Silence in Heaven

[authors note- I wrote this on March 28, 2021, just 96 hours or so before the Great K Defeat of April 2...]

Silence in Heaven

When I was a kid, I used to giggle at the little blurbs in Sports Illustrated that read “This Week’s Sign That The Apocalypse Is Upon Us.” I don’t know if they still have that little inset box in there - I stopped reading Sports Illustrated after I moved on from the Swimsuit Issue to less high-brow publications. 

But at this point, today, this morning, I am sitting at my office in Greensboro rendered totally and completely hors de combat by UNC’s win over St. Peters last night in the Elite Eight. Not because of any special significance of that game itself, but because of the aftermath that rose like a spectre over the next week of my life, immediately upon expiration of the regulation clock. 

UNC v. Duke in the Final Four. Carolina and Dook playing each other in the NCAA Tournament For The First Time Ever. In Coach Davis’ first season as head coach, in Coach Krazrewsky’s last season at Duke. The last time Duke and Carolina were even in the same Final Four, in 1991,  they never even played each other. More than that, that same occasion featured now-Coach, then-Junior Guard and three-point legend Hubert Davis’ last trip to the Final Four, which ended in a loss to then-Roy Williams’-coached Kansas, who themselves went on to be beaten by Duke/Krzychoska in Duke’s regrettable back-to-back season triumph. All this, to wit, is only coming to pass after an unranked Carolina team literally humiliated  No. 4 Duke in Cameron -- in front of dozens of storied Dook program alumni (and, it is reported, even one or two former NBA players) - at the end of the long Dark Blue Carpet farewell season, Coach Krewchesfski’s last home game. And now these same teams are meeting in the Tournament for the First Time Ever in no less a venue than the Superdome in New Orleans, whose hardwood and bleachers and seats stood witness to both the 1982 and 1993 championships won by Dean Smith’s teams.  

There is a lot going on here.

I was born on December 1, 1978. Tar Heel Born, as the Song goes. My father graduated from Carolina in 1974; his father before him graduated in 1947. 204 years before that, in 1743, an emigrant Scot named Stephen Shaw landed on the banks of the Cape Fear River and settled in Onslow County. They are, you might say, from whence I came. I continued in my life to be Tar Heel Bred. Growing up with my grandfather, we turned the TV volume off in order to listen to Woody call the game over the radio. I got - and cherished - commemorative Coke bottles from the 1982 and 1993 championships under Dean Smith. I met Coach Smith at a Rams Club meeting, I hung posters of JR Reid and Jeff Lebo on my wall growing up in the 80’s, and I cheered alongside thousands of faithful as HUUUUUUUUUUU took the Court of the Dean Dome in the early 90’s. I still hate Christian Laettner. I married a Carolina girl, and I read to my children about DTH columnist Ian Williams’s hatred for Duke amounting to “an infernal passion undying.” One day I will no doubt die, and then I will unquestionably and satisfyingly be a Tar Heel Dead.

The day after I was born, in the beginning of what I will here refer to as the Epoch of Stephen, Duke and Carolina played a game in Greensboro, NC - the very same city where I now live and raise what will hopefully be a house of 4th-generation Tar Heels. That fateful 1978 game featured a 78-68 Duke win. In the 107 recorded UNC-Duke matchups since I was born, UNC’s record stands at 54-53. Yet in that same span, Duke has outscored Carolina by a margin of 8,339 points (Duke) to 8,329 points (UNC). As quite possibly literally the newest Tar Heel Born fan on the morning of Dec. 2, 1978, I feel personally responsible for that 10-point loss and for the ensuing 10-point scoring deficit that has accrued over my life time. (To put this lifelong debt in perspective, we are talking about an average margin of victory by Duke of slightly less than one tenth of a point (93 thousandths of a point) per game; and still there is the consolation that Carolina has won more games). 

I think I am getting a little overwhelmed by the significance of life at this point. It’s like the multiple story arcs of a fine novel, having been written across literally the last 43 years of my life, are coming to an ultimate intersection amidst a truly unforeseeable climax.

Thousands of students and fans stormed Franklin Street earlier this month after the Devils’ Defeat by Davis. Like many of my kinsmen in Carolina Blue, I myself have rushed Franklin Street probably a half-dozen times or more. Several I know for certain included resounding defeats of Duke during the Coach Guthridge era, including a 97-73 drubbing that I personally attended my freshman year, and the 85-83 win at Cameron where Joe Forte waltzed in to 23 Steps post game and announced that drinks were on the house. Indeed the Franklin Street Mob tradition is believed to have its origin in the very first gathering on Franklin that formed after UNC defeated - wait for it - Kansas, in 1957, winning the first ever NCAA Tournament Title for Carolina under Frank McGuire. If we pull this off on Saturday, I might have to drive to Chapel Hill and walk the last 3 miles from Carrboro, just so I can say I Was There. Might as well bring the kids..

There is simply way too much going on here. Even if Carolina drops this game to Duke, there is still a chance that Duke can lose in the Championship to Bill Self's Kansas team. Before Self, Kansas was coached by none other than Carolina's just-retired Roy Williams. And before he came to Carolina, and before he hired Roy Williams as an assistant coach and before he recruited and coached Hubert Davis, uber-predecessor UNC icon Dean Smith was at Kansas being coached by Phog Allen, who literally learned the game from Dr. James Naismith himself, the inventor of basketball. This is starting to take on all attributes of a cosmic singularity in the basketball universe. We may just find out that it is, indeed, Turtles All the Way Down.

This cascade of recent events is more than just a sign, and the End Times may now be upon us. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are long, long gone, Sports Illustrated. We have now officially reached the point of Revelations where, on Saturday night, the Seventh Seal of the Book of the Providence of God will be opened. Actual students from the Southern Part of Heaven will do battle against actual Blue Devils for the chance to become National Champions. The true nature of Good and Evil will be revealed. The contest of Gryffindor vs. Slitherin will be decided for all time. As the Good Book says, upon the opening of the Seventh Seal,  “there will be Silence in Heaven” - I just pray to God that it is not silence on Franklin Street on Saturday night, but utter and unrelenting and perfect glorious madness.

Something Furry is Afoot

 Who knows what the future might hold...

h/t https://www.brushymountaingermanshorthairs.com/ 

Oh The Adventures We Shall See... Dark Horse Build

So, we have had a productive 2022 - the GoFast Camper was delivered in February 2022 (finally, after a 2019 order date...)

We have done the initial build out and put her through the paces this summer with trips to NC, SC, and VA as well as a long-haul up to PA to visit Camp Oneka.

The utility of the GFC is hard to beat. I can easily take out the "stuff" and have a full covered bed to fill up with mulch or other items. 

Dean Dog

 Miss you, buddy. Hard to believe it has been a month without you, after 14+ years by my side. We had a good walk today - lotta birds and squirrels and probably some old deer scent. Bella tried to get after it but she’ll never have your legs!

Goodbye, Old Friend

 It’s been a long month of downers around here, but one of the low points for sure was putting down Dean Dog, the namesake of this Blog. Things had gotten too tough for him and all the spark was gone. He laid down in the family room with his whole pack, and Sam howled cries of anguish at his passing. 

He was a good dog. One of the best. Thanks for all the adventures, buddy. 

Dark Horse Project, post 2 - baby steps

Swapped out the chrome Denali grille for a black body-matched painted version. $28 install at the dealer!

Installed Tuffy’s locking under seat storage box. Holds the 870 and an old .22 very securely on the 60% split (drivers) side, along with towing / recovery gear on 40% passenger side access.

Swapped out the factory black tow hooks for red versions from GMC

Installed BDS steel skid plate and front diff cover in place of the factory ABS plastic “splash guard”

And, added the all-important Red USMC front license plate!

Dark Horse, post 1 - breaking her in

Here is the delivery documentation, from last month:

Took the new lady for a few rides over the last week, kids and the dog had a blast. 500+ miles round trip to OBX went like a breeze, averaging 15mpg if I am paying attention, 12.5 if I drive hard and have some stop and go. Pretty decent for 6500# curb weight. 

More importantly, the dogs and the kids all got to go for a ride in Dad’s new digs. Pretty sweet. Half a dozen trips to the farm and the storage unit and Lowe’s and the decision to get a truck is quickly validated. 

Now, what do I do with the 4Runner?

Dark Horse Project Build, post zero

 I've got a new-to-me truck on order, to be delivered next week. GMC Sierra 2500 Crew Cab, 4x4, V8, vinyl seats - what every old-ish man dreams of:

WE are going to build this out into the family into the woods haluer -- I've got a GoFast camper on order, will need to get a Wilco hitch mount for the spare and the bikes, and then build out the interior with some 80/20 aluminum. Am planning to put a roof rack on the cab, and once the GoFast is on I will mount the Yakima LoPro SKybox, a Renogy 175W flexible solar panel, spare battery, fridge, etc. Project goal is stealth camper and family adventure machine. It'll sleep 5 comfortably!

Should have it all finished by 2030 or so...

In Search Of A Strap Vest

 A couple of years ago, I got ahold of a Filson Tin Cloth Strap Vest for a goodly amount off of MSRP, and I thought I had found the perfect hunting companion at last. Here it is a few years ago, chasing pheasants out at Buffalo Butte Ranch in South Dakota: 

Prior to this, I'd gone through a couple of variations, and mostly had used a hand-me-down quail vest, or more recently a war belt with various molle pouches left over from the Marine Corps days. I like the belt approach, combined with a shirt with built-in gamebag, like this old (now discontinued) McAlister model:

But this is definitely a "light & fast" approach, you can carry a waterbottle and a box of shells and a few other items and that's about it. And you have room for 2-3 birds, before it gets uncomfortable. Kind of like an old Toyota compact pickup. Perfect for the steep slopes of NC’s southern Appalachians, where if you come home with more than 2 birds you had a once-in-a-lifetime hunt (NC grouse hunters measure success is flushes, not birds taken (or even shots taken). Hauling water for a dog on a long hot day by itself outstips the capacity of this system, not to mention having enough Ho Hos, Bear Claws, and spare shells. 

As an alternative, where you might need a box of shells or two and you are likely to bring home a half dozen birds, a more traditional vest works great. The Filson Tin Cloth Strap vest has ample capacity for shells and game, like you might want for a preserve hunt, but  it is also not set up for lugging a lot of water, firstaid for you/dog, an extra layer, lunch, and the things you might need to have on a big full-day walk. It also lacks a belt really of any sort, so muchof the weight falls on the shoulder straps. Its an F-150 type vest. Perfect for a daily driver, but not really a work truck  

Enter the WingWorks model. Full ton truck, my friend. I am set on having one, but they have ceased production on new orders for the time being. What ever to do? 

How to Pick a Hunting Dog, part 1

My first dog was a lab, a "purebred" AKC-registered beaut named Maggie that wouldn't fetch and shat on the grass.

Really, it was Dad's dog, the kind of dog you buy as a young father, eager to show the ropes of the world to your growing clan. Maggie - "Duchess Maggie Carbonier" was her full name - had a ton of energy and a loveable tendency to try to bear hug you in greeting at the end of a full sprint. hti sused to kock y 4 year lfd ittel sister flat on her back, which I thought was funny at the time, until I accidentally hit my own four-year old with a dog that was chasing a poorly aimed ball. You could get a concussion that way.

Anyway, back to Maggie - she used to drive my dad nuts, this dog - she could care less about a tennis ball, and loved to take a crap on our freshly-manicured Zoysia in the backyard. Dad used to chase her around with a rolled up newspaper trying to get her to fetch a tennis ball and stop shitting on the grass.

So when I got my first bird dog, it was my "own" dog with a similar eye to the coming broods of children that would soon invade our lives. I didn't know any better but I had high hopes for my young GSP, so the first thing I taught him to do was to fetch tennis balls. And the second thing I taught him was to shit over in the pinestraw and leaves behind the hollies in the edge of the back yard, and certainly not on the freshly-manicured and oh-so-inviting grass. At least that way I knew I could tell the kids "hey, careful when you go over there behind the hollies." And to be honest, he does A+ work in ball fetching, and B- work in not shitting on the grass (which is a passing average in my book).

The trouble is, when you pick a dog based on his love of tennis balls and the fact that he begrudgingly shits where he's told, you have the odds to draw a less than stellar hunter. Which, truth be told, is just what Dean is. But in the interests of full disclosure, that fits me to a t - I am a less than stellar hunter myself, so we get along fine. His nose is poor, he breaks on the shot, and he works close, not far off like the big-ranging pointing breeds are supposed to. I usually walk up birds, and don't have a horse, so working close is fine with me. The other two qualities, well, you get what you pay for I guess.

Dean has an ok nose, and ok drive. Ok drive on birds, once he's already flushed a few by accident and we've taken a break for lunch, and then he remembers what it is that birds do: smell funny, hold a bit, then fly off so the master can make the gun go bang. sometime, not often, they fall. then dean goes over to sniff them, and promptly goes back to doing somethings else, usually not hunting. i swear, this dog will retrieve a tennis ball until your rotator cuff literally falls out of your shoulder socket. but if it is not covered in lime-green-yellow felt, he doesn't want to pick it up in his mouth. weird as shit. anyway, he's the best fetching dog I've ever had, but i can't for the life of me get him to retrieve a downed bird.

I cut his balls off when he was one year old. I have been told that is what you are supposed to do to city dogs. However, I found out later to some chagrin that no stellar hunting dog has ever been so emasculated - if you are a shit-hot bird dog, you get to hunt all day and spread your seed to various females in the off season, in the hopes of fathering a second generation all-star. Alas, not Dean - he's a rare Hunting Eunuch. Which is all well and good, because he's not really very good enough at anything (except fetching tennis balls and shitting just on the pinestraw) to make him worth the time of any classy full bred bitch that I ever met.

One time I took him duck hunting at the old family pond. Well, it used to be a good duck pond - now there are so many local Canadas that they roost there year round and eat up all the mast and have pretty much pushed the ducks on down to mexico as far as i can tell. so pretty much we were going goose hunting. We got everyone out in the blind, nice cold morning just below freezing but still plenty of open water. sun comes up, big passel of geese fly over, the Benelli barks twice in the blind. Out goes Dean, diving gallantly into the half-froze water, swimming like a mad man (he loves to swim) over toward a big old bull goose, 18 or 20 pounds or more, flopping around and mostly dead already. He picks that old guy up in his mouth - at this point I am literally applauding from the blind, ego swollen with pride at the natural duck-blind talents of my versatile hunting dog. nope. he just shakes that guy back and forth for a few minutes until he's sure that it is dead, then paddles on back to the blind, climbs up and gives us all a cold muddy shower.

Dean the dog is now a bit past middle age, I guess. He's ton of fun, the kids adore him, and he's justaboutalmost calmed down his anxious bird-dog nerves enough to finally be well and truly loved by my wife. He's given me a lot of good walks in the woods and a few memorable hunts. And he's given me a lot to think about, about the role of dogs in our lives, what the really important traits are, what matters and where the room for improvement lies. On both sides. 

Creek Fishing at IOP

Jack and Caroline and I took the 'Vader out into the creeks behind Isle of Palms marina today. I even let Caroline drive the boat a little bit:

These kids are starting to act like pros even in the span of just a week. At least they sure do like to think they know what they're doing. Actually I give Jack the credit for pointing out the potential honey hole on this trip. 

A little bit of cut shrimp and a Elsa and Spiderman fishing rod we're all we needed to hook up on a couple black drum that were keeper size. We hooked a total of five but only landed to because our tackle was a little too light for the fight that was in these guys.

Laid out and dredged in Bisquick and Old Bay, they fried up pretty durn tasty.

Fishing at Hamilton Lake

Good day with Jack and Sam, chucking crickets out for bream on light tackle. 

Boating with Bud

We got the Evader out on the waters around Eye Oh Pee this week, total of 4 trips in 7 days. The new trim motor wiring ensured no adventures were delayed by mechanical malfuncitons (as was the case over the Fourth of July week). The kids did great and Jack was a terrific First Mate.

Here are some highlights:

Learning to Gambel

I am headed out to Vegas today. And you know what they say: what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

But this one particular part of the trip I feel compelled to write about.

I am out here not to gamble - no, a much more noble cause colors my travels this weekend. First off, and the primary reason for the trip, is a time-honored tradition among fighting men that has passed down through the millennia: a reunion of war-brothers. 10 years ago this fall, the men of 1/5 left Iraq for the last time, following their third consecutive deployment to that "restive" nation. OIF I (which I missed): The Invasion. OIF II: Fallujah 1. OIF: The Battle of Ramadi. I made two of the three - many of my guys, particularly those who enlisted just prior to 9/11, had the distinct honor to make all three trips.

So now, 10 years late, a lot slower and a little fatter and not nearly as mean, we are all getting together in our old Marine Corps Ball haunts, a week after all of the active duty guys have rolled through for Ball season. Vegas calls, and nearly 140 of our own alumni are answering that call, to reassemble and reminisce over scotch, cigars, and warm hazy memories of the finest days of our young lives, and the finest of us that did not return. Best men I've ever known. Best job I ever had.

But that is not the real purpose of this blog post - it is only the platform for a small one-day aside. I got a really sweet "value add" opportunity for this trip though: i found an outfitter that guides out Henderson NV, and booked an upland bird hunt once I figured out that none of the other officers were bringing their spouses. I thought at first we were going t be hunting chukar in the rocky rimrock of the surrounding mountains, perhaps out to the East Mojave near Invapah. Instead, it looks like we are going to be chasing Gambel's Quail, a bird I know nothing about but that sounds interesting all the same.

I hear they are small and fast, but not as small and maybe faster than their bobwhite cousins. All wild birds, out in the arid rocky arroyo's of eastern Nevada, just west of the Arizona border. The guide is picking me up at my hotel at 4am, which will no doubt consume most of Saturday in more productive fashion than would sitting around and drinking all day. Here is an excerpt from the little upland anthology I am reading currently:

The dog, on the other hand, has never experienced an environment remotely like this one. . . .[But] the dog does what every pore of his being is meant to do; he is relentless in his pursuit of a species of quail that he has never experienced before this trip, to the exclusion of numerous other bird species he's never seen before either, but pays no mind to. I find no shortage of marvel in this. He finds them and almost flips over himself slamming to a point. They don’t hold for a second, of course, but start running in a loose, directional flock, flowing around cholla and prickly pear and acacia like a school of fish around dock pilings, coming together again and heading for the nastiest cover they can find. Spindly head feathers bobbling as they run. He moves after them, maintaining something of a vector/point as he goes and I have no choice but to do much the same in pursuit. Quail running. Dog running, freezing, pointing, running again. Human trying to keep up. The whole thing seems comical and about as far from the stereotypical, “classic upland” experience as one can get. But being attached to stereotypes isn’t the least bit productive here, whether you’re talking about putting a few Gambel’s in the bag, or a number of other things. 

Lenny is picking me up in the truck at 4am tomorrow, and we are heading out to the Nevada / Arizona line for a one-day hunt. I've got the 870, most of the kit I need here in the hotel room. Flight out was a breeze. We had a good little get together with everyone tonight, not too much to drink and I haven't even touched the poker tables. Doesn't matter - I'm ready to Gambel.

 

 

Book Review: Daniel Boone, et al.

Jack told me on the phone today that while at Nana's house, he was getting to read one of my favorite
childhood books, the Landmark Series classic Daniel Boone: The Opening of the Wilderness. Jack relayed excitedly that Daniel Boone had killed a panther at the ripe age of ten, as if to intimate that he himself might accomplish such a feat in just a handful of years.

I grew up reading these books of American folklore, cover to cover and back again, often under the light of a flashlight concealed beneath my bedspread. While most other's childhood evenings may have consisted of "good night, ma" and "good night, john-boy," mine certainly most often consisted of "Stephen, turn your light out" and "just one more chapter, mom."

One of my favorites was the story of General George Armstrong Custer. to find out later that he was something of a buffoon does nothing to diminish his place in the history of my childhood. I read that book seven times in the Third Grade alone.

Happy Birthday Pookie Face

Dean the Dog officially turned 8 years old today. It's been quite a journey since that fateful trip down to Harker's Island to pick him up one October day. He's a good dog, and he's not at all jealous that he shares his birthday with his younger, prettier sibling, who turned 5 herself today.

There were plenty of snack treats for the ol' Deando, and a couple choice photographs. Doc even got him a special bone, which he sat patiently for while wagging his tail.

 He even got a little bit of Sister's cake, too..

Patinas

I've gotten to the point - middle age, I guess -  where I really appreciate having things in my life that stick around for a while. I've got a wife I'll be beside for another 40 or 50 years, God willing and the lightning don't strike. My dog is eight years old and coming into his prime (which means he can still keep up with me on a hunt, but no longer bounces around the house like a pogo stick on methamphetamine if he doesn't get a walk in). I've been shooting the same Remington 870 Wingmaster LW Magnum in 20 gauge for about the last 25 years or so, and had my Benelli SBE for at least 15. My truck just hit 185,000 miles and is still going strong, for so long as I can keep my eyes on the road.

I also have this collection of little rugrats, bright-eyed and starting to come out of the dew of babyhood into a life of adventure and exploration. They love rock-hopping and romping in the woods, and I bet Jack asks me to go hunting before too long. But they are still a work in progress, many years yet to go before they hump it up the Black Mountain Crest Trail or the Teton Traverse. They have a ways to go to begin to develop the patina that age and hard work bring.

Some things start to show their wear in a neat way, and then they end up with a lot of good stories to tell. I guess you could say that about people too, but with them you take the good with the bad if you know what I mean. It's nice to go down to the gear closet, in the middle of summer when hunting season is still just an embryo of a hope, and think about the miles I've got under my belt.

As to gear, I got these McAlister upland pants with waxed cotton facing in 2007 (McAlister is now defunct, unfortunately). Hunted them for three hard days in the woods of north-central Wisconsin chasing grouse and timberdoodles, and they got broke in real quick. They've hunted South Dakota in a few feet of snow, and in balmier times, the heat of South Carolina in the early fall, and the rocky slopes on Montana's Kootenai NF (as shown below). They've got a bit of blood, a little gun oil, and a few good coats of sweat in em now (can't wash the waxed cotton, so you just hose em off). They are due for a re-proofing, but are still going strong. I wouldn't wear 'em on a date, but they'll go just about anywhere else.

The only drawback in the McAlister pants is the thin poplin fabric in the seat, which has a few noticeable holes from crossing wire fences, and which show up quite well with white boxers. So I have some extra fabric that I'm going to take into Mama-san and see if she can jerry-rig up a reinforced seat for me. Shouldn't be quite as hot as the Filson Double Hunting Pants, but a similar level of protection in the high wear areas. I'll let you know how it turns out.

I've also got this old Army jacket from the early 70s. It was dad's first "ski jacket" back when he was courting my mom (He missed the boat to the South China Sea, went I-A for 90 days in 1969 but they never called his draft  number). Still, a cool piece of kit that has worn in well, and makes a good coat for when you want to get out and get dirty a little bit. The GI poly/cotton mix launders up nicely. Probably has some good stories to tell from before Mom and Dad got married, not that I want to know the particulars.

Dad bought these boots (pictured above) from Cabela's, probably in the early 90s. I stole them at some point after I got out of the Marines and have hunted in them since. They are broken in nice, the leather with a little mink oil will turn away the dew, and I didn't have to pay for them. Dad finally noticed on our last trip that I was wearing his old boots, and laughed. I don't think its that funny - they are good boots. No sense in getting a new pair.

I miss the fall..

One Thousand One

That is how much time you have - as long as it takes to say "one Thousand one" -  to get a shot off at
 a mountain grouse.

In that time you have to hear and process the sound of the flush, stop walking or climbing or stumbling and gain some measure of solid footing, orient on the bird hoping to get a glimpse of feathered wings flashing in the sun, take your weapon from safe to fire, shoulder your gun, swing through the flight trajectory and fire. You've got to keep your finger on the kill button.

The best advice is to fire more than once, possibly until you run out of shells, because some substantial percentage of each shot is absorbed by the thick pine trunks or deflected by the dense Douglas fir or towering Larch through which Ol' Ruff just fled so nimbly. By the time the hammer falls with a dry snick on an empty chamber, the metronome in the back of your head might have gotten all the way to "one thousand two" - if you are lucky.

On the other hand, you might also be encouraged to leave one shell in the gun or to quickly hustle several new shells into the breech - rarely is there just one bird, particularly if you are out of shells. Unlike their lowland cousins the bobwhite quail, who may often flush allgoddamnatonce if you find a covey, these birds tend to flush seriatim, but in maddeningly unpredictable intervals and angles. Neither wood ducks rocketing through the cool misty dark nor doves screaming and twisting at terminal velocity compare to the difficulty of shooting that characterizes the mountain grouse on the wing in thick and hilly cover.

The ruffed grouse that we encountered - maybe a dozen or so over three days - were all fast and wild. Cover was typically thick stands of alder and larch, intermingled with emerging cedars, in draws on the northern slopes where there was a bit more moisture.

We surprised one cocktail grouse strutting in the middle of a fire road, and he hung there just long enough as if to say "look upon my glorious plumage!" until we piled out of the truck with guns at the ready. He got away.

While we didn't see a blue grouse, I do like the looks our their favorite habitat. We hunted the rocky spines of mountain ridges, relatively clear of brush with large grassy glades dotted with mountain pine and bare, crumbling stone outcrops several millennia in the making. I can imagine that a flush up here would send the bird soaring out below, an incredible mountain backdrop to accompany the shot. And just the same, a successful hit on a long bird could easily result in a half-hour effort to retrieve, even with a dog to assist. The rocky slopes were real ankle breakers, and more than once I used a hand or knee or hindquarters to assist a climb or descent.

We saw more spruce grouse than anything else. They are not called Fool Chicken in error, as they generally stand around in the road until you get ready to shoot, flush, and if you happen to miss they just light on a tree limb nearby.

Of course, maybe it is the hunters who play the true role of the Fool Chicken, hooting and hollering while trying to throw a rock or branch close enough to the bird to dislodge him from his perch. This recalls the age-old adage: "Who is the bigger Fool, the Fool Chicken or the Fool who chases the Fool Chicken."

Alas, all in the name of a "sporting" shot.

Grouse Hunting in The Kootenai

Deep within a majestic expanse of boreal forest, a stone's throw from the Canadian border and 65 miles from the nearest cell tower, lies the town of Yaak, Montana. I use the word "town" in the traditional but liberal sense - really, this is a haphazard collection of trailers, houses, sheds, and farms, which appear somewhat clustered around a single intersection but in reality are just generally strung out all along the river. There are at least two commercial establishments, the Yaak Tavern & Mercantile and the "World Famous" Dirty Shame Saloon -  actually, three - if you count the Yaak Tavern and Yaak Mercantile separately (they are conjoined but distinct).

The road in from the Idaho border winds along the north and west side of the Yaak River, with towering peaks to one side and the broad floor of the river valley on the other. We drove in around sunset, racing the last rays of sunlight as we traversed into the upper valley. The sun slipped first behind booming cumulus clouds before bursting out for a brief low angle finale just above the ridge line to the west. And then it was gone, light pink wisps of the day left the n the darling azure sky just as we turned into the cabin.

This place is teeming with life - a dozen wild turkeys and scores of whitetail deer crowded the mountain road into the valley, and ducks and geese sat quietly in a still oxbow pond as our car screamed by. Jays and squirrels chattered the tidings of our arrival to the cabin, and I am sure I heard the brief pounding flutter of a single grouse exploding out of the pines just a bit further up the hill.

We were staying three nights with Tim Linehan, in one of his self-catering cabins (seriously, stock up on steaks and beer on the way in, the Dirty Shame's kitchen was closed and we ate at the Yaak Tavern three nights in a row). Three days to the hills to chase three species of mountain grouse in this beautiful slice of country: ruffed grouse, spruce grouse, and blue grouse. Dean the Dog was along for the ride, taking the flight in stride and anxious as always to hit the treeline although its been so long since he's tasted bird I'm not sure he entirely knew what to expect.