UPLAND EQUATIONS

HISTORIAN'S CORNER: MORE ON GEORGE WASHINGTON FISHING

2012-03-04T17:35:00.007-07:00

A few months ago I wrote a post entitled, "George Washington: What Was He Fishing For?" regarding George Washington's fishing trip to Valley Forge and Trenton during a break of the Constitutional Convention in the latter part of July, 1787, of which he wrote in his journal. This post was well received by the followers of Upland Equations, which is not surprising given Washington's compelling, almost superhuman persona. If you haven't read it yet, here is the link: http://www.theuplandequation.blogspot.com/2011/12/george-washington-what-was-he-fishing.html. I hope you enjoy it!

What I did not know when I wrote the original post was the specific gear Washington used during this fishing trip. I assumed he used some kind of a pole, line and hook, but wondered if it was in the nature of a fly rod. I came across the following intriguing information in White House Sportsmen by Edmund Lindrop and Joseph Jares:

Three times between the sessions of the Constitutional Convention in 1787 Washington took his London-made rod and line and went fishing in the Philadelphia area.

Washington at Valley Forge.

From this brief statement, I don't know for sure, but suspect that Washington used some form of a fly rod and line made in London. I wish we knew if he also used an artificial fly.

I guess it's enough just to know that Washington used the long rod for fishing. I don't know about you, but this small fact helps me to identify even more with Washington. Perhaps, like a later United States President, Herbert Hoover (a diehard fisherman), Washington agreed that

[Fishing is] the chance to wash one's soul with pure air, with the rush of the brook, or with the shimmer of the sun on the blue water. It brings meekness and inspiration from the decency of nature, charity toward tackle-makers, patience toward fish, a mockery of profits and egos, a quieting of hate, a rejoicing that you do not have to decide a darned thing until next week. And it is discipline in the equality of men -- for all men are equal before fish.

Fishing and American history . . . Did I ever mention that I love this stuff?

LATEST REVIEW OF WAYMENT'S HEAVEN ON EARTH

2012-03-01T19:04:00.003-07:00

Greetings fellow bird hunters and fly fishers. I wanted to share with you the latest review of my book, Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun & Faith by Ben Smith over at Arizona Wanderings. Ben is also the editor for the fairly new, but much recognized, Back Country Journal. Here is the link to Ben's review: http://azwanderings.com/2012/book-report-heaven-on-earth-by-andrew-m-wayment/.

As a first-time author of a book, this review and the others to date have been exciting to say the least. For a writer, there is nothing better than to know that someone relates to and enjoys your work. Thanks Ben!

Now for the shameless plug. If you are interested in purchasing an advanced signed copy of Heaven on Earth, here is the link to my website for the book: http://heavenonearthbook.com. Thanks for checking in and thanks for your continuing support of Upland Equations!

I guess now is as good as ever to announce my second book entitled, Roadside Revelations: Tales of Bird Dogs, Family & Other Upland Equations. Obviously, this book will be about bird hunting. My goal is to have this book done by the end of this year. The manuscript is almost done . . . now for the never-ending editing process! Stay tuned!

CONSERVATION: A RELIGIOUS PERSPECTIVE

2012-02-28T20:11:00.004-07:00

[Author’s Note: I typically don’t post a lot of religious stuff on Upland Equations. However, as a sportsman, a conservationist, and a Christian, I felt this post was appropriate and important to share on the blog. The purpose of this article is not to push my religious views on anyone, but to show that, whether you take the Bible to be the word of God or not, conservation makes sense and it’s the right thing to do].

I learned something in church the other day that I never knew before. As part of the Law of Moses, the Israelites were commanded to leave unharvested the corners of their fields: “And when ye reap the harvest of your land, thou shalt not make clean riddance of the corners of thy field when thou reapest, neither shalt thou gather any gleaning of thy harvest: thou shalt leave them unto the poor, and to the stranger: I am the Lord your God.” (Lev. 23:22). In this passage, the expressed purpose of leaving the corners was to feed the poor among them.

As I read this, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was another purpose for this commandment. Having been to Kansas at the end of January in 2011 to hunt bobwhites, I experienced firsthand just how effective leaving the corners unharvested is for wildlife. The numerous bobwhite coveys we found thrive in the corners untouched by the irrigation pivots and the plow. Doubtless, such practices were beneficial to wildlife in biblical times also.

As I researched this issue further, my suspicions were confirmed as I also learned that the Law of Moses also required the Israelites to let their farm land lie fallow every seventh year: “But the seventh year thou shalt let [the land] rest and lie still; that the poor of thy people may eat: and what they leave the beasts of the field shall eat . . . .” (Ex. 23: 11). In this passage, leaving some food (and cover) for the beasts of the field (which could be interpreted as including wildlife) was an express purpose for the necessity of allowing the land to rest for a sabbatical year. As sportsmen have learned over the last century, programs like the Soil Bank and the Conservation Reserve Program have been a boon to the recovery of America’s wildlife populations. However, the ideas underlying these programs are anything but original. As shown by these passages, they stem from the Bible.

This begs the question: Do our modern ideas about land conservation and stewardship have biblical origins also? From my research, I believe so.

First, if conservation is in fact biblical, then one would assume that God cares for all of His creations and wants to conserve them. There are scriptural passages that suggest this. For example, after each of the successive days of creation, the Bible says that: “God saw that it [his creation] was good.” (Gen. 1:10, 12, 18, 21, and 25). At the end of creation, including Man, Genesis states: “And God saw every thing he had made, and behold, it was very good.” (Gen. 1:31). The fact that God expressly stated that He considered his creations as “very good” suggests that He wanted them preserved.

The nature of God in this regard and his relationship to His creations is evident in numerous passages of scripture. For example, in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus taught his disciples: “Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?” (Matt. 6: 26). Of the tiny sparrows, Jesus stated that one of them could not fall to the ground without God’s notice. (See Matt 10:29 and Luke 12: 6). Thus, the Bible clearly speaks of an omniscient God who is totally cognizant of all of his creations and who beneficently provides for them.

So then what of Man and his biblical role in conservation? One cannot start to understand Man’s place in conservation without first looking at the statements made by God at the time of creation: “And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all of the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.” (Gen. 1: 26). This may be one of the most misunderstood scriptures of all time. The use of the term “dominion” makes it sound like Man has unfettered control over the earth and all of its creations.

However, other scriptural references bring this interpretation into serious question. In the 2nd Chapter of Genesis, it states that “the Lord God took man, and put him into the Garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it.” (Gen. 2:15) (emphasis added). The use of the word “keep” might mean that Man is to maintain the Garden in the same good condition, or unspoiled. Along the same lines, a “keeper” is someone who keeps, manages, or guards on behalf of another. If that is the case, then Man is more in the nature of a steward than an outright owner of the Earth and its creatures. Jesus taught numerous parables involving stewards who will have to give an accounting to the true owner of the property (See e.g. Luke 12:42 and Luke 16). If these parables are related to Man, they suggest that Man is currently only a steward over the earth and will ultimately have to answer for how he treated the earth and its creatures.

In my book, Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun & Faith, which will be published shortly, I wrote; “When the Lord gave man dominion over the whole earth, he did not intend for man to act as a selfish, short-sighted tyrant but as a righteous steward who wisely uses the land and its natural resources for his own benefit, but also conserves, protects and preserves them to pass on to future generations.”

Other numerous passages of scripture bolster this interpretation. For example, in Proverbs 12:10, we read: “A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast: but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.” This scripture suggests that the righteous in all times have respected the life of animals. Likewise, if we consider the miracle of the quail in the Old Testament, we see a harsh punishment to the Israelites when they took more quail than they needed to sustain their lives (Numbers 11: 31-35). The offenders ended up in the Graves of Lust, which is a lesson and warning to all that we should only take from Nature what we need to survive.

While God expressly gave Man stewardship over the Earth and the animals thereof, the writer of Ecclesiastes wrote something very intriguing:

I said in mine heart concerning the estate of the sons of men, that God might manifest them, and that they might see that they themselves are beasts.

For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no preeminence above a beast: for all is vanity.
(Eccl. 3:18-19).

This scripture specifically states that death generally falls on both man and beast and man has no preeminence that way. However, it could also be read to imply that there is a symbiotic relationship between man and the beasts of the earth. If man unwisely degrades the Earth and destroys its creatures, this obviously impacts Man: “As the one dieth, so dieth the other” as we all―man and animal―have to share the Earth and we all have one breath. Simply put, if Man destroys and pollutes the Earth, he is not only impacting wildlife, but also Man. Along with the principle of good land stewardship mentioned above, these ideas are significant to conservation and are found in the Bible.

We often honor men like Theodore Roosevelt, John Muir, and Aldo Leopold for their contributions to conservation and for good reason. No doubt, these men, their ideas, and their actions have helped to conserve our precious natural resources for future generations. However, I think it is important to also understand that conservation has much deeper roots. If you take the Bible as the word of God (which I admittedly and unabashedly do), then conservation and being a good steward of the land first comes from Him.

TWO GREAT REVIEWS OF HEAVEN ON EARTH IN ONE DAY!

2012-02-23T17:53:00.005-07:00

Last night felt like Christmas for me because there was not one, but two great reviews which came out in the blogosphere of my forthcoming book, Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun & Faith.

The first review was done by Paul F. Vang, who wrote the book, Sweeter than Candy: A Hunter's Journal (which I recently read, loved, and reviewed on Upland Equations) and who regularly writes an outdoor column for a newspaper in Butte, Montana and for the "Writing Outdoors" blog. Paul is a great writer and I've really enjoyed his work. Be sure and check it out. Here is the link to Paul's review of my book: http://writingoutdoors.com/?page_id=196.

The second review was done by Jeremiah Wood who writes for a blog named, "The Outdoor Sporting Library," which features information regarding classic hunting and fishing literature. Since I started following Jeremiah's blog, I have really enjoyed it. This is a tremendous resource for those of you who love outdoor literature or who are interested in learning more. I expect good things out of Jeremiah in the future. I just learned that Jeremiah also writes for a blog named, "Wood's Outdoor Journal," which I am not yet familiar with, but intend to follow and include on Upland Equation's blog role. Be sure and give Jeremiah your support. Here is the link to Jeremiah's review of Heaven on Earth: http://outdoorsportinglibrary.com/?p=715.

I am extremely grateful and honored by these reviews and I want to thank Paul and Jeremiah for their insights and encouraging words about my book. Having others in the outdoor writing world read and enjoy your work is extremely gratifying. Thanks guys!

Again, the official release date for Heaven on Earth is April 1, 2012. However, advanced signed copies are available now through my website: http://www.heavenonearthbook.com. Thanks for checking in!

HISTORIAN'S CORNER: GEORGE WASHINGTON, POACHERS BEWARE

2012-02-15T18:05:00.009-07:00

George Washington, Excellent Horseman and Sportsman.

I have been working on an article on the first three Presidents of the United States, Washington, Adams and Jefferson, and their bird-hunting endeavors. I've found some great information that I'm excited to share. The article is entitled, "A Presidential Pursuit." I will keep you posted if, when and where it gets accepted for publication.

As our second official installment of the Historian's Corner, I wanted to share a little known story about George Washington that I learned from my research for the article. Most history buffs know that Washington was a diehard fox hunter who bred his own hounds for the pursuit, but many do not know that Washington also did some wingshooting. In particular, Washington wrote often in his journal about duck hunting which he called "a ducking."

This painting depicts Washington and hounds in pursuit of the wily Reynard.

With that brief introduction, the following passage comes from the book, White House Sportsmen, by Edmund Lindop and Joseph Jares:

Washington liked to go "a ducking" in the creeks and coves of his plantation. But he gave strict orders that others were not to hunt ducks on his property without his permission. One morning when the Mount Vernon proprietor was riding, his eye caught the flutter of wings above one of the coves. Suddenly the crack of a rifle shot sounded through the bushes, and a bird fell from the sky. Whirling his horse around, Washington headed at full speed toward the cove.

The poacher, who was shoving off in a canoe, heard the horse approaching and raised the gun. "Stop or I will shoot!" he commanded as Washington rode into sight. But the angry plantation owner kept galloping toward the man. Dashing his horse headlong into the water, he swiftly lunged for the gun and tossed it aside. Then he caught the frightened poacher by the scruff of the neck, pulled him out of the boat, and beat him until he promised never to set foot again on his property.

When I read this, I couldn't help but remember Gandalf's line from the movie, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, "Sauron's wrath will be terrible, his retribution swift." So it was with Washington and poachers. Heaven help them if Washington got a hold of them!

The obvious moral to the story is to respect private property and to seek permission before you hunt another's land. Otherwise, you might get the Washington Once-Over.

SWEETER THAN CANDY: A HUNTER'S JOURNAL by PAUL F. VANG

2012-02-09T21:48:00.012-07:00

SWEETER THAN CANDY: A HUNTER’S JOURNAL by PAUL F. VANG

Back when the Upland Equations Blog was first started back in 2008, I wrote a post entitled: “A Call to Arms (Pens) for Western Authors,” (Here is the LINK) in which I lamented the lack of great literature on upland bird hunting in the West. In that post, I shared some of the few good books I had found on the subject and pled for other western writers to step up and enrich the field (pun intended).

I recently had the opportunity to review Paul F. Vang's (“Paul”) book, Sweeter than Candy: A Hunter’s Journal, which was published in 2011. I am truly glad I had the opportunity. Now, by no means, do I attribute this new great book to my plea to western writers in Upland Equations years back. Nonetheless, this book sure fits the bill of what I had in mind when I wrote that post.

By way of background information, Paul retired from working for the Social Security Administration and now hails from Butte, Montana, where he is a freelance writer writing a weekly outdoor newspaper column. In addition, Paul writes regularly for his blog, Writing Outdoors. Here is the link: http://writingoutdoors.com/. Be sure and check it out!

With Paul being a regular outdoor writer, Paul’s book covers everything from fly fishing, to bird hunting, to deer hunting, but the major focus is on hunting with his bird dogs. The bulk of the stories take place in North Dakota and Montana. For the most part, Paul’s adventures (and yes, despite his disclaimer in the introduction, he’s had plenty) span from 1970 to the present. Paul shares numerous excellent stories of hunting with his Labrador Retrievers, Sam, Alix, Candy (from whom the book gets its name) and Flicka. Together they hunted ruffed grouse, blue grouse, sharptails, pheasants, Huns, and they also did some jump shooting for ducks. I’m not a waterfowl hunter, but still thoroughly enjoyed Paul’s description of this form of hunting as it seemed more like the rough shooting I prefer as an upland hunter.

Before you pointing dog lovers turn your noses up at the use of Labs for upland game, please note that for the variety of hunting that the west provides, the Lab is the quintessential Jack-Of-All-Trades and gets the job done just fine. Paul’s Lab Candy did it all and pointed birds too! While I do not personally own a Lab, I am a big fan of the breed. Paul’s book reminded me of a statement made by Worth Mathewson in Best Birds: Upland & Shore: “Gene Hill got it right when he wrote something along the lines of when are people going to admit that the Lab is the best breed of all.” Paul’s book is tribute to the versatility of this great breed.

This is my good friend Matt's Lab, Darby, who like Candy, does it all, including pointing. She learned that from the pointers she's hunted with.

As I read Sweeter than Candy, I was continually struck by how much I related personally to Paul’s stories. For example, like me, Paul shoots a Ruger Red Label 20 Gauge Over and Under which he could not shoot worth a darn at first, but later learned to love. Like me, Paul writes of his love of camping, forest grouse hunting in the morning, and fly fishing in the afternoons in sweet September, my favorite month of the year. Like my dog Dusty, Paul writes of his dog Candy blowing out her ACL, getting it repaired, only to have the other ACL go out on her other leg. Like me, Paul struggles with shooting those little gray speedsters the Hungarian Partridge. Like me, Paul has streaks of phenomenal shooting and bouts when he can’t hit the broad side of a barn. In the chapter, “The Slump,” Paul nailed it when he wrote: “Hunting is such a psychological sport. If things are going well, I’m bursting with confidence and self-esteem and can do no wrong. But, when in a slump, nothing seems to work.” Boy, that is the story of my schizophrenic wingshooting career. My point is not to focus so much on myself as to show you that anyone who has spent days afield with bird dogs should be able to find numerous experiences in the book that resonate with them. Paul has definitely been there and done that. The way Paul writes makes you feel like you are in the uplands with an old friend. For me, that is the ultimate goal for an outdoor writer: To transport your reader to the field or stream. Mission accomplished Paul!

To sum it up, my honest opinion is that Paul’s book is great. It’s a celebration of everything that I love about the great outdoors and hunting with bird dogs in the West. It belongs right up there at the top of the list of literature on upland bird hunting in the west. I highly recommend it.

If you’d like to purchase a copy of Paul’s book, here’s a link to his website: http://writingoutdoors.com/.

HISTORIAN'S CORNER: THOMAS JEFFERSON THE TURKEY HUNTER

2012-02-07T19:59:00.009-07:00

As you may recall, I've recently posted some short articles about famous individuals in history who hunted or fished. I've decided to try and make this a regular feature on the Upland Equations Blog. I'm going to call these features "The Historian's Corner."

In a previous post of this vein, I also mentioned that I am currently researching and working on an article about our first three United States Presidents, George Washington, John Adams, and Thomas Jefferson, whom I believe were bird hunters to some extent. The name of the article will be "A Presidential Pursuit." I've found some firsthand evidence that supports my thesis and I believe most people are not familiar with this information. It should be an interesting read. I hope to get this article published soon and I will keep you up to date on its status.

Thomas Jefferson: Turkey Hunter Extraordinaire.

Today, I got in the mail, a book entitled, White House Sportsmen, by Edmund Lindop and Joseph Lares, which was first published in 1964. As I suspected, Thomas Jefferson barely even made the list of hunting U.S. Presidents. However, there is this gem of a story about the young Jefferson that bears repeating:

A story was told of how Thomas Jefferson was given a gun when he was ten years old and instructed by his father to go into the woods and not come home until he had killed some game. Young Jefferson searched far and wide, but he had no luck in finding a suitable victim. Finally he stumbled across a wild turkey that was trapped in a pen. He tied the turkey to a tree with his garter, shot it, and then carried it home over his shoulder to lay at the feet of his proud parent.

I'm not sure of the authors' source for this story, but I got a kick out of it nonetheless. Nobody can acuse Jefferson of being stupid. In fact, during a dinner for the Nobel Prize winners in the White House in 1962, John F. Kennedy said that the honored guests were probably "the greatest concentration of talent and genius in this house except for perhaps those times when Thomas Jefferson ate alone." Amen. Even as a child, we see this genius coming through--albeit a bit mischeviously.

John James Audobon, Wild Turkey Painting. Believe it or not, Benjamin Franklin proposed that the wild turkey be designated as our national bird. No offense to the bald eagle, but I don't think that was such a bad idea.

CHECK OUT THE HUFFINGTON POST'S REVIEW OF MY BOOK, HEAVEN ON EARTH: STORIES OF FLY FISHING, FUN & FAITH

2012-02-06T19:23:00.006-07:00

Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun & Faith by Andrew Marshall Wayment

The first official review of my book came out today in the Huffington Post. The review was written by Professor Bradley T. Borden ("Brad"), who teaches tax law at Brooklyn Law School. Brad is a long-time friend and comes from the same hometown as me in Southern Idaho. He was actually instrumental in introducing me to my wife so I am already indebted to him.

On top of that, I am truly honored by his review and praise of my book. For your convenience, here is a link to the review:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/bradley-t-borden/heaven-on-earth-book_b_1256144.html.

Check it out!

The official release date for my book is April 1, 2012. However, as a shameless plug for the book, advanced signed copies of my book are now available at http://www.heavenonearthbook.com.

I SHOULD HAVE LISTENED!

2012-02-04T16:20:00.005-07:00

Below is another short story that was cut out of the final version of my book, Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun & Faith. It originally appeared in the third chapter, “Where Can I Turn for Peace?” It's a fun story. Hope you enjoy it! Here it is:

. . . . When my wife and I returned that fall to Moscow, Idaho for my final year of law school [summer of 2000], I resumed my quest to experience all of the local rivers. One place that I had seen, but never fished before was Elk Creek below the falls, which are a popular tourist attraction. Like Potlatch Canyon near home, Elk Creek is located in a steep and deep gorge, which I realized would be a chore to hike in and out of. Earlier that summer, I purchased a brand new Loop 7/8 weight fly rod primarily for steelhead fishing in Northern Idaho. I had little opportunity to use a fly rod of this size in Southern Idaho. However, this new rod and big grasshopper patterns sounded like a good combination to sock it to the trout of Elk Creek.

Shortly after our return to Deary and still a few days before classes began, I informed Kristin of my plan, jumped in Blue (our 1999 Ford Escort Station Wagon), and drove toward Elk River, the closest town to Elk Creek. After following the signs that pointed to Elk Creek Falls and reaching the parking lot, I grabbed my back pack and took my rod and reel out of its case. I even thought to myself: Maybe I should leave the rod in its case during the hike for safekeeping. Then I responded to my inner voice, Na! It’s just extra weight. The trail to the falls overlook is well kept and fairly easy to hike. However, upon reaching the canyon rim, the hike down the dusty steep trail became arduous and slippery. Nevertheless, I was committed and I carefully slid my way down the steep trail.

The Infamous Root Wad . . . Mind over matter baby!

To my chagrin, the trail was blocked by a huge downed tree. In order to make it to the river fifty yards below, I needed to skirt my way around the huge root wad. I carefully began to work my way around the obstacle with my front facing towards the downed tree, my hands holding onto the roots and my new rod at the same time, and my back towards the downhill side. Despite my cautiousness, I somehow took a false step and fell ten vertical feet below with my brand new rod still in hand. Upon impact, I was not really hurt, but my new rod snapped like a twig. Although only a short distance from the creek, I was now rodless and had to hike back out without catching so much as one fish for my efforts. Nor would I ever have the equipment necessary to catch a steelhead in Northern Idaho during law school. The moral of the story is: Listen to that cautious (sometimes nerdy) inner voice or you might just fall off a cliff and break your rod.

This is the last falls of a series of three. It's definitely a beautiful place!

Never one to accept defeat easily, the following day, I again set out, this time with my five weight Orvis—in its case mind you—to conquer (or be conquered again by) the Elk Creek canyon. This time, I safely made the hike down into the canyon and it was worth all of the pain and struggling. As I suspected, the countless rainbows readily pounced on grasshopper flies. I noticed red spawning kokanees, which had come up from the Elk Creek Reservoir, but as before, they were entirely uninterested in my offerings.

Unforgettably, at the base of the lowest falls, in the shade and constant mist, I cast into the pretty run just downstream of the falls and a fish eagerly chomped my grasshopper imitation. Upon landing this fish, I noticed that it was a decent-sized brook trout, an unexpected, but beautiful bonus. Of all the fish I caught that day, this is the only one that I took a picture of. I still look at that picture often and remember the hard hike into that canyon, but also the great rewards that followed. Sometimes, the hardest things in life are the most worthwhile.

This is not the best photo, but I was stoked to catch this beautiful little brookie at the base of the falls.

There you have it, folks. Another moral to the story is that persistence pays off. Looking back, I’m glad I didn’t let that little mishap keep me from hiking back down into that beautiful place!

THE PLOT THICKENS: ANOTHER CLAIM TO DISCOVERING TINKHAMTOWN

2012-01-31T20:56:00.011-07:00

The Upland Almanac, Spring 2012 Issue is Out.

As some of you may recall, my article, "Discovering Tinkhamtown" was published in the 2011 Winter Issue of The Upland Almanac. This article addresses some little known facts about Corey Ford's classic, "The Road to Tinkhamtown."

Today, I received my copy of the Spring 2012 Issue of The Upland Almanac and it looks like a good one. Notably, in the letters to the editor section on page 69, there were three comments praising "Discovering Tinkhamtown" which made my day.

In one of the letters to the editor from David Book of Helena, Montana, there was something that totally intrigued me. In my article, I recited the fact that Corey Ford, Dan Holland, Everett Wood (or "Woodie"), and Hank Doremus were all grouse hunting buddies. The premise of my article, "Discovering Tinkhamtown" is that Dan Holland actually discovered Tinkhamtown because of what he wrote in the introduction to his chapter on ruffed grouse in his nonfictional book, The Upland Game Hunter's Bible, which is set forth below:
"Where'd you get the fine pa'tridges?" a farmer asked me as I dragged my feet wearily down the little New Hampshire road to my parked car.

"Tinkhamtown," I answered.

"Ain't no sech place," he snapped back. "Lived in these parts all my life--well, not quite yet, but so far--and there ain't no sech place."

I told him that Tinkhamtown was across the mountain within walking distance of where we stood. I knew because I had been there, taken my limit of grouse and had come back all in the same day. The mystery was explained by an old map I had chanced on which clearly showed a town and farming community which no longer existed. Being a partridge hunter, I had hiked there, found the old cellar holes, the vanishing traces of pasture land, the overgrown orchards and ruffed grouse almost in flocks. I explained this to my friend. He cogitated for a moment and allowed as how it might be a fact: long ago there were farms over the mountain, but no more. The last resident had moved out at least sixty years ago.

"Over to Concord, that's where they went, I warrant, " he remarked a little scornfully, "Some of them went clean to Boston, maybe." "Yep," he added proudly, "it takes a right good man to farm this country."

What I did not know when I wrote the article was that Everett Wood, or Woodie, wrote an article for Gray's Sporting Journal in the Summer of 1982 entitled, "Last Hunt with Corey," in which he claims he discovered Tinkhamtown. According to Woodie:

In the mid-fifties a local history buff had shown me a map of Lyme, New Hampshire, published in 1873. The map had indicated every road and building in the township, including a cluster of buildings located --not precisely -- a mile or two east of the Canaan Turnpike in the southeast corner of Lyme. That cluster was the community of Tinkhamtwown . . . .

Some while later I mentioned Tinkhamtown to Corey, and of my plan to find it. Always intrigued with the character and flavor of words, Corey fell in love, at once and forever with the name. . . .

In the fall of 1957, I really did try to find that lost community and the incomparable grouse cover that must surround it. But I never found it. The dense woods and beaver ponds defeated me. After four attempts I stopped trying.

So now we have yet a third person who claimed to have discovered Tinkhamtown. The plot thickens and the mystery grows. I've got to get my hands on that article! I don't think that it will change my analysis in "Discovering Tinkhamtown" because, by his own admission, Everett Wood never actually made it to Tinkhamtown.

On the other hand, I believe that both Dan Holland and Corey Ford both did, which fact is evidenced by their writings. I believe Dan Holland was the first person to actually make it to Tinkhamtown. Holland's book was nonfiction and he had no reason, at that time, to lie. Laurie Morrow has written that Tinkhamtown is real and that it is exactly where Corey said it was, which implies that Corey had, in fact, been there. Apparently, neither Corey or Dan ever took their friend Woodie there. I guess some coverts are too special to share with everyone. Regardless of who discovered Tinkhamtown, it's facinating to see three close hunting friends with three separate stories on how and by whom Tinkhamtown was discovered.

Good stuff my friends . . . good stuff!!!!

THE BROWN DRAKE HATCH THAT DOESN'T EXIST

2012-01-25T12:24:00.012-07:00

My first book, Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun & Faith as originally written was much longer than the final form. There were numerous stories that I loved that were cut out for various reasons. To help promote my book and to give you the flavor of my writing style, I thought I would share some of the stories that were trimmed from the book.

The Sixth Chapter, entitled, "Judge Righteous Judgment," is about the Summer of 2000 that I worked as a law clerk in Bannock County, Idaho and regularly fished the Portneuf River in Southeastern Idaho. At one time, the Portneuf River was a phenomenal fishery with abundant acquatic food, including the Giant Stone Fly. The native fish of the Portneuf is the Yellowstone Cutthroat Trout, which grew huge with all the copious table fare in the river. In this chapter, I described the the unfortunate denigration and siltation of the river brought on by poor agricultural practices in the area, but also how, despite man's worst efforts, the tenacious river still has some good fishing.

With that introduction, here is one of my favorite passages that was cut from the final book:

. . . . Unfortunately, because of the smothering siltation of the Portneuf, we have already lost the large stoneflies that once abounded. I can only imagine how great the fishing was with those big bugs around. Notwithstanding, there are some pockets of the river where there is still a good diversity of aquatic bugs. In Snake River Country, Bruce Staples described these few treasured areas:

"Perhaps the best place to see what the Portneuf once had to offer is in the meadows above Pebble Creek. Here in some of the riffles, runs and slow meanders where the substrate is not smothered in silt there is a rich variety of aquatic insects including several species each of caddisflies and mayflies. A few species of small stoneflies, leeches, fresh water shrimp, craneflies and midges are also present. There is cover underneath overhangs and below rocks and ledges. There is also depth for added cover and cooling. But these areas are isolated by large tracts where siltation has smothered all."

The springs [on the Portneuf River] that I have previously mentioned are one such oasis. More than once, after netting fish, I observed fresh water shrimp, or “scuds” as I call them, tangled in the material of the net. This explained the chubby fish I regularly caught there as scuds are an excellent food source.

Believe it or not, one late evening as the sun descended into the west, I witnessed something that really caught my attention. That night, I had been fishing with pheasant tail nymphs because the wary fish were not rising to the various hatching bugs or my dry flies. However, just as the sun began to sink behind the Portneuf Mountain Range, I observed some huge mayflies begin to sporadically hatch and the fish immediately took notice and began to feed with reckless abandon. The mayflies, which were about an inch tall, were the biggest that I had ever seen at that time. In the quickly fading light, I would have given anything to see well enough to tie on a big dry fly. Nevertheless, the pheasant tail that I had on was not a bad choice as it sufficiently represented the surfacing nymphs. To catch fish, I simply located a fish slurping in the huge duns, cast my nymph upstream of the fish, and let it run through his lie. In the last embers of the sun, my fluorescent orange indicator glowed and I could easily see its hesitation as big fish repeatedly pounced on my fly. After landing a few good fish, I was driven off of the water by the enveloping darkness, but a fire burned within my soul for this special place.

Sometime after this awesome evening, I figured out, based upon the timing of the hatch (i.e. in the late evenings in June) and the immense size of the bugs, that I had experienced a bona fide brown drake hatch that evening on the Portneuf. Since then, I have many times personally observed fishermen flock to this hatch on better known waters like Silver Creek and the Henry’s Fork. Yet on the Portneuf, I was, once again all by myself.

Later that summer, I stopped by All Seasons Angler in Pocatello for some fly tying materials and spoke with Roger Thompson, who was the manager at the time, but who now is the proprietor of Portneuf River Outfitters. In other words, he is the authority on fly fishing the Portneuf River, if there is such a thing. Roger asked me how the fishing had been and I responded that it had been great. I then told him about the brown drake hatch I had fished on the upper Portneuf (without telling him exactly where I was) and he looked at me as if I was crazy.

“I’ve never seen a brown drake on the Portneuf,” he responded.

I did not want to argue the point, but I know what I saw.

It was extremely hard for me to cut this passage out, but that's part of the process of publishing a book. I may be the only one in the world who believes there is (or once was) a brown drake hatch on the Portneuf, but to this day, almost 12 years later, I maintain that I fished a brown drake hatch on the Upper Portneuf and it was phenomenal! Save the Portneuf, my river, my friend!

If you like what you read, check out my book at: http://heavenonearthbook.com/.

A Slack Wind

2012-01-22T16:38:00.000-07:00

We had reached the point in our hunt where I was ready to call it a day and head back to the truck birdless when Abby did a most remarkable thing, she disappeared over a rise and then came back with her eyes wide and tail wagging. I had seen that look before and knew that she had fresh bird scent and was coming to get me before she flushed the birds. I vividly recall the first time she did that as a pup and I was amazed that (1) she knew the birds were there from such a distance and (2) that she had the wherewithal to come back for me. I hurried up to the top and then did my best to stay with her as she feverishly worked out the scent and then dove into the middle of the covey with a final mad dash. It was comical to watch as at first the birds just split and ran around her like the parting of the Red Sea only to flush when she turned around for the second pass.It may surprise some to learn that I have a Lab. The truth is that I prefer the Zen of hunting with Pointers BUT Abby was my first dog, she and I learned how to hunt together and we hunted a lot and she became a fine bird finder.It has been said (by me) that a slack wind is the bane of all sailors and bird dogs. The way my Pointers operate is by running the edges and ridges testing for scent carried by the wind. The reason why? In a word, efficiency. A dog that hunts for body scent carried on the air can cover a vastly larger area and find more coveys than a dog that plods along with its nose to the ground. It's a murderously effective way to hunt.....when there is wind. So what to do when you're in the middle of great bird country and the air is as still as a teenager on Saturday morning?? You bring out the Lab. The Labrador Retriever is the Woolly Bugger of bird hunting, it may not be pretty or refined but it puts meat on the table.

ADVANCED SIGNED COPIES OF ANDREW MARSHALL WAYMENT'S BOOK, HEAVEN ON EARTH, ARE NOW AVAILABLE

2012-01-20T16:58:00.006-07:00

Andrew Marshall Wayment's first book, Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun & Faith.

It's finally done! I have mentioned my forthcoming book, Heaven on Earth, on this blog numerous times in the past and I am happy to report that it's finished. and I am thrilled about how it turned out. Although the official release date is not until April 1, 2012, you can purchase advanced signed copies through my website now! Here's the link: http://www.heavenonearthbook.com/. On this website, you can learn more about my book including some great reviews by other outdoor writers. Please stop by, check it out, and let me know what you think.

Also, as the reviews of my book continue to come in, I will keep you posted on what others are saying about my book.

Thanks for your continuing support. I hope you enjoy the book!

BEN FRANKLIN: KID FISHERMAN AND PUBLIC SERVANT

2012-01-11T08:11:00.012-07:00

My wife and I just had our sixth (and last) child, whom we named, Benjamin, after the great Benjamin Franklin, one of the Founding Fathers of our nation and one of my personal heroes because of his crucial role in the Revolutionary War and in the Constitutional Convention. I decided to learn a little more about this man and his amazing life, so I recently picked up his Autobiography.

The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin is a good read.

As I read the interesting life account told by the man himself, I was surprised to learn that that, as a child, Franklin had a yearning for the sea and was a fisherman. In fact, his love of the ocean was so strong, he desired a life at sea over his father's trade of candle making. This deep love of of the ocean and fishing is evidenced by the following anecdote:

I disliked the trade, and had a strong inclination for the sea, but my father declared against it; however, living near the water, I was much in and about it, learnt early to swim well, and to manage boats; and when in a boat or canoe with other boys, I was commonly allowed to govern, especially in any case of difficulty; and upon other occasions I was generally a leader among the boys, and sometimes led them into scrapes, of which I will mention one instance, as it shows an early projecting public spirit, tho' not then justly conducted.

There was a salt-marsh that bounded part of the mill-pond, on the edge of which, at high water, we used to stand to fish for minnows. By much trampling, we had made it a mere quagmire. My proposal was to build a wharff there fit for us to stand upon, and I showed my comrades a large heap of stones, which were intended for a new house near the marsh, and which would very well suit our purpose. Accordingly, in the evening, when the workmen were gone, I assembled a number of my play-fellows, and working with them diligently like so many emmets, sometimes two or three to a stone, we brought them all away and built our little wharff. The next morning the workmen were surprised at missing the stones, which were found in our wharff. Inquiry was made after the removers; we were discovered and complained of; several of us were corrected by our fathers; and though I pleaded the usefulness of the work, mine convinced me that nothing was useful which was not honest.

Benjamin Franklin.

As shown by this account, even as a kid, Franklin was already a leader of his peers and exhibited a "public spirit" in building the wharf for better fishing access and enjoyment, a noble endeavor indeed. While the use of another's materials was certainly inexcusable, any fisherman can understand the purpose and usefulness of his objective. And you've got to love his enthusiasm! Finally, you have to appreciate the moral he learned as a result of this youthful endeavor. After all, honesty is the best policy (even for us fishermen!).

As Franklin matured and grew into a successful businessman, he lost his love for the sea and fishing (which I feel is unfortunate considering how much much fishing has enriched my own life). Of his later life he wrote: "In order to secure my Credit and Character as a Tradesman, I took care not only to be in Reality Industrious & frugal, but to avoid all Appearances of the Contrary. I dressed plainly; I was seen at no Places of idle Diversion; I never went out a-fishing or Shooting; a Book, indeed, sometimes debauch'd me from my Work; but that was seldom, snug, & gave no Scandal. . . ." You have to wonder if his loss of love for fishing had to do with his father's reprimand and teaching on that earlier occasion.

With all his great accomplishments, one can't help but wonder how things might be different had he continued to pursue his love of the sea and fishing. Oh well, we will never know! At any rate, the man was a boundless ball of energy and his influence is still felt by us today. Fisherman or not, Benjamin Franklin is one of my heroes.

Eleventh Hour Reprieve

2012-01-06T23:35:00.002-07:00

This story was supposed to be something entirely different. I had already written it in my mind and it was to be about how on the last day of 2011 I went out to a new, uncharted hunting spot and capped off the year with glorious success. Instead, it was almost the story about how I got skunked and skunked badly.I decided to wring out one last day from my 2011 Idaho licence by trying a spot I had never hunted. I learned of the area through a chance meeting with an old farmer who told me, "There used to be a covey of Huns up there years ago.". I figured one covey to an old farmer must mean a banner day to an avid bird hunter with a couple of good bird dogs and why not when we had been having good success not too many miles away? So the pups and I set out with high expectations.The day was warm and clear but a stiff wind was blowing and for some reason I don't have good luck in the wind. My bad luck held true as the next few hours turned into painful frustration as the only birds we saw were a few Sharp-tailed Grouse that the dogs either never found or handled poorly and the season for them had long since expired. It was one of those days where even the franchise player has a bad game and you lose to the worst team in the league. We had reached that point in the hunt where the dogs and I were all tired and the frequent stops by the dogs were not likely to be a point. It was the long march of shame back to the truck and a poor end to a good year of hunting. I was pondering the lack of partridge in this otherwise good looking cover when the Garmin beeped telling me a dog had stopped. I didn't think much of it since this had happened 100 times on the way down the hill and the dog was always moving before I could investigate but this time the dog held so I followed the first rule of dog ownership and went to have a look.

Hmmmm....Looks promising but probably yet another non-legal sharpie so I took my time and waited for the young pup to come in and get some experience. She backed her big sis nicely.

Those sharpies do make for good training, I thought. I walked out in front but nothing moved so Lily relocated.

Imagine my surprise when a large covey of Huns jumped out of the sage with lightning speed! Even more surprising was the fact that I was able to compose myself enough to put down the camera, pull up the gun and drop a clean double! The topper was that each dog found a bird of their own and retrieved it. It's amazing what a difference one good find will make. So in the last hour of the last day of the year, all was well with the world again.

ANDY'S LATEST ARTICLE, "WINTER ECLIPSE," IN THE BACKCOUNTRY JOURNAL

2011-12-29T11:11:00.007-07:00

Darby, the Pointing Wonder Lab.

Seasons' Greetings! I'm excited to report that my latest article, "Winter Eclipse," is now available for viewing on The Backcountry Journal website, which is the brain child of Ben Smith. Kudos to Ben for the quality of writing and photography that has already graced this fairly new project. It's an honor to be a part of it. This is my second article published The Backcountry Journal.

Below is a little teaser from the intro of "Winter Eclipse" to pique your interest:

Winter in Idaho feels like lock down to me. I realize the calendar says that Winter does not officially start until December 20^th, but try telling that to Ol’ Man Winter. Come November, he already rules over Idaho with a frigid, iron fist. As an outdoorsman, Idaho becomes a frozen landscape during this harsh season and days suitable for fishing and hunting become few and far between. I’ve written before that me and Winter are not friends, but mere acquaintances.

Despite the icy grip that Winter holds on the uplands, hunting seasons are still open and, due to the fact that the autumn flies by so quickly, I’m not ready to hang up the hunting vest for the year just yet. My restless dogs still yearn for more days afield too. So I try to brave the elements and make a few attempts at hunting in December and January, mostly unsuccessful.

This past weekend, a friend and hunting companion, Matt Lucia, and I planned a hunt for valley quail in Western Idaho. In order to get in a day’s worth of hunting, we would have to leave Pocatello at 4:00 a.m. The news predicted the coming of a lunar eclipse starting at 5:45, so Matt and I were in perfect position to have some entertainment as we made our way across Idaho that early morning. . . .

To read more follow this LINK.

I am sure that the followers of Upland Equations will appreciate The Backcountry Journal. Be sure and check it out!

ANDREW WAYMENT'S ARTICLE, "DREAMIN' ABOUT BOB" IN SHOTGUN LIFE

2011-12-21T14:05:00.007-07:00

Greetings fellow Bird Hunters!

I wanted to quickly share a link to my most recent article, "Dreamin' About Bob," which was published today in the online magazine, Shotgun Life. This magazine is an excellent resource for you bird hunters and shotgun aficionados. I highly recommend it!

For those of you who are already sick of the cold and snow this winter, this article about bobwhite hunting in Kansas may provide some escape. Here's the link: http://www.shotgunlife.com/wingshooting/wingshooting/dreamin-about-bob.html . I hope the followers of Upland Equations have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! Thanks for all of your support.

Remember: The Birds are Just the Bonus!

MY SOUVENIRS

2011-12-17T14:32:00.011-07:00

Hope on the Horizon.

What are the true prizes that you take home from a hunt? At the end of the day, what are the things that you really cherish? Is it the birds harvested? Is it the thrill of the dog’s point, flush and shot? For sure, these things are a big part of what keeps us coming back for more year after year. But for me, there’s something else. Every time we go afield, each of us take home a few souvenirs, if you will. Here’s a few that I gathered from a sharptail hunt with my eight year old son, Thomas, and good friend, Matt Lucia this past October.

****

As the sun arises, Tommy and I sit patiently in the car waiting for Matt to arrive. Meanwhile, we talk, laugh, and gag over our stinky, old beloved dog, Sunny. We text Matt that sitting in the car with Sunny is “like eating a crap sandwich.” Despite the pitiful entertainment, we are hopeful for the day. I take a picture of the horizon with my iPhone and post it on facebook with the label: “Hope on the Horizon.” For it feels like it’s going to be one of those days.

There's nothing like a rising sun in October.

****

Matt and his Lab, Darby, veer to the west in pursuit of a bird that staggered at Matt’s shot. Tommy and I stay on the rounded ridge top hoping to find our own birds. Lo and behold, two sharptail breeze past us at seventy-five yards and drop into a food plot. I know right where they are. With a tough start to the bird hunting season―both in bird numbers and in shooting―my heart instantly pounds in my chest with nervous excitement. One of the pair rises out of range, but its companion jumps nearby and I determinedly shoot, the bird falters, and I follow up with a solid shot. The monkey is off my back! Sunny makes her first retrieve of the year. The GSP pup, Brandy, is so excited she tries to steal the retrieve, but Sunny will have none of it. Even when the grouse is secure in the bag, the pup stands on her hind legs and sticks her nose in my old, stained Filson bag sucking in the scent of her new-found passion.

Two young pups: Tommy and Brandy. Brandy gets a noseful of her first bird.

****

We stop temporarily at the truck to water the dogs. We try to keep them out of the deer gut pile that lies alongside the road. As I take a knee and fill the water bowl for Sunny and Misty, Matt says, “Andy, What’s in your pup’s mouth?” I look up and immediately in front of my face is Brandy with some things dangling from her mouth. Instantly recognizing the fury package before me, I yell, “SICK! . . . BALLS!” Brandy has located her own souvenirs from the deer gut pile. Matt and Tommy have a good chuckle at our expense.

****

One particular hill that we work along is loaded with sharptail sign. The dogs get noticeably birdy and Misty locates and flushes a group of 10 to 20 almost out of range. To no avail, I unload my over and under in their general direction. The birds fly uphill near a brushy hillside shaped like a crescent moon. We think we know right where they are, but we've been wrong before.

****

The wind blows steady now, which is not a good recipe for sharptail hunting. Matt and I look long and hard for the sharptail covey, but can’t seem to locate them. Tommy follows Matt and talks his ear off the whole time. I decide to try one final overlooking another smaller, brushy belt. I soon lose sight of Matt and Tommy, and yell, “MATT!” to try and get their attention. Right at that time, the elusive sharptails take to wing and head for Wyoming. There goes our chances, I murmur to myself.

****

My three dogs and I start to make the long trek back to the vehicles. The wind is blowing strong enough now that I realize the hunt is just about over. Sunny thinks otherwise. Although arthritis has slowed her down―so much so that watching her work is sometimes akin to watching grass grow―her love and drive for the hunt has not dimmed one iota. She is all heart! I love that about her. There’s absolutely no question she is working a bird so I try to stay close. Sure enough, the bird flushes in range giving me an easy straightaway and Sunny is on the bird almost as quickly as it hits the ground. With that gleam in her eye, it’s like she is the energetic pup all over again. At that moment, I feel so much gratitude for the day and its bounties that I take a knee and offer up a prayer of thanks.

****

There you have it. These are my souvenirs that I gathered from this special October hunt, the mental pictures and memories that I have stored up for when Winter sets in, in earnest. When the snow flies and the hunting seasons close, I will bring out these treasures and relive them once again in my mind. These souvenirs, and many others from numerous days afield, are precious to me. I would not trade them for anything.

Here's a few more souvenirs from this hunt.

GEORGE WASHINGTON: WHAT WAS HE FISHING FOR?

2011-12-04T16:52:00.012-07:00

Here at Upland Equations, we love history, especially early American history. In particular, George Washington is one of my heroes. I believe he was one of the greatest and noblest men of his day, or of any time for that matter. As a student of history, I have always been fascinated by crucial role he played in the Revolutionary War, the Constitutional Convention, and the founding our great nation.

George Washington fox hunting in Virginia.

I’ve been doing some research for an article on bird-hunting presidents and found a book entitled, George Washington, Sportsman: From His Own Journals, by John C. Phillips. This book contains all of the journal entries of our first president regarding his outdoor sporting adventures. Many know that Washington was a diehard fox hunter and that he bred his own dogs for this endeavor, but it is not general knowledge that he participated in numerous other outdoor pursuits, but more on that in my forthcoming article. Stay tuned!

In the Introduction to the book, Phillips stated: “These journals are in a sense disappointing because the daily happenings were set down in the briefest space and the coldest manner. There could have been no thought that others would ever value these records, they were simply for the convenience of the writer . . . .” Phillips is correct about the briefness and coldness of the entries of the journal, but a good historian always tries to dig a little deeper and read between the lines.

With that thought in mind, I found something very intriguing in this book. By way of background, during the Summer of 1787, George Washington served as the president of the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia while the delegates from the states attempted to create a new form of government that was by the people and for the people. This endeavor proved to be no easy task because of the different circumstances, mentality and prejudices of the men from the various states. In fact, the only thing that the delegates seemed to agree upon was their admiration for their leader, Washington. Things became so dire at one point that Benjamin Franklin called upon the delegates of the convention to have daily prayer.

From Washington’s Journals, I learned that he was able to get away for a few days of fishing during an adjournment of the Convention at the end of July and beginning of August, 1787. Upon reading this, my first impression was surprise that he would go fishing at such a time. Moreover, of all the places, Washington picked two places very significant to the Revolutionary War: Valley Forge and Trenton. If you recall, Valley Forge was where the suffering American Continental Army wintered during the Winter of 1777/1778. Circumstances were so precarious that harsh winter because the troops lacked adequate food, clothing and supplies. Many of the troops became ill and died. Washington continually pleaded to the Continental Congress for supplies. It was during this harsh winter that it is reported that Washington was observed praying fervently in the woods for his troops and for the cause of freedom.

"Washington Crossing the Delaware," by Emanuel Leutze. These are the times that try men's souls. This may be one of the most important Christmases in U.S. History.

Trenton, New Jersey, was the target the night Washington and the bedraggled troops crossed the Delaware River on Christmas of 1776 during a complete blizzard. On December 23, 1776, Washington gathered the troops and had read to them the timeless words of Thomas Paine’s “The Crisis”: “These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country, but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.” The troops were inspired by those powerful words and the password for the desperate venture of marching on Trenton was: “Victory or death.”

"The American Crisis," by Thomas Paine.

The morning of December 26, 1776, the small Continental Army attacked the German Dragoons stationed in Trenton with fierce swiftness quickly subduing its opponent. When it was reported to Washington that the enemy had fully surrendered, he exclaimed, “Major Wilkinson, this is a glorious day for our country!” This proved to be the victory necessary to rally the Revolution and to inspire the troops to continue to support the cause of freedom. In short, Valley Forge and Trenton are two places where Washington faced some of his most difficult challenges and overcame them.

With that background in mind, here are the journal entries regarding his return to fish these historical places the summer of the Constitution Convention:

Monday, [July 30, 1787]. In a company with Mr. Govr. Morris’ and in his Phaeton with my horses, went up to one, Jane Moore’s, [in whose house we lodged] in the vicinity of Valley Forge to get Trout.

Tuesday, [July 31, 1787]. Whilst Mr. Morris was fishing, I rid over the [whole] old Cantonment of the American [Army] of the Winter, 1777 and 8, visited all the Works, wch. were in Ruins; and the Incampments in woods where the grounds had not been cultivated.

On my Return to Mrs. Moore’s I found Mr. Robt. Morris and his lady there. [Spent the day there fishing &ca and lodged at the same place].

Friday, [August 3, 1787]. In company with Mr. Robt. Morris and his Lady, and Mr. Gouvr. Morris I went up to Trenton on another Fishing party. [Dined and] Lodged at Colo. Sam Ogden’s at the Trenton Works. In the Evening fished, not very successfully.

Saturday, [August 4, 1787]. In the morning, and between breakfast and dinner, fished again with more success (for perch) than yesterday. . . .

On the surface, these passages simply describe Washington going fishing; some may argue nothing more, nothing less. But why did he go fishing during this critical time in our nation’s history. Why does anyone really go fishing for that matter? And why did he choose to fish these specific places? Was it just to catch a few fish? While these entries show nothing of what Washington thought or felt while he fished these hallowed grounds, one can imagine the peace and strength he gathered from revisiting the locations themselves and reflecting on the memories of the events that transpired there. It is now over two hundred years later, and I still get goosebumps just thinking about them. Perhaps this is why Washington came back to Valley Forge and Trenton, to seek strength and resolve to forge ahead with the creation of a completely new form of government, “the greatest experiment.” Washington himself would later call the Constitution and its ratification “little short of a miracle.”

With this history in mind, my question to the readers is this: Was Washington’s “fishing” trip to Valley Forge and Trenton that summer just a mindless outdoor excursion or did it serve a much deeper purpose for him? I’ll let you decide for yourselves.

CHECK OUT THE OUTDOOR SPORTING LIBRARY BLOG

2011-11-29T17:16:00.007-07:00

I want to share with the Upland Equations' readers a new blog called, The Outdoor Sporting Library created by Jeremiah Wood, http://www.outdoorsportinglibrary.com/. Below is a quick statement by Mr. Wood of the purpose for this blog:

"The Outdoor Sporting Library is a site dedicated to providing information on books and other media focused on hunting, fishing, and related outdoor pursuits.

A wealth of literature exists in the hunting and fishing world, including fiction and nonfiction books, short stories, and essays relating to the sport. Unfortunately, much of the outdoor sporting works of the past have been left there, and are little known today.

The works of writers who were giants of their day, including the likes of Edmund Ware Smith and Arthur MacDougall, sit in dust-covered library shelves and old book stores, waiting to be re-discovered by a new generation of outdoor readers.

The goal of this site is to bring these old works back to life, connect the reader to places they can find them, and promote a new wave of today’s outdoor writers and their works in books, magazines and online media."

What a great idea! My only problem is that I didn't think of it! In all seriousness, I totally agree that there exists a real need for information on the outdoor sporting classics and fully support Jeremiah's efforts. It is good to see someone step up and take the helm of that great ship of literature. I hope you will support this blog and rediscover the classics.

Dan Holland's, The Upland Game Hunter's Bible.

Speaking of classics, when Jeremiah contacted me last week requesting to repost my review of Dan Holland's, The Upland Game Hunter's Bible (which was originally posted on Upland Equations and can still be found in the archives), I was both honored and happy to contribute to The Outdoor Sporting Library. For those interested in reading this review, here's the link: http://www.outdoorsportinglibrary.com/.

CHRISTMAS GIFTS FROM THE HEART

2011-11-28T18:27:00.012-07:00

Yesterday afternoon, as my kids put up the Christmas tree and decorations, my wife commented on how she despises the commercialism, materialism and selfishness that Christmas has become. Bah Humbug! You know, she is not too far from the mark when stores now start their Christmas advertising campaigns before Thanksgiving. And Black Friday? Don’t get me started! Somehow, in all of this materialism, our nation has lost sight of what Christmas is truly about, God’s gift of His Son to all mankind, the ultimate gift from the heart.

While presents are meant to commemorate and celebrate this gift, many now see Christmas as: What can I get for myself? This selfishness totally misses the spirit of Christmas. Sure, getting presents is great, but this is only a small part of what Christmas is about. When I look back upon some of my favorite Christmases, it was not the fancy, expensive presents that meant the most to me, but the ones that came from the heart. Let me share with you a few examples.

When my wife and I were newly-weds celebrating our first Christmas, she knew of my love of fishing. I really had no idea why I was restricted from the basement of her parents’ home one particular evening in December, but on Christmas morning, I found out the reason. Kristin, her mother, and sisters had made me a beautiful quilt with a fishing pattern on one side and flannel on the other. I remember wrapping that warm blanket around me and being totally thrilled that they had taken the time to make such a beautiful blanket. Nobody had ever made me a present that was so personal. To this day, that blanket is one of the most special gifts I have ever received.

Gifts from the heart, a quilt, a photo, a painting, and a wallet.

In Christmas of 2004, my brother, Shawn gave me a framed picture of me and my Dad hiking into our favorite quail hunting covert, “The Trail to Quail.” This treasured photo now hangs over my bookshelf and I look at it every day and remember that special day with my Dad and Shawn.

The Painting . . . .

Last Christmas in 2010, I received some truly special gifts from the heart. My oldest daughter, Emma, has become a very talented artist. I was truly surprised and delighted to open Emma’s present and to see that she had painted a plaque with my two Brittanys, Sunny and Misty, two flushing birds, and a sign with the words, "GONE HUNTIN'". She knows me oh so well! And to top it off, my Dad, who is a retired medical doctor, handcrafted a leather wallet with a flushing pheasant. Now those are both gifts from the heart! Their makers took their time and used their talents to create something that they knew I would appreciate. They gave of themselves.

The Leather Wallet . . . .

Last year, I read with great interest a reprinted story in Gray’s Sporting Journal by Edwyn Sandys who wrote outdoor stories back in the early 1900’s. Shawn, who already has almost any bird-hunting book you can think of, is a hard one to buy for. You have to go pretty far back in the past to find books that Shawn doesn’t already have. With much thought, I decided to order one of Edwyn Sandys’ books, Sporting Sketches, for my brother for Christmas. The book is over 100 years old. When Shawn opened it, tears came to his eyes as he read an inscription, “Leland Linn, Christmas 1910.” The original owner had received this book as a Christmas present exactly 100 years before. Can you imagine? I really had no idea when I ordered this book online of this curious history, but agreed that this was truly a special coincidence.

The Book with the Inscription . . .

As you celebrate this Christmas holiday, may you get away from the materialism of the world and realize that the most precious gifts you can give or receive are the ones that come from the heart, those in which we freely give of ourselves to others. This will help you to feel more fully of that special spirit that Christmas brings.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from Upland Equations!

CHECK OUT ANDY'S "THE MIRACLE HALF-MILE" IN THE BACKCOUNTRY JOURNAL

2011-11-21T19:53:00.011-07:00

A stunningly beautiful male valley quail from the Miracle Half-Mile.

I was recently contacted by Ben Smith, who blogs at Arizona Wanderings. For those of you who do not know, Ben's blog is great and we've included it on the Upland Equations blog role to get the word out. For your convenience, here is the link: http://www.azwanderings.com. Ben recently started a new blog named, The Backcountry Journal. The purpose of this blog is to showcase the talents of the numerous outdoor writers in the blogosphere, a noble endeavor indeed. Bear in mind, this blog will not be cluttered with where-to/how-to's, but will be a place where you will hear some good stories and read some great writing. From my own reviews of this blog, so far so good.

I was both surprised and honored by Ben's request for me to contribute an original story for The Backcountry Journal and jumped at the opportunity. I wrote the story, "The Miracle Half-Mile," about an unexpected awesome quail hunt that I experienced last October with my brother, Shawn, and my son, Tommy. Here's the introduction to the story:

The trouble with fire is that it indiscriminately consumes everything in its path. As alien cheat grass takes hold in Idaho’s high-plains, sagebrush desert, it’s great for chukars and chukar hunters, but hell on the sensitive sagebrush ecosystem. When cheat grass catches fire―which it does regularly―it burns fast and hot such that it wipes out the native sage and other plants.

As we drew near our destination in Southern Idaho, we were extremely disheartened to see the rimrock landscape marred by black, like a huge shadow covering the earth. Wild fire had consumed between 30,000 and 40,000 acres of prime chukar, Hun and quail country. Brushy draws that once held countless quail were now barren. . . .

If you want to read how the hunt turned out, you'll have to go the The Backcountry Journal, at http://www.thebackcountryjournal.com/. I hope the followers of Upland Equations will enjoy this story and also support The Backcountry Journal.

SHIN DEEP: A FLY FISHER'S LOVE FOR LIVING WATER by CHRIS HUNT

2011-11-12T17:34:00.012-07:00

I’ve known about Chris Hunt and his writing since law school. I first happened across one of his articles on the internet back in early 2001, which, with the hints he dropped (i.e. a horseshoe-shaped lake filled with arctic grayling next to a trailhead into a deep canyon creek containing five kinds of salmonid), sent me on a goose chase through my Idaho fishing books and Delorme Map to determine the creek of which he wrote. I was intrigued and impressed by his writing and just had to know where he fished. If you want to find out the name of this particular creek, you’ll have to do your own homework.

After law school, I learned that Chris worked for the Idaho State Journal in Pocatello and regularly read his excellent articles about fishing small creeks in Eastern Idaho. Chris’s writing still held my attention.

The first time I laid eyes on Chris―he’s hard to miss at 6’5” and wearing a goatee―I was fishing the Black Canyon of the Bear River in the dead of winter and we crossed paths on the foot bridge that spans the river. Although I knew who he was, I did not want to bother him with praise or detract from his day on the river, so I simply said, “Hello.” But I thought to myself: Now there is a man after my own heart. We were the only two people fishing the river that wintery day.

Chris no longer works in the newspaper industry (except for when he voluntarily contributes fishing articles), but now works full time to protect the objects of his affection: Trout. You see, Chris works for Trout Unlimited in Idaho Falls. I recently rediscovered Chris’s writing when I came across his two fishing blogs: Eat More Brook Trout http://www.eatmorebrooktrout.com/ and Yellowstone Country Fly Fishing http://www.yellowstoneonthefly.com/. Both are great blogs for the fly-fishing enthusiast.

With that introduction, let me tell you about Chris’s book, Shin Deep: A Fly Fisher’s Love for Living Water. In Shin Deep, Chris crisply describes experiences of fishing throughout North America for multiple species of fish including rainbows, browns, brook trout, bull trout, cutthroat trout, salmon, crappie, smallmouth bass, white fish, red fish and pike. This book is like a smorgasbord for hungry fishermen.

Chris begins the book with a disclaimer: “It turns out I’m not terribly introspective when I fish. This isn’t a recent revelation, or anything. It’s just important for you to know, so you won’t expect me to prop up the pages of this book with profound nuggets of wisdom I’ve somehow managed to acquire from my time spent on the water.” At first glance, one might assume that this is the case. After all, we are talking about the guy who forgot his box of flies at the lodge while fishing in Alaska and had to go on quest while on Prince of Wales Island to try to save what could easily have been a debacle of a day. I actually had a good laugh as the author describes humbly begging someone for flies explaining that he “very nearly dropped to a knee and swore fealty to this guy. Desperation does weird things to you, you know.”

But don’t let Chris fool you. This book is packed with plenty of depth. I’ll give you a few examples. First and foremost, Chris repeatedly writes about the importance of protecting the creeks, rivers and waters that hold wild trout and other precious fish. The theme of conservation resonates throughout this book and makes you want to do more to preserve and protect these wild places and finite resources for posterity.

This is the view looking down river from Three Dollar Bridge at first light, a product of conservation efforts for which I will always be greatful.

Also prevalent in the book is the theme of family. I thoroughly enjoyed reading Chris’ stories about fishing with his son, Cameron, who he lovingly calls “Chief,” and his older daughter Delaney. I don’t want to spoil any of these touching stories for the reader. However, I will say that, although Chris pursues his fishing passion with great fervor, it is evident that he does not let his addiction supplant what is truly most important in his life: His family. Like I said, a man after my own heart.

Andy and his daughter Nessy fishing Moose Creek last August. In the very first chapter of Shin Deep, Chris writes about fishing this very creek.

I was particularly impressed with the book's final chapter about his grandfather, Bill Muller, who taught him to use a fly rod and to appreciate the beauty of small no-name creeks and rivers and their speckled gems. At the end of this chapter, Chris states of his beloved Granddad:

I just hope that Granddad knows the legacy he left behind. He wasn’t a statesman or a huge business success. He didn’t motivate people to do great things . . . and chances are, he’ll only be remembered by those close to him.

But every time I or one of my brothers or cousins pick up a fishing rod, Granddad will be there with us. And if we take the time to give fishing to our kids, his legacy will have spanned another generation.

That is a lovely tribute to an obviously good man. Chris speculates that his Granddad “didn’t motivate people to do great things.” However, Chris may have overlooked one important factor. In the Introduction of Shin Deep, Chris tells of how he decided to leave forever the newspaper industry to work full time for Trout Unlimited. Of this, Chris wrote: “Years ago, my work drove me to fish. Today, those fish are the reason I work.” Undoubtedly Chris’s love for fishing and desire to protect this precious resource stems from the things his Granddad taught him as a kid. In other words, Chris’ Granddad motivated him to do great things and to make an important difference in the world, especially for us fisherman.

Last but certainly not least, in a nation where it is quickly becoming taboo to mention God or faith, I appreciated Chris’ sentiments on these subjects in his chapter about fishing for brook trout for the first time in Shenandoah National Park:

Now, I’m not a particularly religious fellow. I believe in God ― how could a fly fisher not have some faith in a higher power? . . . I believe there’s a grand plan for all of us and all the critters with which we share the planet. But I’m no zealot ― the more organized a religion gets, the less tolerant its practitioners become, I believe.

But at that moment, cradling a seven-inch wild Appalachian brook trout in my meaty palm, I openly thanked God. For there might not be a more beautiful creation than a wild brook trout hooked firmly in the jaw and pulled from crystal waters.

It’s a moment I’ll never forget.

Truly, a man after my own heart. Along these same lines, I found intriguing the subtitle to Chris’ book: Shin Deep: A Fly Fisher’s Love for Living Water. The phrase "Living Water" obviously implies a healthy, diverse ecosystem that sustains the fish we all dearly love. However, in the Bible, we learn that the phrase “Living Water” is also is symbolic of and a title for God (see John 4:10-11 and John 7). Maybe this was intentional on Chris’s part, maybe not. I’ll let you be the judge. Only shin deep? I think not.

One of my favorite stretches of living water at first light.

With that said, Shin Deep is an excellent read for both its fishing stories and for its underlying deeper messages. Without reservation, I highly recommend it to anyone who loves the fly rod, wild rivers, and wild fish.

Upland Idaho 2011

2011-11-10T12:46:00.001-07:00

Good Friends Are Hard To Come By

2011-11-06T11:07:00.008-07:00

By Ryan C. Dearing

The other day as I was packing for the 500 mile trip to hunt with my friend, Jake for the weekend, I couldn't help but ask myself, why do I do it? You see, hunting with Jake almost never goes smoothly. Our trips together usually include a variety of hardships such as getting lost, bad food, camping out in blizzard conditions, forgetting the ammo on the kitchen table, endless death marches, nearly killing ourselves on slippery roads and very often not many birds to show for it. So why would I drive all night through unknown lands with no promise of birds on the other side? Because, just like the gun that shoots true and the bird dog that never breaks point, good friends are hard to come by.

"DISCOVERING TINKHAMTOWN" IN THE UPLAND ALMANAC

2011-10-18T19:00:00.008-06:00

The Winter 2011/2012 Issue of The Upland Almanac.

Greetings all. This afternoon, I checked my email and saw the new cover for the Winter Issue of The Upland Almanac. I'm excited to announce that my article, "Discovering Tinkhamtown" regarding the story behind the classic story is featured in this issue.

The fact that this article is getting published is exciting in and of itself. However, the renowned sporting artist Bob White, contributed the artwork for this article. For me, this is a dream come true! I've admired Bob White's work for quite some time. Bob has worked with some of the greatest outdoor writers of our day including John Gierach, Ted Nelson Lundrigan, and William G. Tapply. For a beginning writer, it is indeed an honor to work with someone of Bob White's caliber. I'm excited to share this article with others.

In my opinion, The Upland Almanac is one of the best magazines out there for the upland hunting enthusiast. While other magazines address certain aspects of our great sport, The Upland Almanac is the most well-rounded. Check it out!

LIKE A FLEA IN THE WILDERNESS

2011-10-09T20:40:00.009-06:00

By Andrew M. Wayment

Man, so far, this has been the toughest hunting season I can remember! With the long, harsh winter, the blue grouse broods did not fare well. I’ve found very few blue grouse and when I have, they’ve been in groups of ones and twos―no big broods as in years past. The birds have been extremely jumpy and have not held well or presented good shots. For the most part, I’ve been unable to capitalize on the few opportunities I’ve had. The ruffed grouse have done a little better, but with the thick foliage the good hunting for them does not start until later in October.

In addition to the scarcity of birds, I suffered another setback to my hunting season. After a grouse hunt that I dubbed the “Siberian Death March” because I hiked high and far and saw no birds, my Subaru Legacy Wagon began to make a scraping or grinding noise on the way home that sounded like I was dragging a Christmas tree under the car. I later found out from my mechanic that the transmission is going out and that it will cost more to fix than the car is worth. Using a cost/benefit analysis, I just couldn’t justify the cost. With gas prices so high and my only remaining vehicle being a gas-guzzling GMC Yukon, I realized that this would seriously cramp my hunting the rest of the year.

If that were not bad enough, it seems that the elements have conspired against me. The first part of the season in September was really too hot for good hunting and scenting conditions. Likewise, October 1st, opening day of sharptail season, was a real scorcher and my favorite cover, the Royal Macnab had been royally macmowed by the landowner leaving very little cover for the once plenteous sharptails. This scene was another blow to an already discouraged bird hunter.

Tommy at the Royal MacMowed.

Last week, I planned two hunts (Thursday and Friday) for sharptails and both had to be canceled because of the unexpected downpour of rain and snow. Still determined, I headed for a favorite mountain covert Saturday morning believing that the change in the weather would push the blues up to a higher elevation where I’ve found them in the past. However, to my surprise, I found a foot of fresh slick snow up top of the mountain. I don’t mind hunting in the snow so much, but when I saw the armies of fluorescent orange-clad deer hunters (because it happened to be opening day of the deer season), I realized that this was no place for me or my three bird dogs. So I retreated to a lower elevation below the snow line and had a nice, birdless hike with the dogs in thick fog. Yep, it has been that kind of a season for me thus far. Murphy (of Murphy’s Law fame) has had his way with me.

Brandy, a new member of the team. Notice the thick fog in the distance. There were times when I could not see more than twenty yards.

I recently came across an applicable scripture in the Bible, which I found intriguing. To set the stage, everyone knows David from the story, David and Goliath. As you may recall, King Saul became so jealous of David that he actually began to seek his life and hunt him down. One evening David snuck into the camp of King Saul and could have taken his life and ended it there, but would not because Saul was the Lord’s anointed. Instead, David took the King’s spear, went off a distance, and called out to Saul’s camp. David pleaded for the king to quit hunting him and pointed to the king’s spear to show him that he had spared Saul’s life. Among other things, David said something that pertains surprisingly to bird hunting: “Now therefore, let not my blood fall to the earth before the face of the Lord: for the king of Israel is come out to seek a flea, as when one doth hunt a partridge in the mountains.” (1 Samuel 26:20).

Boy, after the start to the hunting season, I know exactly what David means. Finding birds and bird hunting in general can sometimes be very difficult. Apparently, they’ve known this since Bible times. This year, finding a partridge in the mountains has been like trying to find a flea in the wilderness―the proverbial needle in a haystack.

But I’m not ready to give up just yet. I’ve written about it in the past, but for me, hunting is an exercise in hope (See “Hunting is Hope” in Upland Equations archives). Every time I go afield, I hope for good things to happen for me and the dogs. As my season to date clearly illustrates, oftentimes they do not. However, sometimes great things occur; the birds are plentiful, the dogs work wonderfully, and the old shooting eye comes through. Good or bad, every hunt is an adventure fueled by hope. As the saying goes: I’d take a bad day of hunting over a good day of work anytime.

How can you not experience hope when seeing such beautiful sunrises?

In truth, hunting for me is the opportunity to set aside the stresses of the day and to step into the natural world and feel like a wide-eyed kid again: you know, that feeling where everything is beautiful, everything is amazing, everything is a miracle. That’s why I hunt. Even a tough start to the season cannot take that feeling from me or make me want to experience it any less.

TWENTY THINGS EVERY YOUNG BIRD HUNTER SHOULD KNOW

2011-10-05T15:24:00.008-06:00

By Andrew M. Wayment

1. Wing shooting is challenging, but fun! Missing is part of the process. Don’t get discouraged! After all, this is supposed to be fun. Shooting is 90% mental (or rather instinctual) and 10% mechanical. If you are missing, don’t stress out or over-think it. Just relax, believe in yourself, have fun, follow your instincts, and you will start hitting.

2. You don’t aim a shotgun, you point it! Keep both eyes open and point the gun where you are looking with your cheek firmly planted on the butt of the stock of the gun.

3. A shooting slump will not last forever. This too shall pass! Keep in mind that it is almost impossible to shoot ahead of a bird. If you are missing, it’s because you are most likely shooting behind. Just keep swinging and you’ll eventually catch up.

4. Likewise, a hot streak of shooting― while fun― will not last forever either. If you average one out of every four or five birds you shoot at, you’re doing as well as most other hunters out there.

5. Wild birds are infinitely better than pen-raised. While training with and hunting pen-raised birds may be fun, it can never supplant the real thing. There's just no comparison.

6. Understand that Nature’s way is for game to be scarce. On most days, you will not find an overabundance of birds. This fact has led to the common expression, “sometimes birds, sometimes feathers.” Also, this fact is what makes those days of abundance that much more special. If you find a bird bonanza, count your blessings, say a prayer of thanks, and savor the moment.

7. Boot leather gets birds. Those hunters willing to hike higher or farther will find and take more birds in the long run.

8. Remember all life is sacred. Respect the great game birds we pursue. Never take more than what you are allowed by law. If you are fortunate to take one of these great birds, don’t just stuff them indifferently into your game bag, but always smooth their feathers and admire their beauty. If you wound one, go to great lengths to bring that bird to hand. Always eat what you kill with gratitude.

A beautiful gray phase ruffed grouse from Idaho. The birds are just a bonus.

9. Learn more about the special birds you hunt. Learning about the game birds you pursue, their life cycle, habitat, and food, will not only help you to find more birds, but will enhance your enjoyment of the hunt and appreciation for the birds.

10. The key to wild birds is HABITAT. The timeless words of the movie, The Field of Dreams, “If you build it, they will come” are appropriate for bird hunting. In other words, if you create the habitat, the birds will come.

11. Give back to Nature. Support organizations like Pheasants Forever, The Ruffed Grouse Society, the North American Grouse Partnership, Quail Unlimited, The Nature Conservancy, and the numerous land trusts that are creating and preserving habitat. We can’t succeed without the help of such organizations.

12. Be the kind of hunting partner you want to have. No one likes a game hog, a braggart, a drill sergeant, a whiner, or someone who is dangerous with their gun. A good, considerate, ethical hunting companion makes a day afield that much better. Whereas, a bad companion leaves a bad taste in your mouth for days to come.

13. Take pictures and write in a journal. The hunting memories that you are making right now will become little treasures that you will remember in days to come. Be sure to take pictures and write down in a journal your experiences and I promise that those treasures will only grow more priceless over the years.

Me and my hunting buddies.

14. The man and dog partnership is the height of hunting. As Burton L. Spiller wrote, “I believe it is the inalienable right of every boy to have a dog for his very own, and if he is to hunt with one later in life the early lessons he learns will be invaluable to him.” The companionship of a good dog makes the hunt so much more special. It’s hard to describe, but the relationship between a man (or boy) and his dog is almost spiritual. A hunting dog is a link to the natural world that man cannot have on his own. You will find that when you and your dog hunt together with a singularity of purpose, the master and canine element fades away and you and your dog become partners and buddies. Nothing in our outdoor sports quite compares with that bond.

15. Bird hunting makes you see and recognize unappreciated beauty. Bird hunting takes you to places and makes you see things that you would have never seen unless you were afield pursuing a bird. You will begin to find beauty in places that the world cannot appreciate; weedy, unkempt, tangled, thick, gnarly places, will soon take on a tantalizing appeal.

16. Name your coverts. Naming your covers, or coverts (those secret hunting places of your heart), after a prominent geographic feature or a special experience is half the fun. Pretty soon your covers will have names like: The Royal Macnab, Grouseketeer Ridge, Sunrise Ridge, Hope’s Hill, Grouse Springs, Grouse Rock, The Mini Flat Tops, The Lloyd Christmas Cover, The Sunset Strip, Madman Land, The Trail to Quail, The Knife’s Edge, or even better.

17. Ask for permission to hunt and respect the landowner’s property. Remember that if you never ask a landowner for a permission to hunt good looking cover on private property, the answer is always “no.” On the flip side, remember that if you don’t ask a landowner for permission to hunt his property, but do it anyway, the answer in the future will always be “no.” Most landowners respect a hunter who will come to his front door, look him in the eye, and ask for permission because he knows that this this hunter will respect his property. Respect a landowner’s property, his cattle and horses, his fences and gates and you will be a welcome guest for years to come.

18. Learn the value of classic bird hunting books. In time, you will come to learn that a good book about bird hunting, especially in the off season, is almost as good as hunting itself. Seek out the classics like Burton L. Spiller, George Bird Evans, Corey Ford, Gene Hill, William G. Tapply and others. You won’t regret it!

Two pups trying figure out what it's all about.

19. It’s all about the dogs! The time will come when watching your hunting dogs do what they were born and bred to do will mean more to you than the killing of birds. Remember that, at the end of the day, the birds are just the bonus!

20. You hold the future of bird hunting in your hands. Whether your own children and grandchildren will be able to hunt is up to you. You must take action to preserve this way of life both legally and to preserve the prerequisite habitat for birds to thrive. As for potential future hunters, like your own experience with your mentor, you must be the one to show them the way.

THE ROYAL MACNAB

2011-09-20T21:14:00.010-06:00

THE ROYAL MACNAB

By Andrew M. Wayment

A fine brace of sharptails from the Royal Macnab.

All hunters have observed that it’s Nature’s way for game to typically be scarce. Some years, bird populations are better than others, but sometimes― like right now―birds are just hard to find, which makes those times where we find an abundance all that more special.

Every bird hunter has a covert or two where they experienced some of the best hunting they can recall and bird numbers were beyond all expectations. And while the phenomenon of that day may never be quite replicated, those special days afield and the covert become imprinted on our psyche and emblazoned on our souls.

Every year, my brother Shawn and I get together for our annual week-long hunt in the Idaho uplands. No offense meant to our Muslim friends, but we call this week, the “Holy Jihad on the Gallinations” because we hunt all over southern Idaho for multiple species of bird. To say that we look forward to this time together all year long is an understatement. As Mark C. Dilts so aptly stated in the Introduction to Of Grouse and Things: “A grouse hunter’s year is said to be divided into two distinct parts; one is grouse season and the other ain’t!” In 2003, we planned our week of hunting in October when all of creation was in its full splendor and grouse season was most definitely in.

Along for this hunt was Shawn, our younger brother Jacob, and me. Having lost Farley just before the hunting season, I only had my French Brittany, Sunny Girl, Jake had Sunny’s sister, Halley, and Shawn had two Elhew Pointers, Geppedo and Dusty, and an English Setter, Ginny.

Halley and Sunny. Believe it or not, these two are French Brittany sisters.

As we drove towards our destination in the dark, Shawn told me about Robert “Bob” F. Jone’s story, “The Royal Macbob,” which is based upon the British sporting feat of catching an Atlantic Salmon, shooting a red stag, and bagging a brace of grouse all in one day. When this is accomplished, it is called, “The Great Macnab.” And if a sportsman threw in some hanky panky with a member of the landowner’s household, it was called, “The Royal Macnab.” Anyway, Shawn explained that Jones liked the challenge so much he changed it up to meet his circumstances. For him the feat was to: (1) shoot a deer with his bow; (2) catch a brook trout on the fly; (3) shoot a brace of ruffed grouse; and (4) throw in some hanky panky with his wife all in one day. He dubbed his impressive feat: “The Royal Macbob.” We all laughed as Shawn described Jones’s classic take on this theme while the sun began to peak over the big range to the east.

“Wow brother, this looks like textbook sharptail habitat!” Shawn observed while we geared up for the hunt.

“Yep, after reading Western Wings by Ben O. Williams, I knew the first instant I saw this place that it fit the bill. We should see some birds.” I replied, not knowing what an understatement I had just made.

This incomparable covert is comprised primarily of CRP fields that slope gently downhill. However, the hand of time has gouged through the rolling CRP fields numerous parallel draws running east to west which have drained the area for eons. As the draws slope downhill to the west, they become increasingly deeper and wider to the point where they become more like canyons. Inside, the draws are lined with quaking aspens and numerous berry bushes, including service berry, rose hips, and elder berry, which serve as food sources for all the game birds, including ruffed grouse, Hungarian Partridge, pheasant, and sharptail. Above the CRP fields to the east are grand, steep mountains with thick pine forests. To sum it up, the surrounding panorama is simply breathtaking.

As we hiked the rolling hills at first light, we witnessed a phenomenon that I have only witnessed this one time. That morning there were so many sharptails in this covert, that we could literally hear them clucking everywhere. It sounded like chickens in a coup sans a crowing rooster. Immediately, I had the thought: This is going to be a banner day!

Shawn’s dog Dusty took note, went bezerk, and embarked (no pun intended) on a bird-bustin’ rampage flushing every sharptail within a hundred yards. Of course, Shawn shouted some angry expletives, while Jake and I strained to keep our mouths shut. It was this very performance that resulted in Dusty being dubbed, “Bustin’ Dusty” for the rest of his days. And to think, I later took Dusty in as my own dog in hopes of a reformation, but unfortunately―while I grew to love the knucklehead―the moniker stuck for the rest of his life.

Despite Dusty’s shenanigans, there were still plenty of birds for us to find. In fact, as we hunted south, we heard shots from across a big draw on an adjacent property and watched another huge covey of sharptails flee the other hunters’ pursuit and drop down into our vicinity to replenish what Dusty had just flushed to the horizon. We all smiled at our good fortune. It truly was one of those charmed days!

One special memory that stands out for me occurred when we dropped down a draw on the edge of the property and kicked up a grouse that flushed uphill giving me a quartering away shot, which I made. Little Sunny Girl, who with the loss of Farley, was hunting solo for me, went in for the retrieve and by golly, the darn bird got up again presenting a close left to right crossing shot, which I connected on again. Not back to back singles, but I’ll take it. One-year-old Sunny made her very first retrieve to hand. I snapped a picture to commemorate the accomplishment. Sunny is now 9 years old and has been a solid retriever ever since. Apparently, this day was a seminal one for the dogs as well.

Sunny Girl's very first retrieve.

When the action slowed and our bellies growled with hunger, we decided to head into town for some Mexican food (of course) and try a totally different spot that afternoon.

Andy proudly displays Sunny's first retrieve.

After seeing no birds at our second destination, except a solitary beheaded sharptail which had just fallen prey to a raptor, Shawn pleaded, “Brother, let’s go back to that other spot. That place was so awesome!”

“That sounds good to me!” I responded. The hunting had been so good that morning that he did not have to twist my arm.

That afternoon, my brother-in-law, Eric, and nephew Josh, met up with us at our new favorite covert and we all commenced hunting. Again, this special place was loaded with sharptails. After a few of us filled our two-bird limits, our goal was to get the newcomers, Eric and Josh, into some birds. Try as we may, we just could not get those boys into position for a good shot. Then finally, one bird lit down into bottom of a wooded draw and I marked it down perfectly. With my limit filled, I told Josh and Eric, “Come with me, I know right where that bird landed.” The two eager beavers obediently followed their guide.

At the bottom of the draw in the tall weeds, I said, “All right boys, that bird is right down here, get ready!” I could not have given them a better set up. As if on cue, the sharpie flushed straightaway giving them what looked like an easy chip shot, which Eric and Josh saluted numerous times on its way out of Dodge. Of course, with a chuckle, I razzed them for their inexplicable misses. In their defense, Hemingway said something about fishing, which I think applies equally to shotgunning: “Somebody just back of you while you are [shooting] is a bad as someone looking over your shoulder while you write a letter to your girl.” Simply put, the pressure was on and they both choked (like most of us have, or would have, in the same situation).

As we drove away from this unparalleled covert after such a stellar day, we reflected on the days events. Shawn stated, “A special covert like this needs a kingly name. From now on, this place is ‘The Royal Macnab.’” The consensus was quick and unanimous. We named the covert in honor of that classic story written by Robert F. Jones, which to this day, is still one of our all-time favorites in sporting literature. After starting off this day with a good laugh over Jone's classic story, the name just seemed to fit.

Left to Right: Brothers Jake, Shawn and Andy on their first day together at the Royal Macnab.

Since then, every day in The Royal Macnab has been special, but none more unforgettable than the first from whence it got its name. Come every October 1st, I know exactly where I want to be when the sun peaks over the mountains to the east.

YOU MAY BE A BLUE GROUSE HIPPIE IF . . .

2011-09-11T16:32:00.011-06:00

YOU MAY BE A BLUE GROUSE HIPPIE IF . . .

By Andrew M. Wayment

1. You see every summer fishing expedition to a high mountain stream or lake as having the dual purpose of scouting for blue grouse.
2. You have ever longed to be on a windswept alpine ridge in the dead of winter following your dogs and looking for the birds of a dusky feather.
3. You are amazed every single time you connect with a bird as it dives downhill.
4. You realize that the bird’s official name is now the “Dusky Grouse,” but you have been calling them “blue grouse” for so many years that you refuse to make the switch.
5. You are not really keen on exercise, but you would hike Everest for a chance at a blue grouse and never think twice about it.
Tommy Boy is pooped after climbing up a steep, thick spot looking for blue grouse.

6. You take your wife, kids and dogs huckleberry picking in hopes of finding another covert loaded with blues.
7. You always hope to find the mythical bottleneck where the blue grouse congregate in astounding numbers on their annual upward migration to higher elevations.
8. You seek out every mountain ash berry tree with its bright orange fruit and pitch rocks into it in hopes of flushing a grouse―and sometimes it works.
9. You refuse to pot a bird on the ground or in a tree, but you will pitch sticks and rocks for the always difficult second flush (of course, you know it gets even trickier when you are the thrower and the gunner!).
10. You have accidentally killed a blue with a rock or a stick when trying to cause the second flush.
11. On occasion, you’ve gone 3 birds for 3 shots, but on others you have gone 0 for 8, or worse, and loved every second of it!
12. You have ever been startled by the flush of a blue, but instinctively shot from the hip just before the blue reached cover and surprisingly thumped it.
13. You have hunted mountains so steep with timber and downed trees so thick, tangled and gnarly, you think: Chukar hunters are wussies.
14. Even though blues are categorized as “forest grouse,” you know from experience that they can be found in the wide-open sagebrush, bitter brush, and other berry bushes and always hope to find them there when stepping out of the timber.

Future Blue Grouse Hippie, Thomas, enjoys the view from 10,000 feet, where I've seen grouse base jump . . . Kamikaze style.

15. You have ever wished that you had two vehicles on a hunt so that you could park up at the top of the ridge and work your way down to the other truck because you know that, what goes down must come back up.
16. At the thunder of a blue’s flush, you have whiffed some of the easiest shots imaginable, but you have made others that were downright impossible. You realize that every shot made on a blue is a lucky shot and you genuinely wish every bird you miss well as he makes his escape.
17. You love blue grouse as much as (or more than) your crazy bird dogs.

Blue Grouse Hippie Buddies.

18. You have stood on the edge of a 1000 foot drop that a blue grouse just kamikazied off with the sunrise in the background and you think: This bird and this country never cease to amaze me!
19. You have hunted the same spot at the same time year after year and sometimes the birds are present in great numbers and sometimes you cannot find so much as a feather and you are mystified and intrigued by their absence.
20. At the end of the season you have black and blue― or even missing― toenails despite good boots due to hiking in rugged terrain.
21. You have ever fallen and scuffed your gun, dinged your barrel, ripped your pants, bruised your knee, shin or buttocks, or hurt your back while pursuing a blue.
22. You have ever buried your bird dog in the specific location where she found, pointed and retrieved numerous blues one glorious morning.
23. You have ever been in church on Sunday thinking about blue grouse when you should have been thinking about God.
24. You have ever been on top of a mountain thinking about God when you should have been thinking about blue grouse.
25. You compare every game bird and its habitat to the blue grouse and, in your book, every other bird and its environs play second fiddle, even the blue’s awesome lowlander cousin, the ruffed grouse.

The bird of a dusky feather.

Everything Grouse Gumbo

2011-09-04T20:11:00.014-06:00

Everything Grouse Gumbo Adapted from Rachel Ray's Recipe.

Ingredients
Seasoning Blend:
• 1 tablespoon smoked sweet paprika or sweet paprika, a palmful
• 1 1/2 teaspoons coriander, half a palmful
• 1 1/2 teaspoons ground cumin, half a palmful
• 1 1/2 teaspoons cayenne pepper, half a palmful
• A few sprigs fresh thyme, leaves picked and chopped
• 2 fresh bay leaves
•
Trinity-Plus-Two Mix:
• 1 large onion, chopped
• 1 large green bell pepper or 2 small, chopped
• 2 red or green chiles, chopped
• 2 ribs celery, chopped
• 4 cloves garlic, chopped or sliced
•

• 2 pounds boneless, skinless grouse (or pheasant) cut into large pieces (I used the breast meat of 6 blue grouse)
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper
• 1/2 cup flour, plus more for dredging
• 2 tablespoons plus 1/2 cup peanut or vegetable oil
• 1 pound andouille sausage
• 1 (15-ounce) can stewed tomatoes or diced tomatoes with chiles
• 1 (12-ounce) bottle beer
• 6 cups chicken stock
• 12 ounces lump crabmeat or shrimp, peeled and deveined*
• *Cook's Note: If serving later in work-week, pick up seafood fresh, if serving on cook-night or as second night's meal pick up crab or shrimp with your big-shop.
• 1 bunch scallions, trimmed and chopped
• 1 teaspoons hot sauce
•
• Serving suggestion: Scallion wild rice.

Directions
In bowl, mix the paprika, coriander, cumin, cayenne pepper, thyme, and bay leaves. Reserve the seasoning blend.

Chop and reserve the Trinity-Plus-Two mix of onion, peppers, celery, and garlic.

Heat a large Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Season the grouse (or pheasant) with salt and pepper and dredge in flour. Add about 2 tablespoons oil and when hot, add grouse pieces, turning occasionally. When browned, remove to a plate. Remove the casings from sausage and slice on an angle in large chunks. Brown the andouille in a drizzle of oil and remove to plate. Pour off the fat, then add the remaining 1/2 cup oil and 1/2 cup flour, whisk constantly until medium-golden brown in color. Cook's Note: think peanut butter.

Add the vegetables and seasoning blend to the pot, salt, and pepper and stir 6 to 8 minutes, to soften the vegetables a bit. Add the tomatoes and beer to the pot and reduce beer by half, 2 minutes. Add the stock, chicken, and andouille back to the pot, simmer to combine the flavors, then cool completely and store for a make-ahead meal.

To reheat the gumbo: Place the gumbo in a covered pot over medium heat, stir in the crab or shrimp and heat through or cook shrimp, until pink and firm. Top with scallions and serve with scallion wild rice, if desired.

Colorado Greenbacks

2011-08-29T21:27:00.007-06:00

Here's some photos of my favorite native Western fish in gorgeous country...

ARE YOU A BIRDBRAIN?

2011-08-04T17:46:00.007-06:00

Many Birdbrains live for the point.

Have you ever been called a “Birdbrain”? Obviously, there is a negative connotation that comes with this phrase suggesting that birds, and by extension the person so addressed, are dumb. Merriam-Webster’s On-line Dictionary defines a Birdbrain as: “A stupid person” or “Scatterbrain.” This is probably not something that one readily admits to or aspires to be.

However, there’s a very real addiction out there that does not yet have a name. For those diehard bird hunters, who live for days afield in the fall with bird dogs chasing any number of feathered fowl, the term Birdbrain may take on new meaning or even desirability. Possibly afflicted with this malady are those who always seem to have a far-off look in their eyes like a pointer searching the horizon for birds; those who long for the familiarity of their secret coverts throughout the year; those who would rather spend time with their bird dogs than with the fairer sex; those who enjoy the acrid smell of burnt gun powder from the barrel of a scattergun; or those who constantly have bird dogs and game birds on the brain. All of these individuals might just be Birdbrains.

Birdbrains love their furry, four-legged friends who hunt their hearts out for them.

Many outsiders-looking-in may see a Birdbrain’s obsession as silly, stupid, or even a waste of time and money. After all, more than one individual has walked away from a respectable job in the city to pursue their love of the outdoors and bird hunting. Just think of George Bird Evans, Ted Trueblood, and Mark Jeffrey Volk. An acquaintance of Burton Spiller actually took him to task on his constant sporting endeavors and asked, “Did you ever count the cost of your hunting? . . . Of the time you have lost and the money you spent?” This question sparked the timeless response by the Poet Laureate of Grouse Hunting, which should be the mantra of all Birdbrains:

"I replied and truthfully too, that I never lost a moment’s time in hunting: that I counted only that time lost which I spent working. . . . You think the days and weeks I have spent afield were wasted. Well, let me tell you this. If such a thing were possible, I would not trade even the memories of those glorious days for all the money you will ever possess."

This begs the question: What are hunting memories worth to a Birdbrain? The answer is: Immeasurable. Birdbrains would much rather pursue birds with their canine companions than fame, fortune, or power. Birdbrains would choose a handful of feathers over a handful of gold any day. Burton Spiller’s friend Carney said it best when he exclaimed: “What! Me swap places with Rockfeller? Hell! I can kill more birds than he can.”

By way of warning, a side effect from being a Birdbrain is a growing discontent with the material things of this world and society in general. Birdbrains soon realize that many of the things people stress over daily—such as litigiousness, politics, or materialism—are just manmade strife that we could all live without. So their hearts lie elsewhere. Birdbrains gravitate towards that which is good, that which is wholesome, that which is real. The natural world has a magnetic pull for Birdbrains because they sense something greater than themselves underlying it all. The earth’s own rhythm and flow more closely matches the tune of their souls than the industrial grind they can’t seem to shake in society. The simple pursuit of birds with dog and shotgun is a Birdbrain’s ticket to a peaceful place where their world makes more sense.

Are you a Birdbrain? Do you suffer with this unshakable affliction? In this decadent world, there are definitely worse things one can be. Obviously, Merriam-Webster’s will need to broaden the definition. Perhaps they can change it to include “Scattergun Brain” or better yet, “One who is irretrievably addicted to the upland shooting life.” Of course, outsiders will never fully understand. Only a sufferer of this affliction can appreciate its full measure. Admitting that you are a Birdbrain is the first step . . . to enjoying the heck out of it! Have a good hunting season fellow Birdbrains.

Future Birdbrain Tommy Boy is stoked that Dad got a ruffed grouse.

HEAVEN ON EARTH: STORIES OF FLY FISHING, FUN & FAITH IS ALMOST HERE

2011-07-24T16:51:00.005-06:00

Greetings fellow bird hunters and fly fishers. It's been a long time coming, but I am excited to annouce that my first book, Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun & Faith is almost here. Below is a brief summary of the book:

The Lord has a special place in his heart for fishermen. For lawyers, not so much. When a guy who deals daily with the collision of these conflicting worlds has the temerity to author a book, you wonder whether anything coherent can result. This singular miracle, however, is now in print. In Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly Fishing, Fun & Faith, Andrew Wayment, a diehard fisherman and attorney, negotiated his personal contradiction with such style and grace as to transport you to a place of joy and peace. This book is a collection of stories from the author’s life with the pastime of fly fishing as the primary subject matter. However, in a nation where it is quickly becoming taboo to even mention God or things of a spiritual nature, the author bucks this trend and uses fish and fishing as a vehicle to share deeper spiritual principles. Hopefully, in reading this book of fishing stories you, too, will find a little Heaven on Earth.

Of Heaven on Earth, Hartt Wixom, the author of Improve the World: Go Fishing! and Fishing: The Extra Edge wrote:

Andrew Marshall Wayment has done a phenomenal job combining fishing, fun, family, faith and I would add, philosophy, to his Heaven on Earth book. In the process, he has provided many insightful ways and means of enjoying angling to its zenith. In addition, the fly fisherman will gain a hatful of fishing tips as he/she wades the Madison River and other favorite American fishing holes.

I am excited to share this work with the world. I am not sure of all the details yet, but we will most likely be creating a website where you can order the book. I will post a link as soon as it's ready. If any of you are interested in a signed copy, please shoot me an email and I'll email you with the details as soon as I know.

Thanks for your support!

TED NELSON LUNDRIGAN'S, HUNTING THE SUN

2011-07-19T16:10:00.006-06:00

Greetings, fellow Birdbrains. With yesterday's purchase of Hunting the Sun: A Passion for Grouse, I just finished my quest to acquire all of Ted Nelson Lundrigan's books.

For those of you who have not read his work, he is a great author. I first came across his work in an anthology entitled: Bare November Days and have been a fan ever since. Along with Hunting the Sun (which is his first book), Lundrigan has written two other books: Grouse and Lessor Gods and A Bird in Hand. I have thoroughly enjoyed all of Lundrigan's books. The talented Bob White did all the artwork for the latter two books and they are indeed beautiful.

Lundrigan is from Minnesota and the bird of his heart is the ruffed grouse. Thus, much of his writing is about pursuing that noble game bird. However, he also writes about hunting bobwhites, pheasants, and sharptails. Lundrigan's hunting companions include Joel Vance and the late, Michael McIntosh, both great bird-hunting writers in their own right.

Like me, Lundgrigan is an attorney by profession, but don't hold that against him! His profession has served him well as he is a wordsmith unequaled by most of his contemporaries and he tells a good story. I have no qualms with recommending any of Lundrigan's books to the followers of Upland Equations.

Oh, and just a tip, Hunting the Sun, is now listed on Amazon.com lower that it has been in a long time. . . . Since it is his first book (and arguably his most popular), it is the toughest to find at a decent price. Better get it quick before its gone. Believe me, I'm speaking from experience!

THE STORY OF JULES VERNE: A WATCH POCKET DOG by WAYNE CALDWELL SIMMONS

2011-06-08T12:37:00.010-06:00

Many of you will remember Jules Verne, the noted author of the book, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, but you may have not yet heard of Jules Verne, the bird dog. In The Story of Jules Verne: A Watch Pocket Dog, Wayne Caldwell Simmons shares the story of his beloved dog. Like the dog’s namesake, this book reaches depths that many such books in this genre never fathomed.

From his mysterious vagabond beginnings, Jules Verne, a Brittany, at first appears to the reader as a small, no-account mutt that no one wanted (including the author). To everyone's surprise, Jules turns out to be the proverbial diamond in the rough that out-hunts pointers and setters with well-known and respected pedigrees. Despite the expressed criticism of his pointer and setter loving friends, it does not take Simmons long to realize just how lucky―or better yet, blessed—he really is to have Jules, his own “watch pocket dog” (which is a derogatory term coined by one of Simmon's pointer-loving friends because of Jule's diminutive size).

"Jules at the Old Cottonwood Log" by Wayne Caldwell Simmons.

Along with the intriguing story of Jules, this book celebrates the traditions and ethics of Southern bird hunting. As Simmons so aptly points out:

In the vernacular of the Southern Sportsman, the term “Bird Hunting” can refer to only one thing: the Quest, preferably with the use of a fine double-barreled shotgun and a brace of well-trained pointing dogs, of that elusive and noble Southern Gentleman himself, Mister Bob White Quail.

"The Usurper" by Wayne Caldwell Simmons.

Coupled with this deep respect for the bobwhite is the wingshooting ethic that most bird hunters espouse. Simmons captures this ethic so succinctly with an account of one of his first quail hunts as a child when he shot into a covey on the ground taking three with one shot. Regarding his father’s disapproving response, Simmons wrote:

He came over placing his big hand on my shoulder, and said quietly, “Buck (as he sometimes called me), you are young and don’t know any better, but we don’t shoot these little country gentlemen on the ground. That’s just not a sporting proposition for “Old Bob”; in fact, your grandfather once told me in a situation very much like this one, that there were only two things he’d whup me over―hitting girls and shooting birds on the ground.

This hard lesson is one that all young wingshooters must learn as they grow in appreciation and respect for the special quarry we pursue.

The story of Jules Verne is a classic in and of itself, but this book is also packed with numerous color prints of the author’s own beautiful artwork, which elevates this work into a masterpiece of a talented wordsmith and artist. The author has graciously granted me permission to share some of the art from the book in this review.

"Hillside Flush" by Wayne Caldwell Simmons.

In short, this book is a celebration of everything bird hunters love about the uplands, the birds we pursue, the hunting companions with whom we share our days afield, and the special dogs that better our lives. It’s hard to believe that a short book about a watch pocket dog can pack in so much depth and do it so well. However, Wayne Simmons has not only pulled it off, but made it look easy. And that is the essence of good art whether it stems from the pen or paintbrush. Just as the one-time skeptic Simmons quickly learned to love Jules Verne the dog, the reader will quickly cherish Jules Verne the book.

DAY SIX: TWO FOR ONE WITH TOMMY

2011-05-29T17:00:00.011-06:00

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: This article was first published earlier this year in the February/March issue of Gettin' Out Magazine here in Idaho and is reprinted here with the permission].

TWO FOR ONE WITH TOMMY

By Andrew M. Wayment

Everyone loves a good deal—you know, when you get a great discount, or even better, you get two for the price of one. The same is true for bird hunters. We live for those times when it all comes together, the hunting companions are unbeatable, the weather cooperates, the birds are aplenty, the dog work is phenomenal, and the old shooting eye comes through for once. Memories of those banner days afield only get better with time.

Last October, my brother Shawn and I shared one of the best weeks of bird hunting I have ever experienced, days of hunting blue grouse, quail and huns, sharptail and ruffed grouse. We saw plenty of birds, the dogs did great, and, with the exception of a few brief moments of mediocrity, I shot pretty darn good (for this duffer anyway). How could things get any better?

After a phenomenal Thursday hunt for sharptails and ruffs not far from Pocatello, with my brothers, Shawn and Jake, a thought struck me: Kristin (my wife) and the kids are coming back from the dentist in Rupert and she’ll be passing through Pocatello. Why not see if I can spend Friday hunting with my only son, Thomas? Tommy and I had shared some great days blue grouse hunting in September, but we had not hunted together since then. We were about due for another hunt and I wanted to share part of this unforgettable week with him.

“Hi, where are you guys?” I asked Kristin over the phone.

“Almost to Pocatello, why?” Kristin responded.

“Would Tommy like to skip school tomorrow and go hunting with me?” I asked eagerly. I could overhear Kristin talking to Tom about my proposal on her end.

“Yes, Tommy would love that. Let’s meet at the Maverick so Tom can jump in with you.” Kristin suggested.

“Will do.” I replied.

Fifteen minutes later, with a chocolate milk in hand and a smile on his face, Tom climbed into the car with me and the bird dogs. That night, Tom and I had a good laugh together as we watched Diary of a Wimpy Kid at his Grandma and Grandpa Empey’s in Chubbuck.

The next morning, we awoke with the sun and stopped for breakfast at the local MacDonald’s with Shawn and his fiancé, Karen, and indeed, we were loving it.

Upon reaching our hunting destination, a covert we dubbed the Royal Macnab, I had to make a difficult decision: Should I try and hunt my elderly French Brittany, Sunny Girl, or should I hunt only the energetic pup, Misty? Given the fact that Sunny could hardly walk after a nonstop week of hunting, the answer was obvious. I had to let the old girl rest. As Sunny cried over the betrayal, a tear welled up in my eye over her unquenchable desire to hunt. The spirit was still willing, but the flesh was weak. That little dog is all heart.

Once again, Misty is going solo on this day.

The Royal Macnab is a special covert any time of the day, but in the morning, with the sun rising over the mountain ridge to the east, the covert literally shines with all of the colors of fall. One can’t help but feel hopeful with such light and beauty all around. With your only son by your side, this makes things even better. The Royal Macnab is basically made up of foothills sloping up to a majestic mountain range to the east. The foothill bench itself is covered with sage brush and CRP. However, as the bench descends to the valley, it is intersected with numerous thickly wooded draws gouged out by the seasonal streams created by rain and runoff. As the streams descend in elevation, the draws steadily deepen and widen into canyons. The sharptails use these geographical features to their advantage and fly across the draws to escape the pursuing hunters.

First thing that morning, we stopped by the elderberry knoll overlooking one of the draws to see if the devious ruffed grouse—who had burned me numerous times before—was home, but he was nowhere to be found. Having hunted the same covert the day before, the sharptails were not as readily found either, but, with the abundant successes of the earlier week, the figurative cup of my drive to succeed had been filled to overflowing.

The mighty hunters approach the elderberry knoll to see if Mr. Ruff is home.

Instead, Tom and I talked about life and the little things of the natural world that kids see, but adults oftentimes overlook, like beetles, grasshoppers, berries, or colorful leaves. Tommy wanted to take pictures of every grasshopper he saw and there were hundreds around. At one point, Tom picked up a perfect little mouse skull and I took pictures as we admired it together.

As for birds, Shawn flushed a few Hungarian Partridge and knocked one down, but the dogs could not find it in the thick grass. I marked the other Huns down fairly well and Tommy, Misty, and I worked our way over to where I thought they were. Although they were pretty much where I expected them to be, I still missed the grey streaks of lightning when they flushed, which is the general result for me when encountering Huns. I call this being Hundone.

Even with the miss, Tommy and I continued to enjoy each other’s company and talked as we hiked over hill and dale. I was proud of Tommy because he did not complain about the hiking even one time and seemed to really enjoy the time afield.

We all decided to swing back towards the vehicles to water the dogs and then try the lower stretch of the Royal Macnab. This was the ticket as the birds were bunched up on this side of the biggest draw on the property. Shawn quickly took a bird that was trying to jump the canyon, but Tom and I followed Misty up a rounded hill as her body language indicated birds.

Shawn’s pointer, Geppedo, happened to be closest to us when a big covey of sharptails bailed off the downhill slope of the hill. In a split second, I took aim on the bird closest to me, but saw another one line up with the barrel as I pulled the trigger. To my amazement two birds dropped at the shot—a bona fide Scotch Double. I had never done this before in my life. It was that type of week. Gep retrieved the bird I meant to shoot and I fetched up the other one filling my limit for the day.

“Did you see that Tommy Boy? I just took two birds with one shot!” I asked excitedly.

“Yeah Dad,” he replied, “that was awesome!”

“You must be my good luck charm today buddy!” I said as I rubbed Tom’s head. “I’m glad you came hunting with me and you were here to witness that. Now Uncle Shawn can’t say I am lying.”

After we got back together with Shawn and Karen and started to head back up towards the vehicles, two sharpies flushed away presenting Shawn with a perfect opportunity to fill his two bird limit. We watched—as if in slow motion—as Shawn pulled the trigger and one bird dropped way down the steep hill. What an excellent shot and what a way to cap off a week of hunting with my brother.

Tommy Boy, my good luck charm.

As I reflect on this hunt, I have to admit that it is not the spectacular shot that made the day special for me. Oh sure, it was sweet and I won’t soon forget it. Rather, it was the quality time spent with Shawn, Karen, and especially Tommy Boy hunting my favorite covert that really made the day shine. As I always say, the birds are just the bonus. On this day, I definitely got the two for one deal!

DAY FIVE: GLIMPSES OF A (NEAR) PERFECT DAY

2011-05-28T10:08:00.016-06:00

Day five of the week of hunting in Idaho took us to my favorite covert, the Royal MacNab, where we can expect to find sharptails, ruffed grouse, and occasionally Huns on any given day. Along for this hunt were Shawn, my younger brother Jake, and his 10 year old son, Jakey.

Jake and Jakey share a granola bar during the hunt.

I have decided to do something different this post. If I try to describe everything from this awesome day, then that could get—how do I put this? ― well, a little boring. So, rather than give you the play by play, I just want to share a few glimpses of a (near) perfect day.

***

It is 5:30 a.m. in the morning. As we sit at the Wayside Café eating a hearty breakfast, I decide to tease my young nephew, Jakey, just to see if I can get a rise out of him.

“Jakey, what are you doing here? Somebody told me that you hate bird dogs and bird hunting.” I say with a grin.

“No, that’s not true, I love bird hunting!” Jakey replies seriously.

“Well, how come somebody told me that?” I press.

“Dude, you’re just making up crazy crap!” Jakey fires back.

We all chuckle at his unexpected retort.

***

The sun is peaking over the mountain range to the east as we hike up a finger draw of the Royal MacNab.

“Hey, look at all of those big birds in that tree. What are they?” Jakey points out.

In the glare of the sun, we observe multiple plump birds, like the proverbial partridges in a pear tree, except the tree is a choke cherry or service berry tree. Upon closer inspection, we determine that they are sharptails and they are clearly on to us.

Shawn hunts the edge of one of the numerous draws of the Royal MacNab.

We approach the wary sharptails and they flush wild in groups of one, twos, or threes. There must have been twenty sharptails in that one tree and they all flushed into the thick quakie patch above us. We hunt them in the timber like ruffed grouse with about the same results as ruffed grouse hunting, but it is sure fun.

***

As we hike up a huge patch of CRP along a wooded draw, a solitary sharptail flushes toward the trees presenting both Jake and I— who are side by side―a close shot. We both instantly shoulder our guns. Although I have a great shot, I hold off for Jake, who doesn’t get to hunt as much as me. The bird tumbles at Jake’s gun’s report.

“Nice shot, Jake!” I exclaim. With this bird, Jake has filled his two-bird limit.

Heaven shines down.

I honestly feel as much (or more) satisfaction with Jake’s success than if I had pulled the trigger myself.

***

The mighty hunters, Jake and Shawn, are back at the truck with their two-bird sharptail limits, but my dogs, Sunny and Misty, and I have one more bird to go.

As we push up a CRP flat, the dogs start to get birdy and begin to zero in on the swirling scent. Both dogs flash point and two sharptails flush simultaneously in the wind making them look like they are flying in slow motion. . . .

Once I make it back to the truck with a bulging game bag, Shawn texts in to facebook: “3 Hunters, 3 Dogs, 3 Hours, 6 Sharptail . . . Priceless.” Indeed it is.

***

After a lunch of chile verde and enchiladas sunrise, we travel to a different alpine covert, in search of ruffed grouse. We hunt a ridge with some thick quakies interspersed with bushes of snow berries, service berries, elder berries, and mountain ash—a veritable ruffed grouse Mecca if ever there was one. Right off, the dogs flush a grouse, which presents us with no shot.

“I really want to get a ruffed grouse this trip.” Shawn says eagerly as we walk towards some thick mountain ash bushes with their bright orange berry clusters.

“Shawn, get up here so you get a chance at the next one.” I suggest.

We all walk through the quaking aspens in a line working the cover and a ruffed grouse gets up right in front of Shawn presenting him with a good straightaway shot. However, in his haste to mount the gun Shawn comically bumps his prescription sunglasses so that they are sitting skewompis on his face and he cannot see straight. Of course, he misses the shot. Groused again!

***

My French Brittany, Sunny Girl and I, work down into this shady gully, loaded with mountain ash bushes and their bulging berries. The place literally screams of grouse. I hear something creeping away as we approach and see a ruffed grouse sneaking away.

“Sunny Girl, go get the bird!” I command.

As Sunny approaches, the bird flushes into a mountain ash bush. Sunny strikes a picture perfect sight point.

“Get on out of here bird!” I yell to try and make it flush.

The grouse’s crest is raised in alarm and the bird positions itself for the flush. The bird thunders from its perch and I swing and snap a shot its way. The bird flutters down behind a tall bush thirty yards away. I am unsure whether I made a good shot or not.

Sunny girl disappears behind the bush and quickly reappears with a beautiful, limp ruffed grouse in her mouth.

***

Every day in the uplands with our bird dogs is special—some more so than others. And then some days afield approach perfection. Of course, every hunt has its ups and downs. However, when the ups far outweigh the downs, those are the days we bird hunters live for. Looking back, this day with my brothers and my bird dogs was one of those near-perfect days that I will always cherish. I hope you have enjoyed a few glimpses into this glorious day. In our short, allotted time in this life, may we all experience as many such days as the good Lord permits.

Here's a few more glimpses . . .

DAY FOUR: EL MIRADOR DEL CIELO

2011-05-21T21:28:00.022-06:00

DAY FOUR: EL MIRADOR DEL CIELO

On day four of our epic week of hunting, after traveling all over the great state of Idaho, Shawn and I felt lazy and wanted to sleep in . . . until 7:30 a.m. (which is sleeping in for this crazy Bird Brain). We decided to eat a good hot breakfast and hunt close to home. Shawn was so impressed with the blue grouse cover we hunted on day one of the hunt (see “Of Whiffers and Cliff Divers” below), that he was willing to try it again. Of course, there was no complaint from me as the blue grouse is my favorite game bird. I love the beautiful alpine settings they inhabit and the challenge they so often present on the wing.

A big male blue and Shawn's 28 Gauge Ruger Red Label O/U.

At around 8:30 a.m., we stopped at our favorite truck-stop restaurant just off of I-84, fittingly dubbed, “The Wayside Café.” Every time I eat there—sometimes as early as 5:00 a.m. in the morning―I can’t help but think of the symbolism of that name. For the phrase the “wayside” has often been considered negatively as a place where lost or fallen souls have strayed--somewhere off of the strait and narrow path. Usually, early in the morning there are only fry cooks, groggy waitresses, truckers, and—when we are there―occasionally bird hunters. Admittedly, bird hunters are an eccentric lot and some may think of us as wayward. However, on a sunny, October day before a grouse hunt, we feel anything but lost or fallen.

After breakfast, we headed towards the mountain looming in the distance. The short drive took us from irrigated desert farm land to a mountain peak 10,000 feet above sea level.

Misty enjoys the view at 10,000 feet.

“Believe it or not, I have seen sage grouse up here only 100 feet from where I’ve found blue grouse.” I reported matter-of-factly to Shawn.

“Are you kidding me?” Shawn asked as we drove across the flat mountain top.

As if on cue, we both observed something standing in the roadway.

“What is that?” Shawn asked.

“That, my friend, is a sage grouse!” I exclaimed excitedly.

“That is so cool, Brother! I can’t believe the're up here at 10,000 feet.”

Click on the picture to enlarge.

We stopped and took a quick picture and, after we tried to get a little closer, a flock of 5 to 8 birds flushed from the sage brush flying hard and far. There used to be a hunting season for sage grouse in this area, but the birds in Southern Idaho have not fared so well and—with them almost being listed as endangered last year―Idaho Fish and Game closed the season in certain areas of Idaho. While I love to hunt these big grouse, just seeing them and knowing that they are there is special in and of itself.

After much struggle and deliberation, I decided to only hunt my pup, Misty, as my French Brittany, Sunny, could hardly walk after three days of hard hunting. As we walked towards the cover, Sunny girl cried from the kennel in betrayal as we walked into the timber. A tear welled up in my eye as I contemplated her aging and limitations along with her undying desire to hunt.

“It’s for her own good, Andy. You’ve got to take it easy on her if you want to keep her around a few more years.” Shawn stated to console my inner struggle.

Misty, my Brittany pup, is on her own today.

Shawn decided to hunt his fiery, Field Bred Cocker, Ellie. Ellie is black as coal, but she has hellfire in her eyes and she is a real terror on birds. I like to call her “Billy Jean King Bird Buster” which is a play on words of one of many of Chevy Chase’s funny characters in the movie, Fletch.

Billy Jean King Bird Buster (Ellie).

Our first hunt was in a patch of pine trees which is divided into thin sections by the switchback road we had just traveled up. We call this patch “The Piney Strip.” If you recall, this is where Shawn—after going 7 for 7 on blue grouse earlier that year―whiffed the easiest shot anyone can imagine. Every hunter has days like that. Little did I know that mine was coming—even at the door.

While we pushed through the Piney Strip, the sunlight pierced through the trees illuminating the open areas, but creating harsh shadows in others.

“The birds like to hang out right along this edge and bail over the road when flushed.” I pointed out to Shawn.

As we walked, I spied a big blue grouse standing in the shadow of the trees right along the edge overlooking the road as I had just described to Shawn.

“Brother, there is a bird right over here. I’m going to go get him. Back me up." My heart pounded as I approached where I had just seen the bird. Just as I had predicted, the bird dived over the road and I missed him twice. During my fruitless barrage, Shawn also shot.

Andy approaches the bird in the shadows.

“There were two blues, Andy and I got one of them.” Not only did Shawn see me poke holes into the air, but he made an easy shot to rub it in. Needless to say, I was feeling a bit embarrassed and self-conscious by my poor shooting. Charley Waterman wrote in Hunting Upland Birds: “I seldom hit a bird I can see before it flies.” I have that same problem and that’s my excuse for this miss. However, I sometimes struggle to hit birds even when I don’t see them before they flush. So this excuse only goes so far.

Shawn figuratively wipes my eye with his blue grouse.

After we pushed through to the end of the Piney Strip, Shawn decided to hunt downhill and I worked my way back up the edge of the south-facing cliff to the mountain peak. Above the timberline was a small strip of sage brush which was adjacent to a cliff that dropped a thousand feet below. Right after Misty and I stepped into the sage, a blue grouse flushed presenting me with an easy left to right crossing shot, which I missed twice. In my defense, when I shot I was concerned it might be a sage grouse (good excuse, eh?). As if the miss were not bad enough, the bird landed in a slag pile not twenty feet from my position in plain view.

By this time I was shaking like Jo Jo the Idiot Circus Boy and fumbled in my vest for more shells to reload. I jammed two shells into the breached over and under and to my consternation, one of the shells sunk below the receiver such that the gun could not close. All the while, the big blue grouse stood there gawking at me. In order to get the shell unjammed, I had to pull my keys out of my pocket and use a thick car key as a lever of sorts to pry out the shell. Once this was done, I snapped the gun shut, stepped toward the docile bird, and it flushed like gang busters. Of course, I whiffed two more relatively easy shots in succession. Arggh!!! I just missed the same bird four times (and this was after my two barrel salute to the bird earlier that morning). Misty promptly bumped another grouse that kamikazied off the cliff.

By this time, Shawn was wondering what all of the shooting was about and made his way up to my position. The lucky blue had lit into the thickest, gnarliest pine tangles I have ever seen. I sent Shawn into the thick stuff while I stopped to answer the call of nature. Two seconds later I heard a flush, located the bird coming right over my head, turned around for the straightaway and once again, missed him cleanly twice as he blazed across the opening in the trees in which I stood.

“I missed that bird SIX TIMES!” I groaned in agony. Earlier that week, I had experienced some of the best shooting of my life and now I was experiencing a terrible slump.

“That’s a tough shot for anyone.” Shawn sympathized. True, the last two shots were tough, but I had no excuses for the others. No two ways about it, I was just stinking up the joint with my poor shooting and I felt as if I had fallen from grace.

Shawn and I walked together back towards the truck just talking and not really expecting anything when a flushing blue grouse caught us both by surprise. We both fired and missed on the first shots, but on my second, it came down.

"Did you shoot ?” I asked incredulously, not believing that I had hit the bird.

“Yes, but I missed him,” Shawn replied. “I was just about to pull the trigger again when he dropped. You got him, Andy. Good shot!” Ellie made a nice retrieve.

“Man, it’s good to get the monkey off my back!” I exclaimed jubilantly. It’s funny how you can have the absolute worst day of shooting and feel like you’ll never hit one again―even if your life depended on it. And then, when you are not even thinking about it, you instinctively make a good shot and the day suddenly changes from despair to joy. Not meaning to be sacrilegious, it’s almost like a little taste of redemption. Indeed, bird hunting (like life) is a roller coaster ride, an endless series of peaks and valleys. We never know what will happen on any given day afield, but this uncertainty and excitement is what keeps us coming back for more. And when we finally succeed, it makes the experience sweet.

Andy, with one less monkey on his back.

After basking in the autumn sun and eating lunch, Shawn and I hunted the north facing slope, but found no grouse.

“Let’s try one more place. There are these little patches of timber along this stair-stepping, series of cliffs where I have found birds before.“ I then told Shawn about a time while deer hunting in a blizzard in this very spot when blues dove out of their snowy roosts in the pine trees off the sheer cliff, scaring me nearly to death.

As we hiked up the steep ladder of the mountain, ol’ man Shawn started to complain, “Brother, I am about done. I can’t hike up anymore. Let’s swing back down.”

“Okay,” I reluctantly agreed. Shawn’s whining turned out to be a blessing because as soon as we made the turn, Misty flushed a blue, and I snapped at it on the rise breaking a wing. Misty pursued the running grouse downhill and, in the process, flushed another one while I reloaded.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Shawn hollered from down below me.

The excited puppy pursued the winged grouse sixty yards down the hill and pinned it with her paws until I could catch up and bring the bird to hand, another huge male, half the size of the pup. As we hiked back down towards the truck, Misty flushed one more bird, which presented no shot.

"Aren’t you glad I am a wuss?” Shawn asked with a huge grin. “If I hadn’t complained when I did, Misty would not have found those birds. Misty is going to be a good bird dog, Brother.” I felt great pride in her performance and, despite my earlier abysmal shooting, felt great satisfaction from the end results of the hunt.

As we drove away, Shawn offered his astute observations and opinions of this near-home covert, “This is text book blue grouse habitat. We have seen 9 blue grouse today. ” And then with a look of seriousness and solemnity, he stated, “This place is sacred.” But I already knew that. Since the beginning of time, wise men have considered the tops of the mountains as holy places. There is a Spanish phrase (which is the name of an ancient city in Central America) that captures my feelings for this special hunting location and of this hunt: El Mirador Del Cielo, which I understand to mean, “the view from the sky,” or even better, “the view from Heaven.”

DAY THREE: THERE'S ALWAYS TACOS

2011-05-03T17:40:00.013-06:00

On day three of our week in the Idaho uplands, Shawn and I traveled up to Hemingway country, not far from Sun Valley, to look for chukars. In this rugged rimrock landscape, we found hundreds of chukars the November before. So we had high hopes for the day, especially after our banner day of quail hunting the day before.

Andy walks the ridges searching for the elusive masked bandits, chukar partridge.

Although we hunted hard and searched high and low, we did not see a single bird. We decided the birds were still spread out and would not migrate to the southfacing slopes until the first hard snows. Pursuing chukar was a bit premature last October.

Shawn Wayment enjoying the scenic rimrock country.

The highlight of our day was stopping at our favorite taco joint in Bellevue, Idaho: Taqueria Al Pastor. I would venture to say that not only does this little restaurant make the finest tacos in the Wood River Valley (they have an award to back it up) but maybe even the world. When asked the question, Shawn conceded that these were the best tacos in the world.

Shawn confesses with a grin that these tacos are the best he's ever had.

After lunch, we could have fished the Big Wood River, which I love dearly. I love to fish as much as I love to bird hunt. However, when the hunting season begins, my focus turns singularly to bird hunting with my Brittanys. In a word, I become a Bird Brain. It's a good thing the hunting season only comes in the fall, or I wouldn't amount to much in life. As William Harnden Foster so aptly stated: "There is an old . . . saying to the effect that if you give a man a shotgun, a bird dog and a violin, he won't amount to a damn."

Indian Paintbrush, my favorite flower grows in blue grouse country, the alpine areas of Idaho.

Shawn and I decided to take to the high country in search of blue grouse that afternoon. Again, we hunted hard, but did not see any birds. In Reflections on a River, Howard Marshall wrote something about fishing, which I think applies equally to bird hunting: "Fishing [and bird hunting] consists of a series of misadventures interspersed by occasional moments of glory." In other words, the nature of our outdoor pursuits is such that we can't expect to have banner days every day.

Blue grouse country in Central Idaho.

But even without any birds, I still do not count this day as a loss. I love what Ted Nelson Lundrigan wrote in A Bird in Hand, about hunting: "Our bird hunting time is precious. I have already written that the greatest trophy I can get from any day in the woods is six hours without a care in the world." I agree. Who can complain when you get to spend a day in beautiful country with your brother and best friend and your bird dogs? My friends, the birds are just the bonus! And even on those days when you can't find a single bird for all of your efforts, there's always tacos.

Feast your eyes upon the best dang tacos in the world.

DAY TWO: STAY THE COURSE

2011-04-27T07:37:00.015-06:00

Author’s Note: A shorter version of this article first appeared in the Post Register in Eastern Idaho in the fall of 2010.

Shawn gets Ellie, a firey fieldbred Cocker and Gretchen, an English Setter, ready for the day's hunt.

DAY TWO: STAY THE COURSE

After going to church and spending time with family on Sunday, when Monday rolled around Shawn and I were again itching to take to the upland road. Our destination in western Idaho was a place we fondly call, “The Trail to Quail,” and for good reason. In the past we have found piles of quail—more than most bird hunters can imagine—and sometimes a few bonus coveys of Huns.

This is the view from the top of the Trail to Quail. . . Beautiful.

In my experience, there’s bird hunting and there’s valley quail hunting, which is a different show altogether. When quail numbers are high, the sheer number of birds can be astounding, especially for a first timer. Moreover, these beautiful, gray birds are strong, acrobatic fliers and make for challenging targets.

Having experienced this challenge, frustration, and fun, numerous times in the past, Shawn exclaimed a as we approached our destination, “Man, I am nervous!”

“Me, too,” I responded, “It’s either going to be a bird bonanza or bust. I can’t wait to find out!”

The intricate patterning of feathers and dark plume of a cock valley quail is hard to beat.

Within five minutes from the truck, the dogs flushed their first covey from a brushy hillside and Shawn harvested his first bird. It did not take long for us to realize as we worked down a brushy creek bottom that 2010 was a banner year for quail in western Idaho, which are very sensitive to harsh winter and spring weather. By all appearances, Mother Nature had been kind to the topknots this year.

While all of the other dogs were too supercharged at first to settle down and hunt, the old veteran, my French Brittany, Sunny Girl, started pointing birds regularly as we worked a big covey down the draw.
Sunny Girl points a covey.

“I love that dog!” Shawn exclaimed in admiration, “She is all heart.”

Fortunately, I made a good shot over one of her points and Ellie, the field bred cocker made a nice retrieve to Shawn.

When we got down to the bottom of the draw, the dogs flushed what we like to call a Chubby Covey—easily over 100 birds—out of a crab apple thicket. The birds passed in waves as we stood gaping. I couldn’t help but think: This is going to be a red letter day!

Believe it or not, we did not follow after the big covey at first. You see, there are numerous finger draws on the opposite side of the valley where we have had tremendous success in the past. We figured we would leave those birds for later. This turned out to be a good strategy as Shawn’s dogs located a nice covey of Huns up one draw and Shawn harvested one.

“Andy, I know right where that covey went. They are right over the crest of this hill. Why don’t you, Sunny and Misty go after them?” Shawn generously offered. “I would not approach them directly on, but hike around the side of the hill and then walk the ridge with your dogs working the cover on the downhill side.”

“That sounds like a good plan.” I eagerly replied. By way of confession, of all upland game birds, Huns are my nemesis. At the time, it had been nine long years since I had harvested one. In short, Huns are the fastest dang birds on wing and--despite all the press to the contrary--I have not found them to be very gentlemanly. They very rarely hold for a point and flush wild more often than not. That’s when I typically give them the two barrel solute. I call this common occurrence in my hunting being: Hundone.

We followed the plan of attack suggested by Shawn to the “T” and when we approached the downhill side of the slope Sunny got birdy, with the pup, Misty right behind her. Sunny pointed for a split second and the screeching covey flushed presenting me with a right-to-left crossing shot. I swung and pulled the trigger and surprisingly the bird dropped. The pup chased the fluttering bird down and made a nice retrieve. Every member of the team was in on the action. As I walked over the hill down to Shawn, I raised the fallen bird over my head victoriously.

The author celebrates a rare Hun as he crests the hill.

“All right!” Shawn cheered. Of course, we took pictures as it will probably be nine more years before I connect with a Hun again.

In the remaining brushy finger draws, we found multiple coveys of quail--from which we both took birds--and two more coveys of Huns, which flushed wild out of range (of course). I was extremely pleased with Misty’s performance. I dropped one quail in a thicket and found the pup standing over it with a huge grin on her face. With the success and the copious amounts of birds, I too felt a euphoric feeling.
The pup, Misty, locates a fallen quail in the thicket.

Shawn and I split up for a minute and my dogs and I went back down to the creek bottom. In a sage brush flat, I spied another top-knotted covey scurrying through sage. We pursued and the covey flushed presenting an easy shot. Sunny Girl made a nice retrieve.

The dogs and I took a moment to sit in the October sunlight and bask in the moment. I thought to myself: Could this day get any better? As we rested, the pup stuck her muzzle in the full game bag. At the time, I did not think much of it. I figured she was just excited about her new found passion.

Shawn and his dogs soon approached and rested and refueled for a minute.

“What do you say we go find that Chubby Covey?” I asked with a smile.

“Sure,” Shawn answered.

However, as we hiked up the main creek bottom, we did not find the birds as we expected. By this time, we both began to feel some fatigue.

“Where are those darn birds?” I asked puzzled.

“I have no idea,” Shawn replied.

“Let’s go hunt this finger draw off to the right.” I suggested with a gesture of the hand.

“Okay” Shawn replied a little less enthusiastically because of the steepness of the terrain. This area was more akin to chukar country than valley quail habitat.

As we got to the base of the steep draw, Shawn complained, “I don’t know if I can make it. I’m getting tired. Should we start hiking back to the truck?”

Right at that moment we heard the tell-tale: Chiquita, Chiquita, Chiquita. One solitary quail called from up in the steep, brushy draw.

“Stay the course brother! There are birds in that draw.” I exclaimed. This was enough to give us both the energy to keep hiking.
This picture was taken from the top of the draw where we found the Chubby Covey. The hike was well worth it.

Upon reaching the first brushy clump, Shawn’s setter, Gretchen went berserk and uncharacteristically started busting birds out of every likely looking place. In her defense, it was pretty hot. Every brushy clump held 10 to 20 birds. We had found the Chubby Covey. Some of the birds flushed up into a plum thicket on the crest of the hill. Others flew into some sparse grass below the thicket. Pretty soon all of the dogs were locating and pointing birds. It was pure bedlam. I hiked up to the plumb thicket hoping for some shots, but the crafty birds would bail out on the side opposite from wherever I happened to be as I circled the large thicket without presenting me with a shot.

I then decided to go down to the steep grassy area where a large part of the covey had lit. This was the ticket as these birds held extremely tight like their cousins, the bobwhite. Sunny and I had a field day kicking up quail and for once, I dialed in and made some consistent good shots. Sunny girl marked and retrieved numerous birds.

In fact, the action was so fast and furious that I quickly ran out of shells, which left me begging Shawn, “PLEASE let me borrow some of your shells!”

“That’ll be a buck a shell,” Shawn laughed as he gave me a handful from his vest. With Shawn’s shells I harvested my last bird over my pup’s point and she even retrieved it for me. This was the icing on the cake.

After 8 ½ hours of action, the hunters and their dogs trudged back toward the truck tired and shaking from hunting in the fast lane. We stopped for a moment to clean the birds and as I went through my game bag I couldn’t find the Hun that I harvested that day. I had no idea where it was lost, but thought that maybe Misty had removed it from my bag while we rested earlier. Arggh!! There was no use going back to look for it as we had covered four or five miles that day. Hundone again! At least I had a picture.

Despite my ongoing bad luck with Huns, the sheer number of quail between us was more than enough. This was one of the best hunts we had ever experienced together. With a huge grin, Shawn said as we pulled away: “I would rather hunt these birds than any others. There’s nothing quite like valley quail. You can tell that the dogs love every minute of it too.”
And indeed they did.

DAY ONE: OF CLIFF DIVERS AND WHIFFERS

2011-04-21T12:55:00.017-06:00

Last October, I spent a week with my brother Shawn and our bird dogs hunting throughout Southern Idaho. In short, it was the best hunting week of my life. When I finally made it home, I wrote down some memories from the hunts. This next series of posts on Upland Equations will follow this epic week day by day.

DAY ONE: OF CLIFF DIVERS AND WHIFFERS

It was 2:00 p.m. Saturday afternoon and my family and I had just made it down from Idaho Falls to my parent’s home in Rupert, Idaho, which is a 120 mile drive. Shawn, who was traveling from near Denver, had a much longer trip, and we beat him there.

I had no expectations of hunting that day, but upon arrival, my parents quickly announced that they had a church function to attend and they would not be around that evening. This sent the brain to scheming: Hmm . . . No parents, no family obligations, maybe we can squeeze a hunt in when Shawn gets here.

Not five minutes after Shawn’s arrival, I eagerly asked him, “Mom and Dad have a church thing to go to. So, do you want to go hunting? I know a place not too far from here. It’s some of the best blue grouse country I’ve ever hunted.”

“That sounds good to me.” Shawn replied. Despite being in the car already for over ten hours that day, Shawn was ready to take to the Idaho uplands with the bird dogs.

After begging leave of my wife and kids, we headed for the nearby mountains. It felt good to leave civilization behind and climb up to over 10,000 feet above the timber.

Classic blue grouse country.

“From your pictures and what you’ve told me, this place reminds me of the Flat Tops in Colorado.” I said matter-of-factly to Shawn.

“I agree. This does look like excellent blue grouse country.” Shawn replied.
Andy drops off the ridge into the timber.

“Let’s hunt over on this north-facing slope where I’ve found birds in the past.” I suggested.

We parked on the top of the ridge, released the dogs, and dropped down into the timber. Shawn hunted all three of his dogs, Ellie, a field bred Cocker Spaniel, Geppedo, an English Pointer with no tail, and Gretchen, an English Setter. Both Sunny, my French Brittany, and Misty, my American Brittany came along too.
With Shawn and his dogs about seventy-five yards below me, we all side-hilled toward the mountain peak. In the Snake River Valley below us, we could see the patchwork of farms and also the circular areas indicating irrigation pivots for those in the know. The thought crossed my mind that they looked a little like UFO landing sites.

The view of the Snake River Plain below us. Notice the circular pivots.

Overhead was a murder of jet black crows circling ominously in the gray skies—a testament of the not-far-distant Winter. I heard a crack of a shotgun blast below me and thought that Shawn must have dropped a blue grouse.

“Did you get one?” I yelled.

“Yeah, a crow.” He replied, “I hate those dang birds.” Maybe this is why they call a flock of crows “a murder of crows.”

“Ah, man! I thought you found some blue grouse. Let’s go find some real birds to hunt.” I complained. In Shawn’s defense, it was open season on those noisy buzzards.

“Ellie, won’t even touch this thing.” Shawn hollered back regarding the dead crow.

Shawn and I worked through the timber towards the peak and had to cross numerous treacherous boulder fields, evidence of time’s harsh work on this ancient mountain. In contrast, the crest of the mount was dotted with numerous unsightly radio towers and little concrete buildings, which did not fit the grandeur and beauty of this alpine setting. Notwithstanding, I usually find birds right up by those manmade structures so I try to look on the bright side of them being there.
As we approached the ridge, we began to see more of the tell-tale piles of droppings showing that grouse were close. The dogs were a little ahead and Misty bumped a blue grouse that dove straight down a 1000 foot cliff leaving no chance whatsoever for a shot. Writers always talk about the merits of chukars on the wing, but this shot would have been more difficult than any chukar shot I’ve ever taken (and most likely missed). I gained a whole new respect for my favorite game bird, the dusky grouse.
By this time, the sun was beginning to lower. We had just enough time to get back to the truck and travel to a covert that I like to call the “Piney Strip,” which is on the south-facing ridge of this flat-topped mountain.
This is the very edge that where the blue grouse cliff-dived.

“What do say we try one more place?” I asked.

“I’m game.” Shawn replied with a smile. Like me, Shawn also loves to hunt blue grouse and does so each fall in Colorado. In fact, Shawn started the 2010 hunting season 7 shots for 7 blue grouse. That’s 100% for those of you not mathematically inclined. My friends, that’s good shooting in anyone’s book! It's hard to beat perfect.

As we hiked into the Piney Strip, I pointed out where I had seen birds in the past. Almost as if on cue, a blue grouse got up right in front of me presenting a beautiful, easy shot. Of course, the bird flew right at Shawn so I couldn’t shoot. However, Shawn had an easy chip shot. With Shawn’s record for the year, I thought: That is a dead bird. To my astonishment (and his I’m sure), Shawn whiffed the shot.

“What happened?” I asked with a grin.

“That bird flew right at me. . . I always miss that shot.” Shawn sheepishly replied.

“Glad it was you and not me.” I laughed as we headed back to the truck while the embers off the setting sun glowed like the coals of a waning campfire.

“Let’s go get some tacos!” Shawn suggested.

“You don’t have to twist my arm.” I agreed.

Pursuant to Shawn’s request, we stopped at our favorite taco wagon in Burley, El Mirador. The tacos were so good we both ate six apiece, a meal fit for kings. I figured Shawn needed a meal like that to go with the dessert he had been served up earlier: You know, that big slice of humble pie.

THINGS TO TO WATCH FOR

2011-04-16T15:24:00.010-06:00

I've been pretty busy lately writing and getting things ready for publication and, as a result, this blog has been a little neglected. Thus, I wanted to give a quick update on some articles and my book that will be forthcoming shortly:

In the current issue of Gettin' Out, which is published here in Idaho, I have an article entitled, "Two for One with Tommy" which is about a special sharptail hunt my son Tommy and I shared together last fall. Grouse hunting is great in and of itself, but when you have your only son along, it makes it that much more special. If you haven't subscribed to Gettin' Out yet, here is a link: www.jaredscottoutdoors.com/Gettin--Out.html. This is my second article in Gettin' Out. The first was "Eden Dawn," which was first featured on Upland Equations. Gettin' Out Magazine is a new magazine about hunting and fishing in Idaho. "Two for One with Tommy" is in the February/March 2011 issue.

2. "Sometimes Groused" (which can be found in the archives of Upland Equations from last year) will be featured in Gettin' Out in the June/July issue. This article goes out to all those hunters who have experienced a day when everything goes wrong, but you still love every second of it.

3. In the Summer Issue of The Upland Almanac will appear my article entitled, "Grouseketeers" about my first grouse hunt with my then four year old son, Tommy. I wondered if this article would ever see the light of day so getting this one published is extra special for me. I think any dad who has taken a child hunting will get a kick out this article: "Shoot the gun softer, Dad!" This is my second article in The Upland Almanac. My first was "Roadside Revelations" which appeared in last fall's issue.

4. Most likely, in the Winter issue of The Upland Almanac will appear my article, "Discovering Tinkhamtown," which is a piece I wrote regarding some little known facts about Corey Ford's classic, "The Road to Tinkhamtown." Some of you may recall that this piece was originally published on the Upland Equations blog last January. However, once it was tentatively accepted for publication in The Upland Almanac, I removed it. I'm proud to announce that one of Bob White's paintings will illustrate this article. The Upland Almanac is one of the finest magazines out there for the upland game enthusiast. I would recommend it to anyone: http://www.uplandalmanac.com/.

5. Last, but certainly not least, my first book, Heaven on Earth: Stories of Fly-fishing, Fun & Faith is almost ready for publication by American Book Publishers. For me, fly fishing and bird hunting are not only fun, but they are also spiritual endeavors. In this book, I share some treasured fly-fishing experiences I've had over the last fifteen years and some of the spiritual lessons I've learned along the way. This book has been a long time coming, but it is now in the design stage. Jared Scott from the TV show "Jared Scott Outdoors" and the founder of Gettin' Out Magazine wrote the foreword. Of Heaven on Earth, Hartt Wixom, the author of Improve the World: Go Fishing! and Fishing: The Extra Edge wrote: "Andrew Marshall Wayment has done a phenomenal job combining fishing, fun, family, faith and I would add, philosophy, to his Heaven on Earth book. In the process, he has provided many insightful ways and means of enjoying angling to its zenith. In addition, the fly fisherman will gain a hatful of fishing tips as he/she wades the Madison River and other favorite American fishing holes."

I'm excited to share Heaven on Earth with the world and I hope that there are those outdoorsmen who will appreciate the book and relate to its message. I'll keep you posted when it comes out. Well, that's what I've been up to lately. For those who follow this blog, thanks for all of your support.

GHOSTS OF THE KANSAS PRAIRIE

2011-03-25T16:12:00.013-06:00

Our sporting literature from back east is replete with descriptions of old abandoned homesteads being reclaimed by the wild. While fading quickly, old man-made improvements are still evident because of the countless stone fences built by the hardy settlers, the cellar holes where the homes used to be, and the abundant apple orchards grown wild. Johnny Appleseed definitely laid the foundation for many good, secret grouse coverts and great hunting stories.

For the hunter, these old homesteads carry with them intrigue, mystery, and sometimes sorrow. Great writers of the past have repeatedly capitalized on this in their stories. Two of my favorites in this vein are “Ghost Grouse” by Burton Spiller and Corey Ford’s “The Road to Tinkhamtown.” There is an undeniable supernatural connection one feels with the past when experiencing such places.
This old home lies right on the edge of a huge walk-in area. The old timers built the home right at the base of some sand sage hills. Looks like paradise to this bird hunter.

While I have never been grouse hunting in such a covert back east, I recently experienced something quite similar in Kansas. During my hunting trip last January, I was amazed at the numerous abandoned homesteads scattered through the prairie. With the wide open vista, these homesteads seemed much more evident than the secretive coverts you read about back east, but still every bit as haunting. They made me reflect on those who struggled to make a go at it in Kansas, the environmental tragedy of the Dust Bowl that plagued this area, and the exodus of many of the people to greener pastures. No doubt, life was different then than it is today, much harder in some ways, but definitely simpler in others. While I experienced some sadness for these people, I mostly felt respect for them and honored to see the fruits of their labors and the simple beauty of the places they settled.

This home was built with a foundation made from rock carved from the surrounding landscape. As the good book says: The wise man built his house upon the rock.

The fact that these homesteads are slowly returning to the wild and are oftentimes occupied by coveys of bobwhite quail also gave me great comfort and hope for the future. Nature is so resilient and will rebound if we just give it a chance. I’m sure that the former owners of these haunting homesteads would approve of the new occupants, “gentlemen” by all accounts.

This old homestead is home to a nice covey of quail. Their presence somehow makes such lonely places inviting to the hunter.

When I first saw this homestead in its wooded draw in the first light of the morning, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. What a place!

One cannot help but reflect on one’s own mortality in such places. As we see the dilapidated buildings crumble under the elements, we begin to see how quickly time passes and how fleeting life is. For some, this may generate fear as to what happens when we pass on to the hereafter, but not for me. As Joel Vance wrote in Bobs, Brush and Brittanies: "And if [the hunter’s] heart quits somewhere beyond the ridge you can see from the house, don’t worry about his soul. You may find the body, but the spirit is still bounding toward the distant fencerow, which looks so good."

Life goes on, my friends. To sum it up, Kansas is a place that reinforces my belief that there truly is a Heaven.

Of all the homesteads, this was my favorite. A city set on a hill cannot be hid . . .

DREAMIN' ABOUT BOB

2011-03-23T17:43:00.014-06:00

No, I’m not talking about Bill Murray’s character in that annoying movie. And no, I am not now playing for the other team. But I am thinking of a gentleman from the prairie: Mr. Bobwhite.

A beautiful hen bobwhite.

This past January, when the snow was piled high and Idaho’s bird hunting seasons were all but over, I had the good fortune of traveling to Kansas, the Prairie State, with my older brother and fellow Upland Equations Contributor, Shawn Wayment, to pursue pheasants and bobwhite quail. As far as the hunting season goes, it was like rolling back the clock to sweet September and October with temperatures in the 60’s and 70’s. While the birds were scarcer and warier because it was the last week of the season, the dogs found birds each day and we got some shooting in.

Sunny Girl backs two pointers on the edge of the junk yard.

As far as the scenery goes, it was like stepping back in time to a different era. For three days, we hunted in wide open country dotted with abandoned homesteads. Most of these homesteads had old picturesque windmills and many hosted their own covey of bobwhites, the object of our pursuit.

We looked for the resident covey at this old homestead, but they weren't home. With the warm temperatures, they must have been on vacation.

While we hunted both pheasants and bobwhites, our host, Casey Mader, let us know succinctly where his loyalties lay: “Coveys are for countin’ and pheasants are for killing.” By this, he meant that coveys of quail were only to be shot into if there were more than eight birds. Casey’s goal was to make sure that each covey had plenty enough to keep the quail population up for the season to come. The sheer number of birds that we saw (ten coveys in three days, some with fifty birds or more) was a testament to the fact that his vigilance works.

While hunting some rolling sand sage hills with Shawn and Casey on the second day of the hunt, I headed back toward the vehicle to water my dogs because of the heat. Afterwards, I hunted a new area across the two-track road and noticed a little divot in the landscape choked with a tumble weed called “thistle” by the locals. Casey mentioned earlier how much the birds loved this weed both for protection and for food. Once in the weeds, I immediately began to notice quail sign: droppings, feathers and tracks, which caused the heart to race with excitement.

The young Brittany pup, Misty, quickly got birdy and gave me enough notice to get ready. A huge covey of thirty-plus birds flushed in unison from the edge of the thistle patch and I dropped one with the bottom barrel and missed another with the top barrel. The older French Brittany, Sunny Girl, retrieved the bird to hand. Although Misty did not point, I was still proud of her for finding the birds.

Admiring the bird after Sunny's retrieve.

Back at the truck, the temperature showed an unbelievable 77 degrees, which is really too hot for good scenting conditions. Notwithstanding, this experience and the trip, especially in the dead of winter, are things of bird hunters’ dreams.

Check out the temperature in January! Unbelievable to this Idahoan.

The following day we learned that we were coincidentally hunting in Kansas on its 150 year anniversary. I can think of no better way to celebrate the birthday of the Prairie State than by pursuing its finest, native game bird, Mr. Bobwhite.

IF YOU GO . . .

• The quail hunting season in Kansas starts on the second Saturday in November and goes through January 31st. Kansas has both bobwhite quail and scaled quail and there are areas where the two species overlap.

• An out-of-state hunting license for Kansas is $72.50 and the license covers a calendar year. So if you buy a license in January, it’s good for the following fall.

• Kansas has a walk-in program for private property and there is more huntable ground than you can imagine. Look for the WIHA signs which designate such properties.

• For late-season quail, 7 ½ shot is plenty, but for late-season pheasants, don’t use any smaller shot than size 6.

• Casey Mader gave us an interesting tip: “Where there’s dove, there’s quail.” Interestingly, any time I observed numerous doves, there were usually coveys of quail in close proximity.

• There is no finer game bird for a pointing dog than the bobwhite quail, hence the reason he is often referred to as a “gentleman.”

• On the other hand, the ringneck pheasant is a dirty rotten scoundrel and a hard-charging flusher or retriever is the better breed.

Kansas is the place of a diehard bird hunter's dreams. I can't wait to go back!

The Yardstick

2011-02-02T20:21:00.002-07:00

Photo: birddogdoc

The prairie is lonely, an environment thunderous with silence where only a strident high-pitched scream of wind keeps you company. On this day, I come to test my skill, to confront the elements and measure my conviction to find a needle in a haystack. Can a man find a quail on the prairie January 31st?

Intoxicated by the immeasurable scope of this place, I scan the horizon out across a sea of Cholla cactus. Shrouded by a thin veil of fog accompanied by bold clouds flying in tattered and swift, all the outdoors stares darkly back at me with contemptuous scorn. As I step from the truck to begin the ritual of getting organized, a sharp wind slashes my exposed skin, hardened by a mixture of dust, sand and ice that foretell the harshness of the day that lies ahead.

Unlike so many other excursions, social and good-humored by design, this day was a test, the yardstick for all I have learned throughout the season. Would the dog work well? Should I locate a covey, would I be able to shoot well in these callous conditions? Would my physical conditioning withstand the environmental assault on my body? All these questions raced through my head in nervous anticipation of the challenge set before me.

Bundled and Windstopper'd top to bottom, we head out for what will amount to a five hour walk. Scaled Quail on public land is a matter of boot leather, stamina and a dogged belief that a covey will rise just under that next patch of Cholla.

Two hours in route, with barely a word spoken, we happen upon a covey of quail that flushes wild, sluggishly moving from one spot to the next. Who knows, perhaps they were only stretching their wings to maintain body heat? Regardless of their motivation, they were easily relocated, surprised by our uncharacteristic late season presence. It was a small covey so only one bird was taken. Conserving our energy, not much is said as we moved on in search of another covey.

Photo: birddogdoc

A few miles and a couple of hours later, another covey was found, this time rising with purpose and survival in mind. Flushing wild and rocketing high off the ground from beneath a Cholla, they instantly turned downwind and settled over a distant hill we had covered nearly an hour before.

We eventually found the covey, plus another one and a few singles. It was good to see so many birds at the very end of the season. A few birds were taken over spectacular dog work, five in total. With the weather getting continually worse in the afternoon, we decided it would be best not to disburse another covey for fear that they might not be able to regroup before the temperatures fell off a cliff.

It was a good day and the conclusion to a great season. How will I make it to next September?

Photo: birddogdoc

PULLIN' THE JOSH

2011-01-15T13:41:00.010-07:00

Call me nerdy, but I am always interested in learning about the meaning and significance of a person’s name. For example, I learned that my name, Andrew, comes from the Greek word, andreas, which means “of a man.” Yep, that pretty much covers it: I am very manly, after all.

My oldest nephew Josh’s name, on the other hand, has an altogether different meaning. Get this, in Webster’s, the word “josh” means: “To tease without malice.” How fitting! I must confess that, since his early childhood, my brothers and I have spent plenty of time joshing our beloved nephew. To give you an idea of my character in high school, I was a loud-mouthed, punk-rocking, long-haired, skateboarder (those who know me now can’t believe it when I tell them this, but it is true). With my own little brothers growing up quickly, it was nice to have some fresh meat to tease. And Josh was an easy target.

Joshua Clark poses with an 21 inch brownie he caught on Silver Creek during the famous brown drake hatch. The rest of us got skunked.

For example, there was one time when I put on a gas mask and terrorized Josh and my niece, Kyli, who were trespassing in my room. Needless to say, their parents were very ticked off. Also, we always gave little Josh a hard time for his speech impediment: “Jampa, can we hab sum foden yodut?” (Have fun figuring that one out!). When Josh was four, he got a bow and arrow for Christmas and we talked him into shooting the cat. Rear! Good times! Oh, and one can never forget the time while deer hunting when Josh got car sick because of the winding mountain roads and blew chunks in a yellow, plastic baggy while Grandpa’s car stereo crooned, “Cryyyin’ over you” by Roy Orbison. Arggh, I’m in hell! As you may guess, we nicknamed Josh, “Ralphy” after that episode. Josh took all of this (and much, much more) in good spirits.

Sometime during 2001 after Josh became a teenager, my sister Shelley, Josh’s mom, went through a difficult divorce. In need of strength and support, Shelley moved with her four boys to Rupert, Idaho to be closer to my parents and to start a new life. At the time, Josh’s passion for the outdoors began to blaze and he came on as many hunting and fishing outings with me as he could. Heck, I couldn’t have left him home if I wanted to! In all actuality, it was my pleasure to take him along and to witness his newfound enthusiasm for the outdoors.

Uncle Andy and Josh posing with Josh's very first rooster.

One fall morning in 2002, Josh, my brother-in-law, Eric, and I went grouse hunting at one of our favorite coverts, Grouse Rock. Due to the scarcity of birds, we all decided to go and try to catch a few fish. In order to protect this little gem of a creek, I will not disclose its real name. Since this story is primarily about Josh, we’ll call it “Joshua Creek.” The first time I saw Joshua Creek, I did not consider it as a trout stream, in any sense of the word, because it looked way too small and too narrow. I had much to learn!

Eric and Andy rigging up to fish Joshua Creek.

This winding little meadow stream is totally spring fed and despite its narrow, shallow appearance, it is deceptively deep in some places. The spring flows cause watercress to grow abundantly in the creek’s channels, which gives the creek the appearance of being narrower than it actually is, and also provides good cover for surprisingly big and wary brown trout. The first time I fished it, I instantly loved the creek because of the number of its inhabitants and the technical difficulty it presented.

This little creek has to be fished upstream only. If you carelessly walk along the banks, you will witness multiple wakes of spooked fish. To say that you need stealth in your approach is an understatement. Also, you have to make long, precise casts, which are often snagged by the surrounding sage brush or trees aligning the creek’s banks. With all of the vegetation around the narrow creek it is difficult to get a long, drag free drift. However, most of the time, a drift of a foot or two is plenty as the resident browns will pounce on a decently presented fly.

When fishing this creek, my family usually uses a grasshopper pattern, my Dad’s red-butted double Renegade, or a Turks Tarantula. It is dry fly fishing at its finest because you can usually see the fish wake towards your fly and smash the terrestrial patterns. Did I mention that I love this little creek?

The author fights a spunky brown with a 3 weight on Joshua Creek. (Boy, I was packing a few more pounds back then!)

After our bird hunt that spectacular September morning, Eric, Josh and I traveled the short distance to Joshua Creek. Of the three of us, I was the only one who brought a fly rod, my sweet little St. Croix, Ultra Legend, 3 piece, 3 weight, that my Dad and I built in April of that same year. This fact did not bother me, however, as I find that it is just as much fun to fish together, take turns with the rod, and watch each other fail or succeed as the case may be.

Eric, Josh and I quickly laid down the ground rules that each of us would have a turn with the rod until we caught a fish, at which time, the rod had to be handed off to the next eager participant. For those more skilled at catching fish (I won’t mention any names), this meant that you did not get that long of a turn. Anyway, while the others were fishing, it was fun to give them a hard time about their fishing skills (or lack thereof). On the flip side, when you were the one in the hot seat, the teasing put tremendous pressure on you to do well.

Uncle Andy fishing the very stretch of Joshua Creek in the story. In fact, that brush on the right side may be the very brush that Josh snagged the fly.

After we had caught a few fish, it was once again Josh’s turn. Right off, he snagged the last of my Turks Tarantulas in a thorny rose hip bush on the far bank of the creek. There was no way to get to the entangled fly other than crossing the creek, which meant getting wet. Of course, Eric and I chastised Josh and told him he better get the fly unloosed or we would either have to find another pattern that worked or call it quits for the day, which none of us were ready to do. Josh carefully applied pressure to my little rod and the fly miraculously came loose.

However, Josh then went on a streak of missing fish after fish after fish. He must have missed at least ten fish in a row. Josh’s performance was what my four year old son Thomas, would proclaim, “Torrible” (which is a mix between the words “terrible” and “horrible”). All the while, Eric and I were giving him a hard time. Finally, Eric demanded, “That’s it! You’re done! Hand over the rod and let me show how a real man fishes.” In frustration, Josh surrendered the rod to Eric and said, “Here, have at it.” As if by poetic justice, Eric then proceeded to miss multiple strikes in succession.

Pulling my hair out in frustration for the desire to recommence fishing after a lengthy delay caused by rank amateurs, I exasperatingly proclaimed, “You guys stink! Give me that rod so I can show you both how it’s done!” A newly humbled Eric surrendered the rod back to me.

Confident, I cast the fly up into a likely looking run and a fish rose up and snatched it from the surface. I calmly set the hook, but the fly instantly came loose. Surprised I exclaimed: “I just pulled a Josh!” I then proceeded to miss about five fish in a row. I was dumbfounded! I could not believe that I—of all people—could repeatedly miss that many fish. Now Josh and Eric, on the other hand, were a different story altogether; I could understand that. But me? No way! Meanwhile, Eric and Josh were laughing and poking fun at my fall as the mighty fisherman: “Watch and learn he says. . . .”

After a few more unsuccessful attempts, I thought: Something has to be wrong! I then placed the rod between my legs and pulled the fly up to my eyes for a closer inspection. I instantly observed that the fly’s hook had totally broken off at its bend when Josh had yanked it free earlier. Otherwise, the fly looked perfectly normal, which is why we did not notice it before. When I proclaimed my findings to Josh and Eric, we all roared with laughter. We had been fishing for over ten minutes with a broken fly that would never hook any fish. This crazy experience has come to be known by those involved as, “Pullin’ the Josh,” and we all still laugh about it often.

To sum it up, the many hunting and fishing experiences I shared with Josh are some of my all-time favorite memories. I miss those days. Now, I have a confession to make. I was just joshing you about the real meaning of my nephew’s name. It is true that the word josh means “to tease without malice.” However, the name, "Joshua," means something else. I looked this name up in the Bible Dictionary and found that it is a Hebrew word meaning: “God will help.” Indeed, I can state from firsthand experience that He is mindful of each of us and that He will help us through our individual trials if we seek Him.

During the many hunting and fishing adventures that we shared, Josh never spoke openly of his parent’s divorce or let on to his true feelings, but I suspect that, as the oldest of four brothers in his broken family, he struggled greatly on the inside. I can only hope that he found some peace in the coverts, rivers, and streams of our outdoor adventures. I don’t know for sure, but I suspect that this was one of the ways that God helped him to weather those tough times in his life. Maybe this was Heavenly Father’s way of “pullin’ the Josh” to Him.

Josh and Uncle Andy on a memorable pheasant hunt.

Thanks for the memories buddy!

BIRD DOG CHRISTMAS CAROLS

2010-12-24T08:34:00.009-07:00

Sunny Girl, the Abominable Snow Dog.

Here at Upland Equations, we love our bird dogs and we love a good bird dog Christmas carol. Some of our favorites are "Bark, the Hairy Bird Dogs Sang," "O Howly Night," "Bird Dogs We Have Heard All Night," "Good Hunt Ye Merry Gentlemen," "Bark to the World," and "Oh, Come! All Ye Bird Dogs."

But if we had to choose, our very favorite bird dog carol would have to be "Bird Dog Bells":

Dashing through the snow

With a huffing hunter in tow

O'er the fields they go

Yapping all the way

Bells on bird dogs ring

Making spirits bright

What fun it is to follow them

Through the fields so white

Oh, bird dog bells, bird dog bells

Partridge take to flight

Oh what fun it is to swing

A shotgun left to right! Hup!

Bird dog bells, bird dog bells

Birdy all the way!

Oh what fun to follow dogs

On such a wintery day.

Feel free to share your favorite Christmas bird dog carols with us.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from Upland Equations!

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ONE AND ALL!

2010-12-24T07:23:00.003-07:00

As most of you wind down your hunting seasons, or have already been snowed out, I am looking forward to several months of high desert adventuring with Pride and Joanne. BUT, The Grinch has entered the picture here too. Not cold enough last weekend to bring snow to the 3400 ft elevation the valley where our club is located, but we did get a ton of rain. At last report the major part of the club is under 4 ft. of water. It will go down, but it sure plays havoc with the grass cover and leaves silt on everything. Fortunately, there is high ground to the west and south of the main areas and we can continue. Hopefully the birds had slickers and hipboots in their enclosures during the deluge!

With all that aside, Joanne and I say "Merry Christmas and a Blessed New Year" and Pride says "Woof."

TWO ROOSTERS FOR ROOTY BOY . . .

2010-12-12T08:16:00.011-07:00

Oh the trials of puppyhood! Of all my dogs, my first shorthair “Upland Rooster,” or “Rooty” for short, was probably the most destructive puppy. He loved to chew on anything and everything from straw hats to hoses. He also had a bad habit of drinking from toilets and—with his dripping jowls— you never knew when you were going to get greased with some slimy unpleasantries. In short, Rooty was a royal pain in the neck at home.

Little Rooty points a sage grouse wing tied to a string.

Despite his shortcomings, Rooty was a quick learner in the field. The first time I put a dead grouse in his nose, a light turned on and he knew his purpose in life: to find birds. Rooty’s natural ability and drive more than made up for his obnoxious puppy antics. A few hunts in particular stand out like snapshots of Rooty’s glory that I want to share with you.

Like most of my dogs, Rooty cut his teeth on valley quail, which, in good years, are perfect for a pup: They are plentiful, they give off plenty of scent, and, in my experience, they hold pretty darn well. As I wrote about in "Rooty," which was published in the Pointing Dog Journal, Rooty’s first point and retrieve was on a valley quail.

One Saturday morning, Rooty and I were hunting a farm overlooking Kendrick, Idaho. The farm held numerous strips of think cover in between rolling wheat fields and the birds were there aplenty, pheasants, quail, and Huns. As we hunted away from a huge barn that was constructed in the early 1900’s but still in use, up a CRP strip, we approached a berry bush. Rooty’s four-inch stub tail wagged in intensity and Rooty soon locked up with one of his front paws aloft, a text-book point. As I stood off to Rooty’s right side, quail began to come out as singles and each of them took the same line of flight, which presented me the exact same shot six separate times. Can you guess how many times I made the shot? Only twice, but I was pleased as a peach! It was my first full year as a bird hunter and a bird in the bag made up for more than 20 misses. The whole time Rooty stayed steady to wing and shot and made a nice retrieve when the smoke from my barrage cleared.

If I recall correctly, the farmer’s wife had a soft spot for quail. Earlier, when I asked for permission to hunt, the farmer told me I could kill all the pheasants I wanted, but not the quail, which was a tough restriction because there were oodles of them on the property. I generally try to respect landowners’ desires when it comes to hunting on their land. However, in the heat of the moment and the intensity of Rooty’s point, I conveniently forgot the farmer’s instruction. The next day at church, I penitently confessed to the farmer that we killed two of his wife’s quail. In response, he laughed, but then sternly told me not to do it again. You know what? If I had it to do over again, I would like to say that I would never do that again, but then I might be lying. I wouldn’t trade that memory with Rooty for anything.

In my opinion, a rooster pheasant is one of the hardest birds to pin down with a point and—once they are in the air—to kill cleanly. They require a dog with a good nose, a gunner with deadly accuracy, and, if the bird is only wounded, a good, persistent retriever. Admittedly, my record on wily ringneck pheasants is not too stellar. That is why the following memories of pheasant hunting with Rooty really accentuate for me what a great dog Rooty was.

One bright fall day after school, I took Rooty to a place not far from Troy, Idaho. The covert consisted of huge CRP fields with a small Christmas tree farm—a pheasant fortress— right off the road, a cattail choked pond nearby, and a brushy draw on the back end: Pheasant City, in anybody’s book. Rooty and I quickly hunted through the Christmas trees down towards the thick draw. As we walked down one of the grassy fingers of the draw, Rooty did the tell-tale dance and stepped into the statuesque pose, leaving no doubts that a bird was present. I stepped forward and a raucous rooster blasted out of the grass with a corkscrew flight. On my first snappy shot, I missed to the left, corrected and the bird crumpled in a halo of feathers on the second shot.
The proud hunter and Rooty with our first rooster in the game bag.

As I picked up our first rooster, I was in a euphoric state. I have harvested some pretty good deer in my life and my first long-spurred rooster with Rooty was just as thrilling as any trophy buck. As Havilah Babcock, a diehard bird hunter so aptly stated, “I don’t want to shoot an elephant.” With the challenge and variety that wing shooting brings and the bond between man and dog, neither do I.

A few weeks later, Rooty and I went back to the anti-quail hunting farm with my friend, Craig Dalton. Again, we hunted the thick buffer strips. As before, Rooty’s body language clearly indicated that a bird was close on the ground, but Rooty had to put up with evasive maneuvering on the pheasant’s part. When the pheasant realized the gig was up, he flushed noisily straightaway almost as if in slow motion. It was one of those shots that seems too easy. When I pulled the trigger, the bird dropped stone dead in the cover and Rooty made a nice retrieve.

“I was wondering when you were going to shoot,” said Craig, “I was just about to pull the trigger myself when you dropped that bird. Good shot!”

I was too excited about my pup’s performance and success to respond. While there were other birds harvested with Rooty, these were our only two roosters together.

With the current hunting season quickly coming to a close, it seems like it passed in the blink of an eye. Yet, that is all the time that I had with Rooty, one short, glorious hunting season. Rooty had so much promise, but his life was cut short the following February on a nearby highway. As I reflect on his life, I am struck by its simple perfection. Rooty was born to do one thing and he did it well. Our two roosters together are a testament to this fact. But during his brief life, Rooty did something else, he touched my heart and changed my life. Today, I still keep bird dogs, a French Brittany, Sunny, and a new American Brittany, Misty. I am once again putting up with puppy antics largely because of my treasured experiences with my first dog, Rooty Boy.

Rooty, I love and miss you buddy!

Opening Day for Pride and Digby has been promoted!

2010-11-24T08:50:00.003-07:00

It was a grand day at our game club in the high desert valley north of San Bernardino. Breezy, cool and sunny, a fine day for some chukar shooting. Pride worked four chukar and my shooting was up to her good work since all are now in the freezer awaiting some culinary magic. We also discovered that Digby the Dachshund, great bird finder and retriever, has been promoted to manager of the game club. His biggest challenge is to try to get a day's work out of Andy. Not easy.

Of course Digby has tightened up the rules around the place dramatically and now strictly enforces the extra dog biscuits for him and his pals.

A fondness for fine things

2010-11-23T18:02:00.001-07:00

An Ithica NID I refurbished with the help and patience of my good friend Terry Nicholson

A wise shooting instructor and good friend of mine once told me, "there are two things in life a man should never fall in love with, bamboo and walnut." At the time, I paid the man little mind as I stood there fondling, mounting and remounting what felt like a distinctly flawless gun I had picked up from his shop rack that was there awaiting a fitting. There it was, anonymously stacked alongside a sea of laminate trap guns, synthetic auto-loaders, and a couple dozen Berettas and Brownings. It practically elevated itself to my shoulder, balanced to perfection, nestling effortlessly just under my cheek bone. BANG!

The gun turned out to a fine bespoke Purdey & Son shotgun belonging to one of his clients. Standing there laughing at my expense, I quickly, and most delicately, handed the gun back to him after he had advised me of its value, that being more than the sum total of income I had earned in the prior two years. I never picked up another unfamiliar gun from his rack again. To the owner, you have my sincere apologies, yet at the same time, it would be a tragedy if I failed to take this opportunity to thank you-wherever you are.

With the passing of time, and what is now a substantially embedded obsession with fine fly rods and side-by-side shotguns, I've come to realize the gravity of my shooting instructors earlier admonition. As I sit here sweating the delivery of yet another 16 ga. shotgun my wife knows nothing about, I ask myself, could this be an addiction?

I had spent several months honing my shooting skills with my teacher for a sporting clays competition I desperately wanted to make a decent showing in. The competition came and went. My instructor shaped me into a prepared competitor. With my baseline skill, it was the best either of us could expect. I had realistic objectives, and I achieved them. I improved. I had posted a respectable score. I even won a small amount of money in a wager I placed with a close friend.

With the Purdey still whispering in my ear from someone else's distant gun vault, and with much-ado about anything in particular, in the months to follow my over and under sporting clay gun was cleaned, placed in a safe sock, and quietly relegated to the back of my gun safe, never to have been shot since (I'm sorry Betsy). I simply could not get the elegant feel of that sxs out of my psyche. Over the ensuing ten years, I have bought and sold several guns, always fastidious in the pursuit to tune my collection to be the best it could be, given the limits of my wallet. I've owned hammer guns, English straight grip guns, European guns, and classic American guns, all side-by-sides, all shooters, all hunted with great affection. I have loved every one of them individually, whether I own them still or not.

My purchases have subsided to some degree. I've convinced myself that I have the collection right where it needs to be. In truth, there's simply no more room at the inn. It turned out to be an exceptionally good financial decision to buy the small gun safe. Had I bought the mega 50+ gun model, I'm quite certain I would still be "collecting." Today, thankfully I'm following the one out : one in trade ratio program.

Now that I find my acquisitions are slowing, I've been spending considerable time attempting to better understand why we, as SxS collectors, have this insatiable passion for vintage shotguns. Why is it that I have such conviction for these antiques? Is it the history, the stories that seem to emanate from every old gun I caress? Could it be that handling these fine works of craftsmanship gets me in touch with better days when almost everything was made with one principle in mind, to last forever? In the end I think not.

I've settled on the believe that I hold these guns in such high regard not because of their age, rarity, or attractive beauty, but rather with the people they have brought me in contact with, those that share an intrinsic appreciation for tradition and a yearning for simple sport, friendships that lasts, and an aspiration to enjoy the bounty this life has to offer; a fondness for fine things.

Terry re-cutting checkering on a forend. The Ithica NID stock in the background

Where Has The Old Man Been All Summer?

2010-10-08T05:34:00.003-06:00

Much to Pride the Wonder Dog's disgust I have spent the spare moments all Spring and Summer of 2010 indulging in the new passion. After ending a brief return to skeet due to that danged arthritis, last December I took up trap shooting. Where has this little diversion been all my life? I shot a lot of skeet and shot some great competitive scores in my day, I humbly submit, and it was a hoot. But there is nothing like whacking a trap target with that full choke in a trap gun!

So I just got my "ultimate" new toy. A fine fellow in Wisconsin parted with this find old Perazzi MX-3 Trap Combo. It's on its way to me as I type and I can't wait to get to the range with it!

It appears to be all original, all serial numbers match which on a Perazzi of this vintage is a rare treat since one of the features of this line of fine competition guns is near-interchangeability of parts so there is a lot of "mixing and matching" that goes. I will report later. Pride is just shaking her head and staring wistfully out the back window, trying to spot one of the valley quail that live in the canyon across the street. She'll have to wait a little longer!

Ramblings: By Michael Altizer

2010-10-04T16:21:00.006-06:00

Re-printed with permission from Bernard & Associates from Sporting Classic's Oct 2010 Issue. Enjoy!

The Au Sable springs from Otsego and Roscommon and then consolidates itself near Grayling before venturing forth on its long ramble home to Lake Huron. Along its tangled edges the dark forest rises deep and verdant in random stands of popple and maple and birch. Rich, young pin oaks fill the myriad patches of overgrown clearcut, along with all the other new growth that together provide habitat for the grouse that brought Betsy and me here for so many years on our annual October odyssey.
For a little southern-born Brittany, it was at first an odd and capricious place. Yet throughout her life Betsy came to learn and love these great northern forests just as much she did those of her own country far to the south. And it was here on our first trip to Michigan that she met the grouse that forever changed her life.

I remember that grouse. At first, I wasn’t quite sure what she had – especially after the incident earlier that morning with the snowshoe hare.
In her defense, Betsy was barely out of kindergarten and still trying to figure out this business of being a bird dog. It was all strange country to her, with strange trees and strange smells and especially strange creatures – long-tailed pheasants bigger and more audacious than any grouse or quail she’d ever encountered, big prickly porcupines unlike any groundhog she’d ever seen – and now this, a rabbit twice as saucy as the most insolent cottontail that had ever challenged her to a chase.
Yeah, I know . . . bird dogs aren’t supposed to pay attention to rabbits. But the country back home was overrun with rabbits, and she’d struggled with them from the time she was a pup when one had literally jumped up from beneath her nose.
Now so far from home, she had no way of knowing the difference between a cottontail rabbit and a snowshoe hare. All she knew for certain was that this was one very irreverent creature with the biggest, smelliest feet that had ever assaulted her senses, and before either of us could do anything about it, Brer’ Brittany and Brer’ Hare were off on an impromptu frolic upriver, with me in hot pursuit using words and phrases she’d never heard before.
It had only taken her a few seconds to realize the error of her ways, but by then it was too late and she knew it. And when she returned a minute or so later she had a repentant, hang-dog look on her little freckled face, and we both took a few extra moments to catch our collective breath before agreeing to forget the whole incident.

By late afternoon the day had turned into a real gem, the autumn air crisp and clear and vibrant. We had bumped two grouse, both of them flushing wild, and I had resisted taking a shot at either lest Betsy get the idea that it was okay to chase birds.
But now her demeanor was entirely different, with the cool evening breezes fetching messages of promise as she started getting birdy. One step forward, two steps back, then a quick 180 before she began to get the full picture, and suddenly everything became clear as she threaded her way through the thick scrub, first left toward the river, then out across a small clearing before she nosed into a young fallen pine.
Twice she circled the downed pine, nose poking here, nose poking there, her little bobtail a blur until she finally determined that the bird was on the move. And so she started widening her circle and nearly stumbled as she pirouetted back on her own track where it crossed the grouse’s trail, bearing up and away from the river through a narrow crease to the high step above us.
She was now fully committed to the bird, as I was to her, and I knew it was simply a matter of time and persistence until she either caught up with him or bumped him and caused him to flush wild. She was absolutely on tiptoe as she worked her way up through the crease, making notes as she went. I followed as discreetly as possible, giving her plenty of time and room to figure things out as the grouse made his way higher into the thick birch and maple above us.
He was clearly on his home turf, burrowing deep into a dense stand of pin oaks as we topped out along a barely perceptible trail that led deep into the thickest tangle we’d seen so far.
She was close now; I could tell it in the way she moved and by her quivering little tail and the percussive beat of the crisp evening air sifting through her nostrils. The bird was quickly running out of options – I knew it, she knew it and he knew it – and suddenly Betsy circled left, broke from the trail and completely vanished.
I was stunned and for a moment disoriented and alone . . . where has she gone . . . where is the bird . . . where am I? And then she was there, poised dim and ghostly in the damask trail 20 feet ahead, locked up solid and pointing straight back toward me, tail high, head low, eyes large with her left front paw raised daintily to her quivering chin.
The little gun floated free and weightless at half-rise in front of me, my thumb positioned firmly atop the safety, my finger resting lightly aside the trigger, the air as still and pure and perfect as the moment trembling timelessly around us.
For 27 years I have held that moment as closely as Betsy held that bird. She hovered there, a pale apparition in the half-light, the unseen grouse as real a presence as my own pounding heart. I stood transfixed, awaiting the memory to come, until Time itself could no longer bear the strain and the bird rose from the forest floor between us in a thunderous rumble of leaves and dust, chestnut-flecked and dark-ruffed, tail ivory-rimmed and fanned wide, wings drumming, climbing, pleading for that singular cerulean patch of clear evening sky.
The little gun buried itself deep into my shoulder as the bird came clear, and backlit feathers filled the air as he tumbled into a remembrance as fresh on this cold winter night in Tennessee as it was on that warm autumn evening in Michigan.
W
e hunted the great Huron forest every year of her life for as long as Betsy was able, but I never returned there after she died. She was the best friend I ever had. And now it surely speaks of preference and priority that such a little dog could have brought so much peace and contentment to one man’s life, along with the constant introspection I always felt when in her presence.
Her spirit was forthright and her affection unconditional, her greatest measure of devotion always free and sincere and for me alone. For it was I who carried her afield to hunt, I to whom she looked for love and play and a more-than-occasional egg or slice of toast to garnish her daily ration, by whose side she waited expectantly as I cleaned our birds and to whose lap she entrusted her weary head at day’s end.
Our life together was one of mutual admiration and dependence. I bore the gun, and she brought her nose and instincts. She swept the hollows and ridges and thickets, and I carried her water and her biscuits and her bowl. Over the years I became more and more tolerant of her infrequent indiscretions and she of my increasingly recurrent pauses for rest.
We never asked perfection of one another, only understanding, each knowing the proper time to defer to the other’s gifts – I when to stop and give her time to do her work, and she when to cast a glance over her shoulder to check my proximity. And together we shared the fruits – the solitude and companionship, the occasions that brought us together to a far sweeter existence than either of us had alone.
We shared the same cup, ate the same bread, breathed the same air and drank from the same stream, our faces hard down in the water shoulder to shoulder, soul to soul. When quenched we would arise, and she would whine that we should be on our way and soon we’d again be deep in thought among the trees.
She got the livers and the hearts and left me the rest.

SOMETIMES GROUSED

2010-09-26T17:34:00.024-06:00

I find it extremely ironic that Webster's Dictionary defines the word "grouse" as: "1 v. to grumble 2. n. a fit of grumbling [origin unknown]." All grouse hunters who have been outsmarted by a wily ruffed grouse or who have whiffed an easy shot on any kind of grouse know exactly where this word came from. No doubt, I have done my share of "grousing" in the uplands.

Take for example my debacle of a sage grouse hunt this past September. To start out with, I came down with the stomach flu on Friday and was not feeling 100% Saturday morning, the sage grouse opener.
Along for this mis-adventure was my brother Jake and my nephew Jakey.

If the stomach flu were not bad enough, we got a flat tire near Rexburg, Idaho as we headed towards our destination. Fortunately, we had a spare tire and a jack, but I did not have the tool that cranks the jack up. With a little ingenuity, Jake utilized a metal bolt and we cranked the jack up one slow turn at a time. What would have taken me at least an hour only took Jake twenty minutes and we were back in business (a little slower--mind you--because of the goofy spare). Even with the lost time, we were all still in good spirits.

McGuyver (Jake) fixes the tire in record time.

Upon reaching our destination, we felt invigorated by the view of the mountainous surroundings in all of their fall splendor. We eagerly released the dogs and hunted up a sage brush bench towards the treeline. As we hiked, chatted, and noisily crashed through the thick sage brush, a large flock of sage grouse flushed seventy yards from our position. Given their jumpiness, we decided not to pursue that flock, but stayed the course in the direction where I had seen many birds in the past. Of course, we split up a little farther and proceeded with more caution.

Jake and Jakey work through the thick sage.

Soon enough, I walked into a flock of flushing thunder chickens, and promptly missed with both barrels. These types of misses are what I call "groaners" for obvious reasons. Overall, I've shot better this year than I have throughout my hunting career. For me, shooting is mostly mental--or rather instinct backed with confidence. Hence, when I miss easy shots, it really gets into my head and the problem perpetuates itself.

Not ten minutes later, Jake had birds erupting from all around him and, on his first shot, he marginally hit a big male. But on his follow-up, Jake made a solid shot which brought the big grouse down.

Jake's first sage grouse--a big male. In Idaho, the limit is only one grouse per day.

Meanwhile, two of the mega-grouse that Jake flushed crossed thirty yards in front of me and I missed behind them with both barrels. I don't care what anyone says about sage grouse: Once they get going, sage grouse are as fast and challenging as any grouse I've hunted. To underestimate their speed is to miss (which I've done more times than I care to admit).

While Jake and Jakey went back to the car for refreshments, my French Brittany, Sunny and I crossed a fence to hunt a little piece of cover, I've dubbed "The Sunset Strip." As we hiked through the hundred foot wide strip of sage brush, I heard something creeping through the sage brush. As I approached to within five feet of the noise, I saw a furry black tail ominously raised, which hid most of the white stripe down the small animal's back. POLECAT!!! And it was locked and loaded.

I took off running to get out of the line of fire and yelled, "SUNNY, COME! GET OVER HERE RIGHT NOW!"

Sunny quickly obeyed, but my command was a little too late, as she had a green streak along her right side where she had just been sprayed. While she did not take the full brunt of the skunk's attack, the smell was still enough to make my eyes water. Could this day get any worse? I thought to myself.

With the negative turn of events, I discouragingly headed back towards the car. About fifty yards off, I hollered to Jake, "Roll down the car windows, Sunny just got sprayed by a skunk."

We quickly drove to the nearest town with our heads hanging out the windows.

As we traveled, little Jakey made the observant comment, "Man, Nature has been hard on us today!"

"Yeah, it has pretty much kicked our butts." I laughingly agreed, "But the day ain't over yet!"

I went into the little town store and purchased the ingredients for the only concoction I know of to get rid of essence-o'-skunk: peroxide, baking soda, and Palmolive dish soap. The store owner was kind enough to allow us to wash the foul (not bot be confused with "fowl") dog on the lawn with the store's hose.

Sunny Girl gets a scrub down of her life after being sprayed by Pepe Le Pew.

After washing Sunny as good as possible, she still stunk, but at least we could stand to be within five feet of her. With that, we loaded up and all climbed back into the still odorous vehicle.

"Do you guys mind if we go hunt one more spot?" I asked Jake and Jakey.

"No problem," said Jake, "I'm just along for the ride."

"We're going to the Lloyd Christmas Cover," I disclosed.

"Lloyd Christmas? Is that the guy who owns the land?" Jake asked.

"Nope. It's called the Lloyd Christmas Cover because that's where you go when you need to 'totally redeem yourself!'" I said quoting the movie, Dumb and Dumber. I explained that a year ago to the day, I did just that in the last half hour of the sage grouse hunt at this very spot. Hence, the name. Recognizing the line, the character, and the movie, Jake laughed. Needless to say, despite all the setbacks, I was still hopeful for the remainder of the hunt.

After parking, we walked through the now dry, man-made watering pond, which is immediately surrounded by willows and--outside of that--by a sea of sage brush. Young Misty, my Brittany pup, quickly beat us out of the pond into the willows on the far end and I heard--but did not see--the flush of a bird. I eagerly ran up the embankment to see Misty locked up on her very first point. This naturally caused my heart to pound up through my throat and, to add to that, birds began to erupt everywhere around me. Unbelievably, Misty stayed steady to wing until they were all gone. I was ecstatic and I so wanted to make good on the shot to honor this occasion. However, if my shooting was poor that morning, then my shooting on that occasion was abysmal. I missed numerous times and the best opportunity I had was on a close flusher that flew right in front of Jake and Jakey, where I couldn't shoot until it was out of range. Let's just say that I felt great reason to grouse about my performance, but nevertheless was thrilled for the pup.

We looked long and hard for the birds that had flushed into the surrounding sage, but did not find even one of them. However, we did see a lone sharptail grouse, which are not legal to hunt in Idaho until October. As we circled back towards the pond and the car, I realized that the hunt and my chances were quickly coming to an close, but I was not ready to give up just yet. After all, this is the Lloyd Christmas cover.

I decided to walk the willows one more time where the birds had buzzed around me like a swarm bees only a half an hour earlier. With almost every grouse species that I've hunted, there is oftentimes a straggler who didn't get the memo to flush with the rest of the flock. Sage grouse are no exception. Sure enough, a grouse flushed only ten feet away, and beelined it for the next county. I instinctively swung out ahead of the quartering grouse and smacked the trigger. The bird crumpled midair and hit the turf. Believe it or not, this was probably the hardest shot of the day, and I made good on it, and with only minutes left in the hunt. Thanks Lloyd Christmas.

"Just when I think you couldn't be any worse of a shot, you go and do something like this . . . and totally redeem yourself."

The smile says it all.

An outsider looking in on a day like that in the uplands, might ask: Why do you put yourself through such chaos and misery? The truth is, however, that all grouse hunters love the mystery and the adventure that every day of grouse hunting brings. We never know what's going to happen--good or bad--on any given hunt, but we always hope for the best and keep swinging.

There is a fairly common saying among bird hunters about the fact that we don't always succeed: "Sometimes birds. Sometimes feathers." To this, I would add for those days when everything seems to go wrong: "Sometimes groused!" I got groused that day for sure! Even with all of the setbacks, however, this day has to be one of my most memorable hunts of all time. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

FISH OF MY DREAMS

2010-08-31T20:05:00.005-06:00

I don't usually do this, but could not help myself with these two extraordinary fish. Below are pictures of Chet Work (top picture) and Mark Davidson (bottom picture) with two behemoth browns. I have fished with both of these gentlemen and can say that they are diehard fishermen. Chet is now the Executive Director of the Teton Regional Land Trust, but formerly worked for The Nature Conservancy. Mark Davidson used to be the Manager of the Nature Conservancy's Silver Creek Preserve in Picabo, Idaho, but now works out of The Nature Conservancy's Hailey, Idaho office. With their strong conservation ethic, I can't think of two folks more deserving of these two huge fish of a lifetime.

These two browns were caught on separate evenings in the same general area of an undisclosed popular fishery. As you can tell by the pictures, Chet and Mark were both fishing in late at night. They were both using floating mouse patterns.

Mark personally informed me that he was fishing in an area that already had been worked over so he did not have much hope for a bite. To his surprise, by the light of the moon, Mark saw a huge, great-white mouth engulf his fly. His companion saw it too and exclaimed, "Holy Cow!!!" (or something to that effect). Fortunately, Mark had on 25 pound test tippet and it held. Mark said that holding the fish felt like he was holding a salmon. Undoubtedly, this is the fish of a lifetime.

Heck, both Mark and Chet's browns are fish of a lifetime. Congratulations to both of you! All I have to ask is: When are you taking me?

Gundogs By Tom Davis

2010-08-12T23:40:00.006-06:00

Gundogs By Tom Davis...reprinted with permission by Bernard & Associates from July/Aug 2010 Sporting Classics...Tom Davis is one of my heros and a heck of a fine writer! I hope you enjoy this piece as much as I did!

Twenty years as a Sporting Classics columnist has enabled the author to share unforgettable moments with some of America’s greatest dog men.

Among the milestones that seems to have flown under the radar of just about everybody is the one marked by this issue: my 20th anniversary as the Gundogs columnist for Sporting Classics. It was in July/August 1990 that my debut column, a piece on the renaissance of the hunting cocker spaniel, appeared in these pages, and while my memory’s a bit hazy, my recollection is that it was originally set up as a provisional arrangement with the editor – then as now, Chuck Wechsler – and I agreeing that I’d do it for a few issues and we’d “see how it goes.”
Well, here we are 20 years later, so I guess it’s gone okay. While Chuck and I have had our disagreements, as all writers and editors do, I don’t recall us ever quarrelling about the substance of the Gundogs column. On the rare occasions he’s tried to nudge me in a certain direction in terms of content, he’s been able to make a persuasive argument; otherwise, he’s given me carte blanche to take the column in whatever direction interests me.
Or, to put it another way, he’s given me all the rope I need to hang myself.
Just for the record, at this point I also have the distinction (if that’s the right word) of being the longest-tenured columnist still writing his original column. Of the five other columnists on the masthead when I started, two – Shelly Spindel (Answers) and Joe Wilcox (Books) – have gone to the Great Beyond; two – Cliff Hauptman (Fishing) and Terry Wieland (Rifles) – no longer write for this magazine; and one, Michael McIntosh, handed off Shotguns to another writer so that he could launch a new column, Tales to Tell, and enjoy the freedom to muse upon whatever floats his boat.
So I’m the Last Man Standing. The safest conclusion to draw from this, I think, is that I quickly rose to the level of my incompetence and, against all odds, managed to stay there.
Of course a hell of a lot of water has run beneath the bridge in the past 20 years. When I penned that first column I hadn’t yet met my wife – and as I write this I’m counting down the days until I escort her beautiful daughter, freshly graduated from the University of Wisconsin, down the aisle, where I’ll give her away to a handsome 2nd Lieutenant in the United States Army, an exemplary young man whose last name, concidentally, is Davis. Tempis fugit, indeed.
Needless to say, I’ve reaped any number of rewards from writing this column. It’s opened professional doors, helped get my name on books like To The Point, The Orvis Book of Dogs, and the entire Why Dogs Do That series . . . The list goes on.
By far the best part, though, has been the opportunity it’s given me to meet and spend time with some of the greatest, most accomplished breeders, trainers and all-around dog men of the 20th century. The living legends, the Hall-of-Famers and history-makers on whose shoulders today’s pointer, retriever and spaniel people all stand. To me they embody a Golden Era, a time when giants strode the earth – whether they did it on two legs or four.
There’s also this: Invariably, the older generation of dog men have much better stories to tell. For example, when Joe DeLoia, the revered professional trainer from Duluth, delivered the future Hall of Fame Labrador retriever Massie’s Sassy Boots to the kennel of Frank Hogan in the late-1940s, he and Hogan got into a dispute over the price that had been quoted for the dog. How did they settle it? By shooting a round of skeet!
One of DeLoia’s clients was George Murnane, the head of the august investment banking firm Lazard-Frères. (This was back when investment bankers actually cared about making money for their clients, not just lining their own pockets.)
“Mr. Murnane never dialed a phone in his life,” Joe recalled. “He always had his secretary do it.”
Early on, Murnane told DeLoia “When you do something for me at my suggestion or direction, you are my guest portal-to-portal. But understand this: I don’t want you eating wieners and charging me for steak.”
Joe repaid this trust by buying a black Lab puppy on Murnane’s behalf that would become Spirit Lake Duke, a two-time National Retriever Champion.
Then there was Orin Benson, who made his name as a retriever trainer (and is in the Retriever Hall of Fame) but could, and did, train literally any critter he could get his hands on. Bears, otters, wolves, you name it. One year while he was hunting in Wyoming he took a day off and visited some of the watering holes in Sheridan – with a cock pheasant perched on his shoulder like a parrot. He didn’t pay for a drink all day.
At one time Benson had dogs from 31 states in his Wisconsin kennels, and during the off-season he traveled from Boston to L.A. on the sports show circuit. A New York sportswriter, awed at one of Benson’s demonstrations, gushed that his dogs “would bring back anything but a bald man’s hair.” Hollywood royalty beat a path to Benson’s kennel –
Roy Rogers parked his camper in his driveway – but while he had more than a little P.T. Barnum in him, there was steak behind the sizzle. His greatest dog, Black Panther, was for many years the all-time high point field trial retriever, and his success during the formative era of retriever field trials (when British trainers dominated the sport) paved the way for other legendary American-born pros like Cotton Pershall and Charley Morgan.
No one I’ve met embodied more pointing dog history than Earl Crangle. He knew James Avent, Hobart Ames and Nash Buckingham; he competed against the likes of Clyde Morton, Chesley Harris and Jack Harper. When he was only 22 he won the National Pheasant Championship with the pointer Tarheelia’s Lucky Strike (who was later featured on the cover – the cover! – of Life magazine). M.G. Dudley, the owner of the fireball English setter, Hillbright Susanna, gave Earl a check with the payee line left blank and told him that if anyone thought their dog could out-bird “Dot,” he had $1,500 that said they were wrong. There were never any takers.
The great boxing champion Carmen Basilio was one of Crangle’s best friends, and when Basilio fought Sugar Ray Robinson at Yankee Stadium, Earl sat ringside next to Ernest Hemingway and Joe DiMaggio. At the rematch in Chicago a few months later Earl found himself sitting next to Leo Durocher and a guy from Hoboken named Sinatra. Earl trained a hunting dog for Jack Dempsey, and whenever he went into Dempsey’s restaurant near Madison Square Garden, “The Champ” would greet him by name and make sure he got the best table in the house.

It was such a thrill to listen to men like these tell their stories. As someone who’s always felt he was born too late, it was a window onto an all but vanished world.
I was privileged to watch the great spaniel trainer Dave Lorenz handle a dog in competition on one of the last occasions he entered a field trial. He was a hard man to get to talk about his career and his accomplishments, although they spoke eloquently for themselves: four National Springer Championships, 15 National placements overall, 23 Field Champions. After my column on Lorenz appeared, I got a letter from a younger pro who told me that Lorenz – a man he held in awe – had gone out of his way to help him when he was starting out. That’s the kind of class Dave Lorenz had.
Still, no one exemplified class, in every word and deed, like Bob Wehle did. No one hewed to a higher standard as a sportsman and a dog breeder; no one was more generous to those he considered deserving (or had less time for flatterers and bullshit artists).
I treasure the time I spent in Bob’s company, walking puppies (while he flicked his ever-present wing-on-a-string to evaluate their pointing style and intensity), talking about the past, present and future of Elhew Kennels, and simply relaxing in the rustic, cottage-style homes he and his lovely wife, Gatra, shared in Alabama and upstate New York.
There are two honors I’ve received in my lifetime that I’m terribly proud of. One was being asked by Bob to contribute a Preface to his book Snakefoot: The Making of a Champion. The other was being asked by Gatra to speak at Bob’s memorial service. The latter was perhaps the toughest assignment I’ve ever had –nothing I said could have done justice to such a man –
but I managed to make it through without breaking down. Then, on the way out (Earl Crangle was with me), we stopped to say goodbye to Snakefoot, and when the old champion tottered out of his kennel and pressed his gray muzzle against the wire, the emotions I’d held in check came out in a flood.
It was the same a couple winters ago when I finally met W.C. Kirk, the trainer and handler of the dog that burns brighter in my imagination than any other: Johnny Crockett, the last English setter to win the National Championship. I’d wanted to meet Mr. Kirk for 40 years – it’s not stretching things to say he was one of my boyhood heroes – and when he opened the door of his home outside Bowie, Texas, and greeted me in his kindly drawl, the words wouldn’t come. I had to turn away, pull a handkerchief from my pocket, and try to compose myself. My eyes, you see, had unaccountably filled with tears.
That’s funny: They’re doing it now, too.

"ROADSIDE REVELATIONS" IN THE UPLAND ALMANAC

2010-07-26T21:00:00.003-06:00

Today, I was on facebook and saw a post by The Upland Almanac regarding the forthcoming Autumn issue. The post had a beautiful picture of the magazine cover with a painting by Jim Killen. Upon closer inspection, I noticed at the very bottom, "Roadside Revelations" which is my article that I submitted last year. . . . WAHOOO!!! This came as a big surprise to me as, the last I'd heard, this article would not run until (maybe) the Winter issue of The Upland Almanac. Needless to say, I am extremely excited to share this fun article with the world. I hope that you all enjoy!

AUTUMN 2010 ISSUE OF THE UPLAND ALMANAC.

BIG BROWN HUNTING OR HUNTED?

2010-07-21T07:15:00.015-06:00

Over the years, fishing has often been equated to hunting. I always say that fly fishing and bird hunting are two sides of the same coin. Admittedly, there are similarities between the two, especially when a fisherman quitely stalks his prey and brings it to hand. Is this what makes fishing so intriguing day-in-and-out? Maybe not.

Last night, I took a break and went fishing at the Mini-Madison. I first tried a dry fly, a yellow PMX, but could not get any takers. So I decided to get down-and-dirty, with one of Kelly Galloup's SDungeons in olive green. I quickly caught a 14 inch brownie out of a lie I call the "King Hole," but could get no other bites. The King must have been taking a nap.

Kelly Galloup's SDungeon.

I decided to try a little pocket downstream and further out in the river. This attractive spot is behind a big boulder, which blocks the heavy current so that there is some calm water below the rock. The lie is only about three feet wide and seven feet long, but it looked like a good spot for a big brown to hide and ambush prey. Getting to this honey hole was no easy task, however, as I had to manuever through strong current and slick, bowling ball sized rocks.

But the effort was well worth it because on my first cast into the pocket below the big rock, I instantly saw a noticeable disturbance behind my fly. I reared back with the rod in hopes that a fish took. When the hook sank home, the huge brownie pole vaulted into the air shaking his head in the process. This nice fish gave me the funnest fight I've had a long time as it leapt out of water five or six times.

"The strike is electrifying, yes, but the leap gives a fisherman wings." Jerry Gibbs.

In his book, Upland Stream: Notes on the Fishing Passion, W.D. Wetherell wrote something that I think sums up the thrill of streamer fishing for big trout:

Anyone who compares fishing to hunting has got it backwards; it's the thrill of being hunted that gives fishing its charm. For a few seconds our lures swim beneath the surface we recapture the innocence -- the dangerous, stimulating innocence--of the days when man walked the earth not as master but as prey. It was, it is, a dangerous thing to be a human, and we need to be reminded from time to time not only of our abstract mortality, but of a mortality that springs from ambush and clamps down.

Yikes! There have been too many times to count when I have jumped in fear when a big brown trout has unexpectedly crashed my streamer, especially in the early morning or just before dark. This begs the question: Are we the hunter or the hunted? Let's just be glad that browns don't grow to be the size of our Snake River Sturgeon or we would all be in trouble.

"EDEN DAWN" TO BE PUBLISHED IN "GETTIN' OUT"

2010-07-12T07:25:00.003-06:00

Last fall I wrote a story about my daughter Eden's first hunt entitled, "Eden Dawn." I recently submitted this story for publication in a new magazine in Idaho entitled, "Gettin' Out" and it was accepted. I have attached a link to the new magazine, http://www.jaredscottoutdoors.com/. If you have not read the piece, it is still in the Upland Equations archives.

Eden and Nessy excited about our limit of sharptails on Edey's first hunt with Dad.

SUMMER LOVIN'

2010-07-05T20:30:00.012-06:00

I took today off from work so I wanted to make the most of it. For starters, I took my two bird dogs out for a hike this morning. We went to one of my favorite coverts, the Royal MacNab, where we hunt sharptails and ruffed grouse in the fall. Unfortunately, we did not see any birds, but we did see a cow moose and her calf. I mostly wanted to see how my pup, Misty, handles when she is not in the backyard. Although she ran off two separate times, she handled pretty well for the majority of our hike. Overall, I was very pleased. That pup has so much energy it is contagious. She attacks cover with abandon. Now, if only I can harness that energy so that she hunts with me.

After a good hike, we dropped Misty off at the in-laws and Sunny Girl and I headed to our favorite blue ribbon mountain stream. This stream is full of wild Yellowstone Cutthroat, some surprisely big, which rise readily to a dry fly. To catch them, I used a big Size 8, Yellow PMX, which did the trick.

This is the starting point for fishing a fun stretch of the creek. I call it "jungle fishing" because the creek is choked on all sides with thick foilage.

Sunny Girl and I waded our way up the stream catching numerous cutthroats in the boulder-strewn pocket water and runs. In my opinion, Yellowstone Cutthroats are right up there in beauty with the brook trout, but the fact that they are natives make them all the more special.

A handful treasure.

Love that pocket water! The wild flowers were in full force. Indian Paintbrush happens to be my very favorite.

Sunny Girl, my favorite fishing buddy.

Regrettably, the creek happens to be adjacent to a heavily-traveled, dusty road and, as a result, dust covers everything. As we worked our way upstream Sunny Girl must have sucked in a little too much dust and she began to cough incessantly. I couldn't help but think of the movie, Zoolander, and with a grin imagined Sunny saying, "Cough . . . Cough. I got the black lung Pop!"

To sum it up, we did not catch any hogs. However, I saw one that was easily 15 or 16 inches, which I spooked with my clumsy wading. Dang it! Notwithstanding, this was a near perfect afternoon of fishing. And to top it off, my two older girls and I enjoyed a Mexican feast at Senior Iguana's in Pocatello, Idaho. Who can argue with the fact that Chile Rellenos and Chile Verde Burritos are good for the soul? I live for summer days like this!

UPLAND EQUATIONS IS NOW ON FACEBOOK

2010-06-26T14:48:00.003-06:00

For those of you socialites on facebook, check out our Upland Equations wall on facebook. For your convenience, we have installed a facebook badge on the right side of this blog for you to click on. We will be sharing hunting stories, pictures, game bird recipes, favorite quotes and sporting books, etc. We will continue to post on this blog too! Hope to see you there and to hear from you!

WE ALL GOT SKUNKED . . . EVEN SUNNY

2010-05-31T14:50:00.012-06:00

This morning, Darrin Dallimore and I went fishing on the Mini-Madison. I decided to take my French Brittany, Sunny girl, along to let her get some exercise. I have taken her fishing with me numerous times and never had any problems.

With the water being high and a little off-color, the fishing was slow. I had a few swipes at my fly, but no solid takes. While I fished through one stretch I could hear Sunny barking over the roar of the water. I hollared, "Come!" and began to make my way to the bank. Before I even got within twenty feet of Sunny, I could already smell the pungent odor of pole cat. Yep, she had cornered a skunk and took a nice spritzer in the face.

Since I did not have my phone, I ran up to the car, called Kristin, and asked her to bring me the stuff to wash Sunny as there was absolutely no way she was riding in my car. There is that old wive's tale that tomato juice works, but don't believe it. My instructions to Kristin were to bring the following ingredients to make the only formula that I know of to get rid of the Essence O' Skunk:

1. Baking Soda

2. Peroxide

3. Palmolive Dish Soap

4. And a container to mix them in.

When you mix these ingredients, you want the mixture to be a little pasty and then you apply liberally to the stinky mutt. Below are some pictures of Sunny getting the scrubbing of her life.

Ironically, Darrin and I never did catch any fish today. We fishermen call this "getting skunked." Obviously, Sunny has taken this phrase to extremes.

FAMILY ROAD TRIP!

2010-05-31T14:09:00.013-06:00

Saturday morning at 5:00 a.m., we got the kids up for a Road Trip to Idaho's Sun Valley, which seemed like the perfect place since it was raining pretty hard in Eastern Idaho. As you will see in some of the pictures below, some of the kids (hmm hmm . . . Emma) were not at all happy about the early rude awakening.

Our first stop was Loving Creek and the Gaver's Lagoon in Picabo where the kids enjoyed catching a few planter rainbows. Eden even caught one on her brand new barbie fishing pole. Fortunately for the fish, it got away before we could take her picture with it.

Since it was still a little cold, our next stop on the road was north to Ketchum. There, we went to the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, the Gold Mine (a cool thrift store) and the local fly shops. I personally could do without the shopping, but I wanted to make this day fun for the family too.

Next we traveled south to Bellevue for the best tacos in the world and to fish one of my favorite rivers, the Big Wood. I caught a few small rainbows on the Big Wood and enjoyed just being on the river.

Last, but certainly not least, I got to fish Silver Creek for a few minutes and caught a decent brownie. All in all, it was a fun day. I think even the kids ended up having a good time.

When we got back to Idaho Falls, we found out it rained the whole day. Obviously, we were so glad that we took to the road!

TOMMY'S TURN

2010-05-23T16:30:00.014-06:00

In my last post, I wrote about Eden's (and my own) good fortune from the Fly-Tying Expo in Idaho Falls last month. Believe it or not, we weren't the only ones from my family that had good luck at the Expo. Let's just say that my six year old, Tommy, made out like a bandit.

Every Spring, my kids look forward to the Expo because they get to tie some flies and, more importantly, to put in for the free kids raffle. They have a general raffle with numerous smaller prizes. Also, each kid gets one ticket to put into a bucket for the grand prize, which was a cool kickboat this year. In years past, Nessy won a nifty flashlight and Emma won a cool fly wallet. Many times Tommy has walked away from the Expo prizeless with tears in his eyes. It was tough for Tommy to learn that you can't win every time.

This year, when Tommy spun the wheel that determines how many raffle tickets a kid gets, it landed on five. He looked over all of the prizes, which included fly rods, hats, and shirts, etc. For reasons unbeknownst to me, he wanted this goofy first aid kit. In fact, while I was preoccupied with talking to Babette from the Teton Regional Land Trust, Tommy put all of his tickets into the one bucket for the first aid kit, which Kristin told me after the fact. I guess we haven't taught Tom that saying about putting all of your eggs into one basket. Oh well, if that's what he wants, I thought to myself.

After being at the Expo for awhile, I asked my wife if we could go over to Jimmy's All Season Anglers in downtown Idaho Falls and get some fly-tying materials. Kristin agreed, but said, "Can we come back by 3:00 p.m. for the drawing on the kids raffle?" "Sure," I replied.

We left and came back just before 3:00, but I could not find a parking space so I dropped Kristin and Tommy off at the front door and then drove to the nether regions of the parking lot. As I walked towards the Shilo Hotel, where the Expo is always held, I saw Tommy burst through the doors with a huge box in his hands and a smile to match. My first thought was: Tommy won something. Boy, that is the biggest first aid kit I have ever seen!

As Kristin followed behind Tom, Tommy excitedly exclaimed, "Dad, I won a float tube!"

"You did? That's awesome buddy!" I congratulated him.

"How did that happen?" I questioned Kristin.

Kristin then proceeded to tell me the story:

"We came in right as they began the raffle. They gave away all the prizes, including the first aid kit, and they did not call Tom's name. Tom looked at me sadly and said, 'I didn't win Mom.' 'Let's just wait and see what happens,' I told him. Right after they finished the general raffle, they announced that they were going to draw for the kid's grand prize, which was the kickboat. Surprisingly, the announcer said, 'Along with the kickboat, we have a runner-up prize--a float tube--that we want to give away. We'll draw for that right now.' Sure enough, they pulled the ticket and announced, 'Tommy Wayment.' Tommy yelled out, 'Hey, that's me!' He ran up to the table, grabbed the huge box holding his float tube, and immediately rushed for the door because he was so excited to show you what he'd won. Before Tom made it out the door, however, the announcer laughingly pleaded, 'Hey, come back here! Can't we at least take a picture of you with your prize?' Tom reluctantly said, 'okay.'"

According to Kristin, everyone in the crowd had a good laugh. I wish I could have been there to see it! But it was great just to see the excitement on his face as he ran toward me with a box half his size. That night, after we blew it up, Tommy wanted to sleep in his new float tube. We had to let him down gently.

Tommy Boy chilling in his new float tube.

Since that time, Tommy and I have talked a lot about going float-tubing for bass. Obviously, with all this new fishing gear, it is my fatherly duty to take my kids fishing with me as much as I can this summer. It's a dirty job but someone's got to do it. . . Darn it! (hehehehe).