On The Idiosyncrasies of a Grouse Hunter

On The Idiosyncrasies of a Grouse Hunter

Like many evenings, I find myself sitting with a tired bird dog at my feet. A single soft lamp casting the shadow of a double gun leaning in the corner where brick meets the old wood trim. The scent of Hoppes tells the secrets of a successful day afield; simply another line in the story of what is to one day become our “good ‘ole days”. I seem to find myself thinking about the New England ruffed grouse hunter, for those who choose to spend their days gunning grouse are altogether a different breed.

Often times, the fella who chases Pats along the overgrown New England alder bottom is nothing more than a hopeless romantic who feels cheated. I say cheated in the sense of time, for the modern gunner isn’t lucky enough to have been alive in the glory days; the time that Parker Brothers made guns in Meriden, Connecticut or when Ansley H. Fox held shop in Philadelphia. We weren’t able to wave goodbye to Burt, Tap, or Grampa after a handshake and a fine day together. Spend enough time at grouse camp and you’ll see it’s nothing more than show-and-tell, followed by slightly [or heavily] embellished stories of days where you just couldn’t miss and your dog could do no wrong. Those who gun for grouse appreciate the story of a worn in, and well worn, strap vest. They know that most of the empty shells in their pockets are tales of the old bird that always wins. They know that the double a gent totes in the coverts tells more of his character than what college he played football for. They know that a successful day isn’t a bird in hand, but it’s the drops of blood on your shirt from pushing black berry cane & beech whips, and the time spent sharing a Newtown Pippin with a good dog beneath the apple tree. Grouse hunters are an odd bunch, and I can say that because that’s who I am; a Grouse Hunter.

Even today, as we write the chapters of what are soon to be our “good ‘ole days”, we can hunt with the old double that was built by hand right down the road. When I reach for my Ithaca or Fox, I can take the man who built that gun for a walk… We can chase birds together and revel in the thunder of a grouse or the whistle of a woodcock. He sought the same in his day, after all. You don’t find the same romance in other avenues of the sporting life. You may ask, “why?” Well, we’re simply different. A grouse hunter is full of idiosyncrasies, oddities, nostalgia, and we dream of a time that once was. Where a deer hunter must shoot a buck to be successful, I don’t need to shoot a bird, or even fire my gun. In the same way I practice catch and release of a trout, I wish I could make the acquaintance of the ruffed grouse and simply send him on his way. As a trout sips my Hendrickson in the month of May, I release him back to his hide. I long for the day that I can recall my number 8s and place a bird back in the old orchard. I believe most grouse hunters would feel the same.

Those who gun for ruffed grouse are an odd bunch; full of nostalgia, romance, and just enough of the ball-busting gene to keep the comments made over a bourbon interesting. I’ll sit here and dream of the 1940’s with you, taking in the fading scent of Hoppes gun oil, but I’ll continue to write the lines of my soon-to-be “good ‘ole days”…

Until next time…
Joe Heusinger – Covert Creek Outfitting