Locabeer

Western NY had many small local breweries in the 20th century. One of the last old timers within the City of Buffalo was the Iroquois Brewery.

I guess its product was a “locabeer.” Some of its natural ingredients weren’t local, of course. Good hops might have come from Czechoslovakia, the Willamette Valley in Oregon, or going back a few years, even from the region around Malone, NY. Floy Hyde’s book claims a North Country origin for the term “hopping mad." It seems that pickers put the leafy clusters of hops in large baskets and were paid by volume; the picker had to fill the basket to get full pay for it. If the picker wasn't careful in handling his basket - perhaps setting it down a bit roughly at a rest break - his easily compressible load would settle, and he'd have to return to the fields to top off his basket, making him hopping mad.

If the Iroquois hops weren't local, certainly the Lake Erie water was. And the brew makers were recruited from "Kaisertown,"a nearby German neighborhood. Despite the brewery's attempts to achieve a wider regional distribution, most of its product probably washed down Buffalo's ubiquitous fish fries, home cooked meals, and summertime picnic fare. And in neighborhood saloons it was a staple whistle wetter for men on their way home from long shifts in mills and factories.

My Dad really enjoyed “Erie” beer as it was sometimes called; he said it reminded him of the good Canadian beers he'd drink when we'd visit attractions like Crystal Beach just over the Peace Bridge. But I was never much of a fan. "Never" ended, however, on the day I sampled the beer super fresh right at the brewery.

During my college days in the late 60s, the "legal age" was 18. Beer was centrally located in campus social events. One year our History Club booked a trip to the brewery, ostensibly to see how beer was made, listen to the old German workers, and just take it all in. I recall our amazement and jealousy when we learned that the taps located all around the building were there to facilitate the workers' time honored tradition of "quality control."

Well, we really did enjoy taking all that in. But what made these visits so enticing was the opportunity to sit in the “Rat” after the tour and freely sample the Iroquois product with pretzels and player piano favorites served up by pretty young ladies in costume. Honestly, I was shocked by the difference in the bottled product Dad drank at home and the ambrosia served fresh right there on the corner of Pratt and William Streets. That recollection is certainly the most vivid of the few I've retained from Junior year.

I wonder whether the locavore movement will help bring locabeer back. Buffalo currently has one micro brewery, and its suburbs have several more producing a variety of tasty elixirs. I hope they thrive and prosper. But I miss the rathskeller and singing along with my beerily cheery friends as By The Light Of The Silvery Moon rolled melodiously from the player piano.

When Manhattan Came To Niagara Falls

"Model City," read the street sign.

Back in 1996, after being snowed out of our southern tier grouse country again, I was determined to find a release club where I could extend the season for my young American Water Spaniel “Bean.” That’s why I found myself driving down back roads in northern Erie and Niagara counties on that particular Sunday in February.

It was only lately that I began wondering about that street sign. “Model City” is a pretty grand designation for a quarter mile of country road sporting a post office at one end and a dump at the other.

When I Googled “Model City” the other day, this website covered it nicely in a paragraph or two. But as the story unfolded, Model City became a minor historical sideshow while the Lake Ontario Ordnance Works became its unfortunate and enduring focus. After reading the entire piece, I Googled "LOOW," and found several related websites. This one provides a strong personal perspective.

It's beyond sobering to read about the toxic mess still on and beneath local ground. But like Oscar Wilde, “I am not young enough to know everything.” I suspect that local residents were proud of their contributions to the war effort against enemies they believed were devils incarnate. American families lost more than 400,000 brothers, husbands and sons in WW II. My Mom had the chance to meet and date my Dad only after her fiancee, pilot Richard S., was shot down over the Pacific in his B-25 and later killed by the Japanese.

Every family that suffered such a painful, personal loss must have felt a linkage to and urgency for the war effort that would have been difficult to trump with "environmental concerns," had that even been a popular term in the 1940s. The websites' authors seem to have trouble understanding this. I'm reminded of what Anonymous said: "When you're up to you ass in alligators, it's real hard to remember that you're there to drain the swamp."

Cold Duck readers are invited to decide for themselves.

Coming To Grips With The Prince Of Wales

Let’s get one thing straight right away. Considering the way their stories end, it’s not Captain Ahab, but Jonah who wins the title Prince of Whales. This entry, though, is about the Prince of Wales. Specifically, it’s about the "Prince of Wales grip" that's found on some shotguns.

There have been homegrown princes in Wales since at least the Iron Age, and English Princes of Wales since Edward II in 1301. I haven’t been able to establish positive ID on which of all these Princes of Wales favored a partial pistol grip so much that it would forever bear his name. But for many people, the smoking gun, so to speak, seems to have been pointed by Edward VII. Born to Queen Victoria in 1841, Albert Edward – “Bertie” - was apparently a rebellious hell-raiser who enjoyed generous doses of women, food, drink, gambling and sport. One source said "while Victoria's bleak piety coloured her age, the Prince of Wales's passions for girls, gambling and gluttony reflected the debauched mood of the society in which he moved." Someone else noted that "he favoured ripe bodies and ripe minds, lovely women with curves that emphasised their womanhood." The Cold Duck staff sure would have enjoyed a week or so at his woodcock camp.

If there is no certainty that Albert Edward is the eponymous Prince, neither is there agreement on the exact form a Prince of Wales grip properly takes. Manufacturers advertise "Prince of Wales" grips having either flat sawn or rounded ends. Further, the terms “half pistol” and “semi pistol” are in some places used to describe a Prince of Wales grip, but in others to differentiate them from a Prince of Wales grip. Apparently you pays your money and you takes your choice.

None of this confusion, of course, will stop me from throwing out my favorite “definition.” When I think of the Prince of Wales grip, I imagine a relaxed radius partial pistol grip (half- or quarter-) that's sawn flat on the end, approximately parallel to the line of the barrels, and finished with a metal cap. And if I could afford a "London best," I'd specify this grip for it.

Is This The "True" Prince Of Wales Grip?
Thanks To Griffin & Howe

Even if Edward VII is “the” Prince, and even if my favorite is "the" definition, the question of exactly why he favored this grip configuration remains.

• Did the partial pistol give him some slight extra purchase? Did his gun locate more reliably in hand for his driven pheasants?


• Did he have some disability in his shooting hand for which this grip was a palliative?


• Or was this simply a device to preserve the elegance of the straight grip while providing his engravers an additional surface for their art?


• Was this a "supply side" grip? Did a particular gunmaker – maybe Woodward – offer this style of grip that for some reason suited Bertie’s hand or eye?


• Or was it driven by demand? Was Bertie a keen shooter, and did he approach a gunmaker with this concept he had developed?


• It's certainly possible that Bertie experimented with several grip configurations, so that they all were properly "Prince of Wales" grips. Such a promiscuous use of the term would neatly account for the lack of uniformity in its application.

Until a written document specifically addressing this issue materializes, the origin of the term is conjectural, and any talk of a “true” Prince of Wales grip is without basis. Or, as I often ask when I'm shooting, am I missing something here?

A Nice Pair

If Queen Elizabeth II ever invites me to tea at Sandringham - hey, she is a spaniel lover, too - I'll be sure to browse through the royal gunroom for some informing reference to the Prince's smoking gun.

Catch And Release Hunting Smells Fishy

Early in October, flight woodcock had yet to arrive in my favorite covert right out the back door. So on one overcast day I decided to wait on the 'doodles and drive up to my release club instead for a pheasant hunt with Gordie.

After parking the car, I grabbed my 12 gauge Benelli Ultra Light and vest, released Gordie, and headed for cover. That’s when I discovered that my vest was full - of 20 gauge #8s. A flailing search through the mess in the trunk failed to produce any 12 gauge shells. While re-casing and storing the gun, I decided that I’d run Gordie anyway. But after about ten minutes I returned to the car, put Gordie up, and drove back home.

When I reviewed the day’s events over a wee dram that evening, a signature line used by a poster at the Shooting Sportsman bulletin board came to mind. I cannot quote his text, but I can come close. If he ever arrived at a distant cover without his dog, he wrote, he’d go home. But if he arrived without his gun, he’d go hunting. I’d always liked that signature. For guys like me, working beautiful cover with a canine buddy is what it's all about.

In “Meditations On Hunting,” philosopher Ortega y Gassett begs to differ. He writes “…one does not hunt in order to kill; on the contrary, one kills in order to have hunted.” It’s obvious he’s never seen me shoot or he’d know better. Philosophy always trumped me, anyway. If anyone is interested in splitting the hairs of matters like this, you should go see what Jim T. has to say over at Grousers.

After another wee dram and some reflection, I figured that the poster and I had it almost right. If I ever arrive in wild bird country with Gordie but not my shotgun, we’ll get out and run all right, but we'll be scouting, not hunting.

When I cast Gordie off that day at my shooting club, technically I wasn’t even scouting. I've belonged to the club for 12 years. Its 300 acres hide no surprise hotspots for me, and if it weren't for released pheasants, there'd be no upland birds there at all. Furthermore, if Gordie had found and flushed any leftover ringnecks, I’d have wasted $15 of member resources every time one flew over our fence into an adjoining property. It didn’t take long to realize that if this exercise wasn’t useless, then it was selfishly extravagant.

But the fix was easy. As mentioned earlier, I drove home where I exchanged the Ultra Light for my 20 gauge Rizzini and went looking for woodcock out back. And although we didn’t see a bird, with absolutely no apology to Ortega y Gassett, we enjoyed hunting until it was almost dark.

Scouting Beautiful Cover For Wild Birds Is Always Fun And Often Productive

FC Buster Brown, King Of Meadow

Buster was always special.

When my neighbor Mike Ludwig peeked through his blinds and saw the liver and white English Cocker frolicking with his littermates outside my place on a sun drenched Saturday morning in October, 1996, he fell in puppy love at first sight. And after the little guy had played, visited the woods and shared affection with them for several hours, Mike and his wife Kim assured Harold Bixby of Windwhistle Kennels that Buster had found a loving home.

It didn’t take long for the pup to conspire in mayhem with my two year old American Water Spaniel Bean. They played furiously in our back yards, Buster chasing Bean in tight circles until they crashed to the grass in a tangled ball of asses and elbows. On days when Mike was pressed for time, he’d ask me to take Buster along when I ran Bean on the trails behind our houses. The three of us enjoyed a seamless fit. I was beyond contented every time those two dogs were tearing it up in front of me.

Boy, could Buster run! From his early days chasing Bean, to the time he arrowed out 60 yards to retrieve a chukar as a young trainee, to his many flawless runs in tests and trials, he covered his ground with speed, grace, and fearlessness to cover. Cocker trials were reintroduced shortly before Buster was whelped, and the first National in 36 years was held in 1998. So the newly minted “Cocker judges” were really “Springer judges” learning to wear a different hat. Mike heard more than one of these judges say – and at the time it was understood as a compliment – that Buster reminded them of a mini Springer working the course.

While Mike enjoyed woodcock and duck hunting with Buster, he was proudest of his field trial performances. They learned the game together, quickly, with Mike taking Buster to his title in 2000. At the 2004 Nationals, only passing a third bird in the fifth series denied Buster a Certificate of Merit. And as you can see here, Buster was still performing at a high level in 2006.


The little dog’s heart and spirit were still strong after that, but health issues slowly overtook him. Mike and his family recently spent several emotionally full days comforting their pal before Mike shared one last ride together.

All good dogs leave us too soon. But in the Better Place that I envision, old Bean has welcomed Buster with open paws. They’ll be chasing each other’s tails and flushing woodcock just for the Hell of it until it’s my turn to join them. Meanwhile, I’ve added Buster’s photo to the Old Friends section in the sidebar.

I've Upgraded My 3-Shotgun Battery For Positively The Last Time Ever

Back in August, I wrote an entry about my comfort level with a safe reduced to three favored shotguns. For those hopelessly snowed in, you can read the entire entry here.

For those with less time to kill, here’s a snip from what I wrote about my 16 gauge:

To my eye, the 16 gauge has the prettiest silhouette of all the SxS’s. The tubes on a .410 or 28 gauge SxS sometimes appear too thin for the stock and action; and some 12 gauge SxS’s are too popeyed at the fences for my taste. My 16 gauge SxS is an AyA 4/53 Classic from Cabela’s....
This 4/53 may be a bit too tightly choked to become a dedicated grouse gun. Further, because my hands are sensitive to cold, the double triggers are not easy for my gloved fingers to negotiate after winter sets in. If CSMC ever offers a 16 gauge RBL with a reliable single, non-selective trigger, I would strongly consider going for the upgrade....

When CSMC began offering a 16 gauge RBL SxS in November, I was delighted. My long-suffering bride liked my plan: I’d drive to the CSMC showroom in Connecticut, actually handle an existing RBL, speak face to face with CSMC staff, and make an informed decision after that. Here’s why I ordered an RBL:

• CSMC is about 420 miles from my garage door. If I ever need service, I have the option of driving there and delivering the gun to a CSMC employee whose ear I can chew. This adds great value to a gun that’s not even built yet. While I am happy to “buy American” when prudent, in this case I am even happier to “buy a 7 hour drive away.” The commute to Birmingham, Brescia, Belgium, or Eibar is not nearly so convenient.
  
  
• CSMC offers the RBL with a single selective trigger. Their experience with the Model 21 augurs well for its reliability. As noted earlier, a single trigger reduces the hassle on my stiff and gloved fingers come winter. The selective part is not important to me. Hunting grouse and woodcock on the brushy edges of NY forests, I shoot at most of my birds as they angle away from me at high speed. Having the right-then-left built in to my gun wouldn't handicap me at all.
  
  Speaking of birds and places, I ordered fixed chokes. After discussing the issue with CSMC, I’m delighted with my choices of Skeet 1 and Improved Cylinder. In the event that my patterns are too open for a given hunt, I can tighten things up simply by shooting harder shot. The RBL will safely handle pellets made from soft lead all the way up to steel.
  
  
• Some of the boys at the usual upland hunting bulletin boards have expressed concern about the predicted weight of an average 16 gauge RBL. CSMC’s website promises weights from 6 lb. 4 oz. to 6 lb. 8 oz., but some conjectured that this range was optimistically low.
  
  The old “rule of 96” suggests that a shooter can comfortably fire a gun that weighs 96 times its payload. For the 16 gauge’s 1 oz. load, that comes out to 96 oz., or 6 lbs. 0 oz. When I owned such a 16 gauge, a nice Arrieta 557, I found it a bit “bitey,” and thought several ounces more on its lovely frame would not have hurt at all. So if CSMC’s FAQ page is a reliable indicator, I’ll be just fine.
  
  I’m turning 60 at the end of this month. NY's small coverts and, to a lesser extent, my age gives form to my typical day afield. Most often, I'll hunt the day's best covert for an hour or two. Then I water the dog back at the car, maybe share a sandwich, and drive to the next spot. After 90 minutes there, I’ll repeat the process at the car. If it’s a really nice day, maybe I’ll put a long hour into my last stop of the day. So an "all-day carry gun" is not nearly so valuable to me as to a Nevada chukar hunter, for example, who heads up a mountain in the morning and doesn't come down until late in the afternoon.
  
  And while a very light weight gun is fun to carry, it may be a bit challenging to connect with. The RBL’s extra few ounces – and, assuming the gun comes in under 7 lb., they’re only “extra” if the rule of 96 is elevated to The Rule Of 96 – should help me swing better through the grouse that Gordie works so hard for.
  
  
• Finally, I find the 16 gauge RBL’s wrist a bit too thick for my tastes. The receiver’s engraved setters don’t do much for me, either. But these are very minor quibbles on a gun that costs less than $3,000 and features the three benefits just listed.

According to CSMC's FAQ page, some deliveries will begin in April. I’ll be delighted if I get my RBL in time to chase a Christmas bird in 2009.

Prototype 16 gauge RBL from CSMC

I have also been doing some thinking about my 12 gauge. I'd written:

My “big gun” now is a 6 lb. 0 oz. 24” 3-shot 12 gauge Benelli Ultra Light auto built around the Montefeltro action. Somehow the Benelli engineers have kept its felt recoil to a minimum. Further, the gun seems to point exactly where I look, swings incredibly well, and goes bang every time. It has arguably become the most effective gun I’ve ever owned.

I use this gun for all birds shot while training dogs; for pheasants and ducks; and, with small steel shot, for an occasional snipe. As much as I cherish my 20 gauge O/U, this sweet-shooting auto would probably be the last gun to go if the big bad wolf were ever to blow down my financial house.

Of all the mistakes I’ve made in selling off shotguns,...

…this may turn out to be the biggest. Time will tell. The Ultra Light is gone, replaced by another Benelli, this one a 20 gauge M2 Field with a synthetic black stock. I traded down for a simple reason: recoil. Many gunners who also wrote (O’Connor and Foster come immediately to mind) ultimately went to a smaller gauge to diminish the pains that the 12 gauge perpetrated on their “experienced” bodies. I'm just acting pre-emptively. I can still shoot the 12 gauge without pain. But my right shoulder is getting a bit creaky generally, so I figure it's a good plan to reduce stress to it any way possible.

Here's why I believe this 20 gauge can replace my 12 gauge Ultra Light:

• Near as I can tell, 3 or 4 pellets of a target-appropriate shot will cleanly kill most birds taken within range. It’s not gauge or dram equivalent or initial velocity or the right choke tube that kills the bird, it’s energy at or beyond the lethal limit delivered by appropriate shot. At comfortable distances, the 12 gauge's extra payload isn't worth its wallop.
  
  I’ve shot enough birds to recognize which are the chances that I usually shoot dead. If a bird rises outside my reliable killing zone, I know I can make potential problems go away simply by not squeezing the trigger. And this is one thing I can control, every time.
  
  
  
• I'm also comfortable downsizing because I no longer see birds that I need to kill.
  
  I've been privileged to be an official gun at spaniel and NAHRA trials and tests. I have enjoyed helping others train their spaniels, and one necessary part of that training is making a live, flushed bird into a dead one in a manner that pleases the handler. For a number of reasons, I’ve decided to let the younger guys take my place. Many of them practice their shooting much more than I do these days. Some of them are keen to start building their mountains of feathers. Mine is pretty much big enough.
  
  
• I haven’t done much deer hunting lately. For reasons I don’t completely understand, I'm interested in taking a deer for the freezer one of these years. If shooting bird shot through a 12 gauge is problematical, then shooting deer slugs through a 12 gauge is positively painful. I have no doubt of the lethality of a 20 gauge slug fired broadside at a standing whitetail out to 50 yards. As when hunting birds, I'll be fine if I simply take the right shot.

This M2 has a 26” barrel and uses the Crio choke system. It will adapt well to different hunting environments, and be easy to clean. It also features the ComforTech stock. After firing about 10 rounds through it, I can happily say it is virtually free of felt recoil. Finally, a fully rifled barrel is available. If my current interest in deer hunting survives until August, I’ll pick one up and sight it in then.

So there you have it. I now have my perfect 3-gun battery. It's swell to know I'll never even want another gun. No, really. Trust me.

20 gauge Benelli M2 Field

Another Cold War Relic

When I stumbled into a long-closed Nike base while hunting woodcock in November, I blogged about it here.

Byron York and his family visited a different base in November. His reflections appeared in a well crafted story in the National Review Online. The piece needs no help that I can give it, so I’ll cut right to the chase with the link.

A Falls Of Woodcock

"Bean" the American Water Spaniel and I brought our first woodcock home from Corky’s Covert on October 10, 1994. Over time, we really came to love that ground. Not only was it a magnet for flight birds; but it also had the cool feature of a clear if distant view of Niagara Falls. As time marched on, the dogwood cover changed as did land use by resident neighbors. It's probably needless to say that neither of these developments improved the hunting. Sadly, we haven’t chased woodcock at Corky's for several years now.

So when my friend Jim S. recently invited Gordie and me to hunt woodcock on land near Corky’s, we were delighted. We visited the property behind Walt’s house around 3 p. m. in the final week of the 2008 season. I immediately recognized the cover that I’d learned to love almost 15 years earlier. Much of the dogwood was only waist to head high, offering the luxury of a second shot at birds whiffed with the first barrel.

The Niagara Falls Skyline From Walt’s

Not that the birds were easy, mind. We burned through some powder before we, ahem, warmed up our gun mounting techniques. But the woodcock were in, and Gordie had a ball rousting them up for us into the crisp blue sky.

One bird that we saluted flew over a barbed wire perimeter and came down inside in a small dogwood patch. Jim knew where a hole in the fence might get us an opportunity to reflush this possibly nicked bird. Moments later, we passed several large concrete slabs covering the ground. I asked Jim, and he confirmed the nature of these slabs: we were hunting on the grounds of an old Nike base. For those too young to remember, Nikes were a system of defensive missiles buried in communities here and there in the 1950’s and 60’s. If you’d like, you can read a bit about that history here. I enjoyed the irony of happily hunting wild birds in an attractive covert on the site of a Cold War icon.

Jim In Long Shadows At The Perimeter

Did Ike Like Nikes? Absolutely!
Cold War High Tech

It’s always terrific to find a cover that is a cracker jack replacement for one that’s been lost. Now that woodcock season has ended, I’ll scout it thoroughly over the snowy season to be ready to walk up the best spots come next October.

Jim is throwing a small dinner party tonight, featuring woodcock we’ve shot and the backstrap of a deer he arrowed. I got off easy, and only have to bring the wine. It sounds like a good time!

Gordie Clearly Relishing 3 Yummy Woodcock

---

Saturday morning addendum:

When I guessed that we'd have "a good time" Friday, I grossly underestimated the excellent table that Jim and Laurie would set for us last night. Read the menu and drool:

• jalapeno and banana peppers sauteed with prosciutto, Parmesan and aromatics and served with chunks of bread;
• sauteed chopped woodcock heart and liver over croutons warmed in a skillet of garlic butter;
• plucked and roasted woodcock, done rare;
• backstrap and other cuts of venison, done rare. Cherries in a thin glaze, for spooning over the venison, simmered in a pan nearby;
• diced goose breast in a cream sauce, served over spaetzle;
• green salad featuring raspberries and grapefruit;
• big, dry red wine;
• pumpkin tarts under whipped cream; and
• Zaya, a 12 year old rum from Trinidad, served neat in Irish crystal.

I'm eager to let Gordie help Jim get some mallards and a pheasant or two, maybe even a rabbit. Whatever Jim wants. I can't wait to taste what surprises he'll cook up next time.

Grouse Covert Hunting Pays Grouse Hunter Off Later

When I was a newlywed in 1978, my father in law introduced me to small game hunting. He was a North Country vet living on a going-back dairy farm off Route 30 just north of Malone. His youth – during the Great Depression – and later his work for struggling small dairy farmers never left him much time or money for training bird dogs. But the North Country had a great abundance of snowshoe hares then – his buddies called them white rabbits – and Doc just loved to hear beagle music as his hounds ran through the cedar swamps, birch clumps and pine patches just behind the barn.

I flushed more grouse by accident back then and there than I do now on purpose in western New York’s Southern Tier. Maybe it’s because Doc’s land was my formative hunting ground, or maybe it’s simply that I saw a lot of birds erupt from that sort of landscape. For whatever reasons, that habitat has remained my personal vision of what proper grouse cover looks like.

Thirty years and 400 miles to the south and west later, early successional forests are not common on public land hereabouts. In fact, they're damned scarce. Imagine my delight, then, when I recently followed up some scouting leads and discovered a place that looks “just right.” I flushed a bird there on my initial visit, and got a shot at one on the next. By concentrating on this particular parcel, I’m finally hunting grouse instead of grouse coverts. And it paid off just the other day.

We weren't 10 minutes out of the car when Gordie, a flushing spaniel, began working ground scent on the edge of a dry creek bed. I could see his enthusiasm ratcheting up, and, happily succumbing to optimism, I took a set-up step with my left foot in the direction in which the dog was working. With incredible timing, the pup flushed the bird not a dozen yards in front of me, and I had a rather easy shot for the 20 gauge L. L. Bean “Uplander” from B. Rizzini. The retrieve was short and sweet, and before there was any sweat in my hatband, Gordie had his first-ever local grouse.

Gordie Already Eager For His Next Cast

In the remainder of the 2 hours we hunted there, Gordie flushed two more grouse and three woodcock. I had good shots at only one of each. I’m still not sure whether to be happy that I grabbed a good shotshell for that first grouse, or angry that the rest of the box was so obviously defective. Since I’ll be getting back there a time or two before the deer hunters take over in November, I guess it’s OK that I left some birds for seed.

Bird Hunting In Western NY On The First Weekend In October

Blue Skies And Rolling Farmland Near NY Grouse Country

I opted for staying local on the first weekend in October. On Saturday, I hunted/ explored a spot I had only driven past and labeled “Check Out” on my map last year. It had several areas of obvious “disturbance,” and seemed a fair bet to hold some partridge. Since the covert is only 68 miles from my front door, it is also far and away the closest possible spot in which I might bang-bang-damn a grouse.

I parked the car just off the road and, after determining that 280° was “in,” put Gordie down. For the next 30 minutes, we walked either on the remnants of a skidder trail or armpit deep in brutal blackberry canes. “Disturbed” was an apt description for more than the landscape. When the trail petered out against a mature canopy, we turned south for about 400 yards so we’d have the easier walking just inside the edge of the blackberry-canopy border on our way out. His stub of a tail a merry blur, Gordie showed his appreciation of this more user-friendly cover by snuffling under, around or through it all in the pleasant morning shade.

After almost an hour, Gordie flushed a beautiful red phase bird from a large rotting log into a golden shaft of sunlight. I whiffed gracefully at this calendar-art shot, but sent Gordie out for a precautionary sniff anyway before we moved on. As it turned out, we were less than 60 seconds from where the car sat parked.

On my way to a second parking spot, I stopped for howdy and shake with the dairy farmer whose property is adjacent to this bit of state land. After I explained what I was doing, he told me that he’d often seen partridge near a road just a bit to the north, and encouraged me to give it a try. I thanked him and promised that I would. But when I got there, the block of cover was a bigger bite than I wanted to chew, so I saved it for another time.

I parked once more and hunted another disturbed piece of cover. It, too, was very attractive, but we had no flushes in our short hour on the ground. Even so, with the bird and cover I’d seen, and with the farmer’s endorsement (unless he just wanted me away from the edge of his herd ;-) I felt very pleased to have added a decent partridge place that was birdy and close to home.

On Sunday, family commitments left us just an hour to see whether we could take a pheasant left over from the morning’s hunts at my release club. The weather was again gorgeous; but in 58 minutes, Gordie didn’t make game once. I already had my 16 ga SxS broken and resting on my shoulder for the last 100 yards to the car when the dog went into hyperdrive. I swung the AyA 4/53 from right to left and was rewarded with a dense puff of feathers floating slowly downward in the after-shot stillness. In a jiffy Gordie brought me the stone-dead hen and we were done for the day.

I was delighted with the mild report, at both ends, of the shell I’d used. For the record, it was a 2.75” RST 16 ga. “Best” Lite 1 oz. load of #6 lead. Although the load put very little hurt on me, the pheasant was mercifully dead in the air.

On Monday, woodcock season opened, so out we went for our third species in three days. We went to an old spot we’ve been scouting for the last two weeks, turning up a bird or so on about half the visits. Today, unfortunately, belonged in the wrong half, although Gordie worked with enthusiasm for an hour and a quarter. I noticed with disappointment that a single Posted sign suddenly has appeared in a corner of our hunting area. But the posting was the only small blemish on three days that were otherwise terrific.

Finally Comfortable With A Bare Bones 3-Shotgun Battery

Just like a great white shark, my wife rolled her eyes and knifed in for the kill. “You’re just getting old, Hon.”

I’d awaken with a stiff neck, my penance for the simple sin of sleeping crookedly. Getting old, indeed. Actually, I’d suspected as much all Spring. I could barely raise a ho-hum of enthusiasm when the lurid reviews of new guns continued to arrive in the usual magazines.

Shrugging off these geriatric messages as groundless, I washed down a multiple vitamin and my prescribed drugs with a stout glass of prune juice and then waddled off to check my logs. The record showed that I’ve bought 27 shotguns since 1979, but have traded or given away all but three. Each of these survivors solves multiple problems from the set that’s evolved in the course of my hunting. I can’t imagine adding another shotgun. But I’d consider upgrading any of these arms if a more functional and prettier piece came along simultaneously with a winning lottery ticket.

Here’s how the guns left my safe. In NY, we have woodcock and grouse to hunt in the uplands. I also enjoy jump shooting wood ducks in front of my English Cocker, and the occasional mallard over decoys. When we hunt pheasants in NY, the birds were most probably released, although some spend lots more time on their own in the wild than others. For me, other than the occasional pigeon or chukar planted for dog training, that’s the complete roster of my targets.

That’s not all. I no longer hunt deer. I’m not interested in turkeys, or even geese. Official gunning at spaniel field games isn’t appealing anymore, either. And, as much as I have tried, I still can’t work a pump gun well. In “Pheasants of the Mind,” the late Datus Proper said it better than I can: “I like the toolness of the pumpguns, the way they clank like 1932 Fords. I would enjoy carrying one around to aggravate the dudes. It happens, however, that I shoot better with a double-barreled gun....”

As most rough shooters ultimately do, I’ve settled on lighter weight arms, acknowledging that we carry a gun for much greater time periods than we shoot it. Here’s what I’ve saved.

My smallest-framed gun is a 20 gauge O/U, an L. L. Bean “New Englander” from B. Rizzini. Since I don’t shoot registered 4-gun skeet, there’s really no pressing need for me to own a 28 gauge. A 20 can be almost as svelte – too much daintiness as an impediment to good shooting is a good topic for another day – and, when down-loaded with ¾ oz. loads, probably throws patterns just as effective as those from the much-hyped 28. This Rizzini has a rubber recoil pad, a plain fore end (no Schnabel) and a rounded pistol grip. As did Don Zutz, I find that my left hand is on plane with my right in a scaled 20 gauge O/U stocked this way, and strongly believe this adds a comfortable synergy to my shooting. Hunt records do not discourage me in this belief.

The New Englander is my gun of choice for woodcock and early season grouse. I rarely swap out the .005” and .010” choke tubes, and own no loads for it other than Remington’s STS20SC in #8 lead.

This particular configuration is about as good as it gets for me. If I ever were to consider an upgrade, without question I’d work with Rich Cole in Maine to have a similar style gun built for me with a custom sized stock wrapped around the universally popular Beretta 686 action.

20 gauge B. Rizzini L. L. Bean “New Englander”

To my eye, the 16 gauge has the prettiest silhouette of all the SxS’s. The tubes on a .410 or 28 gauge SxS sometimes appear too thin for the stock and action; and some 12 gauge SxS’s are too popeyed at the fences for my taste. My 16 gauge SxS is an AyA 4/53 Classic from Cabela’s. It has lovely 29” fixed choke barrels, double triggers, a splinter fore end agreeably matched with a straight right hand, and a checkered butt. The 4/53 Classic also comes with “upgraded wood” and a stock oval, and is not punishing to look at. When I shouldered this arm in Cabela’s Wheeling, WV Gun Library, I was instantly taken with its weight, balance, and out-of-box fit. I traded two former eye apples and a bit of cash for it, and so far have been delighted.

I like hunting mid- and late-season grouse with a 16 gauge. I’ve also had success with the gauge at the release club where I shoot pheasants and, on occasion, wood ducks and mallards. Ironically, the 16 is a gauge I could enjoy for all my hunting, but, because of ammunition constraints, would also be the first of my trio to go if I somehow had to get by with just two guns.

This 4/53 may be a bit too tightly choked to become a dedicated grouse gun. Further, because my hands are sensitive to cold, the double triggers are not easy for my gloved fingers to negotiate after winter sets in. If CSMC ever offers a 16 gauge RBL with a reliable single, non-selective trigger, I would strongly consider going for the upgrade. If that seems like it’s a long time coming and the 4/53 otherwise performs well in the interim, I’d probably have Mike Orlen open up the fixed chokes on the AyA just a bit.

Of all the mistakes I’ve made buying shotguns, the worst was in ordering a 16 gauge Huglu O/U in 1995 from a now out-of-business vendor in Charlottesville, VA. When the gun finally arrived, it was 6 months late, 16 oz. overweight at 7 lb. 2 oz., and off in varying degree from several specs on my order sheet. There’ll be more on this gun later.

16 gauge AyA 4/53 Classic

My “big gun” now is a 6 lb. 0 oz. 24” 3-shot 12 gauge Benelli Ultra Light auto built around the Montefeltro action. Somehow the Benelli engineers have kept its felt recoil to a minimum. Further, the gun seems to point exactly where I look, swings incredibly well, and goes bang every time. It has arguably become the most effective gun I’ve ever owned.

I use this gun for all birds shot while training dogs; for pheasants and ducks; and, with small steel shot, for an occasional snipe. As much as I cherish my 20 gauge O/U, this sweet-shooting auto would probably be the last gun to go if the big bad wolf were ever to blow down my financial house.

Of all the mistakes I’ve made in selling off shotguns, I wish most that I’d kept the 12 gauge Arrieta 557. The gun was wonderfully crafted, with a lovely stick of well marbled walnut for my right hand. Its sin was in having fixed chokes cut precisely as I had ordered them: too tight. If I had had the wit to have its barrels opened up a bit, a whole lot of time, money and missed birds might have been avoided. To close the circle on the story, I got this gun in trade for some cash and that damned Huglu.

12 gauge Benelli Ultra Light

So that’s how I’ve arrived where I’m happily sitting tonight. It’d be nice if a new game were to make another gun purchase interesting. But if I could add a new gun, or instead a new friend to pursue my old faithfuls with, I’d opt for the latter in a heartbeat.

Anyone who has a favorite battery – specially if you’re from an area of the world whose hunting is different from that in the northeast USA – is encouraged to email its description and any supporting jpegs, and we’ll add it to the bottom of this entry, making sure to give you full credit for your work.

Preseason Grouse Scouting

Veterans will easily recognize the spot on the left side of the road
but dead center in the photo as a grouse. Cold Duck's meager budget
last year suggested a 16 ga. SxS over a telephoto lens.

When Cousin Richard mentioned he was heading to his camp in the southern Adirondacks to perform some minor maintenance, I promptly volunteered for a 4-day weekend’s worth. After we spent two days porch painting, rug laying and wood cutting, the womenfolk generously granted us Saturday morning to head out on a random scoot scouting for grouse.

We found some birds near a fire tower and carefully marked the location in the deLorme. In case you’re interested, the spot is precisely 100 miles northeast of Syracuse. Don’t shoot ‘em all if you get there first.

Our nephew Patrick D. arrived in camp Friday night, and tossed in with Rick and me on Saturday. Pat will be a senior at RPI this Fall, but he’s eagerly picking up woodcraft, too. The grouse – we call them “partridge” in the Adirondacks – in the lead photo was the first he’d seen, so we tried to get a closer look, but the bird hot footed into the scrub and disappeared when we tried to sneak out of the Jeep.

On our way back to camp, we ran into some likely looking water that Rick wanted to try. The tea coloring is typical of Adirondack trout streams.

Cousin Richard bumping a huge stonefly downstream

Since we were all heading home on Sunday morning, we dedicated the rest of Saturday to celebrating a successful camp. Dolly Parton-esque chicken breasts were the featured item, fatted calves being in short supply, while tasty bowls left over from the last 3 nights’ feasts filled in all the gaps on the table. What with a few cold beers down at the lake in the afternoon, a crisp gin and tonic or so at cocktail time, and plenty of Pinot Grigio to wash down supper, we were right happy campers when it came time for a roaring fire and just a wee dram or two.

Patrick is a talented student and a hard worker. I’m not surprised that he was offered a great job in his “co-op” year at school. Since he’s just turned 21, he was waiting his chance to take his place alongside us old folks, and, with a few well-earned bucks in his pocket, more than happy to share the bottle of Black Bush he’d picked up. As the shadows lengthened and the fire burned down, the yarns and their deliveries got cranked way up. Along about midnight (I am told), I gave everyone a crooked smile and tacked unsteadily toward my bunk.

Great camp smells like percolating coffee and bacon on the griddle bounced me from bed around 7 on Sunday morning. All the veterans were up and bustling, either helping with breakfast, or packing the cars for departure, or in Rick’s case, rigging another fly rod to fish a favorite river on his drive home. Everyone was accounted for except Patrick.

It certainly had been an instructive trip for Pat. He’d seen partridge, and the gnarlies where they like to hang out. He’d learned the difference between a stonefly dead drifted down and an AuSable Wulff fished dry up. He’d paddled a kayak, split wood, and spun yarns admirably. And, after he finally left the pitching deck of his bunk, he gathered powerful empirical evidence about when to say “when.”

Rick and I are looking forward to the pleasure of Pat’s company when partridge open in northern NY on September 20.

All that's left is hair of the dog.

Video of Woodcock Feeding Amid Snow and Ice

Michel Gelinas passionately bands and hunts woodcock in Quebec behind his Braque Francais pointers. We have maintained a friendly correspondence over the last dozen years, and enjoyed a hunt together in the country around Malone, NY in 2000. I speak no French, but his good dogs communicated with me just fine. More about Michel and his dogs can be found at his website listed in the Links.

Michel has sent along a fascinating video shot on April 6, 2008 by one of his friends. It shows woodcock seeking and finding worms along the recently thawed bank of a Quebec watercourse. The images suggest that the woodcock do a fair amount of walking as they seek food, and that their searches are not confined to bare patches of topsoil. Additionally, the birds' bobbing gait sure looks to me like they're sending up John Travolta's dancing in Saturday Night Fever. So little Bec likes to get down, eh: who knew?

Frankly, Scarlett, I Just Don't Care Very Much

Murphy’s Chessie “Rommel” farted again, drawing tears that blurred a sky full of chill rain but no ducks. My prospects for roasting a fat mallard any time soon had been flimsy to begin with. On recent Niagara River hunts, Rommel had retrieved ducks successfully; not whole ducks, though, just duck parts. Too bad Rommel doesn’t eat beaks or guts first. Neither do I.

Half an hour after the rain turned white, so did my toes, nose, and fingers. Noticing me shivering glumly, Murphy asked if I wanted to pick up and have a hot breakfast. The hairs on Rommel’s nape bristled when Murphy reached toward the decoy sack.

I chattered through lying teeth that I didn’t care. Maybe I didn’t, but getting the hell out of there had definitely crossed my mind. It was after we collected the dekes and began schlepping our gear back to Murphy’s pickup that it hit me. The phrase “I don’t care” is often about as genuine as one of Murphy’s rubber ducks.

Like a puppy’s growling during a game of tug of war, “I don’t care” can be a soft-pedaled misdirection from the actual “I’d be delighted.” When a young Nimrod's eyes first start to shine on grandpa's well worn scatterguns hanging on the wall, the twinkle is contagious. When the boy finally asks, his grandfather might tell him to take down any gun he wants and to go enjoy himself; grandpa doesn’t care. But the old man’s faint smile tells a different story.

Most commonly, though, “I don’t care” is intended as a literal declaration. For example, Angler B might tell Angler A he honestly doesn’t care which pond they try first on a pleasant summer morning. In this particular case, Angler B should refrain from expressing a geographical preference, such as for casting from the pond’s rocky-bottomed western shore, lest his initial declaration become littoral.

“I don’t care” has a salty side, too, and is versatile enough to use when the gloves come off. A hunter will occasionally float a harebrained scheme – like hunting turkeys with beagles, or making coot jerky – past a buddy, looking for some encouragement. Saying that he doesn’t care what his pal does slams the door on that conversation. If needed, emphasis can be added with a well nuanced eye-roll.

Chillier still is this response for a guy met now and then in camp. He habitually carries his gun with the safety off so he’s ready for a quick “sound shot.” His companions bob and weave every time his gun barrels trace through their torsos in merry arcs. When the host asks whether it’s OK for this jerk to hunt at camp next weekend, the nays are phrased to spare the host’s feelings, but just barely. Even in the funny papers, the thrust of “I don’t &%#@$ care” is crystal clear.

While the example above crashes on the ear, the most ominous expression of not caring is delivered less with a bang than a whisper. Imagine a sportsman receiving an email from his buddy who’s discovered a pond stiff with foot-long brook trout just north of Saranac Lake. Better still, the region was logged about 6 years ago, leaving the cedar and birch clumps that remain a bonasa bonanza. His buddy wants him to drive up late in September so they can enjoy an early season Adirondack cast ‘n blast. The sportsman is excited, and hurries to share the good news with his wife. He thinks better of it when he sees her enjoying herself on the riding mower out back, and so, not wanting to interrupt her fun, he decides to wait for a more opportune moment.

An hour later, still in her sweaty work clothes, sipping a lemonade, she smiles happily at him after hanging up the phone. Now is the time, he senses, to announce his plans, and he does so with breathless enthusiasm. What he’s forgotten is his promise, made after his salmon fishing expedition last September, not to miss their wedding anniversary again this year. What he doesn’t know is that her phone call confirmed reservations for a romantic anniversary dinner on the very night his buddy expects him at camp. He watches as his wife gently sets down her lemonade, walks toward the bathroom to shower, and sweetly tells him to do whatever he thinks is right. She says she doesn’t care, then quietly clicks the door behind her.

This fellow has just heard Bad News, just like the deer that’s heard the snick of a 12 gauge slug being chambered in a pumpgun nearby. For both, any hope of a long and happy life depends on their responses to these dangerous environmental sounds. Even if they both scoot at just the right moment, only the deer can hope for a bloodless getaway. Heck, it’ll even be safe enough one day for the deer to come back.

If Murphy ever invites me back to hunt with Rommel, I’ll probably say something like “Sure…OK... I don’t care... Or maybe we could hunt with my dog this time.” And if Murphy says he doesn’t care, either, maybe I’ll be enjoying that roasted mallard after all.

Doodling With Bean

Back in September, 2006 I promised that a story about woodcock hunting "would be 'up' one of these days soon."

That day has finally arrived. Please check out Spaniel Journal for the details.

Just Like The Good Old Days, Only Better, In The Cessna SkyCatcher

In 1984, I went to Anchorage courtesy of my wife and Alaska Airlines. Nancy’s agent had passed her name along when the airline contacted him, looking for an accomplished road racer to give a clinic or two, press the flesh, rally the troops and hand out roses to the finishers of the all-ladies marathon they were sponsoring. In return, Nancy received a 10-day all-expenses August vacation in Alaska, complete with all the fixin’s. Alaska Air even offered to convert Nancy’s $1,000 honorarium into a $1,200 ticket for me. And so I soon found myself wobbling under the weight of my 3 oz. flyrod, and 200 lbs. of Nancy’s essential impedimenta, as we weaved through a fluid tangle of idling taxis and taxiing float planes at the Anchorage airport.

A highlight of the trip for me was an overnight fly-in to a remote salmon camp. I’d never flown low and slow before in the likes of a deHavilland Beaver over such a beautiful landscape. The experience was, as the saying goes, transforming. When by chance I bumped into my friend Stan N. at the pickled herring case of a super market around New Year’s, I enthused about my flights in the light plane. Did I say that Stan is a flight instructor? By the time I’d tossed the Vita Herring in Sour Cream into my cart, I had a date for an introductory flight in May, 1985.

The plane that I first left seated on that memorable May day turned out to be a well-worn Cessna 150. Over the following months, I learned a whole lot about old N5383Q. How it sipped red avgas. How the seats reminded me of folding lawn chairs, but stronger, probably. Maybe. Since its flap indicator was broken, how to count screws and scratches inside the flap hinge to get the proper flap angle. Light planes like the 150 weren’t nicknamed “Spam cans” for nothing.

Flying the 150 was both instructive and fun. But its charm – what I still miss after 22 years – was the feeling that my linkage with the aircraft was personal. The little plane simply connected with me as seamlessly and comfortably as a pair of broken-in boots or my good old dog.

I haven’t flown much in recent years (Hint: It’s too expensive). But just the other day I chanced into an advert touting Cessna’s new “SkyCatcher.” The text and glossies revealed a part–composite two seater that features a “glass cockpit.” Upon some reading at the SkyCatcher’s blogsite (you can read it, too, here), it was clear that Cessna is marketing this sweetie as a “personal aircraft.” I suspect that other not so young pilots who trained in a 150 will be taking a nostalgic peek or two at the SkyCatcher before the first production unit rolls onto the tarmac in 2009. I know I’ll be checking on it, just before I see whether my financial plan has been funded by the lottery.

Gordie's First Grouse

A Typical Scene From "Early Grouse Season" In Northern NY

I’m not sure what got me so fired up to chase grouse with Gordie this Fall. Maybe the fascination began when we were out drilling in August. I aimed to sharpen his performance so he’d finish his Junior Hunter title in high style. The little guy really had matured over his third Winter. He began to respond crisply and with enthusiasm to my voice, hands and whistle. He also conceded that I was The Big Dog around the house, and fell into a comfortable role as my permanent shadow. So we were ready to pursue some partridge.

But it’s also possible that the visits to the chiropractor beginning in the Spring had given me a new, sharper-focused perspective. After examining the X-rays he took during my initial appointment, the Doc casually tossed out that I had “minor” arthritis here and there all along my spine and shoulders “consistent with a person your age.” Yikes! Time’s a’wastin’, Gordie, let’s head for the hills!

I even indulged myself by trading a bit of hard cash and a couple of former favorites that no longer shoot straight for a dedicated grouse gun. It’s a side by side 16 gauge, not too fancy at all, but honest, with a decent piece of walnut on her, double triggers, a straight right hand and fixed chokes. At 6 lbs. 2 oz., the gun promised that she’d prove no burden for even a rheumy codger like myself to wobble through the grouse woods with.

Proper Gear For Grouse Hunting

Grouse season in Northern New York opens on September 20, eleven days earlier than in “The Southern Tier” where we live. So when I heard from two old friends, Jim T. and Don M., urging that we get together for some early season action, I was delighted to gas up the van and roll.

We met on each of September’s last two weekends, watched Gordie put up a number of grouse (open season) and woodcock (closed season), and even touched off a shot or two. But we weren’t quick enough in the verdant early season woods to put a bird on the ground for him to retrieve.

Gordie was next invited as guest of honor to my cousin Richard’s camp for the Columbus Day weekend. Since the little spaniel doesn’t drive, I was invited too. We were expected in camp Friday afternoon for a quick hunt in the hour or so before dusk. I decided I’d leave home Thursday; hunt a covert or two near Watertown; and after a great meal at Cavallario’s Cucina and a good night’s sleep, head for camp Friday noon after a morning spent scouting.

We didn’t find a thing in an hour’s hunt at our first stop Thursday. On the drive to our second covert, though, a single grouse scooted across the gravelly road not 15 yards ahead of my van. I chose to believe this a Good Sign.

By the time we reached our next covert, the shadows were getting longer and the uncharacteristically oppressive heat we’ve been having began to dissipate. I parked the van, checked the vest for my shells and Gordie’s water bottle, and walked into some young hardwoods dotted with aromatic spruce and hemlock. As I loaded my gun with low brass lead #7 ½’s, I thought wistfully about the 16 gauge sitting at home in the safe. On Saturday of Columbus Day weekend, you see, ducks would open in Richard’s northern zone camp. To make life easy for everyone, I’d brought two boxes of 12 gauge steel #7’s so that we’d all be legal for a grouse, woodcock and wood duck trifecta. But that meant today I was carrying my 12 gauge Benelli autoloader. Jim T. had given me quite a teasing about losing this gun’s “easily detachable butt pad” in a grouse tangle two weekends earlier. Since the pad’s replacement had not yet arrived, I’d done some custom handiwork to make the gun a bit more user friendly. But this was patently not the classically handsome gun with which I’d hoped to shoot Gordie’s first grouse.

Packing Tape Provides A "High Gloss Finish"

We began working a southerly line through the woods. We hadn’t gone far at all when Gordie’s tail began beating a double-time tattoo. Then stuff happened, fast.

It started with Gordie working a bird in dense understory. When he flushed it with a concussive “whirr,” I squinted hard but failed to pick up the out-bound grouse.

“Gosh Darn! Mother's Father! Life is so unfair!” Or other words that form a loose equivalent...

Still working desperately, his nose glued to the abundant ground scent, Gordie encored by putting up two more birds. Yes Sirree, I eyed the trailer bird jinking to cover his six with a spruce tree and snapped a shot vaguely in his direction. The bang caused a fourth grouse to flush wild just off to my left, and I gave it a “Hail Mary” blast. Too bad a maple whip chopped off the twitchy lurch that was my swing.

Then all the woods were quiet. No bird was left to flush, no dog was to be seen, and I was standing there alone, thumping heart slowing, the enormity of my incompetence settling in like an all-day rain. Time hung there heavy for what seemed forever, but it's doubtful that even a minute passed. Then I heard leaves crunching out near the third bird’s escape route. In another second or two, there was Gordie, proudly carrying his first-ever grouse. Just like in the training videos, he brought it to me, sat down, tail just a’waggin’, and tenderly released it to me when I said “Give.” I told him what a fine retrieve he’d made, gave him an ear scritch and a splash of water, and we agreed to call it a day. A special day, with any luck the first of many more to come.

Gordie Already Thinking About His Next Grouse

Early Season Grouse Hunting in Northern New York

September weather in New York is routinely gorgeous. Warm days, cool nights and bright blue skies seem to be the rule. But while perfect for golf, such mild weather is often a bit too warm for the hunters and much too hot for the dogs who pursue early season birds.

The annual pilgrimage for “early grouse” in northern New York is therefore a glorious triumph of Hope over Experience. Forgotten in the current hunt planning are memories of last year’s debacle where the woods were too hot, too dry and too thick. Surely it will be better this time!

On Friday the 21st, I met my friend Don M. and his veteran Lab “Tino” for breakfast at a pleasant diner north of Syracuse. When the last coffee was chugged, we headed for some coverts where we lazy “locals” usually wear tall rubber boots against the region’s ubiquitous seeps, springs, streams, puddles and ponds. This year, the covert was almost bone dry. In the first two hours working behind Tino, we flushed just two “partridge.” I whiffed spectacularly on a right-to-left bird that flew straight across a wide open lane. After watering Tino and settling him in his crate, we tried a spot up the hill with my English Cocker “Gordie.” He went birdless in 90 minutes, even though he worked the cover relentlessly.

Still, Don and I had an enjoyable afternoon, and over a cold one we planned to meet again before he and Tino head to North Dakota for ducks later this Fall.

I stayed overnight in Watertown, enjoying a wonderful Italian meal at Cavallario’s Cucina . The service and food were so outstanding that I’ve added their website in the Links section. Plan on enjoying a meal there when you’re in northwestern New York.

On Saturday the 22nd, I met another old friend who I hadn't hunted with in two years. Jim T. had left his fine English Setter “Katie” at home. Kate’s getting along in years and has some medical history, so Jim decided to rest her on this trip. He was also interested in seeing how young Gordie the flushing dog would work for grouse, so the decision was easy for him.

Since Jim was nice enough to write up his impressions of our hunt, I think I’ll simply supply the link to his story. I think you’ll enjoy it. Click here to go there now.

A Pup's First Title

Our local club hosted back-to-back Hunt Tests on the weekend of September 8 and 9, 2007. My English Cocker “Gordie” and I trained hard together all summer, especially on his delivery to hand, so that we could gather the last two qualifying scores required to finish his first title. You can catch up on that part of the story, if you’re interested, in the entry called “A Pup's First Ribbon, Revisited Again,” below.

Saturday was sunny, very hot and humid. I got to the line a bit after 1 p.m. and, after the judges gave me the day’s rules, I cast Gordie off to the right. I was pleased but not surprised when he quartered his ground well and quickly produced his first bird. The chukar went straight up in a leisurely climb about 15 yards out, and the shot was so easy that it flummoxed the wing gunners each into emptying both barrels. The bird flew weakly off toward a tree line forming the left boundary of the course, and crash landed in thick scrub about 85 yards down field. I thought the bird was at very least pricked as I watched it fly away in a wobbly manner embarrassingly familiar from my own shooting. Gordie is very good at marking this kind of bird, and I really wanted to let his skills shine on the long retrieve.

The lead judge didn’t know that this was Gordie's game, and because it was so hot, wanted me to recall him while he was still fresh. I told the judge to give me a bit, that Gordie was going to produce the bird. The judge was skeptical, and let me know it. Just then, a chukar flew out of the trees, my hard charging pup right on his tail. At this testing level, by the way, the dog is not required to be steady, so this chasing was OK. The bird flew across the course into dense cattails and disappeared. Gordie arrived shortly thereafter and once again tried to recover the bird. The judges were more interested in his efforts this time; but after he hadn’t produced the bird in about 40 seconds, they instructed me to recall him. And in he came to my 4 toots. I hupped him, gave him a good long drink and a splash for good measure, and cast him off again.

After a bit of a run, Gordie produced his second bird. It flew straight back over the judges and then the gallery, so no shot could be taken. Gordie gave scant chase and was easily recalled. I again watered my dog, who by now was feeling the heat, and prepared to cast him off again.

Instead, the judges produced a dead chukar, and gave it a toss while the wing gunner fired a shot. Gordie flashed out to the bird, brought it to within 6 feet, then dropped it and sat there panting. I had seen this behavior before. I waited a moment, called him in, watered him, then sent him with a "Back!" Gordie trotted to the bird, picked it up, and walked it back and dropped it into my cupped hands when I commanded “Give.”

”Thank you,” said the judges.

Not being a veteran campaigner, I had no “read” whether the judges liked what they'd seen. If we had actually been hunting, I'd have been well satisfied with the way Gordie performed on his first and second contacts. But my rookie handler's eye doubtlessly sees things in a softer focus than the judges'.

So it was a long wait to hear whether we’d be called back for the water retrieve. Finally, the marshall announced "Dogs called back for the water are #1, #2, (small pause), #3, (a much longer small pause), ... #4...." I acknowledged Gordie's good fortune with an Aeolian exhale and a quick thank you to the Big Guy. We were still in this thing.

We had worked on the retrieve from water daily for two weeks, and for some reason I felt uncharacteristically comfortable. At the toss of the dead chukar and the report of the 12 gauge, Gordie remained rock solid at the line. When the judge tapped me and I released him with his name, my dog made his typical “big air” entry and bee lined for the bird. And then it was over in an instant: he grabbed the bird, swapped stem for stern, swam straight back and carried the bird directly from the water to my waiting cupped hands. Good dog! I walked him back to the car and enjoyed a few claps on the back from friends and fellow testers.

After a short wait, Gordie was awarded a qualifying score – his third – for his day’s work. Worn down from the emotional roller coaster we’d ridden all day, we drove the hour home so we could have a nice meal and just flop on the sofa and chill.

Sunday dawned cool and gray with on-and-off rain that lasted through lunch time. It was a much more comfortable day for the dogs to run. Gordie was first off the line, and he put on a good show in the cool, fresh field. His quartering was crisp, his response to whistle instantaneous, and his marks were perfect. He did give me some pause when he persisted in dropping his birds short. After stopping to reposition it, he brought the first retrieve directly to hand. I elected to take a step toward him and picked up the second bird. Given his strong overall performance, I decided to give up a style point with the step in trade for nailing the performance shut.

”Thank you,” said the judges.

Not a chatty bunch, judges, are they? My long-suffering wife banters more pleasantly with me when I come home late for dinner with a loopy grin from a 19th hole marathon with my foursome.

That step I took toward Gordie’s second bird got longer and longer in my imagination as the afternoon wore on, and by the time callbacks were announced for the water retrieve, I was convinced we'd been tossed. But happily enough Gordie was once again called back. He was a single good retrieve from a title.

Gordie was nicely steady to the tossed chukar and the shot, and the judge tapped me, but very lightly. Not sure whether it was a tap or just another geriatric twitch, I didn’t release my dog. Then the judge was in my ear, and I feared I had done something wrong. But she was simply telling me to send the dog, so I whispered “Gordie!” and he was off. Then I turned to the judge, and without thinking, simply said “When my wife taps me, I know I’ve been tapped.”

By the time both female judges stopped laughing, Gordie was at the bird. His retrieve was almost as good as Saturday’s. When he just missed my cupped hands with the bird, I reached 8" over to take it to end his time under judgment. I would have gone for perfect delivery to hand if this were a training situation, but this was like getting the third out in the bottom of the ninth. As my Little League coaches always said, just get both hands on the ball.

It was an expectant wait with my fellow testers for the committee to make its announcements. But there were no bad surprises, and Gordie took his fourth Junior Hunter qualifying score. After we hear from the AKC, we’ll have to upgrade his stationery to Flash Gordon of Windmillwood JH.


I think I am prouder of this than he is. When I chatted him up about his accomplishment over some Irish Whiskey after the feathers stopped flying Sunday night, he licked himself down below, scooted his butt over our new carpets, and "retrieved" the bedroom TV’s remote clicker to me on the living room sofa. Fifteen minutes later, he was curled up next to me, zonked, only occasionally farting contentedly.


(Gordie's post title photos were taken by talented pet photographer Kim Ludwig. Thanks, Kim! You can see more of her work here).

A Pup's First Ribbon, Revisited Again

(This story first appeared in November, 2005. It's a natural for revisiting with updates until I can rename it "A Pup's First Title." The updates begin at the south end of the original text. The latest, and last, addition is dated June 10, 2007.)

November 13, 2005: Gordie and I entered his first judged events this weekend. Today we ran what is called a "Hunt Test." Many dogs are entered, but there is no single winner. It's a sort of pass/ fail event, so that at the extremes either all dogs or no dogs might receive a "qualifying score." Usually the number of those receiving qualifying scores is somewhere in between.

His job was to find and flush two birds hiding in the brush on land. After the gunners shot the first bird that Gordie flushed, he was to locate it in the field and retrieve it to me straightaway. After taking delivery of the bird, I'd send him on again, hopefully for a repeat performance on the second bird.

Later, a duck hunting scenario was fabricated where two men with a gun and a pile of the late lamented birds hid on the far side of a middling size pond. They blew a duck call to get each dog's attention. Then they tossed a dead bird through the air into the pond and touched off the shotgun to simulate an actual duck hunting event. The dog is to swim out, find the bird, and swim back and deliver it to the handler.

14 month old Gordie did all this with a flourish, and won his first qualifying score toward Junior Hunter. With three more, he gets to wear the title "JH" in all his correspondence, kind of like the Duke of Earl. We intend to travel through Canadian border and Middle Atlantic states beginning again next Spring to nail down these qualifying scores. In the meantime, we'll continue to enjoy our hunting season.

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April 22, 2006: Gordie and I traveled to the Hillendale Club in central Pennsylvania to run in the junior division of the Mid Penn English Springer Spaniel Club's licensed hunt test. Although I wanted to run him both days, plans at home for Sunday limited us to the Saturday event.

The grounds, cover and valley views at the Hillendale Club were outstanding, even in the rainy 47 degrees in which we huddled over our check-in coffee. The tests were sequentially scheduled, with 8 Masters running first, then 8 Seniors, with 12 Juniors bringing up the rear. Gordie ran 27th of the 28 entries, so it was 12:30 before we saw action. His quartering was brisk, his marks just fine, and his first retrieve perfect. Gord dumped his second delivery a bit short, but recovered with a minimum of cajoling to bring the quite dead and soggy chukar within a long step. We were rewarded for this performance with a call-back for the water work.

At the water, Gordie executed an "expectant hup" as the gunners arced one of the dead chukars from the giant "sling shot" and touched off a 12 gauge. His entry was crisp and eager after the judge tapped my shoulder, and out he went in his pleasing, "low slung" and direct style in the water. In my limited experience, he seems as comfortable in the water as any young dog I've ever seen.

When Gordie arrived at the poorly floating bird, he somehow whiffed on the retrieve and dunked the bird underwater. Undeterred, Gordie began a series of shallow dives looking for it. Happily, the bird bobbed up, Gordie grabbed it, and 15 seconds later the three of us were united on the bank.

At 4:30, over a warming tot of adult beverage and much mutual back slapping, I received Gordie's rosette for this second qualifying score. I'd have 5 pleasant hours in the car through the Allegheny Forest to mentally review his performance, make mental adjustments in his training regimen, and make plans for his next test.

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June 10, 2007: OK, I have to fess up from the get-go. I should have put this post here when Gordie and I returned home from two days of testing in north central CT over Memorial Day, 2006. Gordie performed at both ends of the excellence scale, and exposed my weaknesses as a trainer. I spent the rest of 2006 thinking about his performances, and only today did I have the chance to test my plan for improving them. Let me explain.

On Day 1 of the CT test, Gordie ran a wonderful land series. He quartered well, found his birds, made strong marks and finds right on the money. It was a very warm day, and the vegetation was green and thick. The judges therefore excused his stopping 10 feet short and dropping his birds (chukars) in a fit of panting. Upon urging, he picked up each bird and brought it to an acceptable 1-step distance. So far, so good. As a hunter, I was pleased with his performance, as it would have nicely put two birds in our bag.

It was therefore with a mildly excusable cockiness that I enjoyed holding forth at lunch and as we milled about for our turns at the water. When his number was called, Gordie was rock steady at the line, and made a beautiful, aggressive water entry. He was out like a shot and back, carrying the bird in the shallows 15 feet from earning his third qualifying score. Then, to my surprise, the gallery’s laughter and the judges’ distaste, Gordie started tossing the bird in the air like some Iron Chef twirling pizza dough overhead in frenzied competition. Once, twice, three times and more, up and out went the soggy chukar, with Gordie in hot pursuit for another go. After this had gone on for maybe three minutes, the inevitable “Ahem. Mr. M., you may pick up your dog” came. Thanks for coming, drive home safely. Good Night.

About an hour later, I snitched a dead chukar, went to a similar shoreline on a different pond, and tried this again mano a cano. I even stood farther back from the bank than usual to remind Gordie that the retrieve didn't end at the water's edge. Of course, Gordie made a perfect retrieve and delivered the bird thoughtfully to hand. No wonder Keith Erlandson described them as “wicked Cockers.” At least I could enjoy a pleasant evening meal and expect better results tomorrow.

It really was an attractive entry

On Day 2, Gordie ran an even better land series. A fellow whose family name is well regarded in eastern spaniel circles asked me who had trained Gordie. When I told him that the fault was all mine, he was complimentary not only about Gordie’s pattern, but at the apparent strength of our partnership. He had noticed the way Gordie happily heeled to the line, kept his eyes riveted on me when hupped at the line, and how he ran today requiring virtually no whistle commands. It was, of course, very nice to hear. Here’s how a chukar taking off looked to Gordie. He picked the bird cleanly when it fell back in that tree line moments later.



Once again, though, the day was spoiled by failure at the water. Gordie made short work of bringing his bird back to shore; but once there, he released it to shake and was reluctant to bring it to me. After some cajoling over 90 seconds, he finally brought the bird within a step. I took the bird, and the judges told me they’d let me know. I’m still waiting.

In the months after May, 2006, I thought about Gordie’s poor delivery. Since I don’t feel confident with my ability to force train him – I have only a little trouble with the idea of force training, but I am not interested in its benefits if I can’t do the training myself. Since he is a decent hunting companion, I am reluctant to possibly mess up the acceptably “country broke” dog I already have by gumming up the force training regimen – I am seeking some other way to “reach” this otherwise cooperative and, some say, naturally talented dog. The idea came to me in March, 2007.

We were swapping the trainer/ gunner roles in a field out back during a nice break in the late winter weather. My buddy must have fringed a chukar Gordie flushed with only a pellet or two. When Gordie went to the fall, he caught the running bird and brought it toward me and prepared to set it down 10 feet short, currently "as usual." When the bird started to run off, he scooped it up, moved to a safe spot once again about 10 feet off, and set it down again. This time, Gordie caught the bird as soon as it started to run and, as if he sensed that shenanigans were in his birthright but not this bird’s, brought it to me to put an end to the chukar’s nonsense.

Because I was still hot about the incomplete retrieve, the possibilities this posed for training didn’t hit me immediately. Over time, though, I decided that with the next opportunity, I’d set out a wing-clipped bird as his first contact. Maybe chasing the bird and discovering the need to hold on to it would help his delivery. So when our club met today for a simulated test/ trial, I had the planter set out a wing-clipped chukar, and asked him to be ready to roll in a flyer only if Gordie successfully delivered the wing-clip to within 1 step. The results were incredible.

Gordie had a good set of chases before he nabbed the chukar, and then he not only brought it all the way in, he hupped right in front of me with the still-struggling bird held gently in his mouth. Wow! I gave the planter the wing-clipped chukar and indicated to everyone that we’d try a flyer. The gunner made a good shot to give Gordie about a 40 yard chance. He has shown repeatedly that such finds are no trouble at all for him, and it wasn’t this time. Boy, was I happy when he did a reprise of the delivery hupped at my feet.

I knew that I should quit right then and there “with a winner.” Since it was a fairly hot day though, specially for one wearing a fur coat, I decided I’d take a dead chukar and let Gordie have a refreshing water retrieve in the pond. Pushing my luck, I hupped Gordie about 20 feet from the pond’s bank, then set the chukar down half way between. Gordie stared at the bird but didn’t budge. So I tossed the bird, counted to three, and released him. When he exited the pond, I was back at the spot 20 feet away. He brought the bird smartly toward me, then… hupped right before me and offered me the bird!! To reward him, I loved him up with petting and soft words, and then, never taking the bird from him, let him proudly parade at heel back to his crate with his prize visible for all to see.

I have no idea whether it was my plan with the wing-clip, whether Gordie is simply gaining a bit of maturity, or whether the planets were aligned just so. But Gordie behaved perfectly. I intend to try this technique several times when the weather cools later in the summer and we're planning our testing schedule for the Fall. Check back now and then to see how we're doing.