Archive | October 2013

Once more, to-night, the woods are white
That lie so dim and far,
Where the wild trout hide and the moose abide,
Under the northern star.
-Albert Bigelow Paine, The Tent Dwellers

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Wingmaster, not so much

The ruffed grouse holds a special place in my memory; it was the first thing I ever hunted. I shot my first grouse in October of 2011, just outside of Chipman, New Brunswick. It was the first weekend in my life that I was a gun owner. I had gone through all the testing, courses, and paperwork in the fall of 2010 and was ready to purchase my first firearm. I called Matt earlier during the magical week and informed him of my intention to purchase a firearm, and we both agreed that given his interest in guns, his presence was required.

Every pump action shotgun in the store found its way up to my eye. I considered how they felt, how they looked, and, most importantly, their cost. Just as I was beginning to think a black Remington 870 Express 12 gauge was the gun for me, a local legend pointed to a used Remington 870 Wingmaster.

“I’d buy that used one right there over the Express,” he said. “The new ones use plastic parts, not steel, and they don’t make’em like they used to.” In my mind I like to think that I replied, “well you can’t beat American steel!” but in reality I just stared blankly until Matt stepped in and struck up a conversation. I walked away from this excursion with a brand new — in 1979 — Remington 870 Wingmaster 12-gauge shotgun, with a fully choked, smooth 28” barrel.  I was now officially a hunter — or so I thought.

On the drive home I kept wondering when and where I was I going to get a chance to try out my purchase. That’s one thing about hunting and shooting: you need a place to do it, and finding one isn’t always easy or cheap. Fortunately, New Brunswick is 48 per cent public land (3.4 million hectares). I was hoping to try some skeet shooting first to feel things out before shooting at a live target. But, before I could say ‘pull,’ Matt invited me to his camp for the weekend to participate in his annual bird hunt with one of his buddies. The camp was located on the banks of the Gaspereau River, in the heart of grouse country.

After a long two days, Friday finally came and we were off to Chipman. Roughly three quarters of the way there, we pulled onto a logging road engulfed by grey speckled alders on both sides. Matt grabbed an empty plastic pop bottle from the bed of his truck and said, “lets see if you can kill this first”. I anxiously removed my firearm from its case, removed the trigger lock, and grabbed a #6 shell. Matt had set up the bottle about 10-15 yards away. I loaded the weapon, removed the safety, took aim and awkwardly squeezed the trigger, maybe closing my eyes in the process. When the dust settled and my ears stopped ringing, the bottle was full of tiny holes. I was now officially a hunter. Of bottles.

With the firearm christened and everything packed up, it was time to get back on the road, but not before a little omen. Just as we were pulling away, a spruce grouse wandered out onto the road for a gravel snack and a dust bath, a sign of things to come.

After an evening of cribbage victories the morning had arrived. Outside it was a beautiful crisp fall day; we were surrounded by a deep green and gold forest and accompanied by the rushing sounds of the mighty Gaspereau River.  Matt’s buddy Randy stirred, “Is that rain?” “No man, that’s bacon!” I replied. We were in no rush to get out — grouse don’t get out of bed before 10:00 a.m. — so Matt pulled out a box of skeet. “Pull!” I yelled, and a single skeet was lobbed out in front of me. I pointed the gun, aimed, pulled the trigger and watched the unscathed skeet sail to sweet freedom. I promptly declared, “Must be because it’s a full choke.” “Maybe, let me take a look at that.” Matt replied. “Pull!” he yelled as Randy launched a skeet into the air. And, as a cloud of clay dust rained down upon the ground 20 yards away, he handed the gun back to me and retorted, “There’s nothing wrong with that gun!” Following the liberation of a few more skeet, I finally hit one. After which, I heard from behind a single clap. “It’s about time,” Matt said. I was now officially a hunter. Of clay pigeons. It was time for the real thing.

The three of us piled into Matt’s truck armed with our blaze orange, a few shells, and our shotguns; which were stored in the bed in their respective cases. I remember being pretty excited and anxious. I was able to take some solace in the fact that if we didn’t get anything my freezer wouldn’t be empty; I could fill it with Doritos. There was no way we could eat the 10 bags we brought with us.

As we turned onto a logging road things got more serious. I was informed that since I was riding shotgun, it was my duty to jump out of the truck and make chase if we saw a grouse. Shortly after — as we were driving through a mature jack pine plantation — a grouse appeared about 80 yards up the road. The bird was sunning itself on a log about 5 yards into the woods. I attempted to play it cool — like I’d done this a thousand times. I slowly slid out of the truck and grabbed my gun and a couple shells. I casually lingered beside the truck and gave Matt and Randy my best ‘don’t worry guys this isn’t a big deal’ look — which of course was the opposite of the truth. In exchange, they both provided me with a look that said ‘what the fuck are you doing?’

I casually started to walk up the road  – maybe strutting a little – and loaded two shells into the tube of my Wingmaster. I loudly cycled the action as I continued to stalk up the road. Miraculously the bird was still in place. After getting within about 30-40 yards I shouldered my gun and aimed. At this critical juncture, it dawned on me that the range of my gun was a complete mystery to me. I didn’t want to miss and risk wounding the animal or worse, my fragile ego. So, I turned completely around and yelled the words “am I close enough?” Matt and Randy’s reactions were not difficult to interpret. Their wild hand gestures and inaudible expletives made it obvious — they had never seen anything quite like this before. With their feedback in mind, I resolved to get closer. I turned back to the bird, took two steps, and it provided me with a look that said ‘what the fuck are you doing?’…as it flew away. I didn’t even lift my gun; I just stood there and watched with a newfound case of grouse fever.

The walk back to the truck felt like it was 100 miles. Thankfully, my two dear friends were very supportive. Randy consoled, “Grant, I know this is a bad time to bring this up, but that was literally the biggest partridge I’ve ever seen in my life, how could you miss that?” Thanks Randy. Mercifully, there was plenty of daylight left.

We continued to drive the crown woodlands; regularly stopping to explore overgrown trails with good cover on foot. The sky had clouded over and the wind had picked up –poor conditions for grouse hunting. But, if experiences on this trip and many after have taught me anything, it’s that often your prey will appear when you least expect it — as if out of thin air. This occurred on our next sighting.

We were rolling down a gentle slope, through mixed balsam fir and birch forest, when a grouse appeared in a roadside alder thicket. With the previous incident fresh in my memory, I didn’t waste any time. I jumped out of the truck, grabbed my gun, tossed a shell directly into the chamber, and thrust the action forward — I’d learned that loading them into the tube wastes precious seconds. I stalked up the road to within 25-30 yards, shouldered the gun, set the bead just above the head, slid off the safety, took a deep breath…and pulled the trigger. When I heard the fading sound of feathers flapping against the ground, I knew I had hit it.

With my prey in hand, I triumphantly walked back to the truck. It appeared as though I had made a clean head shot, inflicting minimal damage to the breast. I proudly held in my hand a beautiful Ruffed grouse. “Nice shot, GV” Randy uttered. Having guided me to my first (second?) bird, Matt proclaimed, “Grant, I feel like your dad right now.” Many hours later, after arriving back at the camp it was time to clean our bounty, ‘and now the work begins’ as the hunter often says. Matt motioned me over, “Grant, come over here and let me show you how to clean these things.” Thanks, Dad.

The Lazy Man’s Game…Bird

Hunting Ruffed Grouse (Banasa umbellus) is a favorite pastime of many here in Eastern Canada. Many also consider Ruffies to be the finest table fare of the upland game birds and, I would have to agree. This past weekend I struck out in hopes of bagging a side dish for Thanksgiving supper. The day started out like all others, with the blaze of an alarm, followed by a quick smash of the snooze button — after all, it’s just a bird hunt. However, I was up and out of bed before the next alarm because it isn’t just about the bird hunt, it’s about getting out in the bush with your favourite shotgun and taking in the sights and sounds of the country.

After some breakfast and a healthy dose of TSN (My Flyers lost, Grant’s Leafs won. Argh!) I was out the door. Outside it was a beautiful clear morning with promise of warm afternoon sun. The thermometer read -5°C, and the truck was thick with a heavy frost. After a quick scrape, I was on the road by 8 a.m. heading for Loggers School Road, southwest of Corner Brook.

I joined the many other hunters taking advantage of the season’s first Sunday hunt in NL, but lucky for me most were in search of moose. I traveled in to a road over grown with alders that I had identified on a previous outing and jumped out of the truck to put some miles on my LL Bean boots. I trudged 1.5km down this old road before being forced to turn back it was completely choked off by alders. Along the hike, I enjoyed a brief encounter with a snipe and three ducks which, of course, are migratory birds and require a license I don’t have.

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On the return trip I thought back to other bird hunts I had been on over the years (admittedly, not enough since archery season for whitetail overlaps bird season) and I recalled that I never had much luck before 10 a.m. It was now almost 10, and the sun was reaching a height where it could warm the more open portions of the trail. I knew of another trail back off the main road a little ways that would just be catching the light and I decided it would be my next destination.

As I was driving on this cold morning, I thought grouse would want to find themselves a safe, sunny location to warm up a little. I knew I should be looking for roosting trees with a southeast aspect and places where the sun was poking down onto the forest floor.

I parked at the second trailhead, loaded up my Winchester 1300 20 gauge, slung my pack over my shoulder and crossed the road to the trail. The sun was right at my back, casting my shadow ahead of me. I took two steps down the trail and looked up to see a large, white-breasted grouse on the side of the path sunning himself while snacking on some alder leaves. The bird immediately suspected something was amiss and bolted into the underbrush. I quickly shouldered the gun, pushed off the safety, found the bead on the barrel and swung on the bird. I fired off a shot at the bird’s head and, the #6 shot cut a path through the brush, leaving the bird lying on the forest floor. I quickly checked my watch and it was 10:30 a.m.

I retrieved the bird and was staging a photo when a 4-wheeler emerged from the trail adjacent to me. The operator cursed under his helmet knowing that he was only a left turn and minutes away from flushing his first grouse of the day. After a quick discussion about population numbers, 20 versus 16 gauge, and moose hunting, he was on his way remarking he was just getting started for the day.

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On my next trip, I hope that I remember my personal 10:00 a.m. rule and sleep through my alarm. Just as long as I get there before my new buddy on the 4-wheeler, who evidently learned this lesson years earlier. After all, the wild is controlled by energy expended versus energy gained.I began the steady climb up the hill when I came to a large stream where the road was washed out. I took this opportunity to clean my supper. I checked my watch and realized that I had promised to be home to help with Thanksgiving supper at noon. This meant my day was now over. Returning with a grouse breast for supper made it all worth it, although I think going home empty handed would have been just fine too.

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It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to. -Frodo Baggins

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Safety never takes a vacation, just ask Matthew Chase.

In London or New York some other means must be found to gratify primitive impulse. I think every big town should contain artificial waterfalls that people could descend in very fragile canoes, and they should contain bathing pools full of mechanical sharks.-Bertrand Russel, Nobel Lecture 1950

What on earth would I do if four bears came into my camp? Why, I would die of course. Literally shit myself lifeless. -Bill Bryson, A Walk in the Woods

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither;
Deep roots are not reached by the frost. -Bilbo Baggins

Ethical behavior is doing the right thing when no one else is watching- even when doing the wrong thing is legal.-Aldo Leopold

The only reason I ever played golf in the first place was so I could afford to hunt and fish. -Sam Snead, Legendary Golfer

When he was young, I told Dale Jr. that hunting and racing are a lot alike. Holding that steering wheel and holding that rifle both mean you better be responsible. – Dale Earnhardt Sr.

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