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Hunting Home
Michigan Hunting Home
Michigan hunting means you're in Paradise.That’'s the only way to describe it if you love the look and feel of a fine double-gun; the joy of watching an upland dog move resolutely through grouse coverts; the thrill of a rooster pheasant exploding out of the weeds with beating wings and bleating cackles.That’'s the only way to describe Michigan if you revel in the cold, crisp silence on the opening day of deer season--—archery, rifle, or muzzleloader; the camaraderie around a smoky log fire at camp; the majesty of a thick boss holding a recordbook spread of antlers.That'’s the only way to describe Michigan if your heart starts to pound at the sound of wings rustling the air; the awe-inspiring sight of a flight of mallards or Canada geese flaring over the decoy spread; the pure delight in the eyes of a Lab or Chessie dripping wet with a mouthful of bird.That'’s Michigan, too, for more than a hundred thousand dedicated turkey hunters--—and hundreds of thousands more who long for the staggering arrogance of elk, the lumbering hulk of black bear, the baying of a coon dog, the yelp of a beagle running rabbits, or the chirrup of squirrels rooting through the acorns.Paradise.If you spend even a few moments looking through the book of regulations published by the Department of Natural Resources, it'’s evident that in Michigan you can chase darn near everything that runs on four legs.About the only thing you can'’t hunt in Michigan right now is Bighorn Sheep and moose. But, even that’'s probably going to change soon because the DNR'’s wrangling over the semantics and specifics of offering a limited moose hunt! Since Michigan claims more public land than any other state except Alaska, you can buy topo maps or google earthquest and "“DIY."” Skilled guides are abundant, and their rates are reasonable. license fees are low, and food and lodging abounds.Paradise. It’'s waiting for you!
Grouse and Woodcock
Grouse and Woodcock
For nearly twenty years I'’ve kept a log of every one of my upland bird hunts in Michigan'’s northwoods.At first they were with "Colonel" John Norcross and his big Llewellyn setter, Ben. Then I was privileged to be owned by Manistee River Ghost, another Llewellyn who ultimately became the most famous English setter in Michigan since her grandpa five-times-removed--—Ghost Train--—ruled Michigan'’s grouse coverts.She was 13 years, 6 months and 2 days old when I lost her last year at the close of our 14th hunting season. I still miss her terribly, but she will live forever in my logbook and my heart. Now my tall, loveable stud-dog, Manistee River Heart, has some mighty big paws to fill. Besides, he also has to train the new girl—, Tugboat Annie. We call her Tug. But she'’s such a handful that we frequently refer to her as "“Thug."” She dominates Heart shamelessly, and he adores her. They are the best of friends.Heart already has earned his place—--for better or worse--—in that thick packet of logbook pages. I read them often, and instantly I’'m back at the old ghost town of Deward, or down along the South Branch of the Au Sable near Canoe Harbor—--watching Ghost pin a double on a grouse and a woodcock that were ten feet apart.I got the grouse, but missed the woodcock. She would'n’t even look at me for an hour. Sitting by the fire, I can read and vividly remember coverts we stomped through, who hunted with us, how many points, flushes and retrieves the dogs made. Most of all, it clearly brings back the memorable and sometimes silly events that make following dogs so special.When I take time to do the math, I find that over the years we'’ve averaged out to about seven grouse and/or woodcock per hour. That'’s a bird about every ten minutes--—which keeps both the dogs and the hunters at a lively state of anticipation.Michigan'’s grouse season opens September 15 every year, and runs through November 14. The next day is firearm deer opener, and neither man nor dog dares roam the uplands--—even swathed in day-glow orange--—on that sacred morning.Woodcock season, controlled by the federal government, opens on the Saturday closest to September 20 (no, I do not know why the feds selected that date!) and lasts 45 days.We'’ve shot a few birds during those two weeks in September, but mostly we listen to grouse thundering away through the still-thick foliage, or laugh at the twittering of woodcock who are angry they'’ve been disturbed. Ghost always used to huff and snort because we rarely shot anything in September. And she had a particular way of sliding her eyes sideways at me that clearly showed her disgust--—especially when I went BANG and nothing fell.October, though! If I could be alive on earth just one month of the year it would be October. The popples are golden, the oak leaves are burnt-umber, the blackberry canes are purple. The earth has that soft, squishy feel underfoot, and it smells moist and exhilarating. October is when the dogs really come alive, too. They know. They really know that now it’'s for-real again and there is bird-scent to inhale, feathers to taste, and that at the end of the night sleep will be full of contented sighs, twitching paws and sweet memories.Come to think of it, that pretty much describes how I feel at the end of the day, too, as I lazily rub the ear of a very happy setter and know that tomorrow we get to do it all over again!
Whitetail Deer
Whitetail Deer
Skip’'s Sport Shop, on M72 just a bit west of Grayling, has an industrial-grade steel I-beam that gets filled shoulder-to-shoulder with bucks every November 15--—the opening day of Michigan'’s firearm deer season.The “Buck Pole” used to be just that. A pole. Until one year it splintered and oh, my, what a mess there was to clean up in the parking lot. So, now it’'s made of steel.Good thing, because Michigan'’s field-dressed bucks average out to 150 pounds, and the annual harvest is about 400,000 animals from a herd approaching two million. That’s a lot of venison!Back in The Old Days, Michigan'’s deer hunting was restricted to the Upper Peninsula. The Mackinaw Bridge hadn'’t even been dreamed of then, so hunters would wait for eight, twelve, sometimes as long as twenty-four hours to get a spot on the ferry boat that would carry them, their car, and all of their gear across the Straits of Mackinaw to the Happy Hunting Ground.When World War II broke out, gasoline and tire rationing made life difficult for sportsmen. So, the state'’s legislators decided to open up the whole state to deer hunting.The one provision was that high-power rifles (a 30.06 is the most-favored deer-slayer in Michigan) were restricted to a line north of Route 10, which essentially cuts across the state east-west just north of Clare.Below that line of demarcation, it was--—and still is—--shotguns only. That'’s certainly no detriment, however. Today'’s rifled slug guns, mounted with a scope, are deadly accurate to 100 yards. I have the backstraps in my freezer to prove it.There still are hardcore hunters who insist upon doing it the way grandpa and great-grandpa did it. That is to say, sitting on a pine stump someplace around Newberry or Seney or Iron River. Maybe even someplace really remote in the UP--—living in a tent for two weeks--—or just maybe giving in to the convenience of flush toilets at a roadside “motor court.”Others, of course, have built comfortable “camps--”—frequently very handsome log lodges--near the myriad state forests that allow Michigan to claim to have more public land than any other state except Alaska.Still other hunters, giving in to wives, children, jobs, and the cost of gasoline, find someplace close to home down in Michigan'’s “corn belt” and hunt The Opener and maybe a day or two afterward.Baiting’'s mostly illegal in Michigan now, but there are so many deer wandering around that the state annually records about 65,000 "“events"” involving automobiles and steaks-on-the-hoof. Be particularly wary of Grand Rapids and the rest of Kent County!The archery season opens October 1 every year, and that form of hunting deer has become extremely popular. The only “drawback” is that far too many archers lack shooting skill and either can'’t or won'’t resolutely track a wounded animal.I once heard a young man lament in a sporting goods shop that "“I stuck two bucks and three does this season but never could find a single one.”"I cringed in shame for all true hunters everywhere, slapped him very hard three times, and walked out of the store.There’'s nothing better than savoring a venison roast on Thanksgiving Day. There'’s nothing worse than being an inept slob who gives the sport a black eye.
Wild Turkey
Wild Turkey
I got this missive from my good friend, Bill Ross, just the other day and thought I'd pass it on to all the turkey hunters out there. Does any of this sound remotely familiar? Every year around the beginning of March I start thinking real hard about turkey hunting. Several weeks ago I applied for my Spring Turkey Hunting permit and now it's time to find out if I hit the lottery. As you know, the DNR issues them for different hunting zones over a couple of weeks at the end of April. There's also that special state-wide permit for May. It's great because we've got a prodigious wild turkey population and I live just about in the middle of it where the Au Sable and Manistee River Valleys separate the lower peninsula into two major sections--the "flatlanders" and "us." Okay, actually the rivers make it a geographical division. The most "official" dividing line is US 10. When the "flatlanders" traveling north cross over US 10 they say, "well, we're halfway to the bridge." Wild turkeys don't care where they are. I'm just glad I'm here where a lot of them are, now. It wasn't like that for me back in the early 70s when my buddy Paul "Z," got an itch to "think" about turkey hunting got me started with this turkey business. From that point on, I was practicing turkey calls, buying turkey hunting gear, studying hunting methods, staying up late reading, and going to seminars. Any time we could get close to anybody who knew anything about topography and the ways of The Bird, we did. Paul was a consumer product research manager with one of The Big Three car companies. Being of German heritage, he was ideally suited for the organized, definitive and technically-specific mentality the job demanded. That also meant his procedural way of thinking had inspired him to properly equip us for our first scouting trip "Up North" in 1974. Festooned with topo maps and platt books, along with pages copied from books and magazines about turkey habits and habitat, we lit out early one Friday morning from Bloomfield Hills, heading for an area on the west side of M-37 in Lake County. The plan was to learn something from the forest that we had read about in those pages. We indeed found the "spark" that tied it all together on the first walk of the afternoon. Stumbling due east for a half mile through hardwoods bordering a creek, Paul shouted "they're here!" and pointed to a solitary turkey dropping in the dirt. Immediately, he pulled out one of the Xeroxed pages and there it was: a photograph of turkey poop. They indeed had been right there. In the very spot we were standing! Two years later, south of Hillman, I got my first shot at Tom. I'd been in a prone position for almost a hour under an immense cedar. Surprisingly, I didn't fall asleep. Paul was calling from somewhere to my left. The turkeys, a Tom with four girlfriends, were moving towards Paul. BUT--first they had to get past me. I had more "yips" in my brain and fingers than Sam Snead ever did when he was holding a putter. But, I fired anyway. Most of the #4 shot was absorbed by the low-hanging cedar boughs. The rest blew away the top of a deadfall the Tom had been standing behind, and they all sauntered off. I think one of them was chuckling. The only thing on the ground was a single, large tail feather. It was behind the deadfall, like a calling card. I've kept it on my dresser ever since. After all, it's the only trophy I've ever brought home after a turkey hunt. I'm zip-for-40. Regardless of the fact that for the last twenty of those forty years, I've been looking down my Scottish nose at "the flatlanders," I'm still a "virgin" when it comes to wild turkeys on the table. But that's not for lack of effort. Nor is it due to the implausible hypothesis that the turkeys are gone. Hell, they are all over the place most of the time. I can't estimate the number of birds I see crossing from one ditch to the other. Or the ones standing around in a driveway--counting passing cars maybe? And, of course, there are the flocks of them that spread nutrients around my yard after gorging on black oiler sunflower seeds under my bird feeder. Is there any wonder I lust for revenge come those two weeks in spring when, permit in hand, I take to the field to hunt them! Forty years. Zilch, zero, zed. Oh sure! Sometimes I hear a gobble way over the next hill in a bordering county. Sometimes HE seems so close behind me that I think he's going to peck at my thigh or pick my pocket. But when I turn, he's nothing more than a blur going over the hummocks doin' a 9.5 hundred. Twelve years ago my son and I, and two old friends from downstate, Bert and Ernie, started The Team-up Spring Trifecta. We pick a time frame for turkey hunting that overlaps with trout opener the last Saturday in April and we toss golf into the mix for the third option. Sometimes the weather breaks early and the turkey are well into or past brooding. Other times there's ice in the guides of our fly rods. And, more times than not, weather for golf can change within 18 holes from sweaters to parkas, wooly hats and gloves. But in all those years, during all that time afield, our common expletive has been "where the hell are the birds!" Finally, in 2008, our luck changed. Bert tagged a turkey. We had gathered at the edge of an eighty-acre field the loggers had cleared thirty years ago. The field was in the middle of a deciduous forest, and we had set up blinds with our backs to the woods on the north side of this enormous rectangle. After three hours of freezing, I quit--grumbling all the way to the truck--and went to town. I was done. We had agreed to meet at Paul and Vals Diner for breakfast at 11 and right then, hot coffee and the newspaper was paramount in my mind. Stephen, Bert and Ernie arrived almost at 11am on the dot. In style. Bert's bird was in the truck, but his exhilaration permeated the restaurant. According to Bert, as he decided to pack it in the Tom spoke. Everything was still, then BANG! We were virgins no more! Uh, wait! I got ahead of myself. The "we" is a factor of inclusive contribution and culpability. After all, I'd done the scouting! Anyway, I did pick up the check at Paul and Val's. And I did lead the charge to find the best taxidermist that Houghton Lake had to offer Six months later, Bert and Ernie came back from "the flatland" to pick up that marvelous mount. The beard, spurs and shell hull made up the major pieces of a great trophy—the first wall mount after nine times at bat. True, we have been aced in the last two seasons, but I'm a turkey virgin no more. I'm going to say that "we" got a turkey when Bert pulled the trigger. Hey, the Packers won the Super Bowl, right? And Aaron Rodgers pulled the trigger, right? They all got rings, right? Well, Frank Zook was a rookie linebacker for the Packers. He didn't even get in the game. But he got a ring. Right? Okay. Well, then I'm not a turkey virgin anymore!
Waterfowl
Waterfowl
The faintest whisper of wings came to us through the morning mist and Mike Beatty gave me a gentle poke in the ribs. "Shhhhsh," he said very, very quietly.Four or five heartbeats later they were on us--a dozen mallards with feet set and wings flared, ready to join Mike's decoy spread on the swampy-looking pond at the far northwest corner of his eighty acres."Now!" he yelled, jumping to his feet. His Remington went BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. My Browning A5 was an echo. "I believe it's your turn to make the retrieve," Mike said, grinning. "Don't tip over the skiff, 'cause that water's pretty damned cold!"We shot a couple of pheasant that afternoon over our setters--in the sorghum and bluestem, and at the edge of the autumn olive that Mike cultivates and carefully manages for game. Come dinnertime, Howard Woodbury showed up from nearby St. Johns. The plan was to have him sleep on-premises to ensure we'd be able to drag his butt out to the duck blind before dawn.Now, I've gotta digress and tell you just a little bit about Howard.In all the years I knew him, his hair was cropped closer than an Army recruit, but he was a third-generation florist--of all things--who I first met at a meeting of the Red Cedar Fly Fishers, a chapter of the Federation of Fly Fishers, in Okemos. We'd chatted, as you can imagine, at the club meetings. But after I saved his life one absolutely frigid afternoon in the Pere Marquette River--and he almost immediately in turn saved me from a serious dunking--during a club steelhead outing, we became good friends.Well, turns out Howard is the uncle of Mike's wife, Mary. So, Howard's in the duck blind with us at dawn and he must have drunk too much coffee with his bacon and eggs. The man simply wouldn't quit talking. Mike and I were a couple of stone statues, and Howard was talking. Mike and I were mummies deep inside a pyramid and Howard was talking. Mike and I were whispering about what to do about all this when Howard said, "Dammit, talk louder 'cause I can't hear you."Finally, when Howard started telling a joke about two florists and a widder-woman, Mike simply couldn't take it any more."Howard," he said with the utmost politeness, "you're gonna have to either keep quiet or go back to the house. Because we've got some ducks to shoot!" Howard shut up and the ducks flew in and I'll be darned if we didn't knock down four or five. We made Howard go get them.Ah, yes. Just another wonderful morning of waterfowling on the Mississippi Flyway, which brings mallards, woodies, bluebills, pintails, mergansers and even "a few handsful" of redheads and canvasbacks through Michigan every year."We're no different than anyplace else these days," Mike said later that night, sitting by the fire and surrounded by dogs. "The bird numbers are down compared to 15 or 20 years ago, there's certainly no doubt about that. But, if you find potholes full of water that are close to cut-over corn fields, you're going to find ducks."I remember one time just last year when I was driving down a back road a few miles east of Laingsburg and it looked like a rolling cloud of dust moving across a field."Turned out to be thousands of mallards, looking for corn gleaning. They kept leapfrogging ahead of each other to try and get to those corn kernels first!"One other aspect to Michigan's duck hunting is that the increased popularity of wild turkey hunting, plus the long archery season for whitetail deer, means there's actually fewer people putting pressure on ducks and the immense gaggles of Canada geese."There still are a lot of farmers who'll let you hunt on their land if you simply ask for permission," Mike pointed out. "Just make sure you tell them you'll be glad to share the harvest. And don't try asking AFTER they've caught you tresspassing. THAT'S a real no-no."With all of the small lakes we have in Michigan, you don't have to go very far to find a place to pop up a portable duck blind."Michigan is divided into three duck hunting zones. Opening dates and times vary, so it's best to consult the regulations by pulling up the Michigan Department of Natural Resources web site: www.michigan.gov/dnr.Just remember--when your heart's in your throat and you're straining to hear those lonely, mournful bleats coming from ducks decending through the scudding clouds--that they're the ones who need to do the talking!
Pheasant
Pheasant
Twenty years ago, when I still lived in Lansing, I spent a lot of autumn days chasing pheasant near the cutover cornfields of Clare County and Isabella County.A friend of mine knew a lot of farmers around Clare, Rosebud, and Mt. Pleasant, and they gladly gave us access to several dozen fields.It was wonderful.Oscar and Don had the dogs, a mix of setters, Brits, and shorthairs. I usually brought lunch. We shot a lot of pheasants.Then Oscar moved to Florida and I moved to northern Michigan. With so many grouse and woodcock literally surrounding my house along the banks of the Manistee River, I lost touch with Don.Besides, a lot of those farms had changed hands during the recession/depression that engulfed Michigan in the mid-1980s and we had lost hunting privileges on eleven fields in just one season.The explosion of wild turkey populations also has taken its toll on mid-Michigan’'s pheasant numbers, but there still are birds if you can somehow wrangle permission to roam that vast corn-belt in the center of the state.There'’s also a new joint-partnership between Michigan’'s Department of Natural Resources, Pheasants Forever, and Michigan United Conservation Clubs, aimed at restoring habitat.It’'s called the Michigan Pheasant Recovery Initiative (MPRI), and the initial focus is on Clinton, Gratiot, and Saginaw counties in the center of the state, and traditional pheasant hotbeds of Huron, Sanilac, and Tuscola counties in the Thumb.The Initiative targeted areas that have an open agricultural landscape rather than forests, and an abundance of farms enrolled in programs such as the Conservation Reserve Program (CRP). The ultimate goal is to have two million acres in the MPRI.With the help of landowners, state, federal, and local government agencies—--and Mother Nature--—Michigan might once again return to The Glory Days when October 20 brought as many gunners afield as November 15 does for whitetail deer.I miss the cackle of an indignant rooster in the stillness of a frosty morning. Maybe soon…...
Small Game
Small Game
Rick Kefgen called me one day--this was many years ago, before I went nuts over grouse and woodcock gunning--and said "Let's go squirrel hunting." Chinook were still in the Pere Marquette, where we used to mostly hang out to get our feet wet, and steelhead were greedily devouring the salmon spawn. But, it was a long drive to Baldwin and this was a lazy Sunday afternoon so I said, "sure." I rustled around for a while, and finally got everything assembled for the safari. The .22 felt awfully tiny in my hands compared to the Browning A5 Light Twelve that I'd been using on pheasant, but I didn't want to run the risk of getting laughed at for blowing apart our quarry with that full choke. "See ya in a few hours," I told Kate. "Do you want to take Brandy with you?" She was referring to her half-beagle/half Brit. "Naw," I replied. "She'd just try to eat whatever we shot." This dog was a serious chow-hound. Kate loved her, though, even though she never would remotely look at a grouse or woodcock. Forty-five minutes later, I saw another of our pals from the Red Cedar Fly Fishers already waiting in the parking lot of the restaurant where Rick had told me to meet him. "Terry!" I said. "Rick didn't mention you were coming along." "Well," he replied laconically, "somebody's got to be there to actually shoot something. Besides, I talked a guy I work with into coming. His family owns a farm over by Dansville and they've got some big woodlots with plenty of squirrels." I've gotta confess that Terry's comment had more truth to it than he knew. See, I hadn't banged away at a squirrel since I was in high school--and that was in the pretty distant past, even when this excursion took place. Rick wheeled into the lot about then, and maybe ten minutes later Gary (if I ever knew his last name it's long-forgotten now that I have "Sometimer's" disease) showed up. "There's a big piece of public land about two miles from here most always has squirrels," Gary said. "Let's hit that first, then we can run over to my uncle's farm. "We'll work his land the hardest, then we can kick back and relax. He grew up in Kentucky and he, uh, still makes his own home brew. If you take my meaning." I stowed my gear in the trunk of Rick's car and had to shove his Springer spaniel, Chopper, off the passenger seat. "He goes with me on all my rounds," Rick said, sorta appologetically. "He's good company." Rick called on junior high and high school band directors throughout northern Michigan back then, selling instruments for Marshall Music in Lansing. Occasionally, he'd call me and ask, "Can you get loose from the magazine? I've gotta go to Roscommon, then Grayling. When I'm done at the schools we can fish the Au Sable." Of course, I almost always accepted. I don't recall exactly how many instruments Rick played, but I do know it was a bunch. I'd help carry cases into the band room, and Rick would whip out a sax one time, or a trumpet the next, and rip off a riff or two "just to show you what great tone this has," he'd tell the band director. Anyway, we went squirrel hunting and everybody knocked down a few, and Chopper had fun running down a couple of the critters that hadn't been hit cleanly. "Take 'em in the head," Gary had said. "That way you won't mess up the meat." Yeah. Right. So, then we drank some of Uncle Ned's clear brew and got a whole new spin on life. "One's more than enough for me," I told the gang. They laughed at me and called me names I really don't wish to repeat. And the funny thing is, Kate did, too, when I got home. "I'm not eating any rodent!" she said, adamantly. And, she didn't. Fortunately, she does love woodcock pate.
Sporting Dogs
Sporting Dogs
They own us. From the time they wriggle into our arms that first day, until ultimately the time comes when tears are shed, sporting dogs dominate our livesI once asked a man if he was an upland bird hunter and his reply took me aback for a moment."Naw," he said, "I can't get worked up about shooting a little bird."He clearly never learned that upland gunning is all about the dogs. It's about the incredible way they work a thick grouse cover, woodcock bog, or the weedy edges of a cornfield in search of pheasant.It's that driven, focused intensity in every muscle. It's the love for you that they have in their eyes.I'm an English setter guy. But I've also hunted over some splendid German shorthairs, Brits, Labs, and even some French spaniels and Griffons. Certainly, some have had better noses than others; ran harder and longer; minded their manners better.But each one is special, and every owner has a favorite moment etched in time with his dog.Mine, I guess, is about the day Ghost pointed her first grouse.In the movie Ghost, after the gunsmoke had wafted away on the night air, a host of golden, beatific angels came to escort Patrick Swazey into heaven. “Unchained Melody” swelled to a gentle crescendo.In real life, after the gunsmoke had drifted away in the gray morning mist, I was metaphorically escorted into heaven by an unhappy ruffed grouse. The only music was my Ghost’'s gentle whine of rapture. We had hunted along the Au Sable River down around Connor Flat just after dawn. It was drizzly and overcast then, and the purplish oak, brilliant gold aspen, and red viburnum leaves made a soft squishy sound underfoot. Water dripped from the tips of Ghost’'s ears, and her tail feathering was a white mess of hair when she went on point the very first time. We were in a small opening in the dark green pines, and it was a little bit misty, like fading smoke on a battlefield. But she had a snootful of bird.I was so nervous I might as well have been picking my way through claymores as I minced up alongside her. Finally, a soft little shuffling of my boot was all that woodcock could stand and it twittered into the air.BOOM! My Ghost never flinched. Neither did the woodcock, which corkscrewed through the trees with that telltale flight signature that long ago earned them the nickname “Timberdoodle.” I sighed and looked down at Ghost, who still hadn'’t moved.“"Okay, girl” I said quietly. “Let’'s go. That one got away.”"Ghost nodded and crept forward. Actually, she was awfully polite about the shameful way I had missed that bird. Of course, she was still very young and didn'’t know enough to be upset with me. That would come later.She wove her way through the wet weeds and fallen limbs, stopping every once in a while to shake vigorously, snort, and try for another whiff of bird. When she found it she turned into a magazine ad.You’'ve seen them. Every hair on legs and tail plastered flat from the rain. Head stretched forward. Tail arched skyward. One front paw (always the one nearest the photographer for maximum effect) pulled up high. Body tensed. Anticipation in every fiber of her being. Ever so slowly, Ghost’'s eyes shifted sideways to look at me. Then they snapped forward and it was business. I took a step, the bird flew, and the shotgun came up. Of course, I missed it.By now, Tim Hart, who was acting as the guide since we were on his property, and Neil Burrows, John Norcross'’ son-in-law, had drifted close to watch the tableau play out. Neither one said a word.Ghost simply slid her eyes sideways again in what would become her signature expression of disgust until I finally learned how to properly handle a double gun.I guess I was pretty relieved when the rain really started pouring down about then. I didn'’t know how much of this excitement leavened with humiliation I could stand. But I had to practically drag Ghost back to the truck. Steam was rising off her back when I finally got her onto the liftgate and started toweling her down. She was smiling and her tongue was hanging out the left side of her mouth and those big darting eyes were shiny. Water was running down my spine from inside the collar of my wax cotton jacket.About two hours later, Neil and I pulled into a spot where Kate and I have caught plenty of trout. It’'s about a mile downstream from the old Deward lumber camp ghost town, and it had always looked pretty “birdy” to me.Everybody was refreshed. We’'d had a lunch of Cappacolla on slabs of crusty bread as thick as the spicy Italian ham was thin, with generous slices of Provolone. Ghost and Ben each had wolfed down a handful of high-protein snacks. They were ready for more hunting.The question in my mind was inescapable. Was I ready to finally do my part?I guess I never will know the answer to that. Not really. The only thing that'’s absolutely certain is that Ghost pointed her first grouse about thirty minutes after we cut through the red pines and got down near the riverbank.She and Ben had been cris-crossing through the blackberry canes, beaver-cuts and thick weeds that make that stretch of the Manistee River such a fine place to look for birds.Finally, they found them. Neil was behind Ghost. I was a bit to the right. Ben was on her left, along the river. Both he and Ghost were rock solid. She was on point, he was backstanding.“"Here'’s your dog, now,"” Neil said in his lilting New Zealander. I didn'’t get it for a second or two. Then I looked at the three of them and said I’'d be right along. “"You move up a bit more, and I’'ll swing in from here.”"“"Right,"” was all Neil said. He took a couple of steps. Ben raised a paw. Ghost quivered just a little bit and her feathers--—dry now--—floated gently in the breeze. I inhaled deeply.Rather comically, I thought, the grouse popped straight into the air like a jack-in-the-box and perched on the limb of a pale gold tamarack. It teetered just a little bit, and looked puzzled.We all sort of resembled that old, very old, E. F. Hutton television commercial. The one where a well-heeled guy would tell his pal "“My broker is E. F. Hutton..." And…” everybody in the restaurant stopped in mid-chew and leaned forward to get the straight scoop.Yeah, we were just like that. Neil and I stared at each other. Ben was frozen. Ghost stared up at the bird. The grouse stared back at Neil, then at me, then at Ghost--—not quite certain what should happen next. So, it flew away.Tried to, anyway.“"Got him!"” I yelled and ran forward. Ghost had picked up the grouse and was carrying around her prize. "“We got him, Ghost!"” I said, hugging her.In retrospect, it’'s more than probable that Neil was the one who actually shot that grouse. In the enthusiasm of the moment, however, there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that I had killed it.Who knows. Who cares. What mattered most at that instant was the simple fact that Ghost had pointed her first grouse and now she had it in her mouth and we were a couple of very happy hunting partners. Neil smiled at us. All he said was, "“Good shot, mate.”"I suppose the most poignant aspect about that bit of drama--—forever frozen in my memory--—is that it happened directly across the river from where CJ’'s ashes had been scattered under a huge white pine four months before.My ashes will go into the river there, and at the base of that ancient tree, when the time comes. Ghost will be with me and CJ and Ben. And Heart, and the new puppy--Tug. Maybe even another setter or two if my time allows.A whole pack roaming the deadfalls and tag alders of Deward. Looking for grouse and woodcock. And maybe. Just maybe, if I’'m in Kate’'s good graces when it finally happens, bolted to that tree there might even be a small plaque that reads: "“Home is the hunter Home in the woods. And the angler Home in the stream.”"
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