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.

Woodcock Hunting 2006

Mixed Bag from October 18, 2006

Bean the American Water Spaniel taught me quite a bit about woodcock hunting when the birds were plentiful right out our back door in the middle 90’s. We became such aficionados of the little russet fellers that I volunteered to send a wing from each bird we took to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to be inventoried as a data point in its continuing study.

Last Fall, young Gordie and I did some pre-season scouting and came upon attractive cover that looked little changed since I’d worked it years ago with Beanie. I was eager to hunt woodcock there again to enjoy seeing Gordie literally and figuratively follow in Bean’s pawprints. We went on to enjoy a wonderful season, even after the surprise October 12 ice storm put quite a shock on our woodier cover.

Just the other day, we received our annual report from the USFWS. It gave the age and sex of the 11 woodcock and the single snipe we took in 2006. The composition of our bag was interesting, even if it was so small as to be statistically insignificant. Seven of our woodcock were immature birds while only two were adult females. The ratio of immature birds to adult females is called the “recruitment index,” and bigger is considered better for the long-term health of the woodcock population. The 3.5 computed for Gordie and me compares with 1.0 for the hunters who reported a total 1,403 birds from NY in 2006, and with 2.2, the best index in the Eastern Region, reported by hunters who took 236 birds in NJ in 2006.

The long-term recruitment index (1963-2005) for all of the Eastern Region is 1.7. I’ve been fiddling around with all the tables in the FWS’s full report, enjoying “what if” games here and wondering “how does that work” there. For example, arbitrarily looking at only the 8 eastern states whose total reported bag for the survey period was >10,000, I find a narrow range of recruitment indices between 1.4 and 1.7, except for anomalous NJ at 2.6 and CT at 2.8. Anyone who knows what's going on in NJ and CT is encouraged to share the skinny as a comment.

Readers interested in the entire USFWS report can find it right here.

Best Wishes to the Class of 2007!

We're Back After A Pleasant Summer Recess

Gordie’s “silly season” began yesterday when he was asked to be one of the experienced hunters for young people attending a Pheasants Forever sponsored Youth Day at my release club very near Niagara Falls. Even though they know me, the PF people allowed me to handle Gordie anyway.

The temperature was just above 70 degrees, and the cover in the field we drew was knee to shoulder high. Thankfully a thick overcast kept temperatures from soaring. With mixed goldenrod and young redbush interspersed with the odd singleton oak or pine, the field offered a realistic but hot hunting experience for the kids. After the Mentor explained the ground rules which stressed safety, I gave a brief description of my 2 year old English Cocker, explaining how he hunted, what the kids could expect, and how I wanted the gun to work with me. After the customary teases from friends and hangers on – “Hey, Mister, where’s the other half of your dog?” – I hupped Gordie, removed his lead and cast him off.

For all of you who have had your dog teased because (s)he was a little different from what was expected – too small, too fat, too old, too slow, whatever – This One’s For You. Gordie swept the cover before us 12 yards right, then 24 yards across to the left, and so on as we windshield wipered our way up wind. When the bird took off rising slightly and just a bit skewed to the right of straight away, the young hunter did a very nice job identifying it as a rooster, making sure that both people and dog were clear of his shot, and fired the single round I’d given him.

I thought he’d missed as the bird glided down in heavy cover across the field at the edge of a wooded area. The gallery milled about, and we all jabbered a bit, trying to decide what had happened. I have not steadied Gordie, so I knew he was up ahead in the region where the bird landed. I was about to recall him when a fellow I trust said he was pretty sure the bird had dropped a leg, indicating a hit. So I held off on the whistle and gave it a moment’s thought.

I only had a moment before the goldenrod parted in front of us and a very hot, burred up Cocker presented me with a still flapping rooster. The oohs and aahs from the former non believers was more than adequate repayment for the teasing they’d given earlier.

We then swapped kids and began again. This youngster demonstrated remarkable restraint in not shooting at either the hen that PF likes to set just for the educational opportunity, or at the rooster that flew over the gallery. I was glad that he was shortly rewarded with a nice pair of roosters. Here’s a photo of father and son with smiles all around.



Today I sat with friends and watched the locals win their televised football game, then dressed around 3:45 pm and took Gordie back to the club to see if any of those birds just might have escaped yesterday. It seems that a lot more than a few were available. Gordie worked his first field nicely, and made a nice retrieve of the straight away hen I chopped off with the new Benelli Ultra Light. After a bit more work, I decided to work a field adjacent to our large pond so that Gordie could enjoy frequent cooling swims. It didn’t take long for Gordie to boost a rooster from some dense cover on the bank. It flew landward from the pond, offering me a right to left. I let the bird get out a bit and suddenly the Benelli was two for two. Gordie dropped his retrieve short and sat panting. So I picked up the bird, gave him some encouragement, water and rest. When we started again, I decided that I’d only take one more bird. Gordie would have to flush it such that it flew out over the pond, thereby giving him a chance for a coolly successful retrieve.

It was not hard silently to salute the first rooster that Gordie flushed over the cornfield into the forest. Nor the second and third. By the fourth and fifth, however, my discipline was fading like April snow on the morning Honey Wagon. So when Gordie nicely jumped a long tailed rooster that squawked up and off across the sun, my resolve was toast. When Gordie brought this bird all the way in, I loved him up, sent him into the pond, and unloaded. All in all, a nice two-day prelude to the season.

I bought the Benelli Ultra Light 12 ga autoloader at the end of June. This was my first experience “hunting” with it. I used the factory’s IC choke for the 3 shots out to 30 yards. I may pop in the Mod when snow knocks down the cover. But Gordie seems to work closely enough that I can use IC with great comfort. I was using the rather beefy Remington Shur Shot Heavy Field load. This is a 3.25 dram, 1.25 oz. Load, in this case of #7.5 lead. The “longitudinal” recoil into the butt pad was insignificant. There was a bit of jump in the butt stock which massaged my schnozz with my thumb. The 3 dram 1 oz. loads I intend to use in this arm for ruffed grouse will behave just fine.

Cheering Family Celebration Par For The Course At The AuSable Club

The AuSable Club was pretty much a mystery to us. Years before, we had parked near there for a scoot up Giant. Other bits of lore gleaned from fellow travelers and from Adirondack-themed magazine articles teased us with visions as sweet as Christmas sugar plums. But we had never been actual guests there.

Leave it to The Kids to help us scratch that itch. One of my wife’s younger twin brothers was engaged to a lovely young lady who also had strong Adirondack ties. The photo below shows all three in August, 1995. They decided they’d somehow get us all invited to the AuSable Club where we could relax and celebrate their wedding in memorable Adirondack style. We were pleased to hear their intentions, and did much polite head bobbing and um-umming. But we privately held off just a bit on packing our hiking boots and flannel shirts until such time as their intentions became a date on an engraved invitation.



Not to have worried. And so we found ourselves driving east on a rainy Thursday afternoon in June, 2000, hoping the weather might improve by the time the outdoor ceremony began on Saturday. But from the moment we turned off Hwy 73 and headed up the St. Hubert’s Road, we experienced a remarkable turn of weather events: the sun came out, brilliantly, and didn’t hide until we were on our way back home after breakfast Sunday morning. The preacher reckoned that if the kids could talk their way into the AuSable Club for their wedding, then schmoozing the Big Guy for a little nice weather was a cinch.

If the weather was a pleasant surprise, our initial view of the main building was a genuine jaw-dropping eye popper. This was going to be nice. Entering the building through the venerable doors on the lengthy covered porch, our blood pressure dropped by about 100 years. Inside, the pleasant staff informed us that we had the Club to ourselves for the entire weekend. Already tickled by that information, we asked about greensfees. “There is no charge for the course. Enjoy yourselves!” This was going to be very nice.

The course is a 9 hole affair with smallish greens and largish changes in altitude, design features common in “mountain golf courses.” Although surrounded by “the Forest Preserve,” the fairways were in general liberal and not nearly so severely tree lined as, for example, the course at Inlet or some of the back 9 holes at Craig Wood and Thendara. But the dramatic views and the “Holy Cow! We’ve got it all to ourselves!” nature of our visit made the golf uniquely delectable.

Eight of us played on Friday afternoon, with an encore on Saturday morning. There were several pars, a birdie or two, and a whole sackful of ooohs and aaahs. The surrounding high peaks framed most shots, already visually interesting to the golfer, in rich tones of green, gold and black. For those 18 holes, we older folks in the party had the rare joy of having it “as good as it gets,” and knowing it.

In a broader sense, the enduring charm of the weekend is borne of the inspiring scenery, the well-worn-in comforts of the clubhouse, the challenging golf, and the warm mix of family and friends all intersecting synergistically as we bore witness to our friends' celebration. That, and the bittersweet knowledge that, like the fellow fly fishing in Heraclitus' river, we will not be able to enjoy that enchanted weekend again.

Rowing an Adirondack Classic

The invitingly remote waters of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area and Ontario’s Quetico Park provided the classroom in which I enjoyed my earliest canoe instruction. In the summer of 1965, the instructors at the Minnesota Outward Bound School used J- and draw strokes along with portages and woodcraft skills as sternly physical vehicles to deliver lessons of self discovery to us teenage boys.

Ten years later, I “discovered” recreational canoeing in the Adirondacks. With the exception of calling portages “carries,” New Yorkers enjoyed paddling a forest-framed mosaic of darkly beautiful and wild waterways much as did their Minnesota counterparts. Paddling within the “Blue Line” also offered occasional views of high peaks and a heightened sense of pride in my home state’s natural beauty as added perks.

By 1990, I was cheerily married to a wonderful North Country girl with whom I’d dabbled in several types of canoes and a pair of kayaks. I suspect that modern building materials and technologies were beginning to trickle into the recreational boat building market then, as we began to see advertisements for wood-and-laminate versions of the classic Adirondack Guide Boat. Intrigued, we arranged to try one on the water. When we met a retailer at a small pond nearby, he had already set his boat in a few inches of water on a gently sloping sandy beach. We waded in, hopped aboard, and spent ten delightful minutes putting the nimble craft through a series of tight turns and arrow-straight sprints. By the time we had driven home, we were committed to a custom order.

We were excited when we picked up our black and green boat in the spring of 1991. Our initial surprise – and viewed against our experience with canoes, it was a disappointing surprise – was the boat’s ungainly fit as a car topper. Our canoes had been generally lighter; less beamy amidships; and shaped more like a cigar than a football. As a result, I found the guide boat somewhat unwieldy and was unable to load the boat onto the car without a helper. Once up on the rack, we discovered that the guide boat had much more rocker, or curve, than our canoes. This design feature compromised visibility through both the forward and rear view glass of our SUV.

Over the summer, we developed solutions to these new challenges on shakedown trips to the water. The good looking boat never failed to draw questions and positive comments from curious onlookers. The photos here were taken in August, 1991 on Indian Lake in Hamilton County. The lead photo clearly shows two features of guide boat design. The oars are "pinned" so that the guide could release one or both to take care of other business - presumably his sport's - without losing the ability to positively and effortlessly reacquire them. The cross over of the guide's hands at the completion of the stroke is also readily seen. In the bottom photo, yet another feature can be seen in the delicate taper of the oar's shaft from just below the pin down to the top of the blade. The relatively long, squared "handle" section of the oar from the pin to the grip, in combination with the tapered shaft, gave the rower great mechanical advantage while simultaneously providing a slight "shock absorber" effect in the narrow flex-and-release portion of the shaft. This combined benefit more than compensated the guide for learning to row using the cross-over finish.

The third photo also gives some impression of the rocker built into the hull.

Although rowing is arguably a more efficient action than paddling, it comes with this cost: it's much easier for the rower to see where he's been than where he's going. Since I used the boat only for personal recreation - frequently solo recreation - I ultimately found the one-two punch of problematic car topping and reverse visibility sufficient to knock me out of guide boating. In 1994 I traded it for a Kevlar hulled, cane seated canoe. Even so, if I ever were to own a lake-front Adirondack camp where I could leave the boat near the water and use it whenever my wife or guest felt so inclined, I would definitely consider another purchase. For me, the lovely boats, a good companion and Adirondack flat water belong as synergistically close together as pancakes, blueberries and maple syrup.

Carry a Pumpgun while you're Learning to Hunt

Young people enjoy joining their families for a day spent hunting. Nothing says a youngster's "grown up" quite like his - or her - being allowed to carry a gun afield. And getting to take a shot when the hunt goes well is an extra special bonus.

Adults enjoy hunting with their youngsters, too, and realize that kids who are safety conscious contribute greatly to a pleasurable day afield. Here's a tip that not only assures a youngster's safe carry of his shotgun, but also improves his gun handling skills and provides a stage for him to demonstrate sound decision making afield.

I think a young hunter is really well served by carrying a pump gun as he or she learns the game. Guns built for smaller shooters are readily available, and they're almost always lighter in weight and much less expensive than semi automatics or over/ under doubles. And pumps offer a neat loading configuration that yields them visibly safe to other hunters in the party while still being instantly ready to activate for firing. I was taught this technique when I learned about small game hunting, chasing rabbits before beagles many years ago. I was told to load two shells by inserting both into the magazine and none in the chamber. Whenever possible, I also was to leave the action visibly open. The open action part is a whole lot easier to do when the gun is at rest.

By keeping the chamber empty, the gun remains safe. The novice hunter gets the opportunity to decide when a shot is imminent, and then (s)he can arm the pump and enjoy that satisfying "snick" of the action in the process. I think this is a terrific technique for keeping the gun safe until the appropriate time, and for encouraging the novice to understand that the time spent shooting is only a small part of the total time spent afield.

Is a professional fitting with a "try gun" for you?

Gun Fit Basics

Ever notice that shotgun writers are forever obsessing about "fit" while you may never find that word referenced in writing about rifles? A rifle that shoots high or low, left or right can readily have its impact point corrected by moving the rear sight. Since there is no physical sight on an upland shotgun, it has to be invented by placing the dominant eye - that's the right eye for me and other right handed shooters, and I'll stick to that frame of reference here - consistently over the centerline of the gun's barrel or barrels, and consistently at just the right height. Experienced shotgunners can accomplish this by fine tuning their guns' length of pull, drop, cast and pitch.

Before I talk just a little about these four variables, let me emphasize the importance of the term "experienced." If you're a newer shotgunner and haven't considered, practiced and grooved the moves you make when mounting your gun in acquiring a moving target, then your lack of consistency in locating your dominant eye means that you, as yet, have no "perfect fit." Save your money, but spend your time grooving a good mount.

Getting back to those four gun fit variables, let's first collocate them by stating, perhaps obviously, that they all relate to the size and shape of the butt stock, traditionally the piece of wood held in the right hand. Length of pull is the distance from the trigger to the back of the butt. For the other three, let's first imagine shoving a broom stick down and, in our imaginations, through the back end of the gun's barrel or barrels. The drop of the stock measures its distance below the extended broom handle; the cast of the stock measures its distance right or left of the extended broom handle; and the pitch of the stock measures the angle - usually close to 90° - made between the extended broom handle and the line made when the sawyer cut the butt's rear end off.

A "try gun" as shown in the lead graphic is a simple break action gun that the customer is made to shoot at fixed and moving targets. The fitter notes the impact point of the shot cluster when the customer believes he has "centered one," and, through a series of adjustable joints, configures the physical dimensions of the butt stock to place the dominant eye right in the sweet spot. When this is achieved, the gun will shoot, in fact, "right where the shooter is looking," and the gun will be said to "fit."

What The Try Gun Doesn't Tell You

An experienced shotgunner can expect measurements for all four variables, accurate to about 1/8", from his "professional fitting." In 2006, this most likely costs somewhere in three figures. If the cost doesn't make you blink, good for you; but it's far from the worst of the news. First of all, there is no Grand Poobah of Gun Fitting who has set out The Standard And Immutable Table of Values for fellows of your size and shape. This means that your measurements from a fitter in Portland, ME, accurate to 1/8", might in no way match similarly "accurate" measurements from another fitter in Portland, OR.

Worse yet is what can happen after you actually - finally! - get "your perfect measurements." You know these measurements are sweet because of the way you effortlessly smash your targets as they pass left and right. But, as time marches on, your wondrously fitting gun becomes erratic, and seems to experience success rates as variable as the weather. What has happened? Part of the problem is, in fact, the weather. You were wearing, well, whatever you were wearing when the fitter measured you. When you're out shooting on days hotter or colder or wetter than the fitter's studio, you change your inner and outer wear accordingly, effectively making you larger or smaller than the fellow who paid for the fitting. With the addition of a garment a bit bulky here, a tad stiff there, your perfect fit has gone down the drain. The other part of the problem sometimes comes with the passage of time. You lose weight - ha! - or gain weight, in your face, or chest, or variously; or your neck loses some of that youthful flexibility. The result is a needed change in one or more of the formerly "perfect measurements." Or, if you are fortunate and nothing changes but your preferences, you may decide that you need to replace the butt plate with a recoil pad, or that you just must have one of those little leather "pot holders" that the Brits slip over the fore end of their pricey side by sides. This, too, can hurt fit, specially if it had been pretty good to begin with.

So there you have it. A shooter shouldn't even consider a gun fitting until he has begun to groove a decent mounting move. Once he has, the fitter he chooses - and don't get me wrong, there are some good fellows doing this - will not even have had an opportunity to become licensed in his profession. Finally, once a shooter "gets his numbers right," it's unlikely they'll stay the same over a 25 year shooting career. Sort of takes some of the magic from the ads promising you a "perfect fit" through a try gun fitting, eh?

Nothing Succeeds Like Excess

What should you do? Many shooters buy, sell, trade, borrow and sample several guns over their shooting careers. When I say "several," that's what we tell our wives, if you follow. In this course of transactions, we occasionally find that a particular gun is very dependable in a certain regime of shooting. We either kill 35 yard ducks stone dead with it in our cold weather gear; or hammer woodcock in the pleasant weather of October; or maybe score consistently well on clays during the off season. Here is the mistake we too often make. One bad day - sometimes even one bad miss - sours us on that gun, and we make haste to get it out of our safe pronto. Don't do it!! It says here that a shooter's safe is best filled with several proven "niche" guns of whatever price, configuration and dimension, acquired after the shooter has begun to develop a sound mounting move. And don't even think about finding that one magical gun that "does it all;" it's mythical, not magical, most likely the peevish concoction of some seasoned bride with one too many dogs to feed and all too few party dresses.

"A Great Collection: Guns That Deliver On Your Favorite Game"

Hitting The South End Of A High Pheasant Flying North

Coveys of "Gentleman Bob" obligingly held tight in front of southern pointing dogs before a hunter's boot sent them buzzing off the ground like a feathered explosion. And northern gunners still catch their hearts in their throats when a ruffed grouse thunders up out of the gnarlies and rockets his way toward safety beyond leafy cover. Whether he chooses to hunt with one of the pointing breeds, a flushing dog or even dogless, the upland hunter is routinely presented with a classic rising shot.

Since the rising bird is such a common shot, the technique for shooting it is very important. There is even a shooting game dedicated to this shot. Trap, the most popular shooting sport in America, is designed solely around shots at rising outbound birds from random angles. Guns set up for trap shooting typically incorporate some simple design features so they remember that the target is rising even if the shooter forgets.

Figure (1) shows a typical example of the shot at a rising bird. As the bird comes into view at A, the gunner begins his mount and the muzzle rotates up and through the bird, taking it just beyond B.

Figure (1)

Every now and then, though, the technique for shooting rising game can really hurt your score afield. I'm talking, in particular, about those birds that have already gotten up a head of steam - maybe they were put up by your friend or his dog - and are now flying straight and level away from you. As you see the pheasant's tail heading away pronto, you rotate your 12 gauge up and through the bird and slap the trigger. Instead of a spray of feathers, you just see that rooster heading over the horizon. What happened?

A quick peek at figure (2) shows what the gunner must do with this shot, as counter as it might be to what we've learned from birds flushed from the ground. As the bird heads straight away at A, the gunner has to make his mounting move and then slip his muzzle below the bird, not up and through it. The hunter will not want to obstruct his view of his target by elevating the muzzle above the bird and then rotating down. An alternative technique might be to insert the muzzle on the bird's belly and then just "ease off" a bit, taking the bird a bit beyond B.

Figure (2)

Next time a bird has a flying start on you and sails by like an outbound express, remember the diagrams you saw here. They're not as complicated as the ones that confused you in high school geometry, and they may help you add a bird or two to your bag.

Pint Sized Dog Makes Ten Gallon Retrieve

I'm not a dyed-in-the-wool waterfowler. I don't do early mornings well, nor am I comfortable when it it is more than a bit cold or wet. Part nature, part nurture; whatever.

Walked up rough shooting, though, lets me hunt in the afternoon, and the trek through good cover helps me stay warm. Flushing spaniels are a perfect fit for me.

My 14 month 25 lb. English Cocker Spaniel and I hunted pheasants at our release club today. There is a sizable pond in the back of the property. One side is bounded by a cornfield from which a great many pheasants attempt a flighted escape. The other side of the pond, maybe 250 yards distant, has dense, nasty multi flora growing up from the bank, and with only a 6 ft. wide 4-wheeler trail in between, a mature oak woods extending beyond. My old American Water Spaniel and I learned years ago that pheasants missed on the cornfield bank often wound up safely in the gnarlies on the other. The pup and I were looking for such birds again today.

There is also the occasional goose or duck on the pond. Since waterfowl season is currently open, I was loaded with #6 non tox in the lower barrel and #4 non tox in the upper, thinking I would not mince a pheasant with a good first shot nor fail to anchor a departing mallard with a good second.

As we worked down the 4-wheeler track, I noticed geese swimming on the pond. Try as we might to hide, these birds usually see us crouching behind the multi flora and begin by swimming away, only to take off in the away direction in a raucous caucus of honking. But today, one bird swam sideways from the main group, its head sinuating on the water in a serpentine fashion. I took this as a clear indication that the bird was wounded and incapable of flight. After a 100 yard "stalk" behind the multi flora, giving the bird every chance to take flight, I decided that the bird was in fact a cripple and that I'd harvest it and see what pup could do with the retrieve. This is, obviously, not a story about my waterfowl hunting skills.

I killed the bird on the water at about 30 yards from the bank. The pup was out on it like a shot, and had it back to the bank in no time. Had I had the camera, the winning shot would have been of the 25 lb. dog dragging the 10 lb. goose tail-high arse-first out of the water up the bank. Delighted with his pluck, I didn't push for delivery to hand, and went to him about 3 yards up from the bank. He was happy to lay his burden down, and I was happy to "give him a pass" on delivering his first goose to hand.

I'm sure this pup is neither the first English Cocker, nor even the smallest dog, ever to fetch up a goose. But I'm very proud of him just the same, and excited about the future of our hunting partnership.

A Good Day Woodcocking

Except for a brief but glorious sunny period of about an hour, today was about as cold and damp as yesterday. The pup and I went 400 yards to the end of the street to hunt woodcock around 3:30 p.m.

This is the same field in which my old American Water Spaniel and I learned together about woodcock back in 1994. The dogwood, hawthorn and arrowwood has been growing in severely. I did not hunt the old guy there at all in the last two years as I thought it too severe for him. But since the pup is full of energy and I, for a variety of reasons, want to hunt this field, we ranged slightly outside our old killing grounds and found, much to my surprise and delight, cover that looked just like that which greeted us 11 years ago.

The recent wet wind from the north must be working its magic. I saw 8 birds in just over 80 minutes. Some of them were instantly invisible behind towering dogwood bushes still 60% in leaf. Two of them, though, just skimmed the tops of the bushes as the pup boosted them, offering snap shots. It is great fun to watch him - he's 13 months old - literally figure out where the woodcock are and aren't. When the season opened, he was still chasing around in the grass, probably because of his training on pheasants. Now he scoots through the heart of the bushes, right where my old veteran would have gone. The pup does not "flash point," though, as the AWS did, so this whole thing is happening much faster than it used to. Coupled with me being an old pensioner, I fear I'll be wasting lots of shells over time.

Not today, though, as I went a crisp 2 for 2. I'm using the Rizzini "New Englander" in 20 ga wearing .000" and .005" tubes. In a move to simplify my inventory of shotshells, my only 20 ga load is Remington's STS Target Load in #8 lead. This load is universally available, has quality components as it is a target load, and features a very slick plastic hull, literally, which feeds well in autoloaders and pumps. I only use it as a target buster and small, close bird killer, roles for which its high antimony content shot is well suited.

The weather man is forecasting happier weather for the weekend, so the pup might have his first whack at grouse then. I am thinking of a treasured but smallish spot where we might also find a duck or two. I'll take the camera just in case.