We lost our first day in the grouse woods to rain. That’s the way it goes when you plan a trip months ahead of time. You can pick the dates, get the cabin lined up, and spend weeks getting a young dog ready. Maine still gets a say in when you go hunting.
When the rain finally cleared, we had two chances at grouse. My buddy Jim made good on one of them with a single shot, and I was happy to see him get that bird. I was also keeping an eye on Phinnigan. I’d spent a good part of the year getting him ready for this trip, and now I had a few days to see how he’d take to the grouse woods.
Before we left, I wrote about getting him ready in Before the First Cover: Preparing Phinnigan for Maine. It started with something about as ordinary as it gets: learning to walk down the road together. He had plenty of enthusiasm, and I had to figure out how to get us both moving in the same direction without turning every walk into a tug-of-war.
Eventually we got to quail and introduced him to the sound of a starter pistol. The birds had his attention, and the sound didn’t seem to bother him. He chased the quail and came back when I called. A few months earlier, I’d been happy if we could get down the road without him pulling against the leash. Now I was calling him back from birds. It felt like we’d come a long way.
Then came his first hunt in late October. It was warm, the birds were running, and we didn’t bring anything home. But he ranged well and kept in contact with me. I came away feeling good about the start he’d made. By the time I packed for Maine, I was looking forward to giving him a few days in a row to get out and do it again.
The trip itself was part of his education. There was the drive through New England, the night in a hotel, and the stop for groceries before we headed into the North Maine Woods. Phinnigan took to the hotel bed just fine. If he had any doubts about this whole traveling arrangement, he kept them to himself.
Over three days in the woods, we saw about a dozen grouse, more than we’d seen the year before. Jim took three birds in four shots, which gave me plenty of reason to tell him that some guys have all the luck. I’ll give him credit, though. He still had to make those shots.
Back at camp, everybody brought a dish to share, and I brought a batch of Cowboy Chili. We ate well, shared some good bourbon, and spent time around the fire. The birds gave us plenty to talk about, but I’d have been just as happy sitting there with those guys if we hadn’t fired a shot. There’s something about everybody bringing a little of home to the same table that makes a camp worth coming back to.
Phinnigan enjoyed the company as much as I did. The trouble was, he wanted to keep enjoying it once we got into the woods. Four guys were a lot for a young pup to sort out. He was more interested in visiting and playing with the guys than settling down to hunt. I couldn’t blame him. He liked everybody, and there was always somebody else to go see.
So I dropped the guys off at their hunting spots, and Phinnigan and I went off on our own. I wanted to give him room to work and give us a chance to start building the bond that makes a hunter and a bird dog a team.
The change in him was dramatic. He stayed out front at a good distance and quartered the woods like a much older dog. When I walked an edge, he’d go into the timber, work the cover, and make his way back toward me. Every time he did it, I found myself hoping to hear a grouse flush.
What surprised me most was how little I had to say. With a quiet command and a small hand gesture, I could send him from one side to the other. He worked both sides that way, and for stretches I could simply walk and watch him hunt. After seeing how easily he’d been distracted with the group, I was proud to see him settle into his work when it was just the two of us.
We never found a bird hunting on our own. I would’ve loved to hear a grouse get up in front of him, but there’ll be another day for that. I left Maine without a bird of my own and with more confidence in Phinnigan than I’d had when I arrived. He’d gotten a real education in those woods, and I’d learned something about how to hunt with him, too.
We’d started months earlier by learning how to walk down the road together. Somewhere in Maine, we started learning how to hunt together. That’s what I brought home.
Now it’s time to rest for a couple of days, get out for some Pennsylvania pheasant hunting, and start getting ready for steelhead camp in upstate New York.
The Wandering Sportsman
Where the journey matters as much as the catch, the flush, or the harvest.
