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.

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.

Oh The [New] Places [We Should] Go...

I previously posted a list of anticipated geographical conquests at Oh the places [we should] go.... The list inlcuded:

• Eastern Oregon/Washington, hun and chukar hunting; like this place (warning, blatant Filson product placement)
• Cape Romaine NWR, boating/camping trip fishing for red drum;
• North Dakota, pheasant hunting;

Since then, we've hit one of those twice (N.Dak. 2010 / 2013), and gotten relatively close to another (E. Oregon - flew into Wash. and hunted grouse in the Koontenai 2014). I still want to go after chukar and huns in E. Oregon/Washington, and am now itching to try my hand at Montana fly fishing.

I also think worthwhile to add a few new ones to the list:

• Grouse and Woodcock in Maine or Vermont (idea 1; idea 2)
• Back to Montana
• Central Wyoming
• Northern Baja (I once tripped into Baja del Norte and attempted to summit Pichaco del Diablo (literally "Peak of the Devil"); terrain so barren and remote I left a note on my car in case people eventually came searching for my body
• Nevada for this and this. (ditto re Filson warning, supra)

Glory Days

I really love this picture - coming down off the mountain at the end of the day, shoulders down - not from the weight of the game bag, but from its lightness. The latter light of the day chasing us back to the truck, shadows lengthening. The dog, nose into the wind, wistfully staring back whence we came - surely there must be more birds yet before the truck, he thinks. A long day in the boots, but there is still not much afoot or afloat that beats this life. Glory days.

Dean The Dog in the Kootenai

on the road again

Fishing with Jack

Jackson got invited to a neighbor's birthday party this weekend, over at the Hamilton Lakes pond. It was a "fishing" party. Yes, sir, we will be there.

We rolled out of the house about 5 to 8, because you know as they say the early bird catches the worm, and fish like worms. I suited Jack up with a new microlight triggerspin reel that I had acquired from Walmart the night before, and with his NC Lifetime Hunting and Fishing License in hand, Jack went to work.

Heroic amounts of patience and the sacrifice a several good nightcrawlers notwithstanding, we came home empty handed. There were about 15 boys there, and I reckon there were 8-10 fish caught amongst the group, mainly bluegills and sunfish and one smallmouth bass.

After a solid morning of fishing, we headed over to the barber for haircuts and then to Five Guys for burgers and fries. Pretty solid man-schedule for a Saturday morning, if you ask me. Jack even got some coloring in.

Pawleys 2014

Man. Had a blast at Pawleys this year. Took the boat out, Bud caught a fish with Jackson, went crabbing, great weather. Awesome time. This is what it is all about.

Pier Fishing at Pawleys

We got out on the Pawley's Island pier a few times last week, and Jack enjoyed getting to sit up on the bench and help Bud man the rods. Nothing biting on our bait, but a young boy a few yards down landed a nice sized ray, probably two feet wide or more. Jack got to touch it before they threw it back - he reported that it was "slimy - and flapping its flippers." Indeed it was.

Sam enjoyed the outing as well, while Jack passed the time fishing by filling Bud's ear with endless "conversation" - I swear, this kid can really spin a tall tale. At one point as we were walking back, Jack said: "Daddy, Bud didn't catch any fish." To which I faithfully replied, "Son, that's what fishing is all about sometimes." Puzzled and looking as if I didn't hear him correctly the first time, Jack said, more emphatically: "Daddy - Bud DIDN'T catch any fish!"

Sigh. The naivete of youth.

***********

Pawley's Pier, August 8, 2013.

Finger on the Kill Button

Dad and I took to the hills this weekend - his 60th birthday is coming up, and I lined up a half-day grouse
hunt in the mountains of western NC to help celebrate. We had to leave poor Dean at home due to some logistical hurdles, but with Kim at the NCAFP conference at the Grove Park, Dad and I took off to Weaverville NC to meet up with our guide from Curtis Wright Outfitters.

Grouse hunting reminds me a lot of combat – it is exhausting, you rarely see what you are shooting at, you often come home empty-handed, and it is a helluva good time. (NB: Words of wisdom from my former commander: “Actually, it's a lot of fun to fight. You know, it's a hell of a hoot. It's fun to shoot some people. I'll be right upfront with you, I like brawling." General James N. Mattis, USMC).

From handling a weapon, you get an innate familiarity with its functioning. Under stress and through intense training, it becomes a literal extension of your very self. The Marine Corps also has a way of distilling various things down to their core attribute - for example, the safety selector switch on the M16A2 service rifle. Safe. Semi. Burst. Simple enough to just call it the "Selector Switch" or something like that, but the drill intructors in the Marine Corps insist on calling it the "Kill Button." It makes sense, when you think about it, and it subtly reinforces the idea that is what a weapon is for, and nothing less, in case less attentive recruits begin to forget where it is pointed.

There were times I recall from Iraq that I went from “finger straight and off the trigger, weapon on safe” to 4.5 pounds of pressure on a five pound trigger, sights on the target, with the weapon on "Kill." It wasn’t something I had to think about, it just happened. I wasn't ever even aware of the shift from safe to fire - rather, as the immediate stress subsided I caught myself sighting down the barrel of a rifle with set to “fire.” Before long, and well before we deployed, I had put enough rounds out in training that I would just walk around with my thumb perched on the selector switch, so as not to have to look for it when the time came.

Walking the hills outside Weaverville NC with Dad brought this thought flooding back. For the first two or three flushes, we never even saw the bird - just had the dog lock up and heard him fly, maybe we even imagined a slight glimpse of brown on brown hurtling through the hardwoods. After a late trailing shot on the second bird (mostly to save face) I relocated my second finger to that little round button on the right side of the trigger guard on the Remington 870 LW 20 ga. Kept the first finger straight, ready to acquire the trigger, and the second finger poised on the kill button. Nothing less would work, these hills were so steep and the birds were so fast.

We never got a bird, although we had a few more flushes. It would have been nice to have Dean - the guide's dog kept taking off down the mountain after deer or some other such animal. But hell - a nice December day on the mountain with Dad, you hardly need to actually get a bird.

Happy Birthday Dad. Thanks for hunting with me all these years.

No Country For Old Men

The grouse hunt this past weekend was some steep country - the mountains around Weaverville NC make you work for each shot. You can see Bud's blaze orange in the far upper left corner of the picture, as he gazes woefully into the abyss after we missed a bird that flushed out from under us while the dob was off in a briar patch. We didn't even get a shot off, and even the dog couldn't find the one that took off down this hill.

Stand by - more to follow.

Whaler Project: Installation

Over the last few nights, I've gotten the helm kitted back together and things are starting to look a bit more ship-shape. Next step is to finish the hard-install of the seats, console, and hatch to the hull proper, reconnect the battery cables, and see if I can get this baby cranked up. There is definitely a lot more finger-crossing and breath-holding at this stage. But she sure is gettin' pretty!

Dean the Acrobat

Dean decided he wasn't quite getting enough press recently, so he needed to show off a little bit out at Lake Brandt this weekend. Despite his lack of desire to retrieve birds, he has a pretty incredible ball drive.While he is not quite as intense as a Shepherd or a Lab, he makes up for that with a little extra style and panache (not to mention persistence..)

  

I managed to get quite a few shots of him airborne - tricky to do, since I was throwing the ball, working the camera and receiving the retrieves. But some of these are quite interesting - you might almost call him an artiste.

  

But me? An acrobat artist? Not so much..

Hunting Video #1

Stephen takes a quail over Dean's point, steady to fall.

Goose Dog

Ah, Thanksgiving. Good food, family, and duck season. Finally.

We took Dean out this weekend for his first waterfowl trip to Whitney Pond. As usual, the ducks were scarce but the Canadas were thick as thieves. Between Bill, Dad and I, two salvos of No. 2 brought down 2 geese from 2 separate flights. Dean promptly went after each one with unexpected vigor given the near-freezing temperature of the water. I think he was a little surprised at how big the birds were - once he had a little fun shaking the remaining life out of them, he paddled on back to the blind. So much fir his natural retrieving instinct.

Quail Shot Over Dean's Point, Riverbend SC 2010

Just a Bird Dog Kind of Day

Dean, Jim, Bill and I brought home 31 of 48 birds today - not bad for a rookie and a coupla has-beens. Not that any of the misses were Dean's fault - I don't think we lost a downed bird the whole day. Although this trip did highlight hte fact that although his ball-retrieving remains excellent, his desire to bring back a dead bird stops right after he playfully shakes it a few times. I guess it's time to get in the backyard with a wing-covered tennis ball for some retriveing work. Thanks to Ralph and Hank for a solid hunt. And thank God it wasn't snowing - the sunshine sure was nice!

Dean locks up on a nice point. Demise of 2 quail immediately follows.

(impressive action videos to follow)

Camp Lakewood

Dear Camp Director Rick,

Word on the dog circuit is that Camp Lakewood is the place to be. So when my parents started talking last night about going to Asheville this December 4th-6th for some work thing Mom has to do, I thought I would check and see if there is any space available for an enthusiastic ball-chasing camper such as myself. I am never aggressive with other dogs and tend to get along well with most any four legged animal, except for chipmunks because they are tasty and raccoons because they swat at me. Dad has lots of plans for me to go hiking that weekend with him and my brother but Mom said something about "being too much with a toddler" and that gives me hope that perhaps I could spend at least an afternoon enjoying the outside play pen and possibly the wonderful company of the other campers at Camp Lakewood. Please consider this as my application.

Warmest barking regards,
Dean Shaw