Palouse Outdoors: September Salvation

September 2020 was our worst month on record for upland birds. Wildfires canceled road trips, while poor habitat ruined others. Meanwhile, not a bird moved in our local coverts all month. September 29th was the final day of our early grouse season, and I did something risky – trusted my instincts. 

Finn was my only capable grouse dog at the time, so we loaded up and headed for a new cover. A gut feeling urged me to "try something new," which led to an immaculate cover: young cottonwood stands flanked by sparse dark timber, mixed pockets of grass, and an understory of hawthorn, rose, snowberry, and young fir. A thing of pure beauty.

The roar of the stream washed away any doubts as the truck rolled to a stop. Cottonwood leaves shimmered in the soft morning breeze. As we strolled beyond the gate, I encouraged Finn to check an embankment of mature serviceberry with a crimson snowberry toe. She gave it a brief sniff and bounded gleefully on.

Splitting from the main road onto an old, washed-out two-track, we were surrounded by grousey thickets amid dark timber. A small opening ahead to my left revealed a lush labyrinth of emerald ferns and grasses meandering along an old creek channel. Finn lazily disappeared into the opening about 20 yards out, followed by wingbeats against the greenery. My side-by-side 20-gauge rose quickly to my shoulder, and I sighted down the old road cut, prepared for quick shooting. The sound of the grouse piling into the understory suggested that they had not flushed far.

Knowing Finn would check up, I jogged closer in perfect time. As my Garmin GPS receiver beeped "point," the birds flushed again. This time, a young gray-phase male angled low across the old road. Quickly swinging, I jerked the front trigger as the barrels covered the bird, tumbling it into the pine boughs.

Finn seemed a bit confused by the ruckus, having spent the better part of a month in the covers without hearing a single shot. Appearing briefly and casting an inquisitive "Hey, what ya shootin' at?" glance, I ordered her to find the bird, which she immediately noticed as it gained its feet. Moments later, the Garmin beeped "point" again as Finn stood over the young ruff at the base of a fir.

Brad Trumbo

Finn with our first gray-phased grouse.

I'd spent far more time in the grasslands than in forest covers and had taken relatively few ruffs at that time. This was our first gray grouse – a young bird with storm-cloud gray plumage, streaks of cream and feathers edged in chocolate and caramel, and a coal-black neck ruff. Finn plucked its tail clean of all but two feathers as she secured the bird, but the significance of the moment was not sullied by that minor detail. 

Pressing on, Finn was into another bird within 100 yards. Having picked up the main road again, a circular opening in the timber led to a miniature meadow about the size of a large house. Candy-apple-shaded hawthorn was immersed in almost chartreuse grass, with mahogany rose and snowberry scattered throughout. On the edge of the opening was a steep drop where the creek had scoured the bank during a past high flow.

I followed Finn along the far side of the meadow as she ambled to the point where the grass faded into timber. The scour channel pinched into the road, forcing it up against the mountainside, and a grouse sat at the convergence of terrain, grass, and timber.

Finn's posture suggested she was on the scent and closing in. The moment I anticipated her point, a sizable ruff jumped from the grass, angling left across the road and directly behind the double barrels. Squeezing the rear trigger spurred the modified choke barrel into action, depositing the ruff on the edge of the road.

With the bird in hand, I marveled at its contradictory, humble yet intense hues. Its size and flawless plumage were a sight to behold, with the same glorious color palette as our first young bird. I had dreamed of this bird since flushing one while archery hunting around 2012. The bird and the moment felt surreal.

I could have pushed for a third bird to round out a limit. If we were ever to take a limit of ruffs, it would have been that morning. Instead, I turned back with Finn at heel. We had disturbed the covert enough for one day, and the second bird was too beautiful to see the inside of a vest. With the little double-gun broken over my shoulder, our final grouse in hand, and Finn trotting at my side, we savored the walk out to the tune of songbirds and the babble of the creek.

Success was nearly guaranteed as we entered the cover on a perfect day, with a singular focus. We had earned it after our longest streak of consecutive hunts without even moving a bird. Following instincts to try something new, reading the cover, trusting the dog, and anticipating "the king of the woods" brought September salvation.