I spent 40 years on the prairies of my home state of Iowa shooting pheasants. It was my passion. In some ways, my identity. Waiting for the opening day of the season for me brought the same anticipation that Christmas morning brings a child. All things surrounding a morning pheasant hunt have left indelible marks on my soul. The smell of hot coffee in a thermos. The sting of crisp, damp air on my face and hands. The wonderful aroma of a wet dog. The explosion of wings from a flushed rooster rising from a solid point. The intense comradery forged with hunting partners over the years whose shared experiences bound each other in a lifetime of …
Yes, I was a pheasant hunter.
Yet when I retired and my wife and I made the decision to move full-time to Northwest Colorado, I knew that I would be leaving my life-long pursuit of pheasants in the rearview mirror. But the call of the mountains, forests and trout streams were luring me toward a new chapter in life. In some ways, I didn’t know what I would do during my first fall away from Iowa during the pheasant season.
Fall comes earlier to Colorado than it does to my native Iowa. As the shadows began to draw long and the air cooled, I began to feel the urge to hunt. But I was in a new land. There were no pheasants. The sound of a cackling rooster at daylight was not to be heard in this new landscape. But an invitation from my son to go grouse hunting in the forests near our home presented a new opportunity in my life as a bird hunter.
I knew absolutely nothing about grouse hunting on the morning we entered the canopy of aspens and pines. Quite honestly, I thought it was a futile endeavor pursuing what I had called “fool hens” for so many years. I had many questions, such as “How will my dogs respond?” and “How am I ever going to shoot a bird in the incredibly thick forested cover?” It would not be an understatement to say that I was less than enthusiastic about the experience.
Uncasing our shotguns, my seasoned German wirehair and Longhaired Weimaraner sensed the excitement of the impending adventure. Leaving my beloved 12-gauge Winchester Model 23 in the gun vault at home, I opted for a lighter gun — a 20-gauge Browning BSS that I had not shouldered in years. We stepped into the forest and began walking along Forest Service trails. The dogs began quartering in front of us with their noses instinctively scenting the ground and air as they zig-zagged between the trees. Cynically, I wondered what they were doing since there obviously would not be any pheasants to track.
Minutes into the hunt, however, the sound of crashing wings suddenly filled the air as grouse exploded from the trees. Invisible to us, they disappeared — ghosts in the wind. Yet, my interest was aroused and so was the enthusiasm of our canine companions. Shortly after, I heard another flush. Then a gunshot from my son’s 16-gauge. Looking at a gap in the trees, a grouse crossed flying left to right. Instinctively, the Browning snapped to my shoulder, and I pulled the trigger. The grouse fell from the sky. Soon, my wirehaired pointer crashed through the underbrush with the bird in his mouth. I was hooked.
Our hunt continued with more birds in the bag. The dogs worked fastidiously and acted as if they had been tracking grouse for years.
I learned many things about my transition from pheasant hunting to grouse last season. First of all, it is difficult. Accepting that success lies not in how many birds are in the bag nor in how many shots are taken but rather, in how many flushes are made is part of the process. Also, anticipating ahead of a flush where the surrounding woods provide the opportunity for a shot is a challenge. It forces the hunter to always anticipate and be aware of the surroundings. This is much different from hunting birds on the open prairie where pheasants are surrounded by empty sky. It takes more skill, thinking and strategy.
The physical demands of grouse hunting are not for the faint of heart. Many miles are expended on uneven ground, often traversing rocky cliffs and steep ravines. Hiking in the forest can also lead to disorientation, particularly after walking several miles. This can be an experience that makes a hunter feel like a complete novice. Used to being able to see landmarks for miles in all directions in Iowa, I learned to carefully scout my trip, pin my maps and find landscapes that could serve as beacons. This was reinforced when I came across an elk hunter who was helplessly lost and had no maps, online directions or cell phone and ended up being 6 miles from his camp.
As I look back fondly on my first season in the forest hunting grouse, it is the sights and sounds that I remember most. Stumbling on the largest bull moose I have ever seen, stunning views of snow-capped mountains, the smell of pine and the intensity with which my dogs ran, threading themselves between the aspens before locking on point. Yes, this was a satisfying experience and one that I am eagerly looking forward to repeating this fall.