thehundredlittledramas

Red Letter Days

“This is The Spot!” I exclaim to my two hunting partners. “Do you remember it? It was thirty years ago when we first hunted here.”

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Red Letter Days

“This is The Spot!” I exclaim to my two hunting partners. “Do you remember it? It was thirty years ago when we first hunted here.”

Who among us doesn’t have “The Spot”? Whether it’s a submerged reef that always holds walleyes, a saddle ridge where a November buck can always be found, or an unnamed creek that babbles and twists its way through fantastic grouse and woodcock cover, we all have our spots.

We three brothers (though in the interest of clarity and candor, only two of us are brothers by blood) are joining forces on this crisp October morning somewhere in the wilds of Washburn County to give chase to the local grouse and our favorite out-of-towners, the Labrador Twisters, aka American Woodcock. Before us this day lay nigh a thousand acres of county land.

The powers that be in the Washburn County HQ have seen fit to perform little in the way of logging operations lo these past 20 years or so. As a result, much of the prime grouse cover of our youth is now mature forest, meaning poor habitat for our beloved grouse. But never fear!

The Spot has been home to generations of beaver who continue to make a living adjacent to our favorite little unnamed creek, and through their efforts and sharp incisors, have kept the popples in check, with multiple age classes of the trees adored by grouse and beavers alike along the length and width of the meandering stream.

This is prime cover for all woodland creatures, great and small. The expansive beaver pond is home to native brook trout and all manner of waterfowl.

I have been wandering these coverts every season during the past thirty years. I know this ground well.

My brother Rick has joined me on a few hunts in this area over the years. But he is more prone to deer hunting, angling, and riding his Harley.

Old pal John is my frequent outdoors partner as we chase turkeys, grouse, and trout together every year in other parts of the state, has not visited this land for many years.

As a result, my two mates will need to dig deep in the recesses of their minds to retrieve dusty memories of this place if they wish to recall what has transpired here in the past. But no matter. They are with me today and ready to chase the dog chasing the birds.

Dane waits for no man and jumps into the cover as soon as we hit the creek crossing. He knows the spot and immediately begins his tireless search for birds. John crosses the creek and holds tight to the bank. Rick and I flank the creek on the other side and follow the dog.

The red dog goes where the scent pulls him; he frequently crisscrosses the small creek, able to leap across in a single bound.

The Wisconsin grouse season stretches north of 100 days. But we all know that the third week of October is the finest time for the upland hunter in this part of the world.

Allow me to rattle off supporting data points to this claim; most of the trees have released their foliage, opening the coverts and allowing more open shots at fleeing birds. The woodcock flight is in, and the little brown birds are on the move and moving into our haunts, with new arrivals every day. The weather (usually) cooperates; crisp mornings and warmer temperatures in the afternoon make for a comfortable day outdoors for man and dog alike.

The dueling aromatic smells of decay and plenty comingle upon the land and signal both this fleeting time of plenty and the oncoming of winter’s merciless conditions and bare larder. One’s senses work overtime in the October grouse woods, and every proper grouse hunter knows this.

The evidence is indisputable; if any gun-toting, self-respecting upland bird hunter is not in the woods during the third week of October, then that nimrod is best off selling all his guns and dogs and instead take up golf or pickleball for sport.

We travel perhaps 70 yards into the cover when Dane locks on point. The red dog is midway below a gradual bank that spills down to the creek. Alders, young popples, and hazel brush spring from the ground like weeds. I slowly flank the dog and follow his eyes to a spot perhaps ten feet in front of him. One final step and a woodcock whirrs aloft, climbing quickly in a vertical flight pattern, then straightening out in his takeoff attempt to escape. He is unsuccessful. John’s gun barks once, and our first bird of the day is in the bag.

The gin-clear creek meanders and cuts through the edge cover. We work upstream towards the large beaver pond from which the creek exits. In many places the creek speaks; its ancient gurgling and babbling chorus a fine soundtrack to this red-letter day. The young popple and alder give thanks to the creek, too, and grow like the hairs on the back of the red dog. Which is to say the cover is thick and difficult to traverse. And a great place to put up shop if one is a grouse or woodcock.

Out of my sight, Dane is on point. My handheld GPS receiver reveals his location with a beep and a vibration. I call to my brother. “Rick, Dane is on point at about eleven o’clock, 35 yards in front of you.” The three of us quickly but as stealthily as possible converge on the point.

“Whoa,” I unnecessarily caution Dane. He is a statue, the front half of his body turned 45 degrees to his left, staring a hole in the ground in front of him.

The creek sings its song, the wind slips through the trees, the sun washes over the scene. This placid moment is shattered by a red-phase grouse erupting from in front of Dane’s nose. No easy shot is offered as the bird propels itself on a low trajectory, dodging and twisting through the thick cover. Rick’s .16-gauge barks once, twice.

Dane disappears in a blur to follow the flight path of the departing grouse.

“Did you get ‘em?”.

“Not sure. I think so.”

The speed of the departing grouse in the thick cover which absorbs and cloaks the bird, combined with the difficulty in very quickly getting off an accurate shot, often results in the hunter unsure if his shot is true until the dog returns with its prize or reveals that it is empty-handed.

This uncertainty visited us on this occasion. However, in less than a minute the red dog returned with the bird held high in his grip, bringing the bird to my hand, never mind that it was my brother Rick who bagged the grouse. Dane is loyal to a fault, if not fully understanding the proper protocol and custom of retrieving the bird to the hand of the shooter. No matter. The bird was quickly admired and examined by John, who also serves as our resident naturalist.

John, ever inquisitive, opened the crop of the grouse to reveal its breakfast.

“Look at this, boys,” John exclaimed. “This red bird had himself a GREAT last supper.”

Hazel catkins, clover leaves, two large white oak acorns, strawberry leaves, dandelion, and pieces of mushrooms filled the bird’s crop, fit to burst. Yes indeed, this bird feasted at the cornucopia that is the wild country of Washburn County in October.

The morning advanced, miles were covered, the air was filled with missed shots, laughter, good-natured ribbing, and a few more birds added to the bag.

Our hunting party made a wide circle and worked cover farther out from the creek, hunting our way back to the sand road. We startled a doe and two fawns from the lee side of a wooded rise. The deer bounded away, pausing on a slight hummock to look back to see what we were all about. And with a flick of the doe’s tail, the deer disappeared over the rise.

We three popped out on the road and slowly made our way back towards the truck. Our aging legs were tired and maybe even a bit sore. The backs of our hands revealed the hard-earned scratches from the brush. The dog? Showing zero fatigue, he ran ahead of us, occasionally ducking into the woods, always on the search for birds.

Watching Dane on this and every day we hunt I am always reminded of a favorite quote from Robert Ruark, “Never knew a man not to be improved by a dog.” Indeed.

As we approached our starting point where the little creek cuts under the road, John suddenly offered a memory pulled forth from a day much like this one, but thirty years in the past.

“I’ll never forget Iron Mike falling backward along this creek as that woodcock flew right over the top of him. He fired his third shot from that old Ithaca pump while flat on his back! He missed that bird but all he did was laugh out loud as we pulled him up off the ground. We all had a good laugh at that one!”

I remember that day well. My Dad was a casual upland bird hunter, but he’d never pass up the opportunity to be afield with his boys. He was a kind and generous spirit, and it’s days like this when I miss him the most.

“Yeah, my Dad talked about that day all the time. He was good about laughing at himself. He lived to be here with us and the dogs.”

We walked on in silence until we reached my truck.

“You guys hungry?”

Of course, this crew was hungry.

“I have a little surprise for you.”

We drove a short distance to a seldom-used county campground. As expected, we were the only ones in attendance.

Out of the back of my truck, I summoned forth my cook kit.

“What’s up, Jimmy?” the boys wanted to know.

“I’m going to make you guys a little Washburn County October shore lunch.”

My kit included fresh tarragon and shallots from my home garden, seasoned salt, pepper, and olive oil. I made quick work of cleaning two each of the grouse and woodcock.

Rick secured fresh water for Dane and found him a place in the shade to rest a bit. Then he started a small friendship fire for fun, not warmth.

John was puttering around as usual when he called me over to a grassy spot off the trail.

“Check it out.” In his hand were several small, round mushrooms. “These are Stump Puffballs.” “They’re all around here,” he said with a sweep of his arm. He was smiling. “They’re DELICIOUS when they are this size!”

The oil crackled in the frying pan, the slices of grouse and woodcock breast along with the legs were sautéed to a golden brown. Soon after entering the pan the birds were joined by our new friends, sliced puffball mushrooms. A shower of salt, pepper, and fresh tarragon finished the dish.

Cans of cold beer were opened. Plates were filled. Laughter and groans of delight filled our little corner of the empty campground. Dane swallowed his portion in one gulp, but I do think he enjoyed his meal, too.

As my brothers talked and laughed, I looked around me at the sky, the treetops and thought about my Dad. He had a favorite expression he often shared during a particularly great meal, of which there were many during our time together.

“Where else in the world,” my Dad would ask, “could you get a meal like this?”

Only here, Dad. Only here.

We cleaned up our lunch, extinguished the fire, and stood around the tailgate looking at each other.

So where to this afternoon, the boys wanted to know.

I looked upon my happy companions and felt deep satisfaction and joy from what this day had delivered to us so far. How could we possibly top our experiences from this morning?

“Well…,” I started, “I do know another spot!”