The hard frost yesterday morning retreated slowly from the gathering sunshine. The leaves underfoot still crunched an alarm, broadcasting my presence in the forest as per my desire. Hunting Ruffed Grouse the hard way (there isn’t an easy way if you were wondering) involves walking them up, and damp, silent conditions are not the best for this dogless gunner’s tactic. Better the hunter make some noise, moving slowly no more than a dozen steps at a time, with long pauses to let a bird sit and worry, wondering where you are.
I have the habit of stirring one foot through the leaves before taking the first step after each pause, for more than once a grouse has been waiting and listening during the pause and erupts in a thunder of wingbeats when he hears that leaf rattle. That tactic worked on the last bird of the morning, but let’s not get away from ourselves.
I began with a short walk along a newer path beside the brook, that is until it petered out into a steep sloping extension of the bank. I climbed then, up a short, workable grade to the rocks on top, guardians along the well-worn trail that runs high above the sparkling rill. My decision was whether to head north or south then, and the suspicion that some birds might be hanging near where I found them on my season opening hunt made the choice easy. I had no more than turned south when I heard the rush of wings, softer than expected, further off and shielded by the music of bright waters rollicking over their pebble bed. I never saw that bird depart.
I managed my dozen steps then, only to see a single flash of light and shadow through the trees, as two more birds flushed low and headed south, one after the other. Fifteen minutes into the morning walk and three birds on the wing, just one of them barely visible for a split second, the other pair ghosts! I didn’t make it through my second move when number four was heard, once more out of range at the flush, and unseen.
Shaking my head with a wry smile I moved through to the main trail, hopeful as I felt all four had headed south, that I knew where they were going.
Of course, old Ruff isn’t known to be predictable, so I kept that smile on my face as I crossed the main trail and eased into my favorite little covert. This place has a bit of everything: mature trees, young saplings, heavy ground vegetation, deadfalls and brush piles, an old stone wall and one steep little ravine. Wildlife in general likes it there, and so does Mr. Ruff. One of those four flushed birds even used a patch of that thick ground vegetation to flush again, unseen, and depart on whispering wings.
I had planned to set up in this area for Saturday’s opening day of deer season, there being ample sign of a buck or two using the area recently. I chose a stand by the old stone wall, where two gnarled old trees stood as sentinels, kicking away the dried leaves to expose the soft, dark, quiet soil to keep my vigil silent. At my age, sitting like a statue is a thing of the past, so I like to be able to stand and take a step to watch either side while easing cold, stiff muscles and joints.
I gathered some deadfall limbs and built a simple screen in front of my little hide, then hunted back through that covert in case another of those invisible grouse was lurking in the far corner.
I walked out into the intervening field and crossed to begin a hunt through the Thornapple Covert. The mountain rains were gracious here this summer, and the trees held a good crop of fruit. The springy ground held enough water to puddle here and there and run along a slight rock-lined trace through the terrain. Food and water in heavy cover can be a magnet for grouse, and I did find one at the far end of the cover. He was the only bird to flush close, thundering aloft right in front of me, and completely screened by the trees and cover. You guessed it, my old eyes never caught so much as the flash of a single feather as he flew safely away.
Half a dozen flushes and I never so much as got the gun to my shoulder. That indeed is grouse hunting!
Bright Waters Catskill 