“I’ll send for you,” Mike said to Jackie as he kissed her goodbye. He didn’t see her roll her eyes through a big smile as she threw her arms around his neck. She’d heard the same thing every year for the 12 years he’d taken this trip. Only in the last few had she started to wonder if he really would someday not come back and send for her. She knew nothing first-hand about Canada. Just what he had told her.
“Be careful, Mike . . . you’d better get going.”
Harry, Mike’s grouse hunting friend of a decade, was already loading their gear onto the cart to roll into the terminal. First light was just breaking as Jackie drove away.
The southern Appalachian grouse hunters had hunted many places, but Canada was their favorite. Distance, passports, visitor gun registrations, dog plane tickets costing more than people tickets, and outfitters catering more to big game and duck hunters kept Canada ruffed grouse hunting under the radar.
Astonishingly, each leg of their flight was on schedule, customs was routine, and by mid-afternoon they pulled into a remote logging town where they had never been. At the natural resources office, the personnel wondered aloud why Mike and Harry hunted grouse with a dog instead of four-wheelers.
“And you shoot them in the air?” the pretty young office secretary asked incredulously, as she petted Mike’s dog, Storm. She had never seen a Brittany before.
After buying their maps and inquiring about the general direction to find suitable grouse cover, the hunters checked into the town’s only hotel. It was owned by Mrs. Feller, an 83-year-old widow who also owned the restaurant next door, the laundromat down the street, and who worked in the hotel’s basement bar every night until 2 a.m.
Mike and Harry stared at the enormous set of elk antlers over the reception desk, the animal taken by Mrs. Feller’s son. Her boy had followed most other young people out of the town to work in the larger cities of the province, she said. She patiently told the story behind the trophy, but it was apparently no big deal to her or anyone else in these parts.
Mike, older than Harry by ten years, stepped out to the rented SUV to walk his dog. The sky was gunmetal gray. A slight breeze and 45 degrees beckoned for some time in the woods before dark. He thought for a moment of the issues left behind at his advertising business, but quickly brushed them away along with the 1500 miles he’d covered that day, just as he’d done for the dozen previous Octobers.
In a moment Harry lounged down the hotel steps, and said simply, “Ready?”
They spent the first hour scouting the cover; telltale young aspens, worn logging roads, trying to divine which old road led to grouse heaven. As usual, they didn’t see any other hunters. Moose season did not start for another week.
While surveying the endless forest, Mike reflected upon how much these trips to Canada had meant to him. He still marveled at the sheer size of the provinces, the remoteness of the dwellings, and the resilience of the few people who lived here. Despite the many years he’d come, he found himself in yet another new town. Rarely had he been disappointed because they had gone to a new and untested place. The promise of grouse was always kept.
“Should we go back to that road next to the bog about two miles back?” Harry asked. “We only have an hour of light left.”
Mike U-turned on the wide gravel road and rushed back to the spot. They got out, and Mike expertly put an e-collar on his dog as he exploded out of the box.
“I don’t know why Jackie and the boys complained when I named this dog, ‘Storm’,” Mike mused to himself. “Suits him perfectly.”
Storm burst free and raced hell-bent-for-leather down the trail, suddenly circling rapidly and doing his business. As they pulled their guns out of the vehicle, a grouse burst from the side of the trail, screamed right past their heads and disappeared into the pines on the other side of the just-traveled gravel. Mike and Harry smiled at each other, shook their heads, loaded up and started down the side of the bog. Though neither of the hunters had said a word, the flushing grouse foretold a good hunt.
Mike’s former partner in the advertising business, Ken Jackson, a superb shot and hard charger, whether in business or in his quarterly high-priced hunting trips around the world, had established a “rule” for Canada grouse before he died suddenly three years ago.
“If a road up here is going to be good, you are going to be into grouse in the first five or ten minutes,” he said. “If you are not into them within that time, pick up and go to the next spot.” Most other grouse hunters thought the Jackson Rule absurd. But Mike had seen it work enough that it was his rule too.
The Jackson Rule proved true. Though Storm was a bit rusty from eight months off, he soon got his nose and caution. In an hour the dog pointed six birds and they killed three. A good spot. Exuberance overwhelmed their tiredness from the long travel day.
Main Street – Watercolor by Thomas Aquinas Daly
Back at the hotel, Mike took a shower in the bathroom down the hall, the hot water washing a whole day of tiredness down the rusty drain. When he got back to his room, he poured a straight Scotch into a glass, took a sip and mused about being North, hunting grouse again. A glorious freedom, adventure, and lonely forest and fields with nary a car as far as the eye could see. Grouse that you sometimes guessed had never seen a human being. All that was the same. But something told Mike this trip would be different from all the others.
Down the hatch, Mike thought to himself as he drained the last of the Scotch from his glass and got up to meet Harry for dinner at the bar downstairs.
Harry was already seated, looking at the menu.
“You getting gravy on your fries?” Mike asked him.
“’Course,” Harry answered, smiling. “And a cold Kokonee.”
Mike sat down. After the beers were delivered, Harry looked Mike straight in the eye and said, “Mike, I’ve got something to tell you . . . you are not going to believe it.” He did not continue.
“Not believe what?”
Harry was hesitant. “Well, I’ll just come out with it. I’ve decided to move up here.”
Mike stared at him.
“I don’t necessarily mean here, this town, but up here . . . somewhere,” Harry repeated. “If you ask me why, I really can’t answer you. I just know it’s what I want to do.”
For once, Mike thought he should actually think about what Harry was telling him before opening his mouth. Harry had been married once, but was divorced. No children. A job he could leave. Mike supposed it might make some sense. Some.
A thousand thoughts ran through Mike’s mind. Harry had been his primary grouse hunting partner since Jackson died. It wasn’t everybody who was willing to climb up and down the rugged mountains in North Carolina to chase the hope of the few flushes you could count on back home.
“Harry, there is not a man alive who, coming up here all these years, wouldn’t have the same thing go through his mind a hundred times. But who actually does it?”
“Me,” Harry said, taking a long draft on the Kokonee. “My mind’s made up, Mike. Ain’t no going back on this decision. I’ve got to find somewhere to live while I’m up here. This town might even be as good as any.”
“I imagine Mrs. Feller can give you a lead,” said Mike, glancing in her direction and watching her clean some glasses. “But all you’re going to get are four walls and a wood stove,” Mike laughed, only partly joking. They knew these small Canadian towns were nothing like the urban sprawl back home. And the dwellings were actually practical. Not too big to heat.
Winter Grouse – Oil on Board by Thomas Aquinas Daly
Mike woke up the next morning, not having dreamt nor stirred all night. It was like most nights on these trips. He didn’t know if it was the walking or the wind. But sleep was always deep and undisturbed. It was still dark, and the luminescence on his watch read 6 o’clock. He got up, dressed, walked outside, opened the SUV’s hatch, let Storm out of his box and put him on a leash. He walked his dog up the silent street and in less than two minutes was on the edge of town.
He turned on a gravel road heading north, and soon found himself in the forest. He paused to admire a thin crescent moon silhouetting the tall pointed fir trees mixed among the aspens against the sky. Storm shook his body from his head to the stub of his tail. He pulled on the leash, wanting to keep moving.
Mike and his dog walked over a hill, and below him to his left was Beautiful Lake. That was actually its name. It said so on a small brown sign. He stopped to listen as much as to look. Gazing across the glassy lake, all he heard was silence and cold. While only mid-October, there was not a leaf left on an aspen tree anywhere. You could always count on a snow here sometime before the first of November. Not today, though. The cold, clear sky put the stars so close Mike wanted to reach out and touch them.
He had wondered a thousand times whether a person would get tired of this stark beauty. Every day he ran his business back home, this place was here just like this morning. The only difference being that Mike wasn’t here, but there. Parallel universes. If he lived here all the time, would it seem different? He thought he had determined the answer to that question because each year he had gone home. But Harry’s confession last night made him question it again.
They had good hunting that day, and the day after that. The bird numbers were up. It was simply a matter of applying the Jackson Rule. If Storm did not find birds in the first ten minutes, they moved to another spot. Better than half the time they were in productive cover, despite the territory being completely new to them. For grouse hunters, this was paradise, even if it wasn’t for almost everyone else.
Over drinks after the third day, Harry told Mike he was going to spend the next day looking for a place to live. “You go without me tomorrow,” he said. “I’ve got to attend to some business.”
The morning broke cloudy and cold. Mrs. Feller told them to expect snow before evening. The air was still, quiet and crisp.
After breakfast, Mike took a direction out of town they had not explored, and was soon in the bush. As the gravel got bumpier, he saw a road to the right at an exact 90 degrees, seemingly endless, leading to the horizon. Mike took it, and drove and drove. He passed many trails and abandoned roads he thought might be good, finally settling on one.
He got out of the car, started down the abandoned logging road with Storm, and breathed deeply the purest air he’d ever breathed. They hadn’t gone a quarter-mile when they came to an expanse of water, probably 100 feet wide, blocking the road. Beavers.
Mike took a little trail to the right, figuring it would lead to a way across. Down the trail he went into the deep forest, only fitfully angling toward the creek that drained the beaver pond. Having gone long enough to his mind, Mike broke toward the water and looked for a way across. He started one way only to be blocked by felled trees and large branches. He stumbled in a different direction, barely able to keep his balance as the fallen logs and standing water were everywhere. He went back toward the little trail, but now could not find it. No matter, he just had to follow the creek back.
First he went a little farther away from the main road, but still couldn’t find a way across. Finally, the creek narrowed, and he found a place to begin picking his way over, balancing on logs, small tufts of bunched grass and shallow bog. It had now been more than a half-hour since he’d left the main road. He was finally over and sat down to rest. Storm jumped on him, covered with mud to his chest.
“Unbelievable,” Mike muttered to himself. “How will we ever get back out of here?”
He got up and began following the creek back to the road. After about 15 minutes he found it again, and, glancing back over the water to where he had gone off initially, he headed up the road. Storm got birdy almost immediately, and a grouse flushed wild in front of them. Unfortunately, it flew down the trail directly over Storm, and Mike could not safely shoot. Storm then locked on point again.
On an island of brush and small aspens at a fork in the road, Mike saw movement on the ground. He walked toward the movement, and three grouse sprang from the cover. Mike shot one bird before it got to the top of the ten-foot aspens, while another flew right at him and past his head. He turned on the passing bird and killed it dead. A true double.
After Mike’s first shot, grouse had continued to fly from the small patch of cover. Mike reloaded quickly, and was able to kill another rising bird. He had no idea how many grouse came out of that island while he was shooting. But there had been many.
Breathless and shaken, Mike picked up the second bird while Storm retrieved the first. He put their warm bodies in his vest, and continued down the road, as Storm brought back the third grouse.
In less than a hundred feet, Storm froze. A bird flew from the grass next to the road and was in the conifers before Mike could even lift his gun. Five minutes later a grouse flushed wild to his left, and then an explosion of feathers everywhere nearby drew his attention just in time to see what must have been six or eight grouse rising simultaneously into the pine trees, again presenting no shot.
What’s going on? Mike thought to himself.
As he continued, it was more of the same. He came to a vast expanse of young aspens 12 to 15 feet high. A hundred acres or more. At the clear-cut’s edge, Storm pointed to his right, and Mike dropped a grouse as it arrowed straight away over the spindly treetops. Storm found the bird and brought it to Mike on the road. Storm was panting, the widest grin on his face and his tongue falling over his teeth in excitement. Mike’s face was not much different from his dog’s. No one was ever going to believe this.
Storm was soon ranging far in front. Too far. Suddenly, down in a swale of the road, Storm bumped another bunch of birds, this time at least a dozen exploding from the brush like a covey of quail. Way too far away to shoot. Mike wondered if anyone had ever seen anything like this before. He whistled Storm back and scolded him. Storm just continued that shit-eating grin, and moved in front.
And so it continued. The road appeared to go on forever, and dog points and grouse were everywhere.
Mike missed some chances but made others. Before long, he had limited out. His game bag was full and weighed on his shoulders. He sat down to take it all in. He lost count, but estimated 70 flushes.
In trying to explain the number of birds, he reasoned the beaver pond over the trail had kept out the four-wheelers and the big-game hunters. Obviously, there had been a successful hatch, perhaps even some second broods. The birds had probably never seen a human or a dog.
Mike rested on his back after removing his vest. Storm stood over him and licked his face. He reached around the dog, and brought the warm soft fur against his face as Storm lay down next to Mike. Mike suddenly wanted to sleep, and he thought of Jackie back home. He also thought again about what had just happened. How many times in a lifetime does a person get to experience a hunt like this? Maybe once.
He was awakened by the first spits of sleet and snow on his face. He looked at his watch. He had been asleep an hour, and was chilled. Brushing the snow from his face, Mike started back to the beaver pond. He walked quickly because he had miles to go, and the snow was coming down hard.
When he got to the beaver pond, he was astonished. The snow now revealed a dam to his left, just off the main trail. He had not been able to see it coming in. Now it lay there in front of him, showing him a quick way out. Shaking his head, Mike carefully walked along the top of the dam, Storm leading the way.
After emptying his game bag onto the top of Storm’s box, Mike got into the SUV, started it up, and sat there out of the weather, thinking about the morning as the snow fell all around him. From the dead silence in the car, Mike knew Storm was already asleep. Finally, he began to drive back to town. It was slow going, but he didn’t mind. He did not want his day outdoors to end.
By 3 o’clock the town had slowly emerged from the storm. He parked next to the hotel. Grabbing his gun, he walked up the steps, went inside and saw Mrs. Feller at the front desk.
“How was your day?” she asked him.
“Pretty good, I’d say.” Mike paused. “Tell me something. How do you like living here?”
Mrs. Feller looked at him for a moment, and then averted her eyes. “Well,” she said- . . . “it’s where I live, eh?”
Back at his room there was a note from Harry under the door.
Mike: I’ve gone with Ms. DNR to look at some places to live. I think I may have a date tonight. If I’m not at the bar by 6, eat without me. Harry.
Happy for Harry, Mike entered his warm room, sat down and began cleaning his gun. Gazing out the window above the town, he saw the road he had just driven leading back out to grouse-hunting Nirvana. He broke from his stare, walked down the hall and dialed home.
Jackie answered.
“Hey babe.”
“Mike!”
“How was today?” she continued.
He told her.
He then told her about Harry.
When he finished, Jackie remained silent. The pause became palpable.
“Jackie?”
“Yes, Mike?” she said, holding her breath.
“I’m coming home.”
Note: This article originally appeared in the 2014 January February issue of Sporting Classics magazine.