A Grouse in the Hand? Opening day in the California Uplands, 2016

©2016 Joshua Stark

 

One of California's many uplands habitats -- sub-alpine and alpine country
("upland" in California goes from below sea level for gambels quail, doves and snipe, to 7,000+feet after grouse, chukars and mountain quail)

For three years, I've actively hunted grouse in my old deer hunting grounds on public lands in California, and have been skunked -- and often humiliated -- by these wily birds.  My reputation as a nimrod isn't helped by the fact that these birds are often seen trying to figure out what the chicken's motives were, obviously lost in thought and oblivious to their surroundings.

Not my experience, mind you, but I'd been told on a number of occasions that "a big, grey chicken had just crossed the road about a half-mile back"...

My first encounter with grouse occurred while hunting with that Hog Blog fellow, Phillip Loughlin, who had invited me on an archery pig hunt in the Coast Range of Northern California.  It was a traditional introduction to an upland game bird:  about a half-hour before sunrise, quietly walking through the deep dark, contemplating having to sneak within 30 yards of a herd of animals about my size and with razor-sharp tusks, a pair of grouse exploded from a branch at hip-level about three feet from me, leaving me a trembling mess.  

Not one to hunt out of vengeance (it's funny to consider, but seriously messed-up if you think about it for more than ten seconds), I didn't consider heading out after them at that point.

My second encounter was just a sound, while out fishing the East Fork of the Carson River.  A deep, low, slow drumming sound from the top of a hill. That was all.  

I had never heard it before, but I knew immediately what it was.  It was powerful.  It was a bird.  And it awakened something inside of me, as wild encounters do when you happen to, sometimes accidentally, even, be open in your heart to hearing them.

But my third encounter with these grand birds of the uplands sent me on a familiar spiral, hunting after them with gun and dog.

Ever since I bought my 20 gauge side-by-side, I had taken to putting a slug in one barrel and a load of steel No. 6's in the other during deer season.  I had fallen hard for hunting mountain quail and every time I hit our public lands above 5,500 feet or so, I'd run across coveys... while never finding a deer with antlers sticking out of its head.

On one such occasion, I had traveled up to a spot I'd known held mountain quail, and started in.  About a quarter mile down-hill, on the edge of a clearing, I saw what I first  thought was a GIGANTIC quail... it took a few seconds for me to realize that it wasn't a quail, it wasn't a turkey, and it surely wasn't a chicken.  It was a sooty grouse.

Having never hunted grouse, I hadn't checked the regulations to know if they were in season.  I chuckled to myself at the notion that I'd missed out on a big, tasty bird, but I also felt really blessed.  After all, I'd never seen one like this, in the wild, just poking around.  It slowly walked past a dead log, and into a stand of small pines.

I arrived back at the car just in time to catch a game warden drive up.  I cracked open my gun, smiled as I walked up to him, and talked a bit.  I mentioned the grouse.

"Did you get him?"

Sheepishly, "Uhmm, no... I didn't know they were in season, and I wasn't going to take a chance."

"Yeah, you still have two more weeks on 'em.  Head back down there, they'll stick around the same spot.  They're kinda dumb."

Apparently, not as dumb as some others.  I traipsed back down the hill, a bit wary of the advice, but who am I to disobey armed law enforcement in the middle of nowhere?

Sure enough -- and just like that famous scene from The Matrix, that bird was in the same, danged spot!  I raised my gun with just a bit too much enthusiasm -- frankly, flabbergasted at the exactness of the advice (it was eerie).  The bird bolted into the stand of pines, and hit the jets in full cover.  He was gone.

I left feeling as if I were being filmed for Candid Camera by the Department of Fish & Game. 

Come to find out, grouse are masters at popping out right when they have the best chance of getting away... to such an extent that I have come to believe they have some form of instinctive telepathy.

Over and over, it was a similar story: me, walked to exhaustion, climbing madly after mountain quail, taking a breather and suddenly thinking, "hey, this kinda looks like grouse cover", and BAM! A bird launches out with force to scare the crap out of me, staying just behind cover.  I even started bringing my dog with me, an exceptionally birdy rescue field spaniel named Rocio, who would get birdy and bust birds. 

But I learned little lessons from each failure.  For three seasons, I'd get up only once or twice into spots I'd found the birds, and each time, I wouldn't be disappointed. With seeing them, that is; I still hadn't actually taken a bird.

Until last week.

Last week, it all seemed to come together: a good bird dog, a mountain quail already in the bag, and a familiar spot where I'd seen birds earlier in the year.  For once, I had confidence.

The first grouse blew out of cover, and gave me about a half-second... no shot.  I immediately yelled inside my head: there goes the only bird you'll see today!  But I shut me up... and thought... what if there were more than one bird?  I kept a brisk pace.  I reminded myself, "hunt the dog", and she was birdy, breaking right and left in front of me like a good spaniel (can you believe it?). She broke left, uphill, into brush.

From behind the tree at the back end of the brush, about fifteen yards from me, an explosion of grey feathers. Again, just a second between the trees, but I was ready.  At the end of the day, I'd taken two quail, and my first grouse.

Here is one happy bird dog, along with two Oreortyx picta (mountain quail) and one Dendragapus fuliginosus (sooty grouse).  Also, tools of the trade: one 20 gauge side-by-side shotgun, with a 20 gauge shell and a 28 gauge insert for one of the barrels.  Please note that those are not burrs on my dog, they are a really sticky seed that gets brushed out pretty easily.

Fits and starts in training a dog (with kids)

© 2012 Joshua Stark

Now that I have a spaniel(ish) dog, I've been looking up spaniel training on YouTube, and what I've found are some really, really inspirational videos from folks from the United Kingdom who make training dogs look like a snap.

I've never had a problem with basic obedience out of any of my dogs; I recognize I've been really lucky with my dogs, too.  But I've never been able to train for distance - getting dogs to stop what they are doing and instead of coming back to me, look at me for directions.  This is my next project for Rosie.

My hunting dogs have all had a great drive, a wonderful desire to please, smarts like you wouldn't believe, and above all, loved me to pieces.  Rosie is a bit different, so far.  She comes to me for protection now, and she comes fairly regularly to the recall, but she lacks some enthusiasm.  I'm chalking it up to her being sick (looks like a cold, but no cough) and to youth.  She shows some real action for about five or ten-minute spurts, and then she has to take a break, so it probably is the former.  (She also lost a tooth last night, so there is much going on.)

I know she's smart, she's passed all the tests I gave her, and she's nosy as all heck - she's even become our early warning dirty diaper detection system.  And she loves the kids.  I'm hoping that when her health improves and her teeth come in, she'll get some bounce in her step.

The past two days we have been working on coming when called and sitting.  The recall is kinda tough for both of us, but especially me.  I'm trying to tighten up my commands so that I don't start bad habits, and I have some trouble remembering that her name doesn't mean "come!"  I'm also using a new hand signal that will be helpful in the field, but that feels really silly, especially when I'm motioning to a dog that is seven feet away.  She likes me whistling, so if that's how it goes, then so be it.  The biggest thing for me is that she comes back.

Sitting has been going very well, although she's funny about it like a puppy should be.  She'll get so excited to sit that she'll go ass-over-teakettle backwards sometimes.  I love it.

I'm also uncomfortable using a leash during training, as I've trained all my other dogs just by being out in the yard with them.  I'm not using the leash too much right now, but I might start using it more just because all the cool guys on YouTube are doing it (and by "cool" I mean tweed-and-rubber-boot-wearing, thick brogue talking types with dogs they could probably train to fly an airplane).

One interesting book I picked up is "The Intelligence of Dogs" by Stanley Coren.  It's not a training manual, it is a book about dog smarts.  I'm enjoying it, but then again I am a gigantic nerd, so there you are. One thing I've noticed is that I've always gravitated toward the smarter end of the breed spectrum, and my last dog, Irma, was a mix of the smartest (border collie) and the fourth smartest (golden retriever) on the author's list.  The English Springer Spaniel, by the way, Mr. Coren ranks at 13.

And speaking of nerdy, I've even been researching dog whistles, of all things.  I've settled on a pealess Acme 10.5 because I don't think I'll need anything super-loud and I don't want a pea in my whistle (that sounds funny).  I've never used a whistle on dogs, but I'm not confident in my own whistling to be loud enough.

Really I'm just pleased as all get-out that I've got a dog, and watching my kids with her, I know I've made the right decision.  Just today, for example, Ruben decided it would be a great idea to hit her with a metal measuring cup.  The good dog just sat there and took a couple of swipes, then got up and walked over to me.  When I noticed what he had just done (and was trying to do again), I laid down the law to the 19 month-old, for all the good that'll do, and gave Rocie all kinds of fuss.

And Phoebe and her caniphobia?  Day-before-yesterday, she started feeding Rocie out of her hand.

I'll end with a wonderful video extolling the virtues of FTCh Buccleuch Pepper, an advertisement for those looking for a champion Springer sire (and who, if you wanted to call him, would come to "Paper!  Come here, Paper!").  He is our goal:

I got a dog! I got a dog!

© 2012 Joshua Stark

So... I got a dog.

Some kind of spaniel mix

The rescue place (yeah, so what?) that sold her to me calls her Freckles, but Phoebe and I are pretty set on Rocio, with Rosie for short.  Agnes (my lovely wife) still likes Freckles, and it sure would be fun to step out onto the field and call out, "Freckles, hunt 'em up!  Hunt 'em up, Freckles!"  Ah well, we shall see.

Anyhoo, she's about five months old, has all her shots, and is all nose about the world - something I love.  I also love that she plopped right over on her back for my kids - although she's too scared to do that for me, yet. 

In fact, she's taken to the kids and wife pretty well - a cruel irony if there ever was one.  Today, though, I get her to myself for a while, as I prepare to paint the kitchen. 

I've been poking around a number of hunting dog websites, just in case, but I'm going to go slowly with her.  She's scared of me (following me around the house right now, but if I look at her, she has to walk away).

I wonder what the night will bring.

Dog update

© 2012 Joshua Stark

More to come...

Garden note to self (because self didn't label the rows)... and a dog update

© 2012 Joshua Stark

Yesterday and between storms, me and the kids planted up one of our raised beds.  Starting West and moving East:  pole beans, corn, okra, swiss chard, okra, nasturtium (edges), cabbages (edges), cherry tomatoes (North), beefsteak tomatoes (South), poblano peppers (North), early jalapeños (South), basil.

Ruben, the eighteen-month old, was the catalyst for the plantings.  Day-before-yesterday the little elf, famous in this house for throwing everything he can into the pond, had gotten hold of my package of basil seeds and tossed it in the drink.  Since they'd soaked for a while, I decided it would be best to just plant the whole packet - something I never do (I still have seeds from five years ago).  Frankly, it was kinda cathartic, and I knew it was time to get the rest of the stuff in, too.

I hate thinning plants that I've planted and that have shown the courtesy to come up, so my gardens always look a bit anemic because I'm afraid to over-plant.  Not this time.  I planted many, many seeds.  We'll see if I'll be callous enough to do the dirty work and thin the babies, although I probably will do what needs to be done and just eat them, anyway.

The bed is 4' x 8', and I'm sure I'm straining somebody's take on companion planting (tomatoes with corn), but let me explain myself.  We have three raised beds, and this year the Upper Bed was planted early with greens, onions and leeks (and now garlic, too).  Agnes asked for the North Bed, which I was tickled pink to give her.  In it we've put lemon balm, cilantro, marigolds, and more garlic, and we still have some room.

The one bed left, then, was "my" vegetable garden, and it all needed to go in.  So I started with pole beans and corn on the Northeast side to minimize garden shading.  I know that corn and beans don't get along with tomatoes, so I put in some okra (which supposedly gets along with everybody) and chard (which is always just happy to be here) in-between.  I edged everything with nasturtium (yes, I'm 30 years late to the party, but I don't care, I love a plant I can grow that tastes just like black pepper).  On the West side are rows of cherry and beefsteak tomatoes, poblanos and jalapeños (not jalapenos - and never, ever make that mistake when typing about Spanish years), and finally the infamous row of basil.

I'm afraid that the latest storm will slow down the peppers and tomatoes; I'd rather not buy flats of started plants this year, but instead get some good show from these seeds.  Our Spring temps. usually shoot up 20 or 30 degrees the day after a storm, so I'm not too worried, but you never know.  I hope to use some of the cherry tomato seedlings to fill a hanging garden bag my Mother-in-law gave us a couple of years ago, but I will buy a started pear tomato if they don't show.

Speaking of hanging gardens, we also put a Rutgers heirloom tomato in an upside-down tomato bag (complete with pretty metal stand).  The stand was my Christmas present from one of my lovely sisters, and it looks great!

Around the property, the cuttings are showing no additional signs of life, but the pomegranate, orange, fig, currant and boysenberries are definitely thriving.

Consider me your experiment for getting your entire vegetable garden in one bed.  I'll do my best to keep you posted.

----------

On the dog front, more crappy news.  The local SPCA turned us down over the phone because the dog I was interested in (a "lab/hound mix" which looks awfully like a lab/GSP mix) was not, according to them, good for a home with children.  Apparently, the reasoning goes, she "jumps up a lot."  B.S.  I told the lady that it was too bad they were prejudiced against children instead of taking the time to get to know the potential owner, and hung up.  I suppose they've never met a person who could train a dog not to jump up - and I'd like to know if they've ever had a medium-sized or larger dog under the age of two not jump up.  According to the Sacramento SPCA, then, kids shouldn't be raised around big dogs.  I don't know what they are trying to accomplish, but building a constituency of people who love dogs enough to want to save them obviously isn't one of them.

Two strikes and they are out - my last experience with a "rescue" org.

© 2012 Joshua Stark

"Thank you for your interest in Bailey. We are not comfortable plscing
her with such young children."

That right there is the entire email I received after being stupid enough to fill out this absolutely ridiculous form at the Big Dog Rescue of Penngrove, California.  I spent maybe thirty minutes answering questions as asinine and legally dubious as, "what brand of dog food do plan to feed your dog?" and, "if you have a family member or friend you would like to care for the dog... please list their contact information here, so that they may be qualified by Big Dog Rescue."

After that humiliation, I expected, at the very least, a call-back so that they might get to know me and my family.  I figured that since they are rescue folks, they would care enough to realize the impersonal nature of the internet and want some time in direct communication.  I also assumed that they cared about getting dogs to homes where they are loved. 

I am an idiot, obviously.  They didn't even take the time to spell-check.

I probably should have let the extraordinarily offensive image they have of Buddha with a dog's head on their website be my clue (only a North Bay liberal could have such callous disregard for others' religious beliefs).  I should have let my first experience with a "rescue" person over at Golden Gate English Springer Spaniel Rescue exemplify "rescue" people, in general.  I even could have listened to my sister-in-law, who works at a county shelter, or my sister, who has dealt with "rescue" people a couple of times for dogs, and who both told me that they are crazy charlatans who make ridiculous demands and charge insane amounts of money.

Why do I keep using quotation marks around "rescue"?  Because these people aren't rescuing these dogs.  I don't know what sore part of their consciences these people are trying to salve, but they aren't doing what they purport to do.  The only dog I've met via rescue was matted and scratching fleas, and the others haven't even given me the time of day.

Under normal circumstances I'd be much more self-reflective, but I know dogs, I love dogs, and I'm pretty good with dogs.  In fact, I'm so confident that I'm not even going to defend myself here.

So I'll still scour the shelters for dogs and I'll still look up classified ads.  I'll even consider dogs from a reputable hunting dog breeder (a first in my life and maybe a sign of a mid-life crisis).  But I will not try for another poor dog from a "rescue". 

And as I said in my response to the Big Dog Rescue of Penngrove, I pray for those dogs they pretend to rescue. 

Dog update

© 2012 Joshua Stark

And it ain't good news.

After being told by the Golden Gate Springer Rescue (which I learned is just some woman's house that smells a lot like dog pee) lady that I could pick up the dog the day I showed up (after a 90 mile drive) if we were a good fit, I headed out with my baby boy to meet the dog.

Right as we were pulling up to the place, my wife calls me and says that the lady had changed her mind, and that two other families had called and would be looking at the dog the next day, and she would make her decision after two days.

Well, I was pretty crestfallen; I fully expected to be taking a dog home.  However, I didn't want her to think that it was the distance that mattered.  We still met her.

Big mistake.  She was a wonderful dog, although the "rescue" lady obviously hadn't washed her or groomed her, and she scratched with fleas (the lady apologized and said that she would have to groom her for tomorrow's visits).  I won't go into specifics because I don't want to dwell on it, but the dog was really good. 

So I go home and wait and stress for the next two days.  Of course, the lady never calls, so finally I call her.  She apologizes for not calling and says that the dog helped her make a decision for another family, (could it be that it was because she was clean and comfortable when she met them?).

So I'm pretty devastated.  I put myself out there with some hope, and got myself fairly crushed. 

Now I'm left with a conundrum:  I now cannot stand "rescue" people, yet I feel kinda bad looking for a dog from a breeder (nor can I afford hardly any of them).  Pound dogs are hard, unless I want an "American Staffordshire terrier" or other pit bull.  I don't. 

It looks like I'll be quite a while without a dog.

A new beginning? Or, not just yet? (or, looking for the hole in my heart.)

© 2012 Joshua Stark

I'm a big dog person, in all three senses of the phrase.  I love big dogs, I have a big love for dogs, and lately I'm getting big, and not in a good way.  So it's no surprise that I am looking to bring a new dog into my life right now.  And yet, I'm still a bit torn about it.

Last year, as I wrote, I lost a dear friend to my heart, my dog of 12 years, Irma Ruth.  I'd found her in a pear orchard in Lake County, California, when she was probably about 8 months old, and she stole my heart from that first instant I saw her.  I've many, many stories to tell about her, and I may get around to it one day here on the blog, but right now it is just too emotional, still, for me to describe them.  Also, when I write them, I want them to honor her and to be good, and that just doesn't happen for me at 5:30 in the morning after 3 hours of sleep and trying to get a baby boy to, for the Love of All that is Good and Holy, Just Lay Down and Go to Sleep.

One thing I loved about Irma is that she was a mutt, most likely a border collie/golden retriever mix.  She was smart as a whip, had a great nose for birds, and was an amazing family protector.

Now, though, she is gone on.  I hope she is waiting for me, but like every man who had a good dog understands, deep down I know that I won't live up to the standards required to get where something that loving and good goes to when it gets called home. Thank God I'm a Christian, as I am banking on forgiveness to be able to see her again.

I find myself, then, for the first time in my life without a pet in my home.  Sure, I lived away for a bit during college, but at home there were always dogs and cats.  Now, with two kids, we own a house with no animals.  And that bothers me.

My daughter, at five years old, is scared of dogs... and cats, and putting her head under water (the latter being perfectly reasonable, in my humble opinion).  And a stiff wind kinda bothers her, too.  Also, the notion that leprechauns may actually exist has kept her up a night or two (thank you very much, Mrs. Hansen!).

Now, most of these fears are healthy:  I would be disconcerted, too, if I were told that little green men ran amok in my heretofore perfectly safe preschool; and people who put their heads under water are obviously just looking for trouble, if you ask me. 

I also don't mind that she is afraid of dogs, in general.  But it has always bothered me that she became afraid of Irma one day and for no reason.  It was just that one day she realized that Irma was big and out of her control, and that freaked her out.

I don't want her to feel this way forever.  I don't want my daughter to grow up being afraid of her own dogs.  I know a dog's love is like no other and I want her to experience that love, hopefully with the sense that she'll look for a significant other one day with those same traits, never find it, and instead take the professional path her father hopes for her as a fabulously wealthy and famous nun.

My son, on the other hand, is eighteen months old, that time in a young child's life when light sockets and bodies of water just become fascinating, and the mirror starts to seem suspicious, as if maybe something tricky is going on because that other kid in there looks somewhat familiar, yet cold and distant, and he might be mocking.

He loves all animals, he simply loves them.  If it moves of its own accord, then it is worthy of adoration.  If it moves and has four legs, it is, of course and obviously, a dog (our last trip to the zoo, I had no idea how many dogs there were in this world: dogs with long necks, dogs with antlers, dogs with snouts, etc.).

He used to look out the back door and say, "Irma!"  He doesn't say it anymore, and I know for sure he'll never remember her consciously, but he will have a sense of her having been in his life, in the way he moves and acts in the world... just like his old man, who as a toddler, it is told, often tried to eat and drink with the puppies when he wasn't trying to stomp on their little heads.

I don't want that simple love to disappear, either.  I want it to grow within him until he realizes the truth of lines like what Chad Love found inscribed in a thrift store book.

Even more simply, I want both my children to be able to go to their dog and get the unconditional love that can only come from a dog: that simple, all-encompassing love that appreciates and craves only your very existence, fully and completely and without shame or reservation for showing it.  And I want them to know and love another creature, too, to feel that sense of connection.

I want that for myself, too.  But, I'm afraid I'll fall short... shoot, I know I'll fall short, in reciprocating that Love.  After all, I am a man, a human being.

I also have all sorts of pragmatic reasons for getting a new dog: I hunt, we like having a superhuman guardian, etc.  But those are fluff.  I love dogs, and I loving having a dog.  Or two, even.  So later today my son and I are heading off to Oakland to look at a one-year old rescue springer spaniel (and probably border collie mix) by the name of Morgan.  In talking to the foster owner, she seems like a good fit for a family with kids.  And who knows, perhaps she'll hunt (I've been lurking on springer spaniel-related websites for a few days now in hopes that perhaps she'll take to it).

I'm not saying we'll get her, and I'm pretty clear-headed when it comes to taking a dog, but even just going to see her is a big deal.  I still miss Irma so much, and I feel a tinge of guilt that I'm looking at another dog to keep (Irma wasn't big on other dogs).  I think, today, I'm looking at myself as much as that dog.  You see, I don't want to be resentful, constantly comparing any new dog to my old dog.  I want any new dog in my life to fill the hole put in my heart for that dog.  Anything less would be unfair.