The Bittersweet Season

 For the past decade the setters and I have spent the majority of each year in anticipation of the sharptail grouse season in September. The first weeks of those seasons hold some of the most cherished memories of our time together in the field . Covey's holding tight for the setters with their silken hair blowing in the wind waiting for me to walk in to flush bird after bird. It was often common place to count 100 birds or more each day walking mile after mile waiting for the perfect points to fill our game bag. There are specific points and flushes over the years so perfect they are forever burned in my memory. In fact I admit to going back to the same spots just hoping to experience such perfection just one more time. But I'm afraid it's like wishing you could have one more day with someone you loved after they've passed on. Time stands still for nothing as they say.

The setters came into this season at age 11 turning 12 starting with Mick in October followed by Beau in January and then Molly the following June. I had run Beau frequently the prior season of 2013 because he just didn't seem to be affected by his age. It was really an incredible thing to observe. Of course I was grateful knowing we were well beyond that time most bird dogs of his size and days in the field lived to hunt another day let alone doing it without missing a beat. Because I love to cover a lot of ground hunting the big hills and open spaces Beau and I had spent day after day together that year.  However the clock was ticking and I knew it all to well. I had saved the close cover and easy walking for Mick and Molly during that season. They were grateful for every minute as we enjoyed each others company.

Knowing we were all a year older as September 2014 approached I tried to adjust my expectations for this season I knew was a gift beyond anything else. Still together day to day. Doing exactly what I dreamed about  while working a job for the better part of 30 years. Living and hunting with a trio of beautiful bird dogs.  Then the season of 2014 was finally here and I knew exactly what run I wanted to take Beau on. It was 2 miles of beautiful rolling hill pasture with deep bowls and hill sides sharptail love for protection from the wind and high points they use with incredible skill to survey their domain keeping them safe from approaching hunters and their capable bird dogs. From our starting point it was a 3/4 mile walk uphill into what I knew to be some of the best sharptail cover around. On this day we would have to circle around to come back into the wind heading west as we traversed the hills. We hadn't gone a quarter mile when I noticed first of all that the casts Beau was making were much shorter than normal. He's a tall lanky setter that just cruises the cover with head held high making him a great sharptail hunter often pointing at great distances. He'd come around and stop for just a minute looking at me before continuing on making sure of our direction I expect. It's not unusual in this type of cover for him to get out of my line of sight due to the hills and bowls. I then watched as he disappeared over a rise. I use Garmin tracking collars so I knew exactly where he was at however when I heard him bark I knew he had lost me. Again unusual as he hadn't been that far out and we were in open cover. I walked to the rise and looked out ahead seeing him standing a couple hundred yards out looking about with ears perked up. I called to him but he didn't seem to hear. I waved to him and got the same results. He just didn't seem to know where I was at although I was in plain sight. I just stood there looking at him and my eyes started to water. This is it I thought. The tipping point. In stature still an incredibly beautiful dog I thought as I continued walking toward him calling and waving until he could see and hear me. We had become so very close the last couple years as we spent more time one on one in the field. As I walked I then thought about how deeply I had gotten to know this dog over a period of time and how lucky I was to have actually lived with him. He had repaid me with what I can only describe as an intense loyalty. Also I must add the equivalent of an Ivy League education in handling this very special type of bird dog. Finally after closing more than half the distance between us he started to wag his tail letting me know he had located me. We had barely begun to turn into the wind at this point and my boots felt heavy due to the reality before me becoming clearer with each step forward. Such an incredible dog. So beautiful to watch surfing the wind for scent. What I was watching seemed to have happened so suddenly but was actually years in the making. The process of aging. Declining stamina and failing senses. It was an extremely difficult moment knowing we had finally crossed that line in time when there's no turning back.

Eventually we got into scent and found birds. Then there would be moments when all was right with our world once again. Sharptail are not commonly pursued by aging hunters and their old dogs. It's a game best enjoyed on a more level field of abilities. But the dance is one so beautiful as it unfolds between the players that it's hard to know when to stop and be content with your memories.

The Bittersweet Season

Over the weeks ahead I came to terms with the effects of time and became optimistic once again as I accepted who we were. Shooting birds for each setter. Hunting the best parts of the day. Stopping and just enjoying our time. This time that I had worked so hard for. This time that was now ours to enjoy in this "Bittersweet season".

For The Birds Along The Way

It's April 2015 and this will be our 6th year in this rural community within what's referred to as the German triangle of North Dakota an area largely settled by Germans from Russia. It's strictly farm and ranch country and insulated from any other opportunity for development in that way. When once asked about where I thought a hunter should ideally locate I replied "Find an area with the unlikely probability of any future development that happens to have favorable game bird habitat!" That pretty much sums up where I currently call home.

With a county population under 2000 people it takes a lot of cooperation and teamwork to support local clubs and causes. The same people donate countless hours to civic organizations like I've never seen. But that's the magic that makes their communities work and continue to be great places to experience the benefits of the small town rural lifestyle. It's easy to poke fun at these communities and the people but just read the national news headlines on any given day and it's not hard to understand why multiple generations choose to live and raise families in areas like this.

In April every year the local chapter of Pheasants Forever holds their annual fundraising banquet and auction. They generate funds for local habitat projects through memberships,sponsor donations and of course they're annual auction. I have never been a club type of person although I've been a member of various organizations over the year's. The main reasons for this being available time and an aversion to meetings! During my career I basically made a living attending meetings of one type or another with most of them being expensive colossal wastes of time for the organization for which I worked. These were mostly meant to be download sessions or intimidation exercises to shame the masses into improved performance! So in my retirement being all the wiser after decades in the business world meeting culture I simply cannot find it within myself to be an active member of any of these groups no matter what the cause is. I've been forever ruined for the type of service and compliance they require. But when I hear of a good controversy or argument made public at one of these civic meetings my ears perk up. You see I've learned decisions always arise out of conflict and right or wrong the agendas will never move along without them!

So the question for me was how do I support the organization my interests as an upland hunter are most closely aligned with? It's not only the organization itself but the actual people who donate countless hours of their time. Many of them happen to also be landowners who graciously allow me to hunt on their land. I've got enough gear to last a lifetime and then some so being an auction buyer doesn't make sense. In fact I dream of someday only having those possessions I can load into a pick up truck along with my bird dogs! I tried being an active member for a while but as I've related it's not my forte. The schedule of events and operations of a local club are pretty straight forward and don't change or require a lot of input. That's fine really. It also makes sense that landowner relations and habitat opportunities be handled and initiated by local people they already are familiar with. Maybe being involved on a different level might make sense but the simple facts are I'm just a pointing dog man at heart. My main objective is to have my boots on the ground walking behind my bird dogs! So then how do I show solidarity to the cause?

Well I hadn't lived here very long before word got around about my pie baking talents. With many many great cooks within this Russian German community that's something that they valued. One of the more creative members of the club then asked me if I'd consider making pies for the spring auction. Of course I said lets try it and we were off and running! Right up my alley. Creative,independent, and somewhat unconventional with no meetings required! It became over a period of the next few years a great novelty everyone looked forward to at this event attended by a few hundred people each year. People enjoyed just looking at the pies on display and would marvel at what they'd bring at auction. It was common for them to go for 25 to 75 dollars each. All for a great cause and an enjoyable way for me to show my support " For the birds along the way!"

"For The Birds Along The Way"

Shed No Tears

                                       It's spring 2015. The setters and I have been gone from the rolling farm country of Wisconsin since 2009. Our time there served it's purpose providing the preparation in many ways for our exodus to bird country. A secluded rural property was a perfect environment for raising pups.

                                       Over the course of 30 years as you would expect an area as beautiful as the driftless area of Wisconsin continued to be discovered for what it was. One of the most desirable places to live in rural America. Not far from population centers you were quickly in the wooded hills and valleys largely occupied by family owned dairy operations. No trespassing signs were a rarity in the seventies and eighties. You could experience excellent trout fishing and grouse hunting walking mile after mile crossing fences without much interference except maybe from a Holstein bull on occasion. A foe most certainly to not be underestimated. The deer herd had years earlier moved to this part of the state and flourished in the rich farmland country.
                                       In the early fall of 1981 my friend Peter and I walked back to the valley behind my property a half mile and had a wonderful grouse hunt walking the hillsides of the Love Creek valley. This was a classic section of grazed wooded pasture with thickets of brush and cover in between open areas under a canopy of mixed hardwoods. Peter loved those hills and spent most of his time with fly rod or his Ithaca 20 gauge in hand . His English setter was a constant companion. We cleaned the birds that day out behind the old barn at my place as we talked about dogs and grouse hunting. Peter shot 5 birds to my 2. Boy he was quick with that Ithaca!

The Love Creek Valley

                                      As interest rates eased during this time the migration into the hills and valleys by urban pioneers became more prevalent. Some with more money than others built on the hills so everyone could see their vision of beauty. These places became like the acne of the countryside and it spread from one valley to the next and from one ridge top to the next as family farms were sold off and divided. During this time the number of dairy farms in the state plummeted as the latest generation looked to the future and cashed in their chips while they could.

                                     What followed was no surprise. With each farm that was divided new signs went up. No Trespassing! Keep Out! No Fishing! No Hunting! "This is my 10 acres!" "This is my 40 Acres!" And so and so on. And "No you can't pick mushrooms either" people would say if you asked. No! No! No! Who the hell were these people I thought. City people moved to the countryside was the answer. A plague of sorts had come to the driftless area forever changing the landscape and the personality of the countryside.

                                     Depending on how you chose to enjoy your time outdoors determined I suppose how you viewed this transition and new reality. For a pointing dog man longing to walk mile after mile with his bird dog's it was no place to live. A place to seek refuge from time to time maybe but certainly not a place to confine a crew of beautiful animals bred to pursue every species of upland birds. As sportsman no matter what our passion we all dream of someday living within the ideal environment for our sport. The day we decide to follow our instincts and cross over the line making our passion a way of life is our day of reckoning. Some of us cross over and some of us continue to dream content with memories of our times in the field. Each side of the line has it's risks and rewards with either choice being right or wrong a deeply personal question.

                                     On a recent trip back to Wisconsin the setters and I drove through some of the territory reminding me of the early days before the wholesale transformation of the states dairy farm country.
When it was time to turn west and head for the high plains we now call home it felt good to have my back to the past. I'm glad for the days we were there and the great times we had but I "Shed No Tears" as we turned off the interstate and crossed over into bird country once again.

Back in bird country once again.