I’m still on Cloud Nine a bit. I had such a good time on the Chukar Grounds last week, killing a limit of five before Thanksgiving, that I took the rest of the week off.
“Why not?” I figured. “My brain is still brimming with thoughts of a day of nearly perfect shooting. No need to clutter that up.”
I did go out again, the day after Thanksgiving, but weather had moved in. I gave it a few hours, which included a wild flushing covey of about 20 birds — the same one I killed a double out of a few days before — but they didn’t offer a shot.
I saw the gray shapes of partridge flushing, but they were too far off. And since heavy fog had rolled in, I had only a vague idea where they flew.
Birds on the Chukar Grounds don’t see too many hunters, but I’d been on that covey twice earlier in the week and they weren’t inclined to linger. Still, we walked a wide, fruitless loop in what I guessed was the direction they’d flushed.
We’d started working that covey on a small bench about 100 yards across. It’s covered with big sagebrush, shoulder high in spots and occasionally taller than a man of average height, and at 5-foot-10, I qualify as a suitable gauge. Chukars love sagebrush and when I lived near the Chukar Grounds and hunted there multiple times a week, I discovered most of their favorite hang outs. All were covered with big sage.
The other day we caught them despite an uncooperative wind. They flushed at some distance but flew only 100 yards or so. My English setter, Jade, pointed them right where I’d watched them land.
Today, the weather had left a skiff of snow on the ground. This time, the birds didn’t flush, but were still working to evade us. I could see their tracks in the fine white dusting beneath the sagebrush.
Tracks are a thing of beauty any time of year, but especially so during hunting season. Since I’m exclusively a bird hunter these days, it’s the four-toed impressions that really do it for me. Three big toes pointing in the direction of travel, and that cute little heel claw that points to where they’re been.
As we moved off the small bench, a flood of tracks poured through a break in the sagebrush. At first, I thought the tracks were older, but I stopped to get a good look. Fresh tracks are fuzzy with ice crystals clinging along the edge of the impressions. That crystal fuzz is first to melt, so day-old tracks have clearly defined edges framing those four toes.
The fuzzy flakes of snow gave away the chase. The birds were just out in front of us. It’s no surprise we didn’t catch up. Chasing running chukars would be futile sport, even for Usain Bolt. And though these birds were sprinting across flat ground rather than straight uphill, as chukars are often inclined under threat, I knew we had little chance unless Jade produced some epic bird dog magic, or the birds made a mistake.
Neither happened, as evidenced by flushing gray ghosts I watched escaping into the fog.
We hunted a bit longer. There’s often another covey not far from that sagebrush bench, so we went looking for them, unsuccessfully. Still, I hadn’t given up and we drove to the spot where we’d killed bird No. 5 of that limit, because I love the view there and to retrieve the water bowl I’d absent-mindedly left behind.
As I climbed a high ridge, I could see a storm draining off the Yellowstone Plateau. I figured it would be here shortly, so I decided to rest on past glories from that day before Thanksgiving. We retreated to the warmth of a wood stove and leftovers.
It seemed the wise choice.