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.

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.

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.

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.

These Guys Is Good Folks

Hilarious video. The ending is the best part.

Fin

Just a few pics from the last two weekends.

Odd looking snow.

Doc originally found a large late-season covey that tried to run out from under his point. Here he is on a single.

Ike backs...

The bird was dug in under some grass and flushed low into the wheat stubble. I had a clean shot and winged the bird. Both dogs raced in to scoop up the cripple and they clobbered eachother pretty well; I couldn't help but laugh.

The following Saturday I finished up the season much like I started it; hunting with Ted. We hit some old haunts and found the quail coveys to be in great shape going into the spring; we'll keep our fingers crossed for a mild February.

Here's Dottie on a single.

Later in the day Wes and Doc met up with us. While I think bird numbers in Kansas were generally down compared to the 5-year average, the more experienced dogs found more, and handled birds better than last year. It was good season.

Winding Down

I love to hunt new spots. The idea of taking what you have learned over time and applying it in a new scenario is very appealing, especially when you succeed. It makes me more willing to take risks, to hunt a spot that doesn't look particularly good from the road, or to explore places that aren't visible from the road at all, but perhaps look birdy on a topographical map.

I started at one such spot Saturday morning. The huntable land was exceeding a section and had two creekbeds running through it. I decided to hunt one creekbed to the boundary, then jump over a wheat field and hunt the other bed back to the truck.

Hunting the first creekbed produced some pheasants from the wheat field on the edge, but no quail. Hunting the wheat across, crossing fingers for chickens...

The other creekbed produced no birds; both had been grazed pretty hard and there wasn't much cover at all. Oh well...I bet only a handful of guys, if anyone, hunted that land this season. Back at the truck it was chow time.

I looked at a few other spots and nothing caught my eye, so I decided to hunt the tried and true for big birds. Here, Ike pointed birds, and held staunch as two flushed from the backside of the cover. When I arrived there was one hen remaining.

Then he started tracking another, which ended up being a rooster that got tired of running and flushed well beyond the dog.

Here, Ike points a covey of quail that landed in a thicket after Sage found them feeding along a creekbed.

Close-up...

Sage scales the tallest mountain in Kansas and enjoys the view...

On Sunday I decided to again explore for some new stuff. We did find one roost here, but were unable to locate the covey.

Ike after what must be his one-hundredth barbed-wire injury. At least this came during a retrieve...

I think he's pointing an empty bottle of Jack Daniels here...but moving on we found some new coveys for our efforts. I only got to hunt a little bit because my knee was killing me and Sage woke up carrying a leg. But I'm really interested to continue exploring this new area.

School is out for...ever.

Two Weeks: Texas, Day 2

Chuck's friend and son had gone home the night before, and the other folks planned on running some puppies, so Wes and I were going to hunt on our own. The previous day we had found birds where a road crossed a creek bed and hunted the creek one direction; we planned on hunting the creek the other direction.

We got a late start, and with some wrong turns on the gigantic lease we saw more than we planned. By 11am we were ready to put Ike on the ground. At the motel I wrapped his feet in vet wrap in anticipation of putting duct tape on top of that, to help cure the footsore issues. When I pulled him from his crate I found he had pulled off and eaten most of the vet wrap. Nice. So I re-wrapped him and taped his feet with the most expensive gas station duct tape I've ever bought. I have Lewis boots for him, but his front feet are larger than his rear, so I need to get another set for a more comfortable fit; I've actually never had to use them before.

The weather was much cooler, probably around the freezing point when we started, and there was a nice breeze. We started in the direction where we found birds the previous day and planned to loop back across the road the follow the creek in the other direction. Doing only walking this day, I really became familiar with the hazards of hunting in Texas...everything is pointy and trying to stick you...jumping cactus is the worst. There must be some sort of chemical on the end of their spines, because they poke through your brush pants like hypodermic needles and the sting lasts for a while. Leather gloves came in handy negotiating the cover.

As we hunted up the creekbed, Wes is credited with the first find; a covey erupted from the base of a mesquite tree as he walked by. He opted to watch them down instead of trying a rushed shot, and we did get some birds up; can't remember if we had dog work or not.

We circled back across the road and found this...

I'm thinking "now we're in business." But, it turned out to be a nice buck. Not the first time it's happened, either. Ike made a nice cast in the direction of the deer and went on point again.

This time it was birds. He tried a relocation and some birds went, and here's a video clip of another relocate attempt. I whoa'd him to keep him from putting up what I thought was going to be the rest of the covey. He found them later.



It was wierd. We'd get a point, relocate, maybe three or four birds would get up, and then he'd find the rest of them. I think birds were running from us and the sparse scent of just a couple birds was throwing him off. On covey number three he figured it out without any mistakes. In this picture, he is surrounded by birds; we probably caught them feeding.

Over the next couple hours Ike found four coveys and there was some singles work. One thing I will say, singles are a lot tougher in Texas. The birds almost always run like crazy, and these aged birds wouldn't let you, or a dog, get very close before they'd flush. But the shooting was fast and fun; just as we were finished hunting singles from one covey we'd find another to play with.

We never made it far from the truck and we were able to circle back and get Doc who quickly found a jumpy covey as well. Then, Doc pointed, and during a relocation Ike got in front and pointed. Only instead of little birds, it was a brace of feral hogs that, thankfully, ran in the other direction. After that, we heard some birds calling and made our way in their direction, and Ike pointed them from a good distance.

From there we tried hunting the edge of the bottom back.

And then I found this...

With a long drive home ahead of us we packed it up early and headed home. The Garmin told me that in about two and a half hours of hunting, a footsore Ike covered 21 miles. When I got home I found multiple cactus thorns buried deep in his pads. I was very impressed with his toughness and ability to adapt to the conditions.