A Day at the Sheyenne Valley Lodge
          Submitted by Andrew Schuler

The Afternoon Hunt

I was awakened by the pop of shotguns at the trap range. My buddies were attempting to get an eye for shooting rising birds. I could see from the window of my bedroom that they were no better at going away shots than they were this morning trying incoming shots. I got up and dressed in my upland canvas and wool. Our tireless hostess, Patty met me at the bottom of the steps with a big smile and a plate of cookies from the oven. I told her that I was going to get fat on this trip from all these treats. She told me I'd have the chance to walk it off this afternoon if I went out with their sharptail guide.

The choices were two fold. We could go out for the native sharptailed grouse with a lanky fellow named Todd, or for the pheasants that lurked in the brush lines along the bottoms and field edges with Ted and his dad Orlan. I had pheasants where I come from, so the grouse had a certain appeal. Most of the guys in our group wanted pheasants in the worst way, so they loaded up in the Suburban that was also laden with a pointer, setter, and springer spaniel. My good friend Jim and I decided to see just what grouse hunting on the prairie was all about. We wished the rest all the left-handed luck we could muster and off they went, carrying on so as to steam the truck windows before it was out of sight. The excitement was infectious and we were a little giddy ourselves.

Jim had brought his shorthairs along, although they had only sniffed the scent of bobwhite quail and the occasional pheasant. It would be nice to see the dogs in the prairie short grass and wheat stubble. Todd said that he had seen some grouse sitting on some bales a couple miles down the road last evening while scouting for geese. There were maybe a dozen or so, just lounging after filling their crop for the evening. We loaded up the dogs and guns and headed out. I commented on how I had envisioned North Dakota as pool table flat and was surprised to see some gentle roll to the land. Andy explained how the area was a moraine from the last ice age, leaving the potholes and rolling lay of the land. He described what it looked like before Europeans had come here, with grasses as far as the eye could see. Now the grain fields and planted treelines filled the view. In most of the central U.S., the native & chicken-like; birds had been eaten or pushed to the brink, but the sharptail was a survivor. It withstood the agricultural pressures and the changes that ensued for the last 150 years. Its gene pool was filled with the heritage of these elusive birds and as Todd said, it's still referred to as a grouse hunt, not a grouse shoot.

The tall order of the day was to cover as much of an expanse as possible, as the grouse easily ranged over miles of territory. They, as July birds, needed food, cover and water. The catch was they would cover a half mile between each if they had to. When you flushed them, they would cheer, lilly laugh at you with the three or four wing beat clucks separated by sailing, as they cruised beyond the section line.

I think Jim's dogs just looked at the first ones to do this with total disbelief. I know I did. Todd would say, "Now we'll cruise to that highest rise...see where that darker buck brush is...then we'll just drop over the other side and get another chance." I asked how far that was and he smiled and said, "Oh, 'bout fifteen minutes in the grass." Jim was a little taken by the expanses and asked' "How much in the truck?" Todd said, "Can't shoot from the truck and the dogs have a tough time pointing from the bed." So we rested at dog nose level and listened to the incessant wind hissing through the grass. The quiet was so overpowering. We sat there longer than necessary to rest. This place was having a subtle affect on us. We were really relaxing. The idea of vacation finally set in.

We all rose and pitched into the breeze with the hope of discovering birds between here and there. As we came to a stone pile of Volkswagen proportions, the young pointer locked up. We all froze while the other dog cast for the scent cone. Honoring the point with quivering muscles he locked. Both were staring at this rock pile. Todd said one word and the rocks began to lift off "Huns." Twenty Huns came off the pile into the wind. Jim got the draw on them and hit two with one shot and a single with the other. As they cleared 30 yards, I fired twice and hit one. The dogs went out for the retrieves while Todd clambered up the rocks to watch the birds as they passed over the nearby stubble and out of our sight. They came up as one bunch and stayed together the whole time. Much different than the star burst rise of bobwhites we were used to seeing.

We stood together and marveled at their bull appearance. They blended in with the rocks and weeds perfectly. Jim was thrilled with the dogs' performance and rightfully so, as all the downed birds were in hand. Todd said that they went down over into a clump of scruffy looking brush about calf high he referred to as buck brush. It reminded me of wading through a mini oak forest. It was abrasive to the boot leather, but the dogs motored through easily, as there were game trails throughout. Todd moved with a long stride encouraging us to do the same. He said that the Huns were runners if they caught their breathe. We picked up the pace and set out for the reflush of these gray rockets. As we closed in on the "LZ", Todd swept his flattened hand in broad circles and said they would probably be between thirty and a hundred yards out front where we were. With the dogs front ends pointed into the wind we spread out and headed in. The young dog Abby passed a bunch of eight. Up they came to her surprise. I hit one and missed on my second shot. She blitzed after it. Within seconds the whole gang took flight. Jim's gun popped twice but nothing fell.

The older pointer Judy was still locked. "They're gone girl." was enough to unnerve a pair of sharptails who were watching the whole thing. They clucked with every wing beat as they rose. Jim tossed up his double and hit the hind quarters of the trailing bird. A poof of feathers was swept away as it locked its wings and glided out of sight over a slight rise. Judy bolted off.

The dogs swept up to our position just to check in when the scent cone wafted through the waving grass into Judy's nose. Bang, she drew up tight looking over her shoulder at a clump of choke cherry bushes in a little pocket on the far side of the hill. Not to be out done little Abby went right on in, circled below and put all the birds up right toward us. I figured they would flare, but they bore on, as if on a mission. I was shook that I missed the first shot, as it was right in front of me. I put my head down on the stock tightly and slapped the trigger. I got my first sharptail! During all this I heard Jim's gun pop in the wind. Two more birds for Jim.

We rested on the lee side of the rise. The sun came out and it felt good to be out of the nonstop North Dakota wind. We could see the truck off in the distance. The infamous rock pile off to one side, about half way between. What a day. What a place.

See also the Morning Hunt