The King: A Grouse Hunting Story

My alarm blares, it’s 4:00 AM. I sit up and groggily rub the sleepy crust out of my eyes. Boy, is that alarm clock bright. Swinging my legs off the side of my bed, I throw on my sweats and a cotton t-shirt, struggling in my daze to pull it over my head. My eyes widen as I remember what I am doing up at this ungodly hour and a smile breaks out on my face: time for the grouse woods. I hop down the stairs cautiously as to not wake up my mom and sister. My dad is standing in front of his prized possession, the espresso machine. I make fun of him for getting up early just to make a couple caffeinated drinks before I slip out into the car. Sprawling across the back seat and snuggling into my sleeping bag I feel my eyelids getting heavy and my vision goes dark.

What feels like a minute later I wake to the delicious smell of pastries and coffee. I glance up, the scenery and mountains around me are exquisite. Vermont is quite a beautiful place, especially with a view like this from a warm sleeping bag. “Good second morning,” says my dad. I smile and stretch. Boy, do I feel rested now. After gobbling up two of the chocolate croissants, I eagerly anticipate the sight of our exit. Suddenly, we veer to the right, horns blaring behind us, and get off the highway. We make our way down the crumbling paved roads of upstate Vermont. I crack a window and our two dogs in the back begin to whine – they can smell the sweet air of the countryside even better than I can. Miles and miles of road ahead of us, I lean back and get comfortable. After all, we have been driving for two hours, what’s another hour to me now?

I look up from under my hat brim when I am nearly thrown from my seat as the car comes to a sudden halt. Standing in front of us is a giant moose, close enough to see the flies pestering it, buzzing around it’s eyes. With a huff he trots off into the woods. My dad’s knuckles are white and clinging to the steering wheel even as we make eye contact in disbelief. The next time our car comes to a halt I look up, half expecting a bear this time, and I see that we have arrived at our destination.

I open my door and the scent of the grouse woods in the fall permeates my nostrils. The soft, muddy ground sinks an inch underneath me. My breath is visible as the sun illuminates it in the crisp fall air. I close my eyes for the third time this day, not to fall asleep but to reminisce on past times and to take it all in. My trance is broken by the sound of the car door slamming and the dogs whimpering in eager anticipation. I open up the back door and kennel, allowing the dogs to rocket out past me. With a quick bark of their names they come right to my ankles and sit, shaking. They seem even more excited than me, something I thought impossible prior to this moment. Clink! The sound of metal on metal resonates through the small valley as my dad closes his now loaded 12 Gauge Francotte shotgun. He hands me mine as I keep the dogs in close. With one word, OK, the dogs are off to the races. To my right I hear a tiny red squirrel chattering as it sits on it’s favorite stump, surrounded by torn apart pine cones. It shoots back to it’s hole as the dogs breeze past, following their noses.

In front of me lays one of our favorite places to hunt, dubbed a “cover”. It has food aplenty with the wild apple tree’s branches hanging low with apples, worth their weight in gold to many grouse hunters. To my right we have the beautiful high bush cranberry, the few clusters of red berries left are deep in the brush, barely reachable. My now dew-soaked Lowa boots crush the fermenting apples that have fallen to the ground as I duck beneath the laden boughs of apple trees. Suddenly what sounds like a rocket explodes in front of me. The roaring, thunder like beats of the ruffed grouses wings fill the air as I look around without a glance of our quarry. The grouse was concealed by the thick brush but I have confidence in the cover and our dogs, a combo with which you cannot go wrong.

We come to a stream, dividing the thick underbrush of apples and thorns like a border as it meanders through. Elaborately colored brook trout dart out from the deep pools where they are spawning, fleeing from me as I step onto the shallow rocks in the middle of the brook. In what feels like close to a full split, I hear the sound I have been awaiting all along once again. The sputter of wings and a glimpse of the bullet shaped bird moving through the branches with the agility only grouse have. Instinct takes over and I raise my gun stock to my cheek and fire as the grouse passes over the opening of the stream. The smell of gunpowder quickly mingles with the sweet scent of decaying leaves and apples. This is known to many as “aromatherapy”. Calling a dog over, we inspect the area around where I shot. After a minute it becomes clear that once again the bird got the better of me.

I reach up to pick an apple as I hear the shout by my dad, “BIRD UP!” The clap of his shotgun makes my ears ring, but the unmistakable thud of a grouse hitting the ground distracts me from it. I walk over to the trunk of a magnificent old apple tree stand in the ferns. Sooke, one of my dogs, comes trotting over with the bird held gingerly in her mouth. Reaching down for what we came all this way for, a three pound bird, I am once again in awe of it’s beauty. She drops it into my palm. Thanking and congratulating Sooke, I turn it over in my hands with nothing but utter appreciation and thankfulness in my mind. The smell of apples and earth once again is present, this bird surely has been in the cover for a while. I smooth out it’s golden copper feathers and look at the wonderful patterns nature has produced. The chocolate bands on it’s tail contrast wonderfully with the rest of the bird.

We begin our trek back, over the stream, under the apple trees, through the thorns. The shining of the car between the trees marks our destination. I sling my gun over my shoulder and check my watch, it’s only 9:00 AM. There’s a lot more daylight left and a lot more ground to cover. I lay the bird in the cooler, throw my shotgun in the back seat, let the dogs into the kennel and hop in. I’m already fantasizing about the next cover, the next flush. With many more covers to hit, we’re off to the next spot, weaving through the beautiful countryside.

 

 

A Bow Turkey

Wow, what a morning! We got to one of our favorite spots early as false dawn was barely visible and sat on a stump awaiting the first gobble. The sun began to warm the earth, illuminating the fog coming off of the cool morning dew. Robins chirping and filling their empty stomachs after a long, cool night ran near us, rustling leaves. The woods were coming alive. Sounds of my dad and I breathing quietly were interrupted suddenly by one of my favorite sounds, a gobble. It was close by as well. We glanced at each other and formulated a plan quietly.

Sneaking around the edge of the once-used cow pasture, a gobble once again shattered the peaceful morning – this time even closer. We dropped low and crawled the the nearest cover, setting our DSD standing hen decoy out as we went. Carefully adjusting my arm as not to crush it underneath me, I hopped behind a tree and pulled out the most realistic sounding call I have ever encountered, a WoodHaven Wasp mouth call. One yelp, some putting and a purr. Movement. There was a turkey there I am sure, but all I could see was a giant beard swaying through the mist. 20 yards. 10 yards. He mounted the decoy, my dad drew his bow, or rather tried to. In the short time we had to get set up, he didn’t take his chance to get into a good shooting position. Now on his butt, he couldn’t draw!

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a lot of movement. 1, no, 3, wait, 8 jakes running in! I glanced back at the long beard and he had turned tail and fled. The jakes, breasts swaying as they ran, chased him away at full speed. I cringed, nearly shed a tear and knew there was no chance of getting that monster back in. The boss, my mom, had given us strict orders to bring a bird back today. I knew that this was the case and watched as my dad got into a better position to shoot. The jakes slowly meandered back in slowly, taking their time with small feuds and displaying occasionally. The tom was sneaking back in until the jakes noticed and chased him off once again, hot on his scaly heels.

With four hens in front of us now, challenging my call to a duel, my dad knew he would have to shoot soon. The biggest jake sprinted back to the decoy, pulling up five feet short to displaying his gorgeous feathers that shone golden black in the sunlit opening. For the second time that morning the DSD was mounted. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my dad draw and carefully take aim. The twang of the bowstring was muted by my face mask but the unmistakable thwack of the arrow making solid contact was impossible to miss.

Nervous puts came from the mouths of the hens and the gobblers came out of their strut. The beating of wings on the ground surprised me. My dad had made a perfect neck shot and it had dropped right there. The jakes wanted to linger in the worst way but as the hens ran off, they followed. Soon, it was just my dad and I sitting quietly in the small clear cut. He stood, smiling, with his first bow turkey of the season on the ground 15 yards away. He raised his bow up and smiled. Success! It was a nice change to be able to call in a bird for him for a change. There is nothing better than sharing a successful outing with my favorite hunting partner. I’ll never forget how hectic it was in the moment! We both knew deep down that that tom didn’t get away that easily, though.

To be continued…