Grouse camp marks the start of “Chucktober”

I was sitting in my chair relaxing waiting for the buddy that was riding with me to arrive. The truck was packed. I’m dressed for hunting when we make it to camp. The I’s are dotted and the T’s crossed. I was still feeling the stress of running, organizing, and getting ready for camp, when the feeling hit me.

The woodcock flew in just before the storm and from all sounds of it staying around. We had already found grouse by the camp earlier in the season and the dogs were primed.

I spend much of the year getting ready for the next two weeks. And I just felt this calm feeling hit me and for the first time this season genuinely excited for the hunt. The fall so far felt like constantly playing catch up.

I spent most the day prior getting ready. Did a fair amount of cooking since the camp chef can’t make it this year and his sous chef had to take over. Guess who he calls his sous chef.

There was one dish that needed to be made yet. I like the cooking but not when it’s taking up hunting time so much, and the reorganizing and packing not so much either. If I didn’t need to make that last dish I would have been done well before noon. Eventually night came and I headed to bed to sleep.

According to my watch, my heart rate dropped by ten beats per minute when this feeling hit me. I got up, walked out by the trucks and one at a time the dogs jumped onto the tailgate and calmly stood for the collars and tick spray. They were happy. In a few hours we would be hunting birds.

If you’re looking for some big point, I ain’t got one. It’s hunting camp. I slipped ain’t in because I had a seventh grade teacher that would make us write “Ain’t is incorrect language” a hundred times if she heard anyone say it. I still ain’t happy about it and no bolt of lightning just struck me down.

This feeling usually hits the first night at camp after everything is running smooth. It’s been many years that the glow of camp hit before I actually left. And I have to say I enjoyed it. Friends of mine who organize hunting camps tell me the same. One told me he shut one of his camps down because in the end he didn’t enjoy the camp because of the stress of it and worrying about everyone else having a good time. I’m sure he isn’t alone; I’ve never got to that point.

The drive to up to north of Cutover flew by. I listened to a couple of podcasts and pulled up to the first spot. But just in front of where we parked sat a pile of wolf scat practically still steaming so we moved down the road a piece.

All looked good at the second spot. We pulled our guns from the vault, set them alongside the truck, and put on our vests. The Astro had already linked up with the collars (yes, oh youthful hunters I still use an Astro because it still works), I marked the truck’s location and we put Allie down.

Thirty yards into the first cover a grouse flushed wild from high in a tree. That could have been a bad omen that the cover had been hit already that day if the birds were in trees or pushed out of the cover. Except Allie was on point and her beeper collar was already telling us she had a bird pinned.

Ten minutes into the first hunt of camp the first woodcock fell to my gun. From there we chased points of a flight of woodcock and a couple grouse. Ninety minutes later we found the trail again about a half mile from the truck and walked out. Just beyond where we cut into the woods to hunt that first point sat a couple piles of wolf scat in the trail just as fresh as the first spot. They had left us alone and we were thankful for it.

While enjoying hors d’oeuvres of woodcock we received some sad news that evening. We poured a glass of something brown and raised a glass to a friend that lost their fight with cancer that morning. We’ve reached that age. May the feeling of camp always be with you!

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