Some late-season magic in the grouse woods

REGARDLESS of whether it was too late in the season with snow on the ground, a frozen mix falling and little chance for success, the scribbler and his Lab hit the woods on a recent Sunday afternoon to try our luck.
We missed the peak of the grouse hunting season from mid-October to early November as Maddie healed from an elbow surgery, but with her getting stronger every day, that longing to walk the trails with a dog out front became insurmountable.
It was misting when we started the five-mile walk on industrial forest land and despite a clear forecast for the afternoon, it soon turned to flurries and then to large white flakes — and we were a long way from the truck.
The active radar app on my phone showed nothing for clouds of the kind that could bring precipitation, but obviously the technology isn’t foolproof.
We heard a distant flush at one point, far up an open ridge where hardwoods were selectively cut a couple of years back. A scattering of small balsams and some berry brush didn’t seem like much cover for a grouse, and maybe that’s why it flushed out of sight and out of range.
Moments later I came across the fresh tracks of that grouse and saw where it came out of balsams on one side, crossed the two-track, and scurried up the hill as we approached.
We covered some darn good cover along a swamp edge, a stand of mixed aspen where it met a clearcut and scattered patches of heavy balsam left by loggers. We cut some tracks in the snow, but couldn’t get another flush.
My guess was that the low pressure and precipitation had pushed them into swamps and heavy balsam cover, which is par for the course with grouse.
And we really didn’t care because it just felt good to stretch the legs, visit old haunts that carry great memories of past hunts, and renew the bond of a hunter and his dog covering ground.
Maddie drives wife Alice crazy during the days, whining softly as she lays by a door or looks out a window, waiting for the moment I might arrive to quickly change clothes, throw on some boots and put her in the truck — shell vest and gun in tow.
The chase and every little thing that goes with it is what hunting dogs live for, even when conditions are questionable and birds are hard to find. They love smelling scent, flushing birds and retrieving them, but it appears the anticipation is just as exciting.
We walked for a couple of hours without firing a shot, checking out all sorts of tracks in the snow. There were good deer trails with some big buck tracks in them, signs of snowshoe hare in the aspen/balsam mix, and squirrel tracks everywhere.
For a short time we followed the tracks of a red fox, amazed by the single line of tracks and the way their back feet step exactly into the footprint of the front, in a straight line.
On the last mile of this trek we had to backtrack on the same two-track toward the truck, so expectations of some surprising flush weren’t great.
The anticipation really waned when we rounded the last corner, the truck in sight about 200 yards ahead. We had mature aspen on our right and young aspen from a three-year-old clearcut on our left, with short balsams and some berry brush mixed in.
There were no tracks and no scent anywhere on that road. We paused for a moment, for whatever reason I don’t recall. But 20 seconds into that pause, the thunder of grouse wings filled the air.
A bird got up out in the clearcut, angling left and then turning straight away. It was like a gift from God after miles of walking, soaked to the skin without rain gear.
One shot from the 20 gauge over/under put that bird on the ground, and one happy dog was flying through cover to make the retrieve — the tail wagging the dog with excitement.
Maddie got that bird halfway back and a second bird thundered out of the balsams, not very far from my truck, and tried to cross the two-track I was standing on. Big mistake. It folded right above the aspen treetops and plunged into the snow-covered woods.
Two other birds got out of that same group of young balsams, in the middle of nowhere, but I missed on my third chance as they glided over the clearcut toward a nearby swamp and creek bottom.
So basically these birds were sitting there in the balsams, hiding and laughing as we drove up, and we put on miles looking for them elsewhere. And that’s the nature of grouse hunting.
What began as just an outing to keep the legs in shape, and to make up for missed time in the woods for Maddie, turned out a lot more productive than ever imagined.
She got a couple of birds in her mouth, on the retrieve, and I got a couple of fat partridge for the dinner table. It doesn’t get any better than that.
The Krueger duo is back, gunner and bird dog, and we’ll be waiting for next fall with great anticipation.