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Three Shots to Master Ahead of Hunting Season
We slogged through an hour-long alder hell and didn't move a bird. The boys and I were shocked, for we called the covert Old Reliable. We were at the end, and I broke open my side-by-side and leashed Cider for the walk back to the truck. Wouldn't you know it, there was a brood of grouse feeding on insects at the edge of the field? Cider pointed, and the grouse flushed like a covey of quail. Two went to the left, two went straight away, and two went to the right. Bob missed one of the crossing shots, and Tim missed the straight-aways. Me? I gave 'em grief, 'cause that's what friends are for.
Field Cocker Madness
The brace of pointers was stunning, and they were locked up on the edge of one of the thickest patches of greenbriar I'd ever seen. The tangle was so dense it resembled unfurled rolls of concertina wire. A little cocker named Rip didn't care, for when he was cut loose, he snaked his way through that mess with more moves than a belly dancer. I'd I couldn't see him, but to know where he was I just needed to see which section of greenbriar was shaking. When the dog locked on his target, a covey of wild quail exploded. They believed if they held their ground they'd never have to leave. How wrong they were.
End of a Friendship - by Tom Word
Ben and Sam were sharing an end-of-week dram of The Macallan in Ben's library-conference room when the subject, end of friendships, came up. It was a too-frequent subject on their minds these days, with COVID-19, the fast-approaching presidential election, BLM protests and riots, frequent threatening hurricanes and other impending disasters. Almost everyone seemed out-of-sorts. But Ben and Sam had in eight decades lived through many difficult times, and so had in their old souls a certain confidence that this too would pass. Their shared motto, kept to themselves, was, "Don't take anything, especially yourself, too seriously. Eventually, the pendulum will swing and the country will right itself a bit."
The Meat Dog - by Tom Keer
No one ever filled up a freezer with grouse and woodcock, and that's why folks who purse these birds are never considered meat hunters. A whitetail doe or a cow elk, that's called filling the freezer. The cost center procuring the savory grouse or the two small medallions of livery tasting woodcock breasts places the gamebirds on par with truffles, caviar, and tuna. Ours is a whacky pursuit of a foxy local bird and a seasonally migratory bird with an upside-down brain. Go figure.
10 ways to kill more grouse
Ruffed grouse are hard to hit in any situation. They're wild, just like the terrain in which they live. Here are 10 tips to improve your hits. They're ones I learned the hard way which is short-handle for the fact that I've missed one hell of a lot of birds.
One Who Gave For Us-And Paid A Price
"Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country."
Oklahoma is more than OK
Opening Day is the one we wait for all year long. It's the time when we gather our family and friends, our dogs and favorite shotguns, and trade in every day life for the fields. If we're lucky, the day falls on a weekend and we don't need to make special arrangements. But if Opening Day lands during the week, well, then many of us mysteriously get sick. If enough of us bird doggers scrap work then the country's gross national product might suffer. It'll rebound when we return, but if we miss the opener there is a good chance we won't. Belling dogs and following up points isn't all it's cracked up to be; it's much, much more.
The Conflict - By Tom Word
A lawyer fears a conflict of interest like a foot-plowing share cropper fears a kicking mule. And so fear grew in me after on impulse I recommended Sweetie to John Bassett as a grouse dog after his beloved Jill went to her reward. That recommendation put me in jeopardy of losing both my two best friends and best client and principal source of referrals, and my regular quail-hunting partner and key to quail hunting territory.
SportDOG: Gear the way youd design it
My dentist, Doc Biehn, was a waterfowler and I always got to check it out when I got my teeth cleaned as a kid. I remember one visit when he handed me a new, Marlin Super Goose he extracted from his closet. I'd never seen anything like the 10 gauge, bolt action shotgun that took a 3.5 inch shell and came with a two-shell clip and full-choked 34-inch barrel. That beast weighed a whopping 10.5 pounds, making it a virtual shoulder-cannon for waterfowlers. I could barely lift the heavy artillery let alone work the bolt without significant muzzle rock. My amazement turned to confusion, and in the end I couldn't see how that firearm would replace my side-by-side or pump in the blind. The Super Goose must have been designed by someone who didn't hunt geese.
Field Trials Matter
Most scouts yawn when linemen run 40's, but not at the 2020 combine. Mekhi Becton, a 6-foot-7-inch, 364 pound offensive lineman out of Louisville ran a blistering 5.1. Heads didn't turn so much as they spun off of heads, for what current lineman of Beckton's size runs what used to be speed of yesteryear's fullback? My, my have times changed.
The Code by M.R. Thompson
We'd been walking for several hours, neither of us speaking a word. Even the dogs at heel sensed the tension in the air. Frank looked hangdog while he occasionally checked his cell phone for service. My feet were sore and only getting worse in anticipation of the ten miles back to civilization when all of a sudden we heard the gravel crunch and diesel roar of a truck coming toward us on the logging road. We looked at each other, grabbed our dogs by the collars and jumped off the road and into the underbrush. The truck roared by and I tried to puzzle out the day's events that brought us to this sorry state of affairs.
Midseason corrections
Next year's quail opener was set before the season ended. This year's was good, check that, it was really good, the best in recent history. There seemed to be birds everywhere we went, all of the dogs worked great, and that combination caused us to set the bar for next year very high. Ours was a reasonable goal, mostly because we had several months in which to prepare. And so we did.
The Great Debate: Pointing or Flushing Dogs for Quail
My wife said I winced when we pulled up to the only game in town. It was an old motel of a vintage that reminded me of the Golden Era of travel by car. Over the years families probably over-nighted here while on their way to any one of a number of the nearby wild quail Valhallas. No visible capital improvements had been done for a long time, at least I couldn't see any renovation. The 30-some-odd rooms looked sad while the adjoining restaurant and tavern was booming.
You Cant Just Have One
I love the saying 'anything done in moderation shows a lack of interest' because it's true. My gun cabinet, my rod rack, my decoy rack and my kennels are all full. I'm immoderate, just like you.
Whatever you do, dont shoot the dog - By Tom Keer
I've never seen a bird dog get shot, but I hear of at least one instance per year. When the stories roll in I get sick to my stomach. They unfold in pretty much the same way. A group of folks review the pre-hunt safety talk. All have heard it before, all are in agreement. The dogs are cut loose, the hunt is underway, and spirits are high. Jokes fly around, conversation is light, and everyone agrees they are more happy in the field than at work.
