HUNTING SEASON 1999!

For Manfred - my hunting partner, my friend.

Manfred's last retrieve. We hunted a preserve in Michigan's thumb in February, I won the hunt at a game dinner. The boys worked hard, retrieved every bird, and made me quite proud.
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The way I figure it, hunting season doesn't start in the fall. The spring morel hunt produced this pile from a single day's search, and the apple tree indicates a future deer candy store. "Would you like my famous morel and cherry cream sauce over your venison tenderloin, ma'am?"

Remington and I get set to enter a grouse hunter's heaven, dog-hair aspen popple, ground covered in forest strawberries, scrub oak, mature conifers. We hunt with Manfred in our thoughts, his spirit guides us not so much to kill game, but to relish the experience of the hunt, to enjoy freedom from life's trivalities, and to nourish one's soul again in the beauty of a classic, high-nosed point.

So off Remy and I went, determined to find the massive populations of grouse that had been forcast for the season. Find the soft mast, water, mixed timber, they said. Pay close attention in the aspen popple. I followed all the directions, I hadn't really hunted grouse with a topo map and a GPS before, usually just hunting where I parked the car and then looking for likely habitat on foot. This year, I decided to put in time studying the maps, and it paid off. We would load up the truck, and head for the day's chosen hunting site, drive the back roads until it looked "grousy", and hunt for an hour or two before moving to a new spot. This approach paid off in over 30 points in about 15 total hunting hours this season, far more than I have ever experienced. I can't begin to describe my awe at Remington's aptitude. Raw aptitude it was, because he had never specifically hunted grouse before. On the pheasant opener last year he expertly handled 4 grouse, and I was determined to get him into birds this year.

And this is how we spent this year's pheasant opener. I hunted my usual piece of public land, an opportunity to hunt a large farm in southern Michigan was trampled by the land holder's work obligations. We hunted pheasant in the Thumb until about 9:30, Remy handled and pointed a group of 4 hens perfectly, they flushed at my approach. "Well, the pheasants aren't cooperating, let's go find some grouse", Remy seemed to suggest after 2 otherwise fruitless hours. A quick look at the map and a 30 minute drive later we were into grouseland. He had several points that day, but with such thick vegetation I heard more birds than I actually saw. I'm beginning to see why grouse hunters seem so possessed. Chasing zephyrs more than birds, miles of tangle-foot tripped over and wild rose bulled through, enough lacerations to keep a trauma ward in stitch work for a month. And then, a point! My own birddog, the dog that I raised and trained, pointing a wild grouse, the most elusive game bird in North America. (Hey, all you "fool hen" shooters out west, I dare you to hit one of these birds) Wow, this is so cool, I need a picture. Look at how still he is, can there actually be a bird there? Will it stay in place till I get to it? Isn't this great? Ok, steady now (more to the hunter than the dog), almost there, get ready....ready....two more steps....whoh!bird!safety'sondammitpointthedamngunathebird!

getthegunontheshoulderheadddownsafety'sstillon!

pullthetriggerpullitagainyoumissedpull...oh yeah. An over/under, no third shot. It wouldn't have mattered, a tree caught the first shot, and where did that tree come from? The bird was long gone by the second shot, a futile gesture by a once again out-foxed hunter. Oh looky, there were two birds in that grapevine tangle. Look at how slowly it flys, following its mate, while I hold an empty shotgun and try to staunch the blood flowing from a new raspberry thorn-induced slash on my wrist.

And still, the dog laughs.

Remy points a woodcock in a powerline cut. This area will be well explored next year, a heavy stand of popple produced 5 birds in less than an hour of hunting.

Engine Designer Bob, the Deer Sniper, and Remington take a break. I was fortunate to be able to share the grouse experience with Bob this year, the first time he had hunted over a pointing dog. What a pleasure to be able to hunt with someone who is so mindful of basic hunting safety. Bob's enthusiasm to learn new hunting techniques and to share his knowledge of deer and rabbit hunting were welcome additions to what turned out to be a great year afield. Thanks, Bob!

Engine Designer Bob, the turkey slayer. Bob found time this spring to get seriously involved in turkey hunting, and did well enough to nail this jake. While we have serious numbers of turkey on the prairie, I don't hunt them, mostly because I'm not convinced they eat all that great. While bowhunting in late October Leslie and I saw a group of toms that would make many turkey hunters gobble out loud. The smallest-bodied tom had the longest beard, which dragged on the ground as he walked. It must have been over 12 inches long.

Mrs. Shorthair's 1998 10 point trophy came home, he got here just in time to hang on Christmas Eve. Excellent work by the taxidermist!
On Sunday, September 19, 1999, at 7 am, Mrs. Shorthair elbowed me in ribs. "Hey look, look on the ridge, look at that buck!" Another beautiful 10 point, this one with a spread of at least 20", and two sixes grazed in the meadow to our north. Pre-dawn, with wisps of fog clinging to the low spots on the ground, they stayed for about 30 minutes, two of them engaging in a little sparring match as a bonus. I hunted that deer the entire bowseason, passing on numerous opportunities at other bucks. I saw deer every night out, and saw the Big Guy twice, but could not lure him into bow range.

Mid-October, the fall colors at peak. This is the view from one of my favorite sites, looking west past the north side of my cedar swamp. When the sun is low on the western sky, the autumn colors seem to glow with a self-generated light. How can I not be here now? During one of these October hunts, with the rut just beginning, I was treated to a couple of special events. I could tell the rut was starting, little geeky spike and fork bucks were chasing does all around me, like Friday night at the singles bar, but the girls would have none of them. (It reminded me of my youth, and my generally pitiful success rate with the opposite sex. I cheered sympathetically for the geeks, but to no avail.) Suddenly, a doe and a buck run down from the north, and stop near my tree looking back at the field they had fled. I looked too, hoping the Big Guy was on the prowl. It was a Big Guy, alright, but the wrong species, a huge black bear. He gently loped across the field on into the swamp, beautiful black coat shimmering in the late afternoon sun. The local Conservation Officer confirms he goes 300 - 350, and I'm thinking "rug" if I get a permit....

Mr. and Mrs. Shorthair prepare to manage the herd. Look out Bambi, Mama's a shooter!