From town I can see the bench where I hunt chukar. It’s about 10 miles away, yet even from that distance the face of the bench, where the chukar hang out, is clearly a broken, jangled mess.
Observing landscapes from a distance can be deceptive. We’ve all had that experience of walking out across country we’ve previously only known from behind a steering wheel and been floored by the complexity of place. Flats have a way of becoming folded plains of hidden coulees. Small hills become epic ascents when you finally start climbing.
The bench’s complexity is naked and exposed. There are few trees in this country so I get a good view of it as I drive through the sugar beet fields north of town toward the chukar grounds. There’s little of that long-distance deception here. As you close in on the bench you’re left with no illusions about hunting this place. It’s going to be rough.
Still, there’s no replacement for walking the country, even if that means hiking the steep, eroded canyons of the bench. Even in this dry place there are still subtle variations from coulee to coulee. I hunted a new spot the other day, a few miles from where I’d been scouting birds in the lead up to opening day. Here the bench juts south and the face, instead of a southern exposure, turns east toward the Pryor and Big Horn mountains. That 90 degree shift shelters the country from the harshest late afternoon sun in summer, resulting in a relative lushness. On the east-facing slopes big sage thrives in the afternoon shade. And in one gully there is even a small stand of cottonwood, no more than a half dozen trees, but a revelation in this treeless place nonetheless.
There’s also cheatgrass, everywhere. A wet winter and summer has left the slopes blanketed with a ubiquitous fuzz of fine yellow grass. I have to wear gaiters. If I leave them off, the spear-tip like cheatgrass seeds pack into my socks and boots a few steps from the truck.
Cheatgrass and chukar are both Eurasian imports and the birds have a deep affinity for what is otherwise, in North America at least, a nasty invasive weed. This time of year the crops of chukar are the only thing more packed with cheatgrass seeds than ungaitered footwear. The birds feast on the spear tips.
The east-facing canyon yielded a good size covey, but the birds flushed well out of shooting range and flew down canyon. We’d probably been pushing them from the bottom, and as the canyon played out at the top of the bench, the birds finally flew.
Run uphill, then fly back down, and as you zoom past, laugh at hunters who exhausted themselves giving chase. That’s the chukar way. I won’t be surprised if I someday find “Run Up, Fly Down” tattooed to the wing of a particularly streetwise bird.
While that covey gave me the slip I was able to find another, though it was partially luck. I was driving the rim of the bench, looking for a not-too-steep canyon for one last hunt before dark, and spotted a flock of ravens — that’s an “unkindness of ravens” if you’re old school — on the wing. The birds seemed to be playing a game of chase with a pair of northern harriers. I figure that was as good a sign as any to stop. So I parked and set off downhill.
Being able to hunt from the top is a real advantage when you’re chasing chukar. It seems to mess with the bird’s mojo. They desperately want to get above you before they take to the air, and here is where a bird dog is an incalculable advantage. My setter’s sweeping casts prevented the birds from sneaking around me. Eventually the pressure put them in the air, and we killed a few.
The next day I saw another game of aerial chase, also involving a northern harrier, but this time tailing a golden eagle. There was nothing playful about this encounter, however. I guess the hawk had just been practicing with the ravens.