GROUSE HUNTING

Ruffed grouse, the state bird of Pennsylvania, were just about as hard to hit as were doves. They were larger birds but just about as fast. The real problem with grouse was that they lived in some of the most dense cover imaginable. Western Pennsylvania, whether in the middle part where we lived, or the northern part where the camp was, had excellent grouse cover. A brief forestry lesson is in order here. As a forest matures (or in forestry terms, as “succession” occurs) the leaves or “canopy” of the larger trees prohibit sunlight from reaching the forest floor. That means fewer small trees and less underbrush. The exception are shade tolerant species such as hemlock and other conifers. Most of the forested areas around home were in the process of succeeding from abandoned farm fields and had underbrush aplenty. Fallen trees, wild grapevines, greenbriar, blackberry, mountain laurel, and small saplings were perfect grouse cover but also next to impossible to walk through. This is what made hunting them such a challenge.

Now I know full well that God created all of the Earth’s animals but in my youth I sometimes wondered if perhaps it was Satan that created the ruffed grouse. These birds were just about as evil as a certain football coach. They would wait in dense cover for you to stumble their way (probably “laughing up their sleeve” as my grandfather used to say). I feel sure they knew when you were hung up in a briar bush or had gotten your foot caught in a brush pile. At such a moment they would explode from their hiding place just yards away and scare you to death. In many cases it was impossible to even get the gun to your shoulder before they were gone. If you did manage to get one in your sights there was a good chance a tree was right in the way. And in that rare circumstance when you actually followed a bird into a clearing, a last minute flight maneuver as you squeezed the trigger would mean your shot pattern blew through thin air.

Many would wonder why a hunter would put himself through such torture in a quest for a bird that didn’t carry that much meat on its bones. If one really wanted a grouse dinner you might have a better chance of waiting until one flew into your window. You see a staple of the grouse’s diet is the wild grape. In the fall the grapes begin to rot on the vine and basically ferment in the birds’ stomach. In other words, the grouse become “winos” and begin to fly even more erratically than normal. They often do fly into (and sometimes through) windows.

Back to my question about why a hunter would go after the elusive grouse? Simply the thrill of the hunt and the exhilaration that comes from rare success. That and the fact that grouse season comes during a time of year when it is absolutely gorgeous in Penn’s Woods. The mixture of so many different hardwoods providing varying shades of brightly colored leaves among the hemlocks, pines, and spruces that add deep green hues can be breath-taking on a clear autumn day. And autumn is the time of year when you can pretty much count on some clear skies as a relief from the normally dreary weather.

I can recall an early grouse hunting trip with Dad and Johnny. We took our English Setter, Lucky, along. Lucky was not the best grouse dog but he was a great pheasant dog. As a matter of fact, he was such a great dog that in his later years he had cataract surgery so that he could continue his hunting career. Lucky was a lovable pet and I often wished he could have been a house dog. He was relegated to a pen and house in our back yard. That meant we didn’t have the playtime I might have enjoyed with him were he in the house. I loved to be in the field with him though. Dad used to open the trunk of the car and Lucky would bound in. He knew he was going hunting and couldn’t wait. When we arrived at the woods Lucky demonstrated why he wasn’t a very good grouse dog. As soon as the trunk opened he was off like a shot. Calling to him did little good. Grouse were flushing at some distance before we even got our shotguns unsheathed.

Eventually Dad got Lucky settled down and he began to stick a little closer. Now when it comes to bird dogs there are pointers and there are flushers. Lucky could point pheasants but when it came to grouse he was a flusher. I don’t know if it was the heavy cover or what but the only real good Lucky did for us in the woods was to cover more territory than the three of us could. Sometimes he flushed a grouse within range but more often than not all we heard was the whirr of the grouse’s wings as he leapt from his hiding place. So there were four of us out flushing grouse that day – Lucky, Dad, Johnny, and I. Lucky was just covering a lot more ground than the rest of us.

We were hunting in perfect grouse cover. There were lots of grapevines, numerous brush piles around downed trees, thickets of briar bushes, and a rare clearing here and there. Being the youngest and the smallest I was the designated “thicket rat”. I would wade into the briars with Dad on one side and Johnny on the other. If a grouse was holding tight in this heavy cover I would hopefully stumble upon him and one of the others might get a clear shot from either side. One thing was sure – I wouldn’t be shooting from my position which was normally on my hands and knees. This strategy worked at least a couple times that day as I recall Dad shot at least one grouse and I think Johnny did as well. This is when the dog was most beneficial. If you’ve even seen a dead ruffed grouse lying on the ground among last seasons dead leaves you know they blend in perfectly. There is nothing more frustrating than seeing a bird go down and then not being able to find it. Lucky had no problem finding the fallen birds. The problem was getting him to let go of them. He would retrieve a larger pheasant but the grouse was just a bite-sized morsel to the dog.

Dad was a big fan of Browning shotguns. On this day he was using a fairly rare Browning side-by-side double barrel. Johnny was using a Browning superposed (over/under) trap gun, and I was using a Browning “Lightning” superposed skeet gun. What this all means is that I had an advantage on close-in birds and their guns could reach out at birds of greater distance.

As we moved through some woods that were a little more open, I encountered a tangle of grapevines with an opening on the other side. I felt like if I ever had a good chance for a shot it would be here. Remember my thoughts on how grouse would wait until you were tied up like a pretzel before they flew? My dad had a theory on this that he developed into a pretty successful hunting technique. Whenever he felt like the situation was right for game to be near (it worked for both birds and rabbits), he would stop suddenly for a few seconds. He said that made the animal think that you had seen them and would make them flush. It worked often for him and both my brother and I picked up on it. As I got close to the grapevines that I believed to be just the right place for a bird I stopped suddenly. The vines seem to explode at my feet. Not one but two grouse seemed to levitate from the forest floor before beginning their amazing acceleration into the clearing. Because I was somewhat prepared I was able to get the gun to my shoulder quickly. The great thing about the Lightning was that it fit me like a glove. As soon as the stock touched my body my eye followed the ventilated rib right to the target.

The closest bird went into the clearing to my right and I was able to get on it and squeeze the trigger quickly. To my amazement I saw a cloud of feathers as the shot rang in my ears. What is even more amazing is that the second bird, which had started to my left, had made one of the species’ typical aerial acrobatics around a large cherry tree in the center of the clearing. This brought it just beyond and slightly left of where my gun was pointing at the first shot. I swung the barrel ever so slightly to focus on the second bird and fired. I was astonished at the sight of feathers once again. I couldn’t believe that my first grouse were actually two grouse.

Dad and Johnny came running as fast as they could through the grapevine tangle. They probably figured that the novice nimrod had shot himself - maybe twice. Lucky came too and immediately began to search for the downed birds. When they realized what I had done the congratulations began. Now this was well before Lynn Swann and John Stallworth of the Pittsburgh Steelers had invented the high five. Hugs and handshakes were the order that day. The three of us sat down on a big oak log and admired the two birds that Dad had wrestled from Lucky’s mouth. Dad fanned out both birds’ tails and showed me that one was a male and one a female. He could tell by the fact that the female had an interrupted stripe in the center while the male did not. Dad had found a wild apple tree and picked up some of the better fruit from the ground. We ate them as I described every detail of the successful shots and how I had used Dad’s technique to make the birds flush. I don’t think an apple ever tasted so good before or after!

I felt like a million bucks. My dad and brother, both accomplished hunters, were proud of me. They had taught me their trade well, and I had used Dad’s pausing technique to perfection. All the practice on the trap range had paid off. After a rest and finishing our apples we hunted our way back to the car. To tell the truth I really wasn’t looking for any more grouse. I was two for two and not about to spoil my record for the day.

When we got home Dad cleaned the birds and mounted the tails fanned out on a board so they could be displayed when they dried. For years I kept those two tails above my workbench in the basement (just as my dad had above his workbench). They were a constant reminder, not just of a couple miracle shots by a fourteen year old, but of a rite of passage. It seemed that day that I was accepted into the family hunting fraternity. Those tails were a reminder of a great day afield with loved ones that have now gone on to Heaven before me. I wonder if God is a big Browning fan?