical challenges of a long distance relationship revealed themselves to you in earnest.  It just wasn't going to work out.

Fast-forward 15 years.  Things have changed quite a bit.  You've settled down, married, maybe have a couple rugrats crawling about.  But, you still have that long-distance relationship.  At least I do.  And just like Jenny from summer camp, my close friends know about it.  They've heard how the dogs usually wind them from a distance, how they always explode as a group at the exact moment you're admiring your dog's stylish point, and how they're screech pierces your ears as they rocket away.  As I type this my bags are packed, collars are charged, boots are treated, and the gun is cleaned.  This is one long distance relationship that works just fine.

Dog Topper Retrofit

Having a mid-size pickup is just fine for one guy and a couple dogs. Things get interesting with three dogs, and downright cramped with two guys, three dogs, and camping gear.

Over the last year or so I've seen a few projects (Living With Birddogs and Idaho Upland Hunting) that inspired me to retrofit my existing topper to more easily accomodate dogs and gear. I knew I could build one with wood cheaply and easily, but aluminum offers many advantages and seemed like more of a challenge--I like to stay busy during the summer.  Anyway, aluminum is cleaner, more durable, and just looks nice if you do it right. But I don't have a workshop in a steel building full of gnarly tools fit for cutting metal. I also don't know how to weld al-loo-min-ium, and hiring a welder would make any project cost-prohibitive. Without welds, joints would look too sloppy using common fasteners. And then I found these steel-core tubing connectors online. With that, this project was a go. After I finalized my design I ordered the connectors and some 1" aluminum tubing and a 4'x12'x0.063" sheet of aluminum from EMJ Metals here in Kansas City, and the doors came from Bob at Wingworks.

I cut the tubing with my Dad's miter saw and filed the burrs off the edges for a clean finish. The connectors fit very tightly with 1/16" wall tubing, once it's in it's not coming out. I used 1/20" wall tubing on pieces I wanted to be able to come apart--this thing is designed to be quickly disassembled.

Here's a look at the frame laid out before assembly.

I used an archaic drill press to put holes in the corner connectors for pull pins on one side and spring pins on the other side.

Then I set to work cutting the sheet with a circular saw and metal blade. It worked pretty well aside from the random chip that would fall into my shoe. It was too damn hot to wear proper work clothes anyway. I secured the vertical partition to aluminum angle that I mounted on the roof and floor and held all together with nuts and screws.  I ran the calcs and it should support 500lbs with less than 1/2" deflection. 

I used 0.063" polished diamond-plate for the back. Unlike the other two projects linked above, I decided to mount the doors inside the truck. I only have a 5' bed, so I decided to leave enough room for a water jug and vests in front of the doors. Otherwise the dogs take up most of the bed area with room for storage underneath them. I like the dogs to be able to load themselves, and I like the doors inside to keep the weather off them better.

Most of the time I'll only roll with one door and backplate installed. The other side will be utilized for storage. I figure I can fit my two setters and my buddy's setter together on one side, and then if we're carrying more dogs install the other backplate and door.  I've got some plastic grating to add for floors and I plan to add a DC fan sometime, too.  This weekend it gets it's first official test for the prairie chicken opener.  I hope you like it as much as I do.

Emergences

Even in Kansas we manage a few trout-food type hatches.  You usually can find mayflies and caddis under outside lights on summer nights.  I'd call this one a hexagenia mayfly, but I have no clue if that's actually correct.  He was probably three inches long counting the tail.  Anyway, he was in the garage watching me build a dog topper I'll be posting on shortly--I'm really welcoming the versatility it will bring to my pickup.

There's another change coming this hunting season: Scampwalker has acquired himself one of those hot-shot trial-bred short-haired setters. Two falls ago I saw a dog out of the same breeding run in Montana, and if this gal turns out as good she's going to be a brag-worthy bird dog.

With Scamp's newly acquired pigeons we set out last weekend to give Lulu her first exposure to birds at just over six months of age.  As many well-bred dogs do she caught on quickly and was winding pigeons from range and establishing point like an old salt.  I am captivated every time I witness that first special moment.

Imagine if your entire life were completely devoted to one purpose, one function.  Mayflies and bird dogs both are a lot like that.  The former exists purely to procreate.  They hatch from eggs in a river and live a year as a nymph trying not to become food for an organism further along in the evolutionary process.  Then, when the time is right, they swim to the surface, wildly scramble to crack open their exoskeleton, escape the shuck, dry their wings, and fly away to avoid what would otherwise be a premature death by salmonoid.  Finally they gather over the water in swarming groups in what must be an insect's version of Woodstock.  The males donate their genetic material and, completely exhausted, they fall to the water's surface to give their bodies back to Mother Earth.

Bird dogs also only have one simple function:  to point birds.  Sure, they're bred for conformation, stamina, boldness, bidability, companionship, etc, but the dog has got to have a nose, and he has got to love birds.  Those are paramount.  Anyway, I thought that a well-bred pup's first point must be a lot like a mayfly's (only) sexual experience.  The molecules enter the dog's nose, the receptors process the scent, signals are sent to the brain, and a previously unengaged instinct takes complete control of the dog. The tail straightens, the body tenses and begins to shake. They are helpless to do anything but endlessly ponder the next movement.  Captivating, truly.

There Have Been Birthdays

There's no denying it...I'm officially in my "late 20's."  At least when I was 27 I could sneak into the "mid-20's," but not anymore.  While it could be worse (I could be turning....30!) this birthday has served as a gentle reminder to quit pretending I'm fresh out of school and to start acting my age.  Well, maybe next year...

To celebrate my fiancé and I took in a Reckless Kelly show at Lucky Maggie's in Diamond, MO, near Joplin.  This was her baptism into Reckless live and they have another loyal disciple for life--needless to say we both had a great time.  Maggie herself tossed me a Shiner-in-a-can on the house, nice!

Normally I would forget these things, but Sage's birthday is exactly a week after mine.  This year is his fifth.  It's tough to think that (with his ankle injury) his best days are behind him, but he stuck his share of birds last season and we're looking forward to two weeks out west this fall.

First Impressions of the Garmin DC40

Plant me firmly in the biased camp.  I love the Astro system.  I believe I need it.  I might not have kept Ike around without it.  Not that Ike is a run-off, or a self-hunter, he isn't, it's just that I'm still a (relatively) in-experienced dog handler, and up to that point every dog I had hunted behind had been (relatively) closer working dogs, or younger dogs that hadn't yet found their range. 

Early on I was running the Tri-Tronics G2 collar with the remote-activated beeper.  Every 30 seconds I found myself polling the beeper for clues to Ike's location.  Hunts were not enjoyable.  I was certain that someday I'd lose him, or find him expired on a country road.  There was no trust, and I didn't know how to develop trust with a dog like Ike.

The Astro changed all that.

I felt like I could discern between a wide cast or a deer chase.  It took some time to grow the trust, and there were some moments that found me dropping my vest and gun to chase after him when he pushed beyond the Astro's range (chasing deer).  But I think today we've struck out a mutually beneficial deal:  I let him do what he does, and he maintains his manners with minimal tomfoolery.  In that regard, the original DC20 did what I needed it to do.  But there were opportunities to excel and as such Garmin just released their third iteration with some significant improvements.

The key is that these improvements directly addressed feedback from users of earlier models.  For example, the nylon collar on both of my DC30's are frayed and worn.  As such they have been replaced with the more popular coated nylon collars that e-collar manufacturers use.  Sometimes I have experienced issues charging collars, especially if the collar and the charger are cold.  Now they have switched to use a method that offers more direct mating of electrical contacts.  I've muddied up the contacts and put both in the freezer over-night, no charging problems at all.

I managed to run the dogs for the first time with a DC40 this weekend.  Works as advertised.  I can't image the market for a niche product like this is very big, so kudos to Garmin for listening to users' concerns. 

Oldie = Goodie

Like everyone I have some interesting relatives. Family gatherings are best spent listening to the same stories for the umpteenth time. A lot of the tales revolve around how my Dad and his brother and friends tried to give my Grandma a heart attack...there was the time Dad drove his friend's motorcycle off a cliff...or the time Grandma had to pick him up at a party because he had (temporarily) blinded himself. My sister and I can recite these chronicles word-for-word if called upon, but they're better told by the people that lived them. Besides, we'd rather listen anyway.

Of course you've figured my Grandma never waivered. She's a strong, tough woman of her generation. Her experiences prepared her for life as a mother of crazies, and I'm sure my Dad prepared her for a stint as a California parole officer. There was the one time a disgruntled parolee said he was going to come into the office and blow everyone away, so the entire office decided to start packing. Packing heat, that is. Grandma bought a snub-nose .38 special. Thankfully she never had to use it.

Recently, my Grandma gifted me her pistol, and now I own one of the props that we've been hearing about since I can remember. I was amazed when I first saw it. She still had the original box with manual, and inside she kept the check she wrote for $70 back on Oct 1, 1970. It's in near mint condition, and although it's no collector's piece, it's not for sale.

2009 - Year in Review

The Snow Drift Hustle

By the time I reach the southeastern corner of the quarter section Ike is already at the northeastern corner, and of course, on birds.  He's always been the kind of dog that I would catch glancing in my direction as he crossed hundreds of yards to the front.  I'd think with the heavy snow cover, and the thick freezing fog, that Ike would be more likely to work closer in an attempt to stay in touch with me.  There is a thin layer of crust on top of the snow that compounds the now difficult task of putting one foot in front of the other.  Every step I'm convinced the surface will hold, and just as I lift my rear foot my forward foot crunches through.  But that doesn't seem to slow down Ike. 

760 yards.  Seven-hundred and sixty.  Yards.  I'm already out of breath.  I've unzipped my jacket and removed my stocking cap despite the temperature in the teens.  Ike is as honest as they come, and I know he will hold as long as it takes for me to get there.  But no self-respecting wild bird is going to wait for me to come shoot him.  No way.  Doc has hunted in another direction, but I know I can't lose him.  So, I do what I must.  Break open the gun, pocket the shells, put the head down and start truckin'.  Every minute I check the Astro to verify that Ike is still on point.  I'm taking too long.  As more time passes the thoughts of a cynic emerge, "maybe he's in a trap"..."maybe he's stuck in a snow drift"..."maybe he's fallen through the ice into the pond."  Closer now I crest the hill and search for Ike.  Through the stars I see the wooded draw where lives the covey we've met before.  A few more crunching steps and I see Ike's tail swirling as he trots around smelling the ground.

Damnit!  They're gone.

I stop and turn to collect Doc...a few hollers and he's on his way to meet us, although he stops every hundred yards or so to listen for our bearing.  The fourth time the Astro chirps I expect to see Doc "on point" again, but this time it's Ike.  He's into the pasture now, solid.  "Now we're in business."  I fight throug hip-high drifts to cross the not-so-taught fence.  I close the distance, fight through another drifted low area, and Ike remains...steady, honest, intense.

I'm just close enough when the covey flushes from the base of the tree. Most of them fly straight away keeping the tree between us, but a pair peel to the left. Ike sees them and drops his center of gravity and watches. The first shot splits the pair--I was thinking double. The second shot finds the lead bird, but she's not dead.  Ike makes it there quickly and I find him head down up to his shoulders in snow, so I dig and make the retrieve.

Two hefty thumps on his ribs and a "good boy" and he's off again.  The next time I see him he's on another covey.

And like the first most of this covey escapes behind the tree, but a pair offers crossing shots and this time I kill him cleanly.  A short while later Ike finds another covey and I take another bird.  Three quail and it's time to call it quits.  My water is frozen, both dogs have cut pads, and I'm glad, because I'm ready, too.  It feels like the late season and it's only December.

The Other Kansas Hunting Dogs

Wes and I came across this interesting rig and motley pack of hounds at a gas station in the dark hours before legal shooting time.  I've seen vehicles like this on country roads a few times here and there.  From what I can gather when the driver spots a yote' he pulls a rope or chain run to the cab via a pulley system.  This releases the door and the dogs charge into action.  The greyhounds are the chase dogs that close the distance and surround the coyote, and the wolfhounds move in for the kill.

Today's Installment of Questionable Logic

"A toll's a toll, and a roll's a roll.
And if we don't get no tolls, then we don't eat no rolls. "

Translation: nothing worthwhile comes easy. Or, you reap what you sow. Or, you get what you pay for. There's probably a dozen adages that aim to teach what some refuse to accept as truth. I wonder what bird hunting would be like if shooting a limit was a foregone conclusion? Not very fun, I suspect.

Unlike most--who get their start with their fathers and grandfathers--I started hunting later in life. In-state tuition and an esteemed college of engineering pulled me to the middle-of-nowhere Kansas State University. I was a product of suburbia and, since there were no wild trout nearby, I spent the first few years chasing girls and drinking beer, usually in that order. Naturally, I met a lot of kids from rural Kansas (K-State is historically an aggie school) and was taken on a bird hunt or two.

Like all bird hunters I vividly remember the first bird I "earned." That inaugural season I borrowed shotguns here and there and hunted a lot by myself--and none of us had dogs. We didn't know to pick up a WIHA atlas, so we just hunted the same piece over and over again: a quarter section of CRP bordered by a grain field. We saw lots of roosts, but after many hunts we still hadn't seen a pheasant. We're talking many trying hours stumbling aimlessly through the CRP (sometimes slogging through snow or rain), looking down for sign, pausing to listen, doing anything we/I could to stack odds in our/my favor.

One blistery January evening I was alone walking the edge against the grain field with a borrowed Remington 870 Express. The sun was just dropping below the cloud cover on the horizon when I paused to listen. Just then a rooster exploded right in front of me and made a hard maneuver to the left. The trigger pull sent a bright flame out of the barrel and the dragon's fire anchored my bird in the grass. That evening I broke our house mom's rules by bringing the bird into the kitchen to pose for a picture, like it was some sort of trophy deer or gobbler. Well, it was a trophy to me, and a significant emotional experience. I've since killed many more pheasants, but none came after as much effort as that first bird, and no bird has given me a bigger smile (dogs are another matter). The successes after small failures stoke the fire to drive longer and walk further. If ever this thing I do becomes easy, and I don't think it ever will, I'll get bored and move on. After all, nothing worthwhile comes easy.

First Impressions

In the past four weeks I've managed to hunt nearly every corner of the state and get an idea of what bird numbers look like for Kansas this season. Generally speaking, bird numbers are up year-over-year, at least specific to quail. I don't think birds are back to where they were during the '05/'06 season, but with a little help we could be back there next season. I very much doubt pheasants did as well as Pheasants Forever or the KDWP would have you believe. But, this wouldn't be the first time folks were over-emphatic in regards to our bird numbers. "Consipiracy"...probably not, "optimistic"...you betcha.

Some pictures...

On Thanksgiving morning my dogs pointed five different coveys of quail in less than an hour. A few days later I tried again and only found one scattered covey. Weird.



Wes made a hell of a shot on this covey that wanted to run into the woods rather than flush on the edges.

Doc on a single...

We stopped to watch this covey cross a road. They'd peak out one or two at a time and then sprint across the bare ground to safety. Probably two dozen birds in this covey.


Typical find along a Kansas bean field.


Ike found this covey feeding in a corn field just before dark. Wes and I each took a bird on the rise and then left them to re-group before night-fall.

Da Hunden Stormen

I can't remember the movie where I heard the title. It was supposed to be a comic translation for dogs the Germans used in Dubya Dubya Two (I'm sure it's wrong)...but I remember it made me laugh. The same can be said for Scar and Rebel, a solid and dependable pair of guide dogs loaned to us for our trip to Montana by a close friend and hunting buddy. Scar, aptly named for an injury sustained to his head during birth complications, is a goofy Vizsla that feels most at home in your lap, or hunting running pheasants. Rebel is an almost entirely roan short-hair, not very big at all, but with astonishing ground speed. Together, they're the hap-hap-happiest brace of hunting dogs since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny Kaye. They even play jokes on eachother. For example, they shared a hole in the trailer for the trip, and Scar would purposely block Rebel's entrance by holding up his paws, like a defender blocking a point guard's passing options. Like I said, lots of laughs.

Anyway, neither had ever smelled a hun or a sharptail before, but you wouldn't have known it. Both broke free of the closer hunting patterns more suited to preserve birds and ranged through the prairie. We shot huns, sharpies, and pheasants over both dogs. This post and picture is my tribute to them. They, and their owner, are always welcome in my truck.

Procrastinator

Sage always waits until the last minute to pick up the WIHA, every year. And as you can see, he usually falls asleep before he's even opened the cover. I wonder where he gets it from?

Photo credit goes to Wes Carrillo.

Big Covey(s)

Later that afternoon we found a spot so full of good looking cover that it was almost overwhelming. Our eyes were filled with lush shortgrass prairie interrupted by the small fingers branching off a large coulee. I wish we had found it earlier in the day; it would have taken all seven dogs and a couple days to hunt it all. There didn't appear to be much biodiversity in the grass, it looked rather uniform, but it should hold birds.

As we did that morning we opted to run Dottie and Ike. Very quickly into the hunt, while coarsing the edge of a ridge, Ike and Dottie crept into points, a shared find, just ahead of us. The wind was stiff into their noses and that meant the birds would either have to fly straight into the wind or peel off and give good crossing shots. As before, the birds didn't let us reach the dogs before they flushed and flew straight away. Even into the wind they accelerated very quickly and I barely managed a sporting shot. I saw Ted's bird drop but I was unsure if mine had found it's mark. Then Dottie, as she usually does, pointed my dead hun.

I had watched the large covey circle way back behind us and sit down out of view in a cut wheat field. We doubled back to the truck to put another dog down, Vegas, and continued our hunt on our original bearing. Ted took the bottom of the coulee and I tried to stay on the ridges. We made a big circle and oddly didn't see another bird, or even any sign of birds. On the final leg of the circle I convinced Ted to try to find the huns again. Still a few hundred yards from where I thought the birds landed Ike went on point on the edge of the wheat field in a rather sparse pasture of sage and heavily grazed grass. A covey lifted between dog and guns and again we each took a bird.

Back at the truck we inspected the crops as we cleaned birds. The first pair had crops full of greens and grass seeds. No wheat at all. The second pair had nothing, which left us confused. Either the covey processed the contents of their crops in an hour, or it was a different covey. I'm still undecided, but I guess it doesn't matter. It was a great day to be in Montana.

The Initiation

The first day started off a little rough. I had done a ton of research on areas that would likely hold birds. I studied satellite imagery of many plots of state land, BMA's, and BLM land. I identified plenty of places to turn a dog loose with good chances of finding birds. However, we quickly learned that there is no substitute for boots on the ground. Most of the places had been overgrazed to varying degrees. Even most of the BMA's didn't look good, especially in comparison to the adjacent private lands that weren't open to public hunting. But if we drove enough we'd find a spot that looked worth the effort.

The first spot was a small patch, maybe only 40 acres of prairie grass bordered on two sides by wheat fields and nestled below some sage-covered hills. Ted astutely observed that this piece was probably too small to bother grazing, and that's why it escaped the bovine lawnmowers. As Ike and Dottie raced through the knee-high grass we noticed an old farmhouse over a shallow hill which pretty much sealed the deal for me: I was sure there were birds here. Very quickly Ike made a strong cast to the right and established point--the kind with his rump in the air and his nose to the ground. Two small relocations sent a single hun zooming away and Ike with a question mark hoving above his head. Eh, I can't fault him. First hun he's smelled in a year, and mistakes happen.

We swept beyond the imploded house and along the edge where the prairie grass meets sage hills. Just about to the end Ike went on point, cornering birds between himself and a sharp rise in the terrain. I fumbled my zippered pocket for my camera to document Ike's first find. I decided that taking pictures would assure one of several possibilities: 1) Ike was pointing a badger or a skunk or some other off-game, 2) birds would flush before I was ready, or 3) I would miss an easy shot.

Well, it turns out it wouldn't take a camera to guarantee possibility number three. Ted and I calmly approached Ike and Ted gently whoa'd Dottie into honoring, as I'm sure it was tough for her to see Ike through the grass. Before I was ready birds were in the air, screeching, and hauling ass. I remember seeing legs and wings, and being completely taken by surprise. I shot twice; maybe I picked out a bird, maybe I didn't. I'm sure I scared them pretty well as they rocketed over the sage hill. "Quail on steroids" might be an understatement. Ted, on the other hand, began the best shooting performance I've seen. I think he only missed once the entire trip. Anyway, Ted bagged hun number one and we unsuccessfully tried to locate the covey over the ridge. No matter, it was a great start to a memorable trip. As we were driving out we met a few bird hunters up from Livingston looking for pheasants. Apparently we are nuts for having driven all the way from Kansas "just for huns." Oh well, I've been called worse.