Up ahead, Maisey’s coursing tone had stopped, and the steady beep that reverberated through the alders doubled our pace. Soon enough, there was a white shape broken by stems, intent on the ground up ahead. Her tail was high and straight, though the tip flagged. Tim and I did the grouse shooter’s waltz, closing guns and walking ahead of the dog, fully aware that the world would soon erupt into something magnificent and that we’d be called to make good use of the moment. We moved up. Maisey repositioned.
We moved up farther, navigating an epoch of fallen trees, decaying forest, and the whiplike seedlings of future generations. The bigger woods opened, and Maisey broke point, zigzagging through pillars of sunlight, giving up on what had seemed a sure thing. Tim whistled her in, broke his gun, and knelt to give her water. When I sat down on a soggy stump, a bull of a ruffed grouse blew out of a young spruce just above us. It made a straightaway path that would have been a layup shot, and then bent into the next bit of woods. The bird had watched and waited, once again proving its superiority, making me look foolish as I blundered to load. We closed our guns, resituated, and moved off in the direction he’d gone.
The day transpired as grouse days do, though the birds were frequent enough to keep us stepping light with our heads swiveling. There was a popcorn flush I’ll never forget, comprising a half-dozen birds that are out there still, tying me in knots with their acrobatics. There were hard points that never materialized, and ranging points that did, often with birds arcing from the treetops and banking low and fast, daring us to connect. And of course, there were the birds of legend, the ones that hopped onto tree limbs and watched us walk by, less from stupidity, I now think, than from sheer hubris. There’s something to be said for a bird that simply assumes it can outwit and outmaneuver any predator alive, to the point of taking that confidence to the grave, or the oven, as the case may be.
The last bird of the trip was perhaps the finest I’ve ever held in my hands. It was a spectacle of a ruffed grouse, a two-year-old bird or better judging by the tail, and so perfect in repose that it could have been cast in bronze. It came from beneath a canopy of fir, bursting up just as Maisey broke point and followed her nose into the shadows. Maybe she saw it on the ground; maybe she sensed its intention to leave. Regardless, her conviction was complete, and in that tangle of fir and pointing dog and waning daylight, a bird erupted and arced into open sky. I can hold it still in my mind without trying, a silhouette of wings and fanned tail, a hatchet head imprinted on the afternoon. I swung and shot, afforded too little time to overthink the matter and ruin it. The bird, interrupted in flight, became still, and northwest Montana became silent again. Snuffed out like an altar taper, momentum alone carried the bird through its arc as it tumbled amid the aspen whips and snowberry.
I bent, picked up the bird, and smoothed the feathers. It was lovely. Tim joined me, and not to be left wanting, Maisey came around for her praise. We spread the fan to reveal a band of uninterrupted chocolate that marked the rippling gray. Then we sat in that quiet space, and took the time one takes for reverence when things are good. It was a long walk back to the truck after a long day, but we stayed as the sun set. In the morning, I would leave, heading back home in the East. Tim would, of course, remain in the Yaak, where he has scratched out a home, and a living, and a sense of himself, surrounded by things that were always familiar to him despite the geography. In light of our respective relations to this place, we both found reason to sit a bit longer, admiring the joy of birds and dogs and just being a piece of the day.
I set the grouse on my lap and parted the feathers where the dark ruff met the neck, then carefully tore the exposed skin. A bulging crop protruded, and I tore this too, exposing a mass of kinnikinnick leaves and radiant berries. This ritual of bird hunters exposes an intimate relationship, reveals what sustains the birds that in turn sustain us, a cyclic reinforcement of identity. I held the mass of green and red in my hands, then put it on the ground. Maisey ranged out to the road. There was talk of cold beer and dinner. I tucked the bird into my vest, and we started a long walk homeward, guns broken, knowing that punctuation had been rightly and firmly placed at the end of the day. There was no need to reload.
When I close my eyes on winter evenings, I see grouse. Typically, these images stem from a long and torturous season, during which the flushes are few, and the birds far fewer. Regardless, I find solace in something that can’t be improved upon, or made common. I feared the West might ruin grouse for me, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. The West confirmed that ruffs are ruffs, impossibly so. They ceaselessly pull me toward places I love but would not otherwise go, given the shadows and silences. But in ruffed grouse, I find solace and stolen moments, and something beautiful, which is why we hunt after all. In light of that, I’ll follow the ruffed grouse that keep me off balance and impel me forward. My winter nights are full of promise.
Reid Bryant lives with his family in Dorset, Vermont, where the grouse are few and precious. See more of his writing at www.reidbryant.com.
Artists websites: www.brettsmith.com , www.colejohnsonart.com , www.eldridgehardie.com