Harold Lee Pickens
01-18-2015, 06:46 PM
Hunting grouse in the foothills of the Appalachians is a rugged endeavor. Unlike the true mountains to the east where once you gain the summit, you can traverse along the mountain plateau, here one is either going up, down, or traversing a steep hillside. This is the view from one of my favorite covers on the hills above the Ohio River, on the Ohio side looking over into West Virginia.
I was accompanied by my 2 faithful setters, Betty, almost 10, and Shiner, 13 years old. Young Fancy would have to sit this one out. I was carrying God's gift to grouse hunters, a VHE 20 with faded cyl/cyl tubes. Certainly, other guns may be more highly adorned, but it is hard to improve on the basic package.
I set out with low expectations as grouse numbers have plummeted precipitously in our area. The last grouse I took in Ohio came out of this cover, when for the first time I carried the venerable old Fox pin gun 12 ga .
The dogs knew their business, and were soon covering the thick grape vine and briar tangles. I had just spotted a grouse track in the snow on an old log when I heard Betty's beeper and shortly after Shiner's chimed in. The grouse blew out like a chukar, flying straight downhill. I swung the gun on it but would not shoot at this bird that had made it so long thru the winter. Later, a bird flushed above me unpointed, while both dogs worked the slopes below. Working along a finger ridge with spectacular views of the Ohio River below, Betty came down hard near an old sandstone foundation, Shiner respectfully backing. There was no shot to consider as the bird went out as I pushed thru the thick brush. The hardy souls that built the old foundation certainly had bigger "stones" than I, what craftsmanship. I was working back toward the truck when Shine got birdy and soon pointed, this time it was Betty doing the honoring. It was in one thick, miserable bowl in the hillside. As I went in, a mutiflora branch raked my neck and I could feel the blood running. I cursed, and as Burton Spillers once wrote, I grudged that grouse and vowed to shoot it over the aging Shiner. It was not to be however. The grouse ran out and flushed with too much cover between it and me to catch more than just a teasing glimpse.
Not a shell was fired, 4 grouse exceeded my expectation, and two tired, muddy setters slept peacefully on the way home.
I was accompanied by my 2 faithful setters, Betty, almost 10, and Shiner, 13 years old. Young Fancy would have to sit this one out. I was carrying God's gift to grouse hunters, a VHE 20 with faded cyl/cyl tubes. Certainly, other guns may be more highly adorned, but it is hard to improve on the basic package.
I set out with low expectations as grouse numbers have plummeted precipitously in our area. The last grouse I took in Ohio came out of this cover, when for the first time I carried the venerable old Fox pin gun 12 ga .
The dogs knew their business, and were soon covering the thick grape vine and briar tangles. I had just spotted a grouse track in the snow on an old log when I heard Betty's beeper and shortly after Shiner's chimed in. The grouse blew out like a chukar, flying straight downhill. I swung the gun on it but would not shoot at this bird that had made it so long thru the winter. Later, a bird flushed above me unpointed, while both dogs worked the slopes below. Working along a finger ridge with spectacular views of the Ohio River below, Betty came down hard near an old sandstone foundation, Shiner respectfully backing. There was no shot to consider as the bird went out as I pushed thru the thick brush. The hardy souls that built the old foundation certainly had bigger "stones" than I, what craftsmanship. I was working back toward the truck when Shine got birdy and soon pointed, this time it was Betty doing the honoring. It was in one thick, miserable bowl in the hillside. As I went in, a mutiflora branch raked my neck and I could feel the blood running. I cursed, and as Burton Spillers once wrote, I grudged that grouse and vowed to shoot it over the aging Shiner. It was not to be however. The grouse ran out and flushed with too much cover between it and me to catch more than just a teasing glimpse.
Not a shell was fired, 4 grouse exceeded my expectation, and two tired, muddy setters slept peacefully on the way home.