FEBRUARY SUN

Have you noticed that the February sun seems to give more heat--and perhaps a little more brightness?  'Astronomy types' may have scientific answers to explain that phenomenon, but for me, it's nature's announcement that spring is on its way. It's her subtle message saying, "Don't lose hope.  There's only a few more weeks to 'bare ground'." 

working out the scent

Though it's still January,  we had glorious 'February sun' today and K-Lee and I were outside practicing retrieves. (She doesn't bat an eye at a hundred-plus-yard retrieve which lets her stretch out a bit.)  We are also playing with 'yard work'--"come", "heel", "walk at heel", "walk at heel off-lead", "sit", "stay", "whoa", and "down" to name a few.  She also has the main idea for the "back" command and sign.   I can "whoa" her and send her farther on a retrieve.  This is helpful  if she's confused or floundering. We're still working on "over" which commands lateral moves.. 



Our latest 'game' is "track".  At first, I began using hot dogs to get her used to the idea of keeping her nose down and "tracking". ( I had a mushed-up hot dog in the sole of my boot for scent and left pieces of hot dog instead of bread crumbs along the way.)   A couple of runs and she got the idea.

Next, we're going to get into the snow so that she can track  a "virgin" trail in a similar manner.  After several runs in it and in what I call "the runway",  We'll think about tracking other things.  Bare ground should be showing by then...the 'February sun' said so.

On the track

 I'm not interested in tracking wild game (i.e. deer, moose) that someone else has shot and "lost".  There are plenty of guys out there doing that already.

Also, there aren't any plans on this end for K-Lee to be a specialist and track lost people--although the altruist in me thinks it would be a wonderful idea.  For now at least, we'll stick to learning how to recover a wing clipped grouse, a running wounded pheasant, a half-dead duck in a marsh, or tougher yet, a downed woodcock that is motionless..  One of the greatest conservation tools that exists is a well-trained dog and we're working on that.

Today, the  'February sun' was out.
 We drank it in like sweet nectar ... and we're looking for more.

BOOK REPORT--"WOODCOCK-Fieldcraft and Quarry" (unaffiliated)

I purchased and just finished reading Professor Colin Trotman's book "WOODCOCK - Fieldcraft and Quarry".  When the book was delivered, I noticed the fine photography and high quality paper.  It looks like a great coffee table book.   However, unlike many American books of this 'flavor'--"Woodcock-Fieldcraft and Quarry" comes from the UK-- there is a high percentage of text.  I became filled with doubt and skepticism, thinking that perhaps this was written like a college textbook and worse yet, perhaps this was some 'professor's' attempt at 'stardom'.  I was wrong. After reading this book, I think that I would enjoy sitting in Professor Trotman's classes.  I would be the guy taking notes.

It took me a few minutes to get into the UK 'syntax', but once I did, I found the writing to be stimulating and very informative.  It's almost as if he and I were sitting at a table having tea--hot chocolate for me--and he was "filling me in" on the subject of woodcock.  The shrouds of mystery were pulled back and I was able to understand the migrations of the European woodcock, its coverts and its place in the hunting community. His thrill of the sport and his respect for the woodcock clearly comes through.

The European woodcock (Scolopax Rustica) is similar in many ways to our American woodcock (Scolopax Minor).  The biggest difference is size.  The European woodcock is about the size of a pigeon, and the American one is about the size of a quail.  To my eyes, the second big difference is the color of the breast feathers.  

The author challenges some of the present European--and American--'beliefs' concerning woodcock.  He even postulates his own theories with very clear arguments.  It is possible for him to do so because he is clearly an authority on the bird and is recognized as such.  He has spent over forty years studying the woodcock and receives reports from 'kindred spirits' on both sides of the English Channel.  As an avid "walk-up shooter" of this game bird, Professor Colin Trotman has "paid his dues".   He is using his well-earned 'platform' in the "woodcock community" to point Europe in a direction it should go to manage its favorite game bird.

I enjoyed and identified with his comments on conservation and sportsmanship.  My eyes were opened as he pointed out that woodcock --and other species--often used active oil rigs in the North Sea to rest during their migration from Scandinavian coverts to Ireland and Wales.  My imagination was piqued as he described migrations of woodcock from Russia traveling through Germany, Belgium, France--and even how some migrated to Greece, Italy, and the Azores and Canary Islands. I was amazed when he pointed out multiple, highly qualified sources (i.e game keepers, scientists, etc.) that have observed a female woodcock fly from danger with a chick between its legs--and in some cases, return the chick after the danger is passed.  This observation directly contradicts beliefs of America's Frank Woolner, a noted woodcock authority in his own right..

I'm pleased that I purchased the book, and recommend it to anyone wanting to know more about the woodcock--especially the European woodcock.  I'm also pleased to have learned quite a few things from this book that can be "translated" to the American woodcock.  And finally, as Professor Trotman says in the text's last sentence, "Over to you."

JANUARY "DRILLS"

The "runway"

It seems that the temperatures haven't gone above freezing since the first of the year.  Prior to that, we had a period of freezing rain. The result was that the snow developed a "wicked awful" crust that was a problem for dog and man.   So, lacking any green parks, we took the truck and plowed an area of the field behind the house to continue our training and exercise/run a bit.  It looks somewhat like a small landing strip, but it gives a place for the two of us to "work".  We had a smaller one last year.

Lately, we've been working on "retrieving drills".  I saw a tip in the  Yankee Chapter's (NAVHDA)  "Barking Dog Express"  Newsletter  about how to extend your dog's cast on the retrieve.   

[Note:  Besides what's in their newsletters, the Yankee Chapter has good advice and videos on their website (http://www.yankeenavhda.org/) and a few very pertinent instructional videos on YouTube.  They claim that they are  "Not your normal chapter".  I agree.  It's good stuff!]  

The supervisor

So  "supervisor" K-Lee and I plowed a "runway" in the field and started working on extending the retrieve.  An adaptation of Yankee's tip, but their idea just the same.

After only a couple days, there is a marked improvement.  Where K-Lee used to cast for twenty or thirty yards--the distance I could throw a dummy--she now will go well over two hundred feet. Soon, even more.

A fine retrieve

We're also working on "cone" drills to build understanding of casting "over" to left or right, and "back"--like the retriever folks do.

We don't spend "forever" out in the below-freezing weather, just long enough to exercise, get the training idea, have a successful finish and go inside to relax in front of the fireplace.  A couple or perhaps three of these a day seem to fit the bill just right.

Soon, there will be enough firewood consumed that we can start working on the training bench again.  Of course, our first big blizzard may shut down the runway.  We'll see how that works out.  For now, it's the season of short to medium drills, exercise, and reading in front of the fire.

I read books on woodcock, grouse and shooting.  She dreams about the north woods.

                           .... then again, I guess we both do.

Abusing the heck out of  her rubber duck

MY SECRET LOVE

It's time to get it off my chest.  Since 1965 I've had a secret love.
Experts call my secret love Scolopax minor.   Most of us know it as the American woodcock--sometimes called "Timber-doodle".  The  bird seems to be fashioned from spare parts.  He has short legs, strong, short wings and a long beak.  His ears are in front of his eyes -- which are near the top and back of its head--and the woodcock's brain is installed "upside down".   Honest! The coloration of the woodcock is best described as "forest duff".  They are almost impossible to see when crouched on the woodland floor.  The original Latin name, Philohela minor meant "little sun lover", but woodcock travel by night and lay low in shaded boggy places during the day--so I guess you could say the scientists missed the mark on that one!  I'm not sure when it was changed to Scolopax minor, which is now the "popular" name.

Mama and chicks (typically 4)

My secret love for the little bird started when I was living in Northern New Hampshire.  A friend of mine who was a game warden took me to a "singing ground" to observe a male woodcock give a "performance" at dusk.  It was truly a spectacle to see in the fading light.  The little bird would take off  and zip several yards in a straight line. It suddenly  spiraled upwards in the air until it was nearly out of sight.  At the apex of the bird's ascension it would "stall" and tumble to the earth like a falling leaf while making little "pit" sounds.  At the end of its fall, he would land as gracefully as if he had jumped off a short stool! Somewhere nearby his girlfriend was impressed.

Fast forward fifty years.  More knowledge of woodcock has become my obsession.  Besides the fact that they tend to hold fairly well for a pointing dog, they are a mysterious bird.  Most people don't even know the bird exists.  Pity.  It is as abstruse as any creature in the woods.  Come spring, the small quail sized woodcock returns to the northern bogs and places from whence it was hatched. It performs its spring mating rituals, raises a clutch of about four chicks --with extraordinary success I might add-- and avoids predators and hunters with its erratic flight through the alders, saplings and undergrowth,  At some point before the ground freezes and its main source of sustenance --earthworms-- becomes unavailable, it begins a journey to the Gulf states--most go to  Louisiana. The next spring, something throws its "migration switch" and the woodcock journeys back north to live the cycle again.

A proud display

As I said, most people don't even know that the woodcock exists!  Great interest is shown in pheasants, quail, ruffed grouse, and waterfowl, but "Woodcock?  What's that?"    Fortunately, hunters and conservationists who look to the future have organized themselves and created organizations like Woodcock Limited, Woodcock Unlimited and The American Woodcock Society.  They are starting to pay better attention to the plight of this little bird.

According to scientists and their statistics, hunters don't seem to influence the overall survival rates of woodcock at all, but development and the destruction of habitat cause the woodcock to decrease at a rate of about 1% per year. I'm glad that the little "mud-buggers" finally have people on their side.

The temperature is dropping to below zero tonight.  I can't help but think about the "reverse migration" and the spring arrival of the little game bird.

Walking north--Should have paid attention in "flight school"

NOTHING TO SHOOT AT...

All day long, the sky had been partly cloudy, but now it looked like God himself had overlaid the blue western sky with celestial brush strokes of pastels--pink, orange and hints of green.  The temperature was 19 degrees and falling.  Everywhere still water was frozen solid and the wet places in the woods were "hard" and easy to cross.  Frozen leaves crinkled nearly as much as they did in late October.  Glad to be back inside, the teenage kid and his dog were drawn to the wood stove.  Both of them were silent as the warmth seeped into their bones.

Earlier--perhaps a little before noon-- the kid thought that he should go out one more time.  Though it was about 23 degrees, it was the last day of "pa'tridge" (ruffed grouse) season.  He had little hope of seeing a bird, but he didn't want to give up until it was officially over.  Dressed in just enough layers to keep warm while walking, he reached for his old shotgun.  The dog immediately took the cue and went to the door.  The kid spoke in calm, low tones to the dog.  "Easy boy, gotta get my boots on."  The dog sat and watched him lace up, put on his jacket and grab his gloves and hat.  Then, the two of them went out the door.

A short walk across the family's field brought the pair to the edge of the woods.  The kid said, "Okay boy, hunt 'em up."  With the joyful abandon of a two year old pup, the dog worked in and out amongst the trees.  It continued all afternoon-as if it sensed that it was the last hunt of the season.

They crossed through the old horse pasture--long gone fallow--and followed an old tote road through the woods.  The dog worked the left, then the right, then the left again.  Back and forth it searched for the "last pa'tridge".  Through stands of small trees and downhill through stands of larger ones, their path wound its way.  At the bottom of the hill, a small stream tumbled through the rocks and brush.  It never held much water in the warmer months, but this New Year's Eve it was a small torrent.  They found a narrow spot and jumped to the other bank.  Another fity yards brought them to an old "Class VI" dirt road-- long abandoned and desolate--where loggers, farmers and the like of Daniel Webster once strode.  The kid imagined Daniel Webster with his two imported Gordon Setters.  He wondered how well they hunted--if at all. Then he decided he was creating his own history on the very same road. 

They headed left and took the road up Tay Hill.  The dog was still energetic in its search, but the kid's "edge" was was wearing off.  He realized that he wasn't as "focused" as he was a half mile ago.  The road rose to the top of the hill.  There, he rested on an old beech log.  The dog came over to check with him--there was food perhaps?  Once the dog realized there was was nothing of value, he bit into a pile of snow and satisfied his thirst--a trick he learned as a pup.

After a brief rest, they turned south--into the evergreens.  Hemlocks and white pines mostly filled the hillside, with young maples, birches and poplars taking up the rest of the "space".  The kid found an old "skidder" trail that was used in a previous logging operation, and started to follow it--back towards home.  The light was beginning to fade in the winter sky, and as the kid crested a knoll, he could see to colors in the west.  The beauty of the sky and clouds were a bold contrast to the fallen trees to his right.  Feeling the chill of winter's breath, he shivered.

Suddenly, the dog was quiet.  The kid forgot about everything except "the moment".  A nearby deadfall must have held a bird.  He spied the dog about thirty feet away--nose pointed directly at the broken, fallen tree, his back straight and rigid with his tail arcing into the air.  It was as if he had been majically transformed into a furry statue.  The kid brout up his shotgun to the ready position and moved towards the fallen tree.

With staccato wingbeats and a frantic flurry through the saplings, a ruffed grouse departed for a different county.  The flight was into the open,  from right to left--one of the kid's favorite "passing shots".  He brought up the gun, swung on the bird, and at the correct moment,...he shouted "BANG!"

 In the final moment--when all his instincts said to pull the trigger, he decided to let the bird live.  After the pa'tridge was gone, he said aloud,  "Not today"

He looked at the dog.  The dog looked at him.  The dog seemed to understand.  The kid simply said, "Gone away boy, gone away" and started back for the house with the dog in tow.  Somehow, he felt fulfilled.  He felt as if he had done the world a good deed.  He thought to himself, "If the pa'tridge didn't get killed by a raptor, predator or the winter itself, perhaps there would be chicks in the spring and ...well, one could only imagine."

As the two of them entered the kitchen of the old house, his mother turned her gaze from the sink and said, "Did you see anything?"  He responded simply. "Nothing to shoot at." 

Such an action wasn't to be explained.  It was personal.  He had taken his fair share of birds this fall, but tonight, after this small investment in conservation, he felt more like a man than ever before.  Once  his empty shotgun was set aside, the warmth of the wood stove drew him nigh.