Winner Winner Chicken Dinner

Have you ever stuffed yourself full of a steak dinner? Sure.

What about when the waitress comes by with the tray full of desserts? They look delicious, right? Your date says they look good, but she's full. Translation: "I want some of that chocolate thingy, but I prefer not to look like a pig."

Such was the case on the way back from Montana. We had bagged sage grouse, sharpies, and huns. I killed three new species of birds. What else could I ask for without looking like a pig? Well, a prairie chicken or two wouldn't hurt, right?

So, back to the sandhills of Nebraska! Dogs were weary, skinny, and hardened, so throw the Hail Mary, put all six down. Getting e-collars and Astro's on that bunch proved to be a task in and of itself. They were fired up and ready to go for our last hunt of the trip.

Long story short, Ted's knee started hurting, the wind was strong, and I would have gotten lost without the GPS. But, we got our chicken, a few doves, and a sharptail. I also missed an easy double.

Montana and Back, Part I: The Sandhills

Friday, Sept 11, 7AM

Arrived at Ted's house with Sage, Ike, Doc, and gear...pouring rain. We both got pretty wet loading up the truck and trailer. As we hooked up the trailer, we discovered the lights were not working. I had already spent four evenings trying to fix the failed wiring, and eventually replaced everything. It worked fine on my truck at my house. We tried a couple things, but didn't want to tear into it in the downpour, so we packed a digital multimeter and some electrical tape and decided to hit the road and fix later. In messing with the wiring, I got completely soaked and had to change clothes. We were on the road by 8 AM.

Five hours of driving in the rain and we were in Grand Island, NE. Lack of options and wanting to push on, we stopped at Wendy's for lunch. What a horrible experience--that's all I'll say. The plan was to park in the Wal-Mart lot and fix the trailer, but when we left Wendy's I noticed the lights were working. Nice! On to Halsey, NE.Road warriors...


We decided to hunt the Nebraska National Forest on the way to break up the drive and get the dogs a taste of the birds they were to encounter in Montana.

Before any "hotspotter" fingers are pointed, I'll explain something. The forest is well known, hunted by quite a few folks already, and frankly is very tough hunting. We worked hard for the birds we took, covering many miles in the sandy prairie, up and down hills, sweating and tired the whole time. On top of that, the dogs had to be flawless on birds for us to be successful. Not may people have the mettle, physical and mental, or the dogs for this place. We spent the Friday evening scouting, running dogs, and shooting any doves that we encountered. We didn't see any grouse, and I was concerned we were in for a tough day tomorrow. We stayed in Thedford and had dinner at Stub's. They don't have mashed potatoes in the evenings, only for breakfast. Huh.

Ted and I were up well before first light the following morning, and I think I lost a filling on the broken up asphalt road into the forest. I'm sure the dogs had a headache. My Ike and Ted's Vegas got the first call of the trip. We both had high hopes for these two. I expected Ike to be the dog of the trip because of his wide range and reliable nose. He's also the toughest dog I've ever hunted behind. Vegas had lived in the shadow of Ted's other dog, an older pointer, but he had been hunting them seperate last season and she was becoming a strong bird finder, and she was already the best "dead" hunting dog we had in our trailer.

The ground and vegetation was heavy with dew from yesterday's rain. In just a few minutes we were soaked to our waists, and Ike was actually cold and shivering. Not long into the hunt I took this picture...

The sandhills is the most surreal place I have ever hunted. Because the terrain is so uniformly dynamic, you can easily get turned around, even with a GPS. Early in the day we used the sun to keep track of our heading, but as it rose we depended heavily on the GPS to keep us pointed in the right direction. This flat spot offered our first sharptail encounter, a bird that flushed wild ahead of Ike just as he established point.

Then we started to connect in this low area; both Ted and I were able to put sharptails in the bag on account of Vegas; my first sharpie!

We also each took sharptails at the top of the ridge following the draw. There seemed to be no discernable pattern to the birds. They were high, low, in flat and in hilly areas, sun and shadows, too. On the way back to the truck Ike pointed a large covey spread out in a flat area from quite a distance. They broke, and of course I wasted my two barrels on the first birds that got up, and was empty for the birds I nearly stepped on. By now, I should know better.

We re-dogged with Doc and Bode. Doc belongs to my buddy Wes, and Bode is the Garmin DC30 coverdog, owned by Ted's friend Bronson. I have no idea why these guys trusted their companions with hooligans like us. We struck out in a different direction from the truck and were quickly into more birds, several flushing wild ahead and far to our flanks. Doc did point one covey, but again they broke too soon. I think the high sun and the heavy winds had them skittish.

One nice thing about the sandhills is that there is at least one windmill in sight from every peak, so you can water your dogs at nice intervals. But, the cows like them too.

It's important to keep your dogs watered, both from a hydration and scenting standpoint.

After the heat was too much, we turned our attention to prairie dogs. All the shots we took with Ted's .223 were over 200 yards. There were a few close calls, but no kills.

On Hunting Chickens

My favorite gamebird (for the time being) is the greater prairie chicken. I particularly like their behavior around pointing dogs, their habitat, and the niche of the tallgrass prairie ecosystem (and folklore) that they fill.

Ted Gartner made the following comments regarding the prairie chicken in a blog post recounting last season's opener:

"For the uninitiated, prairie chickens are the quintessential native upland game bird of the prairies. They roamed the central part of the United States long before the more gaudy, noisy, and ubiquitous pheasant was brought to our shores from China.

"Prairie chickens inhabit vast expanses of rolling grasslands, mostly in Kansas, Nebraska, and South Dakota. As such, pursuing them requires a comfortable pair of hunting boots, rangy but disciplined bird dogs, and a healthy dose of optimism."

I have probably only dedicated a dozen or so days over two seasons hunting chickens, but it didn't take long for them to carve a place at the top of my totem pole of upland bird worship. If thinking about chickens was a paid profession, I could turn in two 40-hour timesheets every week. As Ted mentions, they mostly inhabit tallgrass prairie land in the northern half of Tornado Alley. In Kansas, most of the native grassland fell victim to the plow long ago, which has seriously reduced their range and population. However, there are certain parts of the state where crop agriculture didn't strongly take hold, mostly because of the limestone just a few inches under the topsoil. This layer effectively caused the preservation of some native prairie, because the shallow rock didn't readily allow the ground to be worked with farm machinery. In these areas, I find chickens in pastureland still teeming with native grasses, flowers, and other food sources--although chickens will readily fly miles away to feed on crops.

As you can see, the vast expanses of land and sparse cover allow an independent dog to range far, probing the front and flanks for scent. And when he does locate birds, he can be seen from long distances, making the approach all the more endless and antagonizing. The younger birds are likely to hold for a point in the early fall, and they aren't predisposed to running, although with chickens it's not out of the question, either. The right situation can mean pointed covies in November or December, like this past Christmas Eve. Usually, these covies are rather large.

Their erratic flight isn't strong, and their death comes easily with a well placed pattern of #7.5's. But these birds are neither tame, nor weak. They can detect a hunter's presence and flush wild hundreds of yards away. And they can survive the harsh winter storms that leave pheasants and quail frozen in snow drifts. Simple, and nearly archaic, in appearance, they are known mostly for their wild and extravagant mating rituals.

I'm going to miss hunting them this September, that's for sure.