Palouse Outdoors – Playing a Royal Flush

Originally Published in The Waitsburg Times, January 6th, 2025.

Some of the best moments of my life have occurred while following the flashing tail of a bird dog through the whipping grouse covers and amber plains. I’ve found the upland hunting community welcoming, and the tales I’ve shared have connected me with friends I would never have known otherwise. Pheasants Forever holds a subset of this community – like-minded conservationists passionate about nature, bird dogs, and the beautifully plumed game birds that fascinate us.

I’ve had the good fortune of experiencing a variety of hunts and dog breeds, each with unique styles, personalities, and quirks. Yet, I had never hunted with golden retrievers before the 2024 season. Fortunately, Randy, a fellow Pheasants Forever volunteer, recently invited me to walk with him and his brace of stunning strawberry blonde golden retrievers to push up pheasant.

Randy’s casual appearance belies his wisdom and character as one of the most interesting people alive. He has traveled and hunted birds widely with his beloved golden retrievers. A 1970s throwback photo of Randy sitting with his dog and a handful of valley quail after a momentous day in Baja was highlighted in the 2024 Pheasants Forever Journal Upland Bird Super Issue, Volume 43(4). Randy has a story for every occasion, hunting or otherwise, but as I followed him and his bouncing pups into the field, our conversation narrowed to strictly business.

Young golden retriever, Scout, delivers a wily ring-neck rooster to hand.

“I’ve never hunted with flushers, save for a lab or two,” I said. 

“Really?” Randy questioned with surprise. “Well, you’re in for a treat!” Little did I know we would embark on a gentlemanly experience worthy of custom leather boots, twill wool garments, and ivy caps.

Flushing dogs are bred to do just that – find and flush birds. One crucial difference between flushing and pointing dogs like my setters is that flushers must work close to the hunter so the birds get up within shotgun range. Conversely, pointing dogs can range to whatever distance their handler is comfortable because they are bred and trained to stop when they find birds, allowing the hunter to approach and flush. These different dog behaviors also require the hunter to adapt their approach.

“You see the dogs getting ‘birdy’? Get up there fast!” Randy coached.

Making a beeline for the youngest dog, Scout, put me in the perfect position as a rooster pheasant broke from Scout’s pursuit. The rooster erupted directly ahead, climbing right-to-left and offering a clean swing. My 1951 C.F. Dumoulin side-by-side arrived at my shoulder with the bead perfectly aligned down range.

“Great shot!” Randy offered as Scout swiftly returned with the bird. 

“Thanks, Randy! My first rooster with the ole Dumoulin. And great dog work! I could get used to having my birds brought to hand. My setters have never cared to retrieve.”

Ten-year-old Tess settles at Randy’s feet with a prized rooster.

“Thank you! I’ll take the next bird,” Randy said with a chuckle as we moved on.

Soon after, Scout and his older companion, Tess, picked up the scent of another bird and began to push out. “Ssssssttt,” Randy quietly hissed, causing the dogs to hit the brakes and circle back toward us – an intelligent bit of training. Keeping quiet is essential to avoid spooking birds, particularly when approaching pheasants. This subtle sound instead of voice, whistle, or collar tone command can be the difference between a rooster flushing at 10 yards versus 100.

“You see how interested they look when they hit that scent? They ramp up to 100 miles per hour instantly, so you’ve got to be paying attention and moving quickly,” Randy advised as he scooted ahead, anticipating the flush. 

Randy carried a beautiful old Browning side-by-side, kept immaculate by his care and appreciation for quality and tradition. I observed Randy’s shot from behind, noting his relaxed technique and lead on the bird. The rooster tumbled, and Tess retrieved it in a textbook moment like a bread-and-butter sports play practiced 1,000 times over.

The hunt continued while Randy and I discussed birds and dogs and switched shooting opportunities with each new bird find. We strolled unhurried, carefree, appreciating every moment. It felt like a hunt for royalty, like we should have had a caddy to tote and reload the guns and serve the occasional sip of fine brandy or rich red wine in a classy sniffer.

By the hunt’s end, we each carried a passel of birds (Randy’s passel a bit heavier than mine) that would later become delicate meals shared with friends and family, sparking reflection on a noble hunt and Randy’s golden retrievers dealing a royal flush.

Classic side-by-sides like this 1951 C.F. Dumoulin 16-gauge are fun to carry, fitting of a classy hunt, and beautifully complemented by a brace of roosters.

Northwest Outdoor Writers Association Gathered in The Dalles, Oregon

The Northwest Outdoor Writers Association (NOWA) held its annual conference Friday, May 2nd through Sunday, May 4th, at the Columbia River Hotel in The Dalles, Oregon. For three days, some of the Northwest’s top outdoor writers, authors, photographers, videographers, and radio and podcast personalities gathered to discuss the future of their industry and craft.

The conference opened with a fine meal at the Portage Grill, followed by a keynote speech by author, poet, and publisher, Rick Steber, who exemplified excellence in storytelling. Rick is not only gifted in his ability to research people and history and share those stories in engaging detail, but the delivery of his many favorite interviews of historical figures (including voice impersonations) was both comical and fascinating.

Image of the twisting historic Oregon Route 30 taken from Rowen Crest with the Columbia River and the rugged Columbia Gorge in the background.

Trumbo captured this image while hiking at dawn on Rowen Crest just south of The Dalles, Oregon.

Over the following days, NOWA members sprinkled across the Columbia River Gorge to experience all The Dalles has to offer, such as the National Neon Sign Museum, hiking among the wildflowers and scrub oaks of the rugged river corridor, visiting ancient petroglyphs at Horsethief Lake, and fishing the spring Chinook salmon rodeo at Washington’s Drano Lake.

When not collecting memories, photographs, and fodder for future publications and videos, the outdoor media professionals gathered to share tips and tricks on improving one’s engagement and reach – facets of “Excellence in Craft”- and share business model ideas and successes. Excellence in Craft presentations included George Krumm, editor of Fish Alaska and Hunt Alaska magazines, who discussed how to land pitches and build relationships with editors. Brad Trumbo shared his rise in the outdoor writing and photography realm and engagement with his readers, thanks to his Llewellin setter bird dogs.

NOWA held its annual Excellence in Craft awards banquet Saturday, May 3rd, where 61 achievements were recognized, ranging from “Column of the Year” to the best outdoor photos, videos and humor pieces. The awards banquet offers an opportunity to see where talented outdoor content creators stand among their peers, provides “street cred” for marketing, and offers a fine payout for those who rank high in many categories. It’s a coveted experience for this highly talented group to share camaraderie with friendly competition.

This year’s Excellence in Craft award winners can be found here: https://nowaoutdoors.com/eic-winners-by-category/.

Black-chinned hummingbird hovering over a burgundy Columbine flower.

Trumbo’s image of a black-chinned hummingbird hovering over Columbine flowers took 1st place in NOWA’s Excellence in Craft “Fauna” photo category.

The weekend closed with NOWA President Troy Rodakowski presiding over Sunday morning’s membership and business meeting. During this meeting, Rodakowski assumed the position of NOWA’s Chairman of the Board of Directors as he passed the gavel to NOWA’s incoming President, Brad Trumbo. 

With the annual conference behind them, NOWA’s new year begins with anticipation of next year’s conference, which is already being planned. Additionally, Trumbo brings new ideas to NOWA’s structure and attempts to engage younger generations as the organization adapts to the evolution of outdoor media.

Gary Lewis, award winning author, freelance writer, podcaster, and host of the Frontier Unlimited TV show, found time for trout fishing before the Sunday morning meeting.

If you’re an outdoor content creator living in Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Montana, or BC Canada and want to learn from and contribute to this charismatic and savvy collection of media professionals, email NOWA’s Executive Director, Keith Szafranski, at photogsz@msn.com. Your creativity and energy will be welcomed by this prestigious cadre.

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            The Northwest Outdoor Writers Association is a society of professional outdoor communicators dedicated to the pursuit of excellence in outdoor media. NOWA strives to further the improvement of professional communications skills and encourage their ethical employment. NOWA also provides a network of professional assistance and support, keeps members informed of news and information pertinent to outdoor activities and industries, and supports the conservation of natural and recreational resources. Visit https://nowaoutdoors.com/ and find us on Instagram @NOWAOutdoors.

Gift Guide for the Discernible Outdoor Enthusiast

Originally Published in Walla Walla Lifestyles Magazine, November 2024.

Crisp air, pumpkin ale, fresh-squeezed apple cider, and hunting seasons have finally returned, and you know what that means. Yes, we are living our best months of the year, but this time train we all ride is screaming toward Christmas and holiday shopping. If you have an outdoors enthusiast in your life who is “hard to shop for,” i.e. buys whatever gear they need when they need it and has a particular taste, here are a few ideas that might be right up their alley.

Vintage Shotguns

This beautiful 1951 Belgium-made CF Dumoulin 16-gauge is a fine and affordable vintage double for the traditional upland bird hunter.

Nearly every upland bird hunter dreams of carrying a vintage double-barrel shotgun. Whether their fascination originated at a young age with a family heirloom or the quality craftsmanship of vintage guns connects them to a long-standing tradition, bird hunting with a piece of American sporting heritage enhances the experience. Maybe your bird hunter has a particular brand in mind, like an A.H. Fox, L.C. Smith, Lefever, or Ithaca. Each of these can be found online and at gun shops with regularity. The Spokane area has several gun shops with a good selection of used shotguns. They even turn up in Cabela’s “Gun Library” from time to time.

I was browsing the Eugene, Oregon, Cabela’s once for no particularly good reason when a long, pewter-colored side-by-side caught my eye. It was a beautiful L.C. Smith Field Grade 00 made in 1911. I asked to see the gun out of curiosity, assuming the price tag was above my pay grade. Conversely, the gun was affordable due to a small dent in the left barrel and a refinished stock. Playing it cool, I haggled a little (yes, that’s acceptable), noting the dent and stock work, then strolled out with the superb specimen sporting an action smoother and tighter than any newer gun that I own. Whenever I swing the “Elsie” on a passing quail, I feel giddy, like it’s stolen property. The bird hunter in your life would likely feel the same.

A great source of information and where to find “hot buys” for vintage double guns is at dogsanddoubles.com.

Custom Knives

This pair of small, packable, attractive knives from the Upland Knife Company are a fine addition to any hunter’s gear collection.

Speaking of craftsmanship, all outdoorsy folks need a quality knife or two—maybe three. Knives are a dime a dozen from any typical outdoor retailer, but the blades are often made of lesser-quality steel and fail to hold an edge or take one when sharpened. Fortunately, there are knife makers nearby with a fine reputation.

Three custom knives from the same maker in Hamilton, Montana, are floating around in my upland hunting gear. Two are lightweight and slim for easy packing in a hunting vest. The third is a little larger, boasting a custom wood handle, precisely designed, cut, and pieced together with painstaking detail. The blades are of the highest quality, hammered out, and sharpened onsite—one hundred percent heirloom-worthy.

Who is the knifemaker? Michael Thomspon, owner of the Upland Knife Company (www.uplandknives.com). He accepts custom order requests, and if you’re lucky, you can find a knife or two of his design ready for purchase on the website. Follow him on Instagram @upland_knife_co for sneak peeks and product drops.

Outdoor Journals

More than a simple journal, “The Rambler” by Freeman and Sons Supply comes with an Opinel #8 knife and offers many pockets for a variety of needs.

Considering gifting the average human with a journal may not seem like a slam dunk, but I assure you, the outdoorsy folks in your life will like this recommendation. It’s a rare hunter or angler these days that doesn’t at least keep technical notes on their outings. More often, they tell a bit of the story when fish and game come to hand. If Instagram provides any reliable evidence, nearly everyone posting a pic with a fish, buck, bull elk, or brace of birds with their dogs will offer a few lines about how it all came together. That’s why “The Rambler” field journal from Freeman and Sons Supply (https://www.etsy.com/shop/Freemanandsonssupply) makes a fine gift.

The Rambler is a handsome, high-quality, handcrafted leather tool that comes with a Field Notes brand journal and iconic Opinel No. 8 pocket knife, made in the French Alps since 1890. The front pockets are designed for a pen and pocket knife. The rear pockets hold business cards, cash, or whatever else you decide to tuck into them. The Rambler goes where I go to capture the details of every outing. Sometimes, I take it to meetings where business cards and other notetaking needs are handy. Slip one into your special someone’s stocking this year. They’ll be glad you did.

Custom Fly Rods

Custom fishing rods like these Batson Enterprise Rainshadow fly rods provide a one-of-a-kind fishing experience and a beautiful, quality tool for the fisherman or woman in your life.

Okay, let’s agree that fishing rod-making technology has flooded the market with high-quality products at most price points, from the Echo starter package to the Orvis Helios. It’s truly hard to go wrong. However, a handcrafted fly rod, made to spec or off-the-shelf, takes excellence to a new level. Where to find one? The “Red Shed Fly Shop” in Peck, Idaho (www.redshedflyshop.com).

Why is it called the Red Shed? Take an afternoon drive up the scenic Clearwater River and see why you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. The weathered little shed has a few fly-fishing gear banners on the front but looks more like a backwoods beer-drinking cabin from the outside. Open the door, however, and stare in awe at the wealth of gear and knowledge that packs the little shed to the gills.

Owners Mike and Linda Cummins offer everything from waders, flies, and nets to custom Burkheimer rods that line the ceiling. Handle one of the Burkheimers, inspect the detail in the guide wraps and grip, and note the rod’s balance, as it feels weightless in your hand. Whether sending dry flies or streamers or throwing “the meat” for steelhead on a two-handed rod, it will fish like a weapon if it came from the Red Shed.

Commissioned Artwork

Capture that magic moment with artwork, like this painting by Alan Rasmussen of a wild rooster that young Llewellin setter Zeta pinned on of our favorite and difficult public coverts.

Like fishing rod-making, technology has put the power of photography at our fingertips with every smartphone, and people are documenting everything. But one thing that cannot be replaced with technology is an artist’s touch. Commissioning a painting for that magic moment in the wilderness, a big buttery brown trout, Snake River steelhead, or a bird with your best pointing dog can cement the memory with elegance.

One such moment happened last fall when my youngest setter, Zeta, pinned a wild rooster pheasant in one of the toughest covers I have hunted because the birds have such an advantage. I had not taken a bird in seven years of hunting those bunchgrass hills, but Zeta held the bird while I waded through 200 yards of Great Basin wildrye for the flush. I sent a photo of Zeta and her rooster standing above the property to Alan Rasmussen (www.alanrasmussenartwork.com), a phenomenal wildlife artist in Utah. My one request was to make the fall colors pop on the deciduous trees behind Zeta. Alan returned to me a picturesque interpretation of the scene and a perfect portrayal of Zeta, right down to the freckles on her muzzle. See his work online or on Instagram @alan.d.rasmussen.

If your special someone has a favorite style of artwork, there’s an artist willing to deliver it for you at an affordable rate. You can find them on Instagram, for example, by searching terms like “commissioned art,” “upland art,” and “oil painting.” Many of these artists also offer affordable prints of their original pieces as an alternative.

These few gift ideas encompass built-to-last craftsmanship, stunning good looks, and superior skill and utility that every hunter, angler, hiker, biker, climber, etc., will appreciate, so check them out. If nothing else, they will help get your creative juices flowing. Remember, commissioned items take time to complete, so contact those vendors early if you wish to have them for the holidays. Happy shopping!

Steppe Outside – An Old Boat Presents New Opportunities

Originally published in the Walla Walla Union Bulletin, August 10th, 2024.

It felt odd sipping whiskey in a dimly lit bar with the sun riding high at two in the afternoon. Not so strange for a Saturday in my college years, but somewhat out of character for a middle-aged man, without context. The occasion was celebratory. Local author Dennis Dauble and I made small talk and discussed his fine day of book sales following a signing for his new release, “A Rustic Cabin,” a book sharing the follies and fortune of owning a log cabin and a small slice of heaven on a remote forest stream.

Dennis is best known for his fishing literature. Hence, it was only natural that our conversation evolved from his cabin book to fly-fishing and the Columbia River sockeye salmon run that was just turning on.

“They’re here. Looks like 4,000 over McNary yesterday and increasing daily,” Dennis noted.

“Any predictions on the run this year?”

“At least average, maybe a bit above. You should come out with me this week. I’ve got to get on the water, but my daughter just returned the boat I gave her, and I need to find a place to store it ASAP. The homeowner’s association won’t allow it to sit at my place, and the boat storage has quadrupled in price over the past two years.”

A friend subtly offering that kind of information amidst a routine fishing conversation highlights their mastery of piquing one’s interest. Before divulging any details of the vessel, Dennis mentioned his need to move it without offering a sale, which led me to believe the boat was both valuable and of interest to me.

“Oh? Tell me about this boat,” I replied, forgetting the sockeye fishing offer entirely.

“It’s just a little 12-foot Starcraft with an 8-horsepower outboard that I used to buzz around in while steelhead fishing. It’s a good boat for a calm day on the river.”

Whiskey on an empty stomach was a poor precursor to this conversation. Anyone who has ever owned a boat knows there is no justifiable “need” for one, save for Dennis and another friend, Chas, who both get their time and money’s worth out of their fishing vessels. On the other hand, I knew perfectly well the limited use I would get from a small boat. Still, the hamster jumped on the wheel and spun my mind into thoughts of hard-to-reach bird hunting spots, should the boat be capable of navigating the Snake River. Visions of a black-and-white setter on the bow with her ears flapping in the breeze and a classic double-gun resting on the front seat as we motored toward remote pheasant habitat was all the convincing I needed.

Dennis must have seen that I was on the line, but being a conscientious man, he allowed me some slack and changed the subject. “I’ll send you a couple of photos tonight.”

That evening, a text message revealed a photo of the boat under a navy-blue canvas cover, parked snugly beneath the pines along Dennis’ driveway. Additional images arrived via email identifying a well-loved Starcraft with freshly restored wooden bench seats, the bottoms painted with the original (or nearly matching) turquoise interior scheme. My gravitation to nostalgia and restoration projects and the quality work Dennis had done on the bench seats sealed the deal.

“I think I need to look at that boat. I’m off work this coming Wednesday. I can drop in if you need to move it sooner than later,” I replied.

“Wednesday will work. Be here at 9:30 a.m.”

Upon arriving at Dennis’ home, the little boat’s homemade trailer was the most eye-catching piece of the package. Rusty red tube steel was crafted into a perfect boat-shaped frame with dry-rotted rubber rollers and cushions. The axle was crafted from an old vehicle I-beam front end, possibly from a junkyard street rod, and welded together in the center with four slabs of flat three-eights-inch steel. Two long-traveling leaf springs supported the trailer frame, and the entire rig rode upon tires large enough to fit my pickup. The axle was overkill for a 120-pound riveted aluminum dinghy, but a stout trailer axle is far better than a weak one, and this one would be easy to repair when needed.

Throwing off the blue canvas cover revealed a 12-foot Starcraft “Super Star” that was in far better condition than I had expected. Starcraft made the Super Star model between 1968 and 1972. This one is titled for its inaugural year.  Most old metal boats have dinted floors and support ribs, among other maladies they incur from reckless handling, mainly due to being lightweight. The outside white paint was scraped and chipped, and the Starcraft emblem was missing from the starboard side, but that was it. She was perfectly clean otherwise, and Dennis’ phenomenal craftsmanship on the bench seats and transom made it look that much better.

Starcraft marketed the Super Star on its durability, stability, versatility, ease of handling, and affordability. Its price tag was $255 in 1968, which translates to around $2,300 today. Surprisingly, this is comparable to the sale price of similar aluminum boats, which seems like a deal, considering a nice standup paddleboard will cost you a grand these days.

Dennis revealed the 1985 Evinrude 8-horsepower outboard with two three-gallon fuel tanks hidden in the outdoor storage beside the house. The vintage two-cycle was compact and lightweight at only 56 pounds (according to Evinrude specifications). Still, as Dennis and I dropped it onto the transom, the trailer tongue quickly rose skyward. Alternatively, hitching the trailer to my truck allowed us to attach the motor and give it a once-over. It had not run in a couple of years, and the cowling appeared worn from nearly 40 years of sun exposure. Beneath the cowling, however, was a cleaner little two-cylinder engine than I had seen in many years of operating and maintaining a fleet of working boats as a fish biologist. Suffice it to say, I had seen enough.

“You can think on it for a while,” Dennis allowed, not wanting to be too pushy.

“I’ll take her!” I exclaimed. Truthfully, I find classic toys irresistible. They feed my personality type, which is fascinated with history and tradition, and passionate about restoring quality-made, old-fashioned sporting equipment.

With a quickly-scribbled check and some signatures on the bills of sale, I was out the door with my new antique toy.

The hour and fifteen-minute drive allowed ample time to proceed through the gamut of emotions from excitement to guilt. Depositing that cash into home maintenance or other necessary expenses throughout the year would have been the responsible thing to do. However, Ali and I shared a frank conversation the day prior about our unrelenting prioritization of responsibilities over living life and suffering the consequences of such choices. We chose the homestead life, and each have a side gig or two tacked onto day jobs, but there is more to life and time to live it if we just stop for a moment. That conversation resonated as I inspected the boat in Dennis’ driveway.

I spent the following two weeks tinkering before testing her seaworthiness, which was a welcomed distraction from the mundane summer chores. Boats and trailers are an upkeep and customizable bottomless pit. And, like a classic muscle car junkie, I identified updates that meant little to the boat or trailer’s performance but enjoyed the fiddling. Rubber pads, chains, winch, lighting, cleaning fuel tanks, and finally starting the engine all felt like worthwhile improvements for safe and reliable use.

“I’ll bet I have to take the motor to a marina for repair,” I told Ali the morning I set out to fire it up. Outboards that sit around often refuse to start for countless reasons. Nevertheless, I hooked up a fresh tank of fuel, primed the line, and pulled the cord.

The good news was that the compression felt great. The bad news was that 10 minutes later, the engine had not even pretended to fire. I had no idea what the idle adjustment meant or how often or long to choke the carburetor. I was learning on the fly. I was sure that old fuel likely needed to be pushed through the carburetor, so I made a series of adjustments while squeezing and holding pressure on the siphon bulb and struggling to pull the cord with weary arms.

Finally, she bucked like a stubborn foal sending a warning kick as you try walking behind it. Also, like breaking a horse, the motor continued to kick and stall, as if refusing the saddle, but understanding the purpose of my efforts. After half an hour, the little engine came to life and ran as smoothly as new. It even shifted smoothly, without grinding or lurching. Last was to ensure the water pump worked, so I ran it at various speeds in a water trough for another half an hour to ensure that it “peed” the entire time.

The final test was ensuring engine functionality, which I had accomplished much earlier in the day than anticipated. So, I tossed my black-and-white setter, Yuba, and some fishing gear in the truck and headed for the Port of Garfield boat launch for the maiden voyage.

Starcraft specifications suggest a 500-pound weight capacity. The fuel, motor, and I comprise over two-thirds of that, and she struggled to get “on plane” with two-thirds of the payload stacked in the back of the boat. However, with a little weight shift toward the middle, the bow came down, and the boat moved faster than I could paddle a kayak, which was a win in my book.

Yuba and I puttered around on the backwater at Deadman and Meadow Creeks, catching a few smallmouth bass and feeling out the motor operations. I focused on the boat’s handling while Yuba built confidence that the boat was not simply a vehicle of certain death. While not the most powerful on the water or a threat to breaking any speed records, she was worthy of being a “whatever” vessel, meaning if I could conjure it, she could handle it sans alacrity. And, as Dennis mentioned, tackling the open river was best left to calm days.

With a successful float test behind us, Yuba and I drove home with the windows down and the radio cranked. The moment sent me back to the “good ole days” driving home on a muggy summer evening, wet, muddy, and tired from catching too many bass on the Shenandoah River. That drive typically included grabbing a 12-pack and burger meat for an impromptu barbecue with my buddies, which sounded mighty fine.

Yuba stood on the truck door with her head and shoulders out the window, her jowls and ears competing for the most dramatic flap in the 90-degree heat. The fishing days with my old Sears and Roebuck 10-foot boat, which was like a Starcraft without flare and class, came to mind. It was suddenly clear that the Super Star had floated me back to when life was truly carefree. This sought-after feeling is something that many of us seek in vintage items, be it a shotgun, bamboo fly rod, muscle car, etc. I never expected it to come from the little Super Star, nor did I expect to enjoy owning it so much more at that moment. The guilt of using funds “better spent elsewhere” instantly sank into the waters of “no regrets.”

Steppe Outside – The Search for Washington’s Dancing Grouse

Published May 18th, 2024, in the Walla Walla Union Bulletin

Rain hammered upon the camper roof throughout the night, robbing me of the restful sleep I envisioned when planning a trip to the north-central scablands. Spring in the scablands is purely magical, and I often find myself float-fishing for trout on the many good fishing lakes. This trip was something different, however.

Rousing groggily to the 4:00 a.m. alarm meant my sleepless night would soon be rewarded with a cold, wet sit in the dark. Surrounded by Columbian sharp-tailed grouse habitat, I was about to embark on my first-ever lek survey to assist the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife (WDFW) in monitoring one of this species’ seven fragile populations in Washington State.

We’ve all heard the adage that Columbia River salmon once returned so abundant that one could “walk across their backs.” Well, the story is similar for the Columbian sharp-tailed grouse. When the west was settled, sharp-tailed grouse numbered in the millions. Eastern Washington was largely shrub-steppe habitat and supported hundreds of thousands of the subspecies “Columbian” sharp-tailed grouse. They were commonplace. But, like the passenger pigeon, no one considered they would ever face extinction.

A tragedy of being human is that we often fail to notice a gradual decline in something so familiar until we’ve slipped past the point of recovery. The bird’s initial decline was noted as early as the 1950s, and as the vast Washington shrub-steppe disappeared an acre at a time, the Columbian sharp-tailed grouse followed.

The temperature plummeted with the falling rain, which soon turned to heavy snow. The veil of large white flakes impaired visibility on the greasy gravel road, not to mention the waves of muddy water splashing over the windshield from large puddles.

Thirty minutes later, Malika, George, and I sat in the snow overlooking a several-hundred-acre basin supporting a handful of historic and active sharp-tail “leks”. North American grasslands grouse – sharp-tails, sage grouse, and prairie chickens – use these traditional habitat areas year after year where males perform courtship rituals and compete for mates. The word “lek” combines the idea of “mating” (from the Swedish “lek”) and the notion of a “place” (from the Swedish “ställe”). In Swedish, “lekställe” directly translates to “mating ground”[1].

Sharp-tail males flash their “superciliary combs,” or sunflower-yellow eyebrows, and their “drum nape,” which are violet-colored air sacs on either side of their neck, while bowing with their tails high and wings extended, looking like a plane dropping onto the runway. They shuffle and tap their feet swiftly and click their two namesake pointed tailfeathers as they dance. Their tailfeathers clicking sounds like an old film reel movie playing as the birds spin about. In areas with strong sharp-tail populations, grasses on the lek can become beaten down from weeks of morning dancing, “hooting, clucking, and gobbling” rituals.

While I knew we overlooked an active lek, sharp-tails would only dance in my head this morning. We eagerly awaited dawn, listening for any hint of these mythical birds while snowflakes noisily pattered our synthetic jacket hoods. I had seen sharp-tails by the dozen in Montana and the Dakotas, but to see Columbian sharp-tails on their native Washington soil was a spectacle I longed to behold.

Survey protocol was to walk the lek about 45 minutes after sunrise. By then, any birds on an active lek would at least be heard if not seen, and the lek activity would be waning for the day. Flushing the birds provides more accurate counts and allows surveyors to search for scat and feathers; the feathers can be used for genetic testing. Due to the snow and no sign or sound of the birds, we left the lek without bothering to walk it as no feathers or scat would have been visible.

Back at camp, we all returned to our respective mobile shelters and wiled away the day, watching the snow fall, reading, and preparing for another cold morning.

The next morning dawned frigid cold, crystal clear, and with a million shimmering stars. Malika and I went alone to the same lek as before and again awaited dawn while a chorus of wildlife warmed their voices. 

“If I were a grouse, I would be dancing on a morning like this,” I said as we plopped down in the dark with our ears tuned to the sharp-tail channel.

Canada geese, mallards, and a hundred other waterfowl competed with a pack of coyotes in every compass direction for the award of “most obnoxious morning song,” but something different drifted in from our left. The low, two-pitched cluck from what sounded like a single bird somewhere in the grasses was a new sound for both of us.

“I think that’s a sharp-tail,” Malika whispered.

“So do I,” I replied while shifting to scan the lek with my binoculars.

We never spotted the birds from where we sat, but around 7:00 a.m., we strolled down onto the lek in search of scat and feathers. The sun glistened upon the frost-encrusted bunchgrasses in the 27-degree stillness. We walked more than 100 yards of what appeared to be prime lek without a speck of sign, but as Malika turned to make a pass back, the slap of upland bird wings grabbed my ears. My head snapped right so fast that I nearly pulled a neck muscle. The tell-tale flushing “chuckle” of a sharp-tailed grouse was so exciting that I yelled, “Sharp-tailed grouse!” while pointing at the fleeing bird. Moments later, a second bird lifted off, chuckling as it raced toward the horizon.

We finished walking the lek with no further sign of birds, but the sun shining warmly upon our shoulders fortified our sense of triumph. Malika was a 20-year-old college undergrad with a fresh notion of becoming a wildlife biologist. Before that weekend, she had no clue what a sharp-tailed grouse was, much less any awareness of the bird’s struggle for existence in Washington State. The experience was unique for us in different ways, although seeing a sharp-tail in Washington was a first for us both.

For Malika, it was a cool “sciency” encounter with an upland bird. For me, it was like stumbling upon delicate frost flowers or catching a glimpse of UFO-shaped lenticular clouds. These natural phenomena exist, but they are rare enough that it’s unlikely to experience them.

That chuckling sharp-tail flush echoed through my mind on the drive home. Just seven remnant populations of Columbian sharp-tailed grouse remain in Douglas, Lincoln, and Okanogan Counties. The total Washington population is fewer than 1,000 birds, and the largest individual population remains on the Colville Reservation. Columbian sharp-tails occupy approximately three percent of their historic Washington range, making habitat loss events like the September 7th, 2020, Whiney Fire that torched over 127,000 acres a significant threat. That’s a large enough area to wipe out one of the remaining populations completely.

The Colville Tribes are deeply invested in Columbian sharp-tailed grouse conservation efforts, working alongside the WDFW, Bonneville Power Administration, and local Public Utility Districts in the upper Columbia River. According to the WDFW, the Colville Tribes began assisting with translocation efforts as far back as 1999 (possibly before) by providing birds from the Reservation to be released at the WDFW 9,000-acre Scotch Creek Wildlife Area in Okanogan County. The BPA paid for the Scotch Creek land acquisition with mitigation funds for the operation and electricity sales from Chief Joseph and Grand Coulee Dams.

The Columbian sharp-tailed grouse is classified as “endangered” in Washington and protected from hunting. With ongoing efforts by the Colville Tribes, WDFW, and non-profits, Washington’s sharp-tailed grouse can hang on, but how long is unknown.


[1] Lek – Words For Things You Didn’t Know Have Names, Vol. 3 | Merriam-Webster

Cover Photo by the US Fish and Wildlife Service

Blue Mountain Pheasants Forever Receives 2022 National Education and Outreach Award

Shared by the Waitsburg Times and the Walla Walla Union Bulletin.

On February 18th, 2023, the Walla Walla, WA-based Blue Mountain Pheasants Forever (BMPF), Chapter #0258, was awarded the 2022 “National Chapter of the Year” for Education and Outreach, having provided 23 conservation-related events and reaching approximately 450 participants in Southeastern Washington – more than any other Pheasants Forever (PF) chapter across the nation.

“Just being nominated for this national award was an honor, but to actually receive it – to stand out among over 800 chapters – left us speechless. Taking a step back to look at what we had accomplished in 2022 illuminated just how hard this Chapter’s volunteers work, and their personal investment and the value they see in Pheasants Forever’s missions.” Said BMPF Advisory Board Chairman, Brad Trumbo.

PF, a Minneapolis, Minnesota-based nonprofit known as “The Habitat Organization”, was founded in 1982 with a focus on wildlife habitat conservation. The organization relies on the grass-roots efforts of individual chapters to raise funds for and execute on-the-ground habitat projects, and recruit and educate members on conservation, firearms safety, and upland hunting. PF is the only conservation nonprofit that leaves one hundred percent of funds raised by chapters within chapter control to be reinvested in the local communities.

BMPF was founded in 1988 and has since completed approximately 75 habitat projects in Walla Walla and Columbia Counties in Washington, and Umatilla County, Oregon. Each year, BMPF sponsors a youth education and shooting program.

In 2022, BMPF started a “Women on the Wing” program to diversify their outreach and encourage more women into upland hunting and conservation. The program was wildly successful in its first year, drawing participants from as far as La Grande, Oregon, and Missoula, Montana.

BMPF is currently completing six local habitat projects and rolling out 2023 program details. To learn more about BMPF, to make a donation, and to get involved with this highly active and effective PF chapter, visit their website at www.bmpf258.org, send an email to bmpf@bmpf258.org, and find them on Facebook and Instagram (@pheasantsforever258).

Birds, Books, Setters, and Upland Hunting

I’ve had the great pleasure to chat with the Crew at Harvesting Nature about Wingshooting the Palouse, and I believe you will enjoy the conversation. Give it a listen on the Wild Fish and Game Podcast.

Wingshooting the Palouse is available at Amazon.com.

Pushing the Limits – Emphasizing the Hunt over Harvest and the Role of Social Media

I got my first lesson in conservation as a boy, the age of four. Well, maybe not my first lesson, but the first I could remember. My grandfather would carry me atop his shoulders in the farmland woodlots of the Shenandoah Valley, Virginia, as we hunted squirrels with a .22 caliber rifle. And there was no shortage of squirrels.

The bag limit was six in those days, but we never once killed more than three. When I asked grandpa why we would stop hunting before taking our limit, he replied “We only take what we can eat. Leave a few for the next hunt.”

The harvest is the obvious measure of success, and taking a limit of any game provides a rewarding sense of pride and accomplishment. But should the measure of success be the harvest of game, and should we portray taking a limit as the Holy Grail of a hunt?

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⇑⇑ Lynnhill’s Finnigan with our first ever limit of Washington roosters. ⇑⇑

Poetry in Motion

Sailing across the Palouse, my Llewellin Yuba’s vigorous tail feathering wafted in the breeze, as did her soft, black ears as she bounded. The day was blossoming with the promise of a rare, bluebird morning in late fall. Rich, golden sun rays shown thick across the chilled landscape as if viewed through a Mason jar of honey.

Bounding toward the cusp of the ridgeline, Yuba slowed to a halt, crept up a few feet, and locked into the most beautiful point a setter fanatic could ask for. With tail held high, sunlight streaming through her feathering, her gaze set hard on the short grasses ahead. Approaching the edge, the backdrop was breathtaking. A narrowly carved valley opened up with the dappling of milky green sage and rabbitbrush among the variety of fawn-colored grasses, spent vetches, and basalt outcrops set against the cotton candy pink of the distant horizon with a blue ribbon on top.

Shuffling into Yuba’s fixed gaze, a covey of Huns levitated from the bunchgrass, then bailed over the ridgeline like a cinnamon cloud burst. Mesmerized by the moment, my Fox double trained on the stragglers a little too late. The entire covey floated into the next draw as we looked on from behind, the sun warm against our backs.

Moving on in search of singles and roosters, not a bird one reached my vest that morning. I didn’t care. I got exactly what I went for.

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⇑⇑ Yuba with a bird pinned. This is what every pointing dog owner lives for. The result of the point is mere icing on the cake. ⇑⇑

Sweetening the Pot

In my Uplander Lifestyle blog post, “Anticipate the Flush“, I made a firm statement on the climax of an upland bird hunt.

“Probably the most rewarding experience of bird hunting is approaching for the flush and seeing confidence ablaze in the dog’s eyes. When her whole body is locked and loaded, she glances up at you, then back to the precise location as you approach. Both hunter and pointer anticipating the flush.”

The hunt itself, that poetry in motion cast on a perfect canvas, calls upland hunters more than any other in my experience. And the stats don’t lie here either. Project Upland’s fall 2019 survey elucidated that approximately 75% of ALL uplanders are drawn to the prospect by the dogs. Its more than a game. It’s a partnership between hunter and canine. The search for that moment of purity, perfection and connection can only be found in the uplands.

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⇑⇑ Releasing the dog is to embark on an upland journey together. Each day is new with various challenges, success and failures. Birds are a bonus. ⇑⇑

More often than not (for most bird hunters), the hunt results in bird(s) in the vest. But is a bird in hand really worth two in the bush? I proffer that it merely sweetens the pot. It’s not necessarily the bird that draws us afield, but the orchestration of the hunt. One could argue that the hunt is meaningless without the bird, and with that I agree. But I am not the only uplander who would volunteer with alacrity for a catch-and-release opportunity. To marvel over the bird and a job well done, then simply return it to Mother Nature to be hunted again another day.

Enduring the Social Scene

Social media is a blessing and a curse. The incredible photography is inspiring and evocative, but brilliant displays of the harvest can unintentionally overemphasize the kill. And for upland bird hunters, pushing a limit sets a high bar, particularly for those new to the field.

Hunting wild birds on public land is a challenge in itself. The vast majority of my hunts end with a single bird; the next most common result being bird-less. I rarely take multiple birds or a mixed bag. That’s not to say that my opportunities are really that rare. Wingshooting ability is certainly at play. But an end-of-the-day photo of a dog sitting behind a tailgate stacked with birds is an unlikely outcome on public lands, generally speaking.

Every uplander revels in the moment, cradling in hand the most beautifully plumed species the uplands have to offer, particularly when taken over flawless dog work. But emphasis on harvest can reduce the significance of the hunt itself.

The instant gratification of social media and the desire the be “Instafamous” puts tremendous pressure on performance. What’s more is that for an up-and-comer to the upland realm, social media has the potential to stunt one’s confidence in their young dog, etc. Once new to the upland scene myself, seeing other folks in my area continually posting photos of birds and boasting limits set me back a couple years in having 100% confidence in the ability of my setters. Only after some particularly good hunts in the same season did I understand that when my girls weren’t finding birds, there were no birds to be found.

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⇑⇑ Setters doing setter things. No better reason to take up upland hunting! ⇑⇑

Occupy the Canvas

Worry not of the success of others on social media. The best uplanders out there offer a holistic approach to upland hunting from the significance of carrying an heirloom shotgun, to the memories of grouse camp, hunting with family, and a stylish canine on staunch point.

Utilize social media to seek the inspiration and learning from your upland brethren. Revel in their successes and reach out to expand your knowledge and opportunities.

Never lose sight of the significance of the hunt. Boots on the ground behind your own dog or among your favorite coverts with that particular, familiar scattergun in hand is the setting for any work of upland art.

Push the limits of your body and the terrain (with your dog’s conditioning and health in mind). Cherish the days afield with an empty vest or meager single as much as the truly epic moments. Immerse yourself in the beauty and innocence of Mother Nature’s canvas. Chase the Flush!

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⇑⇑ A picture is worth 1,000 words. Yuba has a rooster pinned here. Her tail feathering was so full of houndstongue seeds that it hurt too bad to present a high flagging tail on point. Her eyes told the whole story, and capturing this image was worth far more than the rooster my buddy bagged over her just moments later! ⇑⇑

Upland Stewardship Begins at Home

What’s the #1 threat to habitat on undeveloped public lands? If you guessed invasive plant species, you get a gold star for the day. Overall, habitat lost to civil development is a critical threat to fish and wildlife, putting tremendous importance on conservation and management of those precious public acres still intact.

Managing public land is important to provide habitat suitable for wildlife species and is accomplished through taxpayer and sportsman’s funds. For federal lands, this means congressional appropriations must be approved for specific geographic areas and funding limits.

While public lands, both state and federal, are at much lower risk of civil development, the economics of habitat management is a major driver in our ability to maintaining high quality habitat, and here is why.

Invasive species are incredibly competitive and successful at overtaking desired native species. With no natural predator controls (i.e. herbivory and parasitism) and an adaptive edge to the climates in which they occur, many species can create monocultures in short order. What’s more is that the increasing cost of invasive species control detracts from government ability to fund general habitat management and enhancement.

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Once established, eradicating an invasive plant is incredibly difficult and extremely costly, in the billions of dollars nationwide, annually. Our ability to control invasive species on public lands can change dramatically with political leadership. And when natural resources budgets are cut, our ability to effectively maintain habitat is hamstrung.

Early Detection and Rapid Response is the normal mode of operation for habitat managers, but budget cuts cause vulnerability in on-the-ground effectiveness. Labor cuts can reduce the number of employees and hours spent afield performing Early Detection monitoring. Supply cuts can reduce the available tools to implement Rapid Response once invasive species are detected, as well as reduce the overall time or acreage that biologists can treat.

High-quality habitat is not just nice to have for an easy, clean hunt. It’s a must for sustainable upland bird species and hunter opportunity. Its easy to assume that habitat management and controlling invasive species lies in the hands of qualified biologists, but make no mistake, quality habitat starts at home with you, the general public.

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⇑⇑ The seat cover in my Tundra harbors a number of invasive species ⇑⇑

As our talented canines careen across the grasslands searching for sharptails or cut through brush following a running grouse trail, their fur picks up invasive weed seeds that can be easily spread to otherwise weed free areas. Tailgate checks and post-hunt spa treatments (for those of us who own long-haired pups like setters and Munsterlanders)  are necessary to remove to potentially harmful grass awns and bur-like seeds.

Most importantly, uplanders that embark on rooster road trips would be remiss if they failed to clean the nooks and crannies of their bird hunting chariot prior to driving half way across the nation. A single germinated seed from a nasty invader like cheat grass (Bromus tectorum) can quickly threaten native species and impact habitat suitability.

Be sure to clean out the truck bed, pet crates and blankets, truck seats and seat covers, spray down floor mats and vacuum the crevasses that can harbor seeds.

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⇑⇑ Cleaning vests, kennels, truck beds, and interiors is critical ⇑⇑

If your truck cap has a carpet liner, inspect it with scrutiny. Your dog will shake in the truck bed, flinging weed seeds onto the ceiling and anywhere else they may attach, simply waiting to be offloaded in an otherwise clean area 1,000 miles from where they were picked up.

And the cleaning spree should not end with the truck and kennels. Our vests and clothing can trap a terrifying number of seeds. When was the last time you check your hunting vest pockets for seeds? Hundreds of grass seeds can gather in vest pockets as we traverse the prairies. Dog vests can capture a number of species as well, like bur chervil (Anthriscus caucalis), which wreaks havoc on native grasses and even competes with yellow starthistle (Centaurea solstitialis) in the arid west.

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⇑⇑ A water bottle pocket of my hunting vest captures many seeds and plant debris ⇑⇑

Conservation and habitat management are influenced by each and every one of us. Its your duty as an uplander to exercise your stewardship abilities and battle the spread of invasive species. The future of our public natural resources and habitat depend on it.

Grass Awns and Gun Dogs

Have you ever stopped to consider the impact upland bird hunting has on your gun dog? Birds hunters are well aware of the physical exertion on ourselves, whether its pounding the prairie for sharptails and pheasant, or pushing through draws of aspen for ruffies. But I often ponder how many hunters really understand the effort a gun dog puts into a hunt, or the stress they endure.

Upland bird hunting is a full-contact sport for a your dog. No, there are no physical altercations with other dogs (generally…), although one of our feathered quarry may be run down and tackled on occasion, but the conditions endured by a gun dog in the field are downright hazardous.

In the grouse coverts, thickets of woody shrubs and aspen, prickly hawthorn, and windfalls stand to challenge your dog’s stamina, but can also poke, pinch, scratch, and gouge. In the southwest quail country, cactus, mesquite, barbed wire, venomous critters, and a hot, dry climate stand to work your dog into the ground. The rolling prairie appears to be the most benign of the common western settings, but are you aware that your hunting companion covers three to seven times the ground you do in a day’s jaunt, not to mention porcupines, badgers, and even grizzly bears on the plains of the Rocky Mountain Front?

Gun dogs are prone to exposure to a variety of habitats in pursuit of upland game across a given season, but among the plethora of potentially harmful phenomena in the field, grass awns stand among the top contenders for most harmful. While there are a number of precautions and post-hunt measures one can take to ensure the well-being of your fur baby, grass awns can go undetected, wreaking havoc on you pup’s health.

Two common, menacing grassesfoxtail barley (left) and cheat grass (right).

Grass awns are responsible for a number of unexplained illnesses, and even deaths among gun dogs annually. But how can a grass seed be so injurious? In the western US, several grass species including cheat grass (Bromus tectorum), foxtail barley (Hordeum jubatum), and cereal rye (Secale cereale), which are largely invasive grass species, form barbed tails on their seeds or awns. The awns attach to the dog’s fur, and the sharp point of the awn may work its way into the skin between toes, in ears, eyes, mouth, nose, arm-pits, etc., and the awn barbs continue to work the awn deeper into the tissue until it can enter the interior body cavity or muscle tissue.

The awn may carry bacteria as it enters the dog’s body, and/or it may carry bacteria that are normal inhabitants of one part of the body, usually the mouth, into other parts of the body where it is abnormal, establishing an infection, typically in the form of an abscess.

As we approach and enter upland bird seasons, late summer through fall, grasses dry out and the awns loosen, becoming prone to drop. The best advice? A careful tailgate inspection of your dog before leaving the field may allow removal and avert any illness. But, with awns that have been ingested, odds are that the damage is already done by the time you and your dog leave the field. Routinely check your dog for swellings, particularly at the lower rear sections of the rib-cage, a prime site for abscess development.

What to look for:

  • Hair: Matted hair that may eventually lead to sores against the skin if not removed.
  • Ear canal: The dog shakes the head, scratches or rubs the ears, holds head at a slightly tilted angle.
  • Between the eye/eyelid: The eyes of the dog get inflamed, sometimes including discharge or tears.
  • Nose: The dog sneezes, paws at the nose, and may experience nasal discharge
  • Gums, Tongue, Mouth: If swallowed, grass awns may stick to the back of the throat causing inflammation and swelling.
  • Lungs and Other Organs (inhalation or migration): The dog shows signs of serious sickness, coughing, short breath, and vomiting.
  • Rectum and Anal Glands: dog abnormally licking or scooting on the ground, trying to defecate often or for prolonged periods.

Zeta at the vetZeta at the vet, June 2019, to have cheat grass awns removed from both anal glands.

Learn to recognize hazardous plants, and be watchful where you are hunting, training, or just exercising your dog.  Typically, a simple tailgate inspection post-hunt or run to remove awns before they have the chance to penetrate the skin and begin to migrate will eliminate problem awns, but inspection may not always reveal hidden awns immediately.  A best practice is continued monitoring of your pup’s behavior after hunting through dangerous grasses. Being mindful of the vegetation in your hunting or training areas, coupled with thorough inspections will keep your four-legged partner pointing or flushing long into their upland career.

Seven Years a Bird Dog Dad

I moved to the southeast Washington State in 2011 shortly after finishing graduate school. It was the first time I had lived in pheasant country. That fall, I harvested my first two roosters thanks to an old yellow lab who was flushing for hunters that happened to pull into the same parking spot at the same time. The feeling of holding that first big, beautiful rooster, admiring his plumage and impressive tail will never betray memory, save for dementia in my older years.

My wife, Ali, was living in California at the time and trying to make her way to Washington. At the notion of hunting pheasant, she insisted on a bird dog pup and began poring over websites and magazine articles, researching different breeds and their characteristics.  She is a bit of a sucker for good looks, mild temperament, style, and grace (and somehow wound up with me), and these traits led her to setters. She finally landed on a Llewellin setter, about which I knew nothing. I was not really interested in a bird dog at the time, but her persistence and disregard for my input (a timeless tradition) resulted in an orange belton pup we call Lynnhill’s Finnigan, Finn for short.

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True to Stockholm’s Syndrome, we fell in love with this beautiful, tiny, spawn of Satan. She was the worst behaved puppy I have ever had the misfortune of raising. Bold in her infant months, anxious and terrified the rest of her first year. She refused to be house-broken or crate-train, and shredded everything including mattresses, wall trim, and any other furniture well into her thirteenth month. She screamed for dear life every time we left the house, literally the entire time we were gone, according to neighbors. She was flat not trainable. I didn’t even consider training her to hunt until she was about eighteen months old. The one thing she did well was walk on a leash, so I took her to a park outside of town most evenings and weekends where quail and pheasant were common to keep her excited about being afield.

Upon finally deciding to introduce basic commands, Finn was easily bored, like most pups, but contrary to my immediate assessment, she was sharp, and picked up the commands quite well. All hope was lost, however, when Ali arrived home from work one evening with a pair of white pigeons. I built a small enclosure in the barn on the farm we were renting, bought a pair of kick traps, and began hiding the birds in the grass and brush around the farm.

Walking Finn on a check-cord, we always began our approach downwind of the bird. Finn would cover the area impressively well, but would never honor the scent. She could smell the bird. That much was clear. Her head would snap into the scent cone, but she continued to sail aimlessly as if being forced toward the bird against her will. In vain, we tried nearly everything we could to get Finn to stop or search for the bird upon catching the scent.

Nevertheless, I hunted Finn at age two with great frustration, but I always tried to keep it fun for her. Around Finn’s second birthday, my wife broke down and bought a second Llewellin, Yuba, with the hopes that she would have a bit more hunting prowess. Yuba was quite a different pup. As a short, stocky tricolor, what Yuba lacked in grace and stature she more than compensated for in prey drive and intelligence. Within a couple months she was crate-trained and quite obedient. Most satisfying was her attention to the songbirds in the yard.

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We worked Yuba alongside Finn on the caged pigeons and hikes through bird habitat where she display immense interest and skill. Simultaneously, Finn began to settle down and mature a bit between her second and third season. It was clear that things were coming together, and I think Finn’s maturing helped Yuba learn so much quicker than Finn had as a pup.

When the pheasant season rolled around in 2016, Yuba was just over one year old and I was eager to hunt her. We began that season expecting nothing from either dog; however, we found ourselves smothered in birds opening day. Finn actually appeared to be hunting, but we didn’t count our roosters too early; not before we found her locked up solid and the first bird of the morning hit my vest. Miraculously, a second rooster fell to my Fox sixteen-gauge not ten minutes later. By the time the second rooster hit the ground, Yuba’s prey drive shone fiercely. The light bulb illuminated for Finn that day, and by the third day of the season she was methodically covering ground, honoring the scent cone, slowing down and using her nose, and pointing like a champion.

By the fifth day of the season, Yuba and Finn engaged in friendly competition of who could point the most birds and hold point the longest. Working both girls by myself most days, it was no news to lose track of them, find one on point, and spot the other locked up as I went in for the flush. With repeated exposure they instinctively began backing each other. I nearly fainted upon my first witness of this phenomenon.

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During the 2017 season, the girls hit the ground running with virtually no prior off-season yard work. Both pups worked famously and I won’t soon forget Yuba’s exuberant eyes as she stood hard and proud, pinning fast the largest wild rooster I have ever seen. He flushed nearly under Yuba’s face as I closed in. My startle at his size and beauty caused me to whiff both barrels on his steep ascent. We stood in awe, looking after the handsome rooster sailing across the grasslands. We could have limited out for the first time that morning, but ole dad was a disappointment with the scatter gun.

As a first time bird dog owner and a mediocre trainer at best, my pups and I have learned a lot from each other; the greatest lesson being patience and persistence. Looking back over the early seasons, I wouldn’t trade the frustrating hunts for anything as they make the reliability of the girls so much sweeter these days. Zeta (my youngest) is not progressing as Finn and Yuba did, but time is on our side. If have learned anything, it’s that a fine dog can be developed when the time is right, and the upcoming season will be her second. A lot can change in the blink of an eye, and I anticipate North Dakota will be the game changer. At some point in the not too distant future, I will reflect proudly on my trials with Zeta. And as dog dad, I cherish the early days.

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God Loves a Pointing Dog

Obnoxiously loud, the alarm clock shattered a peaceful sleep. I awoke to another day off, but Ali had commitments at the office. Working through the morning routine, I slipped into a tee-shirt, stumbled into the kitchen, and ground some fresh beans for the pot. The cats squawked for breakfast as the pups stretched and shook in preparation for their morning duty. All seemed to be quite typical.

It had been seven days since Yuba developed a severe allergic reaction to who knows what. After four vet visits, the cause remains undiagnosed, but our suspicion lies with a leptospirosis vaccine administered on December 5th. Nevertheless, Yuba’s bout with a hypoglycemic seizure on the 10th, followed by severe hives, vomiting, and diarrhea for the past week has left the little Llew tuckered and vulnerable.

With the coffee brewing, I shuffled to the front door in the dim lighting of the Christmas tree. And much to my surprise, there were three perky setters waiting eagerly for the door to swing ajar.

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Yuba had barely begun to eat on her own the day prior, partially due to the quantities and variety of medications I had forced upon her for the past week. But upon reentering the house, she trotted to her crate, sat upright, and gave me the beckoning glare of a pup in dire need of breakfast.

I obliged with a small helping of kibble mixed with a little tasty canned food and an antibiotic pill tossed in. She indiscriminately ate it, pill and all. We were both quite satisfied with this, as well as the fact that there were no messes to clean from overnight. Yuba quickly staked her claim of the love seat and drifted off into a crack-of-dawn, winter’s morn dog nap which only a hunting dog can do justice.

Upon bringing Ali her morning coffee in bed and feeding the rest of the herd, I took up residence on the couch to proof-read an article I was about to submit to Pheasants Forever Magazine. Ali headed off to work as the girls and I hung out on the couch. But a miracle happened just before 7:30am when a boastful, cackling rooster pheasant soared straight over the house.

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Yuba erupted from slumber and dashed across the room, perching swiftly atop the far couch arm, where she kept watch over the wheat field and a pair of roosters feeding in the damp morning fog. Now this was looking more like recovery!

About an hour later, I headed out the door with the girls to fill bird feeders and visit the mail box. But before I could get my Muck Boots on, Yuba and Zeta were both on point in the driveway as our flock of California quail scampered through the blackberries and down the road on their morning commute to breakfast.

Thinking the chores could wait, I crated Zeta, then slipped out with my Ithaca Model 37 and a couple 6-shot. Yuba remained on point.

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Lingering by the driveway until all the quail had passed, I swung the paddock gate open and released Yuba to peruse the overgrown swale that spans the length of our property. Thick with white alder, woods rose, blackberry, and a couple old Russian olives, the deep swale flows with surface spring water all year and provides food and shelter for the quail, pheasant, a few whitettails and mule deer.

I hadn’t made it 30 feet into the paddock when Yuba turned into the swale and locked up. Nervous little birds chirped and scurried in the tangle leaving me little shooting room, so I dialed the polychoke to a notch between Improved Cylinder and Modified. I was being picky as well, waiting for a single male.  And, as luck would have it, a single male flushed and fell to the old 37, coming to rest at the bottom of the swale beneath a nasty mess of tree limbs and blackberry tendrils.

One hundred quail must have flushed upon the report the shotgun leaving Yuba and I to stare in silence at the final movements of the beautiful little bird gifted us this fine, wet morning. Encouraging Yuba to “Get that bird!” , she merely traversed the swale and pursued the larger flock. “Lord, send me a retriever!”, I pleaded as I slid down the muddy embankment into the fallen, slimy, algae-stained tree limbs, all the while snagged and shredded by the piercing clutches of blackberry

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Completing the retrieve, I called Yuba back to bask in her victory, and it occurred to me that God must love a pointing dog too. Coming out of a week of hell into the promise of Christmas, Yuba was gifted a short, successful, Christmas Eve hunt on the homestead when I thought she may only have one more shot in mid-January.

I grabbed an old whitetail shed I found on a hunt two days prior and staged a couple photos on my old fence row before heading back inside with my not yet fully recovered pup. Satisfied with her outing, Yuba climbed back up onto the love seat, curled into a setter ball, and drifted off into a post-hunt snooze, that again, only a hunting dog can do justice.

Merry Christmas, indeed!

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An Ounce of Prevention

The Backstory

Yuba sat trembling atop my lap, peering out the back of the cabin as the 225 horsepower Yamaha outboard thrust the North River Seahawk onto plane. The night brought freezing rain and wet snow, but the morning was dawning beautifully; the Snake River meandering its way between fog banks under a pink cotton candy sunrise. On board we had Dave, Brett, Rhett, two old, rotund Brittanys, and Yuba and I.

Our plan was to swing into a remote US Army Corps of Engineers habitat unit and split up. Cautioning the guys about Yuba’s big-running tendency, Dave, the only dog-less crew member, volunteered to hang with Yuba and I, while Rhett and Brett took the Brittanys to the other end of the property. Yuba is certainly the baby of the family, terrified of water, and is unsure of strange dogs, but she hit the ground running as the boat slid in under the Russian olives at the foot of a looming basalt bluff.

Dave and I barely made it around the toe of the bluff when we strolled right into a flock Rio Grande wild turkey. Yuba had seen a single or two, but the flock of 30 birds erupting from under the Russian olives sent her into a new dimension of crazy. Carrying a valid turkey tag, I wasted no time releasing a round of 4-shot steel from my old Ithaca model 37 pump, resulting in a notched tag and heavy vest.

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From Yuba’s perspective, the Rio hen was simply a giant prairie grouse with strong scent. And clearly, they were fair game as ole dad bagged one instantly. Therefore, in classic pointing dog fashion, she bounded off to peg the next bird. The turkeys amusingly dispersed like a flock of quail among the grassland. Yuba pointed and we flushed about a dozen singles throughout the hunt. But the real show began when we got into the pheasant.

As if Yuba weren’t crazy enough, there were dozens of pheasant along the riverbank, hiding in the false indigo and flushing wild. As we pinched in toward Brett and Rhett, the pheasant started busting in all directions, bird dogs were pointing, scurrying, and looking for birds to retrieve from a volley of shots.

I noticed I was on the whistle a lot more than normal as Yuba careened in, around, and through every bit of cover she could find. But even in the chaos and sensory overload, I was impressed with her finding and pointing prowess, telegraphing with precision where a bird was, should be, or was headed. The entire show was simply unprecedented.

I never touched a rooster all morning, but was amped and proud as we made our way back to our pick-up point. Yuba was beat, of that I was sure, but I had little worry as she was actively and intelligently hunting the entire morning. Still, I kept a keen eye on her as I am accustomed to her hips getting stiff and sore as a result of dysplasia. So, it was no news when she suddenly started to show some signs of hip pain, or so I assumed, from a seemingly stiff gait.

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Almost to the boat, I noticed Yuba’s hind legs quiver a bit, so I scooped her up and carried her the rest of the way. Her reward for an incredible hunt would be to warm up, grab a snack, and retire from the afternoon hunt. Handing her up to Brett, I swung myself aboard, regained my feet, and reached out to take my tired little setter. But confusion was replaced with dread as I noticed her eyes clenched in pain, followed by the unmistakable convulsions of a seizure.

“Holy shit, she’s seizing!” I yelled to Brett, who swiftly laid her out on the large, cushioned bench seat in the boat’s cabin.

I wrapped her in my insulated overalls while Brett cradled Yuba’s head. Seizures can present with a variety bodily functions, pains, and other involuntary motions and sounds. An eternal minute passed as every muscle in her tiny body went board-stiff, but the worst of it was her uncontrollable screaming.

With muscles finally relaxing and cognizance regaining, the pain must have been unbearable; the cause I am left to assume was perceived as some unknown predator. Large, dilated pupils searched to unveil the culprit as she pled for mercy. Terror, confusion, and panic were evident as Brett and I spoke softly, stroking her ears in an attempt to sooth her fear, if nothing else.

At the two-minute mark, she began to quiet. The convulsions had completely ceased and sore muscles relaxed. I scooped her up, still wrapped in my now defiled overalls, and sat with her curled on my lap like a newborn pup. Brett solemnly motored toward the marina.

She had come out of it. That was the first blessing, but I had no way of really checking her neurological signs as of yet. Suspicious that the cause was either an electrolyte or glucose deficiency, I went for a honey packet, which I had readily on hand for this very situation. She lapped at it eagerly.

Back at the truck, I tucked Yuba in softly among a fleece blanket and the overalls, and offered some water, which she happily drank. She was showing no sign of impaired motor skills, but was still clearly wiped from the exertion of the hunt and seizure. Dropping the Tundra into drive, I dialed the local vet, announcing I would see her in 45 minutes, if not sooner.

Keeping tabs on the groggy pup, I randomly whistled or called her name. She always responded. Carrying her across the threshold at the vet’s office, she wagged at the receptionist, and sat upright on my lap in the waiting room. The visit was short and sweet, and Yuba’s behavior improved immensely in that insignificant amount of time.

The diagnosis was as I suspected afield. Hypoglycemia. More appropriately, Hunting Dog Hypoglycemia (HDH).

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What is HDH?

I believe most folks know what hypoglycemia is, but in case you don’t, its low blood sugar. A pup’s normal blood sugar should range somewhere between about 70-150 ml/dl. A dog experiencing HDH will have a value likely below 50 ml/dl. Dr. Shawn Wayment (DVM, @birddogdoc on Instagram) explains that HDH occurs when a canine athlete exerts itself in strenuous exercise thereby rapidly depleting their blood sugar (glucose) before their reserves can be remobilized or released from glycogen storages from the muscle and liver.

Symptoms

There are a number of reliable resources on HDH that share common symptoms that may include the following.

  • General fatigue
  • Staggering
  • Trembling
  • Shaking
  • Nervousness
  • Anxiety
  • Weakness
  • Ataxia (loss of control of bodily movements)

As with any medical condition, no two cases will necessarily present alike. Athletes fatigue when they work hard, whether two- or four-legged. Yuba was showing fatigue as she has on every hunt for the past four seasons, but no other symptoms until about five minutes prior to her seizure. At that time, her demeanor appeared similar to her pre-FHO days when her hips began to hurt and stiffen.

Causes

Dr. Wayment refers to current literature on HDH pointing to a lack of condition as a common cause; however, he believes that this is simply not the whole truth and has “…seen it happen in very well-conditioned canine athletes.” That now makes two of us as Yuba is at the height of her physical ability for the season.

So, what really caused Yuba’s bout of HDH? My hypothesis is the perfect storm of conditions creating utter chaos, sensory overload, and compensation for environmental conditions. The novelty of the hunt in general is my overarching suspicion, the specific points exacerbating Yuba’s metabolic rate being the following.

  1. General adrenaline and anxiety for an hour before the hunt: Yuba knew we were headed out hunting and was trembling with anticipation the entire truck ride and wait for our comrades.
  2. First time boat ride: Yuba doesn’t like water more than about a foot deep. She was nervous just walking down the dock to the boat, much less roaring down the river on water she knew was deeper than she is tall.
  3. Strange dogs: Yuba loves people, but the two strange, yet sweet and well-meaning Brittanys, further prodded her nerves and desire to curl up in my lap for security.
  4. Turkeys: Yuba had seen a turkey or two before, but the dozens of turkeys that flushed into the grasslands like a flock of quail inundated the area with bird scent. She was working and pointing turkeys left and right the entire hunt. Upon her first find, it was difficult pulling her off of the scent at all. This was uncharted territory for her.
  5. Pheasant: There were also dozens of pheasant. Everywhere. Between the turkeys and pheasant, she didn’t know which way to go or which scent to key in on and was totally jazzed about it.
  6. Shooting: The two groups of hunters began at opposite ends and worked toward each other with a barrage of shots throughout the hunt. When the gun fires, Yuba kicks into high gear looking for the dead bird, then tears off in search of the next live bird. Focus was a bit problematic as she wasn’t sure what she should do at times.
  7. Frigid Conditions: We had been hunting since September, but this was the first actually cold day afield. And it wasn’t just cold, but wet from icy precipitation. She was soaked and chilly causing additional caloric burn to maintain body temperature.

 

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Prevention

The old saying that “an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure” could not be more true as you cradle your ailing pup in the field with little to nothing you can do to remedy the situation. I was prepared with the necessary items to keep her energy up, but I neglected to enforce break time to care for her. When Yuba is on fire and thoroughly enjoying the hunt, I have to leash her to make her stay put for breaks. I failed to do this on this particular hunt and will not make that mistake again.

Furthermore, a warmer vest that could keep a lean, 28-pound setter drier may have been enough to keep her energy burn rate to a more normal level.

Proper diet, rations, and conditioning are a must for our four-legged upland athletes. How often to feed your dog is another question that I refrain from debating, but some veterinarians suggests that feeding the appropriate daily ration once per day would condition a dog’s body to store a larger liver glycogen reserve to draw from during strenuous activity.

Dr. Wayment also suggests that feeding a dog 10% of its calculated daily ration every two hours during strenuous activity has shown success in preventing HDH symptoms.

Emergency Treatment

What did I do right during this whole debacle? I provided warmth immediately, and water, honey, and rest once the seizing stopped. Yuba came out of it well, was responsive, excited about the honey, and didn’t show any obvious, alarming symptoms of neurological deficiencies. Nevertheless, I rushed Yuba to the vet for an exam, which was one hour to the minute from the onset of her seizure.

The same resources providing information on HDH symptoms also provide a variety of treatment options listed below. Whichever product you choose, at least 50% glucose is key. A couple ounces should suffice if needed in a pinch, but be prepared to feed your dog in short order and rest them the remainder of the day.

  • 50% Dextrose solution (50% glucose)
  • Karo syrup/corn syrup (100% glucose)
  • High fructose corn syrup (50% glucose)
  • Honey (50% glucose/50% fructose)
  • Maple syrup
  • Jelly/jam
  • Pure fruit juice
  • Nutri-Cal supplement

Dr. Wayment suggests applying to the oral mucous membranes for rapid enzyme break down; however, you should exercise caution. It may be best to wait for the seizing to end before trying to orally administer any of the above. Seizing animals obviously have no voluntary control over their body, including the mouth. Fingers near the teeth could end badly and at no fault or intention of your pup.

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Looking Ahead

I learned the hard way to recognize conditions that may be hazardous to my pup’s health, aside from the obvious. Be cognizant of how novel experiences may impose additional stress on your pup.

Do not dismiss symptoms. This is Yuba’s first season hunting post-FHO surgery on her right hip. She is a new dog with relentless enthusiasm and desire, but the former three seasons of monitoring her pain level through her body language left me to assume that any symptoms she expressed were caused by her other, still arthritic hip. This was clearly not so. I don’t recommend looking for the metaphorical zebra at all times, but I do suggest being suspicious enough of the horse to consider a zebra in disguise.

Preparation does not equal prevention without proper action. Keep an eye on your pup and the clock. This can be a tall order amidst insane action, particularly when you rely on your pup to show you when he or she needs a break. But in Yuba’s case, and possibly the case with other pups in peak condition, no obvious symptoms of extreme exertion or energy expense may be noticeable. Had I forced a break and a snack just once, it likely would have prevented the seizure.

While Yuba’s story has a happy ending, a proportion of these cases end fatally. Keep your pup’s energy up, and by all means, if you recognize any of the above symptoms of HDH, allow your pup to rest the remainder of the day. When caught early, pups can bounce back rather quickly. But finding a few additional birds is not worth the risk, lest you be the next to publish the unfortunate story of your pup’s demise in the Pointing Dog Journal subscriber forum.

A Plug for Big-River Walleye

In the frothy toss of the dam tailrace, the little Smoker bobbed and dodged like a duck floating down a river rapid. Luckily, the dam was spilling only a minor volume, so conditions were still safe. The game plan was to drop a couple plugs behind the boat and troll across of the unique terrain that lay below the surface of the conflicting currents.

What to Look For

On the big river, walleye are generally structure-oriented in the sense that boulders, rock piles, troughs, and other terrain variations provide velocity breaks and concealment that fish can use to their advantage as forage passes by with the flow. Our target habitat was shelves and drop-offs in a depth range of 18-25 feet.

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Read the full post here, at Angler Pros.

Fly Fishing Essentials for Deep Summer Salmonids

Lake fishing for trout species can be dynamite almost any time of the year, but water temperature and heat can dictate when and how to fish for trout more than other species. When dry fly, or even nymph action slows during the dog days of summer, one fail-safe method is deep water streamer fishing. In my prior post, Flying Deep for Desert Cutthroat, I discuss deep water streamer tactics specifically for Lahontan cutthroat, but there are essential gear items every fly fisherman needs to beat the odds of a mid-summer salmonid shutdown.

Flying Deep for Desert Cutthroat

I went for my fly buried deep in the underside of his snout, then realized it was not mine. My streamer, lodged in its tongue. The barbless hook easily popped free. The former, losing fisherman apparently succumbed to the death rolls as a length of tippet and a small, olive, beaded streamer were wrapped tightly around its snout. I unwound the line, freed the fly, and quickly released the behemoth to dash the hopes of yet another angler who will no doubt break him off out of excitement or being too aggressive.

Lahontan Cutthroat are an Entirely Different Animal

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Read the full post here, at Angler Pros.