(Photos in OP by @wllm1313 & myself) This is the first installment. Others from the troupe will add their stories and photos as well.
A few months ago, @VikingsGuy & I were talking about grouse hunting in the great north woods. As with most things hunt Talk, that discussion turned into making some plans. We put the call out to a few folks on the board and soon enough, we had a gang of 7 ready to travel from as far west as Utah and Montana and as far east as Massachusetts.
The drive from my place to Beaver Bay is about 12 hours. My companion has curtailed the drool in the vehicle, but the excitement of a bird dog who saw the guns loaded up, and hasn’t been on birds for a year, cannot be contained. We settled the issue of whining, drooling & frenetically killing the dog blanket by asking a simple question: Would you rather be in the kennel in the back of the truck, or in the front seat? After some contemplation, she decided on the front seat. We stopped at little piece of public land on the north shore of lake Michigan and took the gun for a short walk in order to keep crazy at bay. No birds, but a little black bear scurried by, with the dog unaware. Back in the truck, and on our way north.
Around Munising, we stopped to let off some more steam, and to forget the pasties I promised as my contribution to the table fare.
So 7 of us converged on a little cabin in the woods, north of Duluth, south of Canada, firmly in public lands and grouse country. 7 people who had never met face-to-face, taking a chance that nobody was going to be wildly weird enough to make a long weekend in the woods uncomfortable. It was a crap shoot, to be sure but fortune favors the bold. @Hunting Wife (along with Hunting Husband), @wllm1313 , @BrentD , @VikingsGuy , @Wildabeast and myself all showed up to the place we’d call home over the next few days:
I was the last one to land. There was much rejoicing. I was greeted with the song of my people (that’s really just labs barking incessantly while you try to get out of the truck before your dog overruns you). A quick round of introductions, and I was handed a plate of pulled bear that had been made into Korean bbq sliders.
The food was tremendous. The dogs were establishing the pecking order with bared teeth & growls, which ultimately settled down to mean-spirited side-eyes & the occasional yelp of a pup who got too close to a bitch of a dog.
That’s when we all figured out that nobody had actually met each other face-to-face yet. Just through the witty repartee on HT did we know each other. The overall consensus is that everyone was pretty close to their online personas, with a few certain exceptions.
As we chatted the first evening away, the guns came out and a long running conversation about how to choose the appropriate snooty double barrel bird buster ensued, with Brent leading the master class, as he would all weekend.
As the clock hit midnight, we broke up, off to bed with some folks electing to camp while the rest of us were not silly enough to refuse a soft bed in the cabin. This group, remarkable in many aspects, had one truly incredible trait (especially for men of a certain age) - nobody really snored loudly. It's the small things that really make a trip.
The next morning, we were up & running with the hounds. A quick breakfast and an exchange of plans led folks to team up and hit the trails. Will and I teamed up for the day, hitting a logging road close by, and going for a short little bushwhack. We passed the opportunity to ground sluice a bird on the road. Little did we know, that was the only bird we’d see in the flesh that morning. After hitting what looked like a lovely little meadow on the GPS (it wasn’t. It was an old cut that was a jungle with old stands being eaten by the vegetation and trails petering out as fast as they started. I was reminded of Chef from Apocalypse Now, as we trudged back to the main road - “Never get out of the F’in boat.”
The dog thought us trite, as she bounded around as if she’d snorted an 8 ball of Griselda Blanco’s finest powder. After a 4-5 mile slog through the understory, we headed back to camp for lunch, and to regroup for the afternoon.
Will found a spot for us to try next, so we headed out. Feathers in the parking lot, a good sign. We loaded up the guns and headed down the trail.
Since Will hadn’t traveled with a shotgun, I had graciously allowed him to carry one of mine. He chose the O/U Griefelt. There was one condition: No ground pounding. Any bird had to be on the wing. After a couple of miles, I heard the gun go off, and a bird head towards the trees.
Rules were made to be broken, and a ruffed grouse will find a way to survive, even with a double load of #6’s headed their way. Some feathers were left behind, so we looked for the dead bird for 10-15 minutes, never to find it.
After a few hundred yards down the trail, the dog peeled off to the left, hot on some scent. We slowed, got on ready, and from the opposite side of the trail, and slightly behind, a bird flushed. I got far behind, garnering a clean miss and a confused look from the dog.
We continued on, and finished the walk, judiciously changing our route out by crossing a creek and getting back to the truck a few miles over what we had planned.
Bird hunting is the sport of kings. It’s supposed to be a leisure activity made for long, slow walks and watching dogs work. Unless you hunt with Will, who apparently feels like you need to trudge through every thicket, jungle and wall of trees he can find, while dragging his portly companion along. The portly companion forgot to bring water as well, because, well, it’s not like it was going to be arduous or anything. I’ve captioned this photo “This is some bullchit right here.”
A few months ago, @VikingsGuy & I were talking about grouse hunting in the great north woods. As with most things hunt Talk, that discussion turned into making some plans. We put the call out to a few folks on the board and soon enough, we had a gang of 7 ready to travel from as far west as Utah and Montana and as far east as Massachusetts.
The drive from my place to Beaver Bay is about 12 hours. My companion has curtailed the drool in the vehicle, but the excitement of a bird dog who saw the guns loaded up, and hasn’t been on birds for a year, cannot be contained. We settled the issue of whining, drooling & frenetically killing the dog blanket by asking a simple question: Would you rather be in the kennel in the back of the truck, or in the front seat? After some contemplation, she decided on the front seat. We stopped at little piece of public land on the north shore of lake Michigan and took the gun for a short walk in order to keep crazy at bay. No birds, but a little black bear scurried by, with the dog unaware. Back in the truck, and on our way north.
Around Munising, we stopped to let off some more steam, and to forget the pasties I promised as my contribution to the table fare.
So 7 of us converged on a little cabin in the woods, north of Duluth, south of Canada, firmly in public lands and grouse country. 7 people who had never met face-to-face, taking a chance that nobody was going to be wildly weird enough to make a long weekend in the woods uncomfortable. It was a crap shoot, to be sure but fortune favors the bold. @Hunting Wife (along with Hunting Husband), @wllm1313 , @BrentD , @VikingsGuy , @Wildabeast and myself all showed up to the place we’d call home over the next few days:
I was the last one to land. There was much rejoicing. I was greeted with the song of my people (that’s really just labs barking incessantly while you try to get out of the truck before your dog overruns you). A quick round of introductions, and I was handed a plate of pulled bear that had been made into Korean bbq sliders.
The food was tremendous. The dogs were establishing the pecking order with bared teeth & growls, which ultimately settled down to mean-spirited side-eyes & the occasional yelp of a pup who got too close to a bitch of a dog.
That’s when we all figured out that nobody had actually met each other face-to-face yet. Just through the witty repartee on HT did we know each other. The overall consensus is that everyone was pretty close to their online personas, with a few certain exceptions.
As we chatted the first evening away, the guns came out and a long running conversation about how to choose the appropriate snooty double barrel bird buster ensued, with Brent leading the master class, as he would all weekend.
As the clock hit midnight, we broke up, off to bed with some folks electing to camp while the rest of us were not silly enough to refuse a soft bed in the cabin. This group, remarkable in many aspects, had one truly incredible trait (especially for men of a certain age) - nobody really snored loudly. It's the small things that really make a trip.
The next morning, we were up & running with the hounds. A quick breakfast and an exchange of plans led folks to team up and hit the trails. Will and I teamed up for the day, hitting a logging road close by, and going for a short little bushwhack. We passed the opportunity to ground sluice a bird on the road. Little did we know, that was the only bird we’d see in the flesh that morning. After hitting what looked like a lovely little meadow on the GPS (it wasn’t. It was an old cut that was a jungle with old stands being eaten by the vegetation and trails petering out as fast as they started. I was reminded of Chef from Apocalypse Now, as we trudged back to the main road - “Never get out of the F’in boat.”
The dog thought us trite, as she bounded around as if she’d snorted an 8 ball of Griselda Blanco’s finest powder. After a 4-5 mile slog through the understory, we headed back to camp for lunch, and to regroup for the afternoon.
Will found a spot for us to try next, so we headed out. Feathers in the parking lot, a good sign. We loaded up the guns and headed down the trail.
Since Will hadn’t traveled with a shotgun, I had graciously allowed him to carry one of mine. He chose the O/U Griefelt. There was one condition: No ground pounding. Any bird had to be on the wing. After a couple of miles, I heard the gun go off, and a bird head towards the trees.
Rules were made to be broken, and a ruffed grouse will find a way to survive, even with a double load of #6’s headed their way. Some feathers were left behind, so we looked for the dead bird for 10-15 minutes, never to find it.
After a few hundred yards down the trail, the dog peeled off to the left, hot on some scent. We slowed, got on ready, and from the opposite side of the trail, and slightly behind, a bird flushed. I got far behind, garnering a clean miss and a confused look from the dog.
We continued on, and finished the walk, judiciously changing our route out by crossing a creek and getting back to the truck a few miles over what we had planned.
Bird hunting is the sport of kings. It’s supposed to be a leisure activity made for long, slow walks and watching dogs work. Unless you hunt with Will, who apparently feels like you need to trudge through every thicket, jungle and wall of trees he can find, while dragging his portly companion along. The portly companion forgot to bring water as well, because, well, it’s not like it was going to be arduous or anything. I’ve captioned this photo “This is some bullchit right here.”
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