​   His back creaking, Otis Willoughby bent forward to rummage the depths of his oak blanket chest. He pulled out the shredded waxed chaps and faded orange hat that he’d stowed away with the first big snowfall thinking pa’tridge hunting was over. Just before Christmas, January thaw-like temperatures had dashed folks’ hopes of a white Christmas. Otis was tickled with the prospect of a snow-free Christmas Day hunt, as he no longer had the fortitude of mind or body for punishing winter slogs. Wrestling on his chaps and boots, he put himself together enough to venture out into the Northeast Kingdom woods.
   
   “Are ya ready to go scare up some pa’tridge, old Red?” Otis scratched the English setter behind his mottled ears. Red opened one eye, stood on the bed, circled three times and dropped back down, his head resting on Otis’s pillow.
   
   When Otis pulled the whistle from the bureau, it was enough to rouse Red and he moped behind him as he clomped into the kitchen. “I’m goin’ ta hunt for a bit.”
​
His daughter Rosie, shoving the monstrous turkey back in the oven, straightened up and turned toward Otis. She said nothing for a long moment, eying him with contempt or confusion, he couldn’t be certain.
   
   “Goin’ by the way of Sanford Ridge, down to York Pond and then you pick me an’ Red up at the old Smith farm.”
   
   Rosie looked just like her mother when she became miffed—one eyebrow that arched supernaturally above her green eye. He still missed his wife’s shortness with him after all these years, though his daughter did a pretty good impersonation.
   
   “Pop, did ya forget it’s Christmas Day and we got your brother and family, including your grandson coming today? ” She pointed the turkey baster at him. “Should I pick you up between the cranberry pureeing and potato peeling? Or after I load the stuffin’ in the oven? Anyway, we don’t need grouse—we got turkey.”
   
   “Rosie, you’ll have all them relatives to help you here while you go fetch me.” Otis laughed, sliding one arm through his canvas coat. “Or, have Will pick me up.”

    “Will doesn’t have his license, Pop. He’s fourteen year old!” Rosie said referring to her nephew Will.

   “Of course. That’s why he likes to drive. It won’t hurt nobody for him to drive down the road. Think ol’ Sheriff Barnes be out there pinchin’ people today?”

   Rosie let out a heavy sigh and tossed the baster into the overloaded sink. “Take my cell phone and call when you’re ready to be picked up.”

   “Don’t need it. Never works. Like I said, pick me up at 1:15 sharp.”

   “Sheesh! You can be stubborn!” She turned her back to scrub potatoes.

   Red, like Otis, was slow to work out the kinks in his bones, but by the time they crossed the stubbled field toward the swampy alders, he held his head high in the air sifting the light breeze for scent. A good bird dog, he didn’t range too far and knew where to look if his nose didn’t find something of promise.

   Still, Otis wasn’t expecting a pa’tridge to roar out of the brush not even twenty minutes into the hunt while Red was upwind working a cover of briars and thorn apple. Otis shouldered and swung the gun and fired, but he was no match for the bird’s erratic flight. He knew it was a clean miss before he lowered the barrel. “Doggone it,” he exclaimed.

   His attention turned toward Red thirty yards down a hillock with his nose to the ground, cantering in an ever-tightening circle. Otis did his best to run to his dog but his trick knee buckled and flailed so his gait was more of a lunge and hop. And then Red froze into a statuesque point of such beauty that Otis had to stifle the urge to weep. His heart pounding from the thrill and exertion, he sized up the possible exit routes the bird might fly.

   When the pa’tridge flushed, Otis raised his gun and fired and the bird somersaulted to the ground. He was about to command Otis to “fetch him up” when a second and third bird rocketed up. Relying on nothing more than honed instinct, he fired at the first grouse and then swung his gun ninety degrees to the left, downing the two game birds.  Good Lord! A triple! A feat grouse hunters dream of but rarely achieve and that in his waning years he suspected would remain a dream.

   Red pranced to retrieve one pa’tridge after another, proudly dropping them at Otis’s feet. The birds were beauties—two were dappled gray and the third reddish brown. After several praises of “atta boy” and pats to Red’s flanks, Otis stuffed the birds in his jacket game pouch and glanced at his watch. They still had plenty of time. He sat down on a fallen log to consider his good fortune and plan the remainder of the hunt while taking a load off his achy knees and back. He decided to hunt a wide circle, skirting the creek, back to the house and thereby avoid bothering the folks at home with having to pick him up. His revised route would be better habitat, albeit harder walking.

   Otis and Red set out into the deep woods where they wound around the fallen pines, but after an hour Red found no birds. It was time to hurry home before Rosie or someone left to meet him at the Smith farm. He rested his old A-5 Browning shot gun over his shoulder so it pointed backwards and started walking. Red quartered back and forth ahead of him, his collar bell ringing with the same steady cadence as his gait.
A mile from the house, just on the other side of the hill, Red picked up the pace, trotting to a large fallen tree along an old stone wall that ran parallel to the creek. Otis—daydreaming about sitting next to the wood stove with a glass of scotch—almost didn’t notice when Red slammed on point. He whipped the gun from his shoulder when a pair of pa’tridges roared from a pile of rocks. Otis shot the first and it tumbled. He gambled on a long shot at the second bird guessing where it was headed as it disappeared behind a pine tree. He picked up the first bird, laughing at his poor second shot, when he saw Red earnestly tracking.

   “Here boy. I’ve got the bird!”

   Old Red pulled his nose from the ground, turned toward Otis with the look that said, “Trust me boss. You got the second one.” The dog wound his way downstream to find their wounded grouse. Otis hobbled the best he could, following Red’s lead as he crisscrossed from one side of the stream to the other.

   As they made their way Otis kept reminding himself of the old hunting adage to trust your dog. Mostly, he doubted his knees’ ability to climb back up the steep creek ravine. When Red pointed a tree root hanging over a deep pool, Otis lay down on his belly and hung over the bank’s edge. Reaching under the gnarly tree roots he felt a soft warmth and gently pulled out the grouse. The bird had a broken wing and he quickly ended its suffering and then placed it in his full game pouch.

   By the time Otis and Red arrived home, he knew without checking his watch they were very late. What surprised Otis was the parked Vermont Fish and Wildlife truck and his family huddled together with the warden organizing a search party. Though alarmed, he figured that when they heard about his triple, then double, and Red’s stunning retrieve of the wounded pa’tridge, all would be forgotten.
As he pulled the grouse from his jacket and placed them on the picnic table, something seemed amiss. He glanced at the game warden, Josh Crenshaw, whose jaw had dropped before clearing his throat.

   “That’s quite a hunt you had, Mr. Willoughby.” Josh, in spite of his uniform and side arm, appeared timid and taken aback. Otis had known Josh since he was a kid. He and Josh’s dad started taking him on hunts when he was five years old.

   Otis looked down at the grouse and suddenly understood Josh’s dismay. The daily limit on ruffed grouse was four and in that remarkably lucky day, the triple plus the double added up to five.

   It was a terrible mistake—he’d always respected game laws. “Never spent a day in jail.” He shook his head. “Here, I was looking forward to a bit of whiskey next to the fire and tellin’ you all about my hunt.”

   Josh kicked the dirt and scratched his head. “Let’s go inside and do just that. I want to hear the whole story. Then we can decide about haulin’ you in.”

   Otis smiled in spite of himself. This was the best Christmas since the one where his dad had given him the same shotgun that he just shot his first triple of pa’tridge some seventy years later. He looked to his grandson.
​
   “Next time I’ll bring Will along. He won’t lose track and he’s a fine hunter himself,” Otis announced. He put his arm around his grandson’s shoulder and whispered, “And you can do the driving.”

Photo courtesy of Tim & Kathi Parker, Aspen Patch Setters

    The day after an exhausting upland bird hunt, I resolve to dress and cook to perfection the sage grouse that lies on my butcher block. I carefully sever the wings—a stunning mottled pattern of soft brown, ivory, and taupe—and save them, just because they are beautiful. 

    Under a warm sun in mid-October, Mike and I began hunting around noon in the high plains of central Montana, which are wrinkled with deep and endless coulees. Cobalt skies provided stark contrast to the landscape’s muted hues of brown, tan, and olive. 
We strapped bell collars on the vizsla and Lab, loaded our shotguns, and set out. We began in the canyon bottoms, following a serpentine creek that rushed with clear, cold water fed by many springs and where cover for pheasants and sharp-tailed grouse is plentiful. The wind, like every day since we’d arrived in Lewistown 10 days prior, blew steadily at 15 miles per hour with strong gusts, making for hard conditions. The pheasants weren’t holding—they either flushed well beyond shooting range or ran ahead for a hundred yards, driving the dogs and us to exhaustion. 

    While Mike cleans the guns and tends to the spent dogs, I cut off the bird’s head and inspect its crop. It is filled with fragrant greens that look and smell like chopped watercress. 

    The floodplain was a nearly impenetrable mix of cattails, willow, and grasses up to our shoulders. Weaving through such thick cover made slow going, even for the dogs. Our bare arms and the dogs’ bellies quickly became crosshatched with scrapes and scratches. Still, I consoled myself that with such heavy winds, this protected cover was our best bet. 

   I cut off the tail and reach up into its chest, grasp the windpipe, and tug, pulling the entire gastrointestinal tract down and out of the cavity. The begging Labrador devours the heart, liver, and gizzard whole. Although the bird is about the size of a chicken, the skin is thin and tears too easily to pluck, so I peel it off. After rinsing the cavity, I check for shot pellets and am pleased to find none. I will honor this bird by making a memorable meal. Unblemished and intact, it will make a delicious and appealing roast. 

    We flushed birds that we only heard—the taunting cackle and the whoosh of beating wings as a cock pheasant took flight. The dogs ranged in crazy patterns, trying to follow the scent of the other pheasants that ran and eventually took flight but only after we chased them through thick brush and crossed several barbed-wire fences. When we reached private land several miles downstream, there was nothing to do but retreat along the creek bed—the same way as we came in. Hunting the surrounding barren range and bluffs, normally great habitat for sharp-tailed grouse, seemed pointless in the relentless wind. 

    I pat the grouse dry and wonder about the breast meat’s dark color, which is usually found only in migratory birds. Like wild duck, it will stand up to a robust sauce. Contrary to what sommeliers preach, a hearty red wine will pair well with this fowl. Toasted-pecan wild rice and a green salad with balsamic vinaigrette will round out the meal. 

    We were dragging ourselves back to the truck when the dogs became birdy and a pheasant rocketed out of the rushes. “Cock!” I yelled to Mike as the bird madly beat its wings and flew across his field of vision. He fired, and the bird crumpled, falling straight into a large stand of towering thorn apples.
“Dead bird. Dead bird,” we called out to the dogs, both already looking earnestly for the kill. We wove through the thicket, searching, while keeping our eyes on the dogs. After more than an hour of crawling around a couple-hundred-yard radius from where the bird dropped, we gave up the search, frustrated and saddened because we and the dogs couldn’t find it. We speculated that maybe it had washed downstream, lodged atop tall brush or maybe a tree, or run 500 yards away. 

    Before surrendering the grouse to the oven, I rub butter throughout the cavity, as well as some wild sage and juniper berries I’d foraged. Because the bird has no skin or fat reserves, I wrap the breasts and legs in pancetta to seal in the moisture. From the RV’s “wine pantry,” I pick out Reserva do Monte, a robust red wine from Portugal that is a bit lighter than, say, a cabernet. The label proclaims a “fruity wine, well structured and with smooth tannins,” meriting 90 points from The Wine Enthusiast. 

    In midafternoon and beneath a falling sun, we admitted being skunked and called it a day. We didn’t want to take the same way back to Lewistown, so consulted the large and detailed county road map. A one-square-mile chunk of state land in the middle of nowhere was linked to the traveled highway by a wispy line. Such an alternate route would be picturesque, if not expedient, and we might have time for a quick hunt. 
The wispy line represented a one-lane gravel road that quickly degraded. After we passed through a ranch homestead, the trail morphed to a cattle path, a mere suggestion of a byway. I proposed we turn around, but Mike countered that we were halfway to the big road so it would be a waste of time and gas. Besides, we were almost to the section of state land where we might find a grouse on the open range since the winds had died down. His logic seemed sound, so I shoved aside my unease. 

    We open and sample the wine. Mike, who prefers Bordeaux, finds the Reserva do Monte more than good to drink. It will also work in the sauce and complement the bird. I am tempted to pour a generous glass to ease the stress, but restrain myself, needing to remain sharp in order to cook the bird righteous. 

    My eyes darted from the county map to the handheld GPS to the alleged “road” we were negotiating in four-wheel drive. In a land where you could see forever for 360 degrees, there was no noise as the winds had died down and the air reminded me of clean, line-dried, and pressed sheets. We crawled along, hindered by having to open and close cattle gates, ford streams, and, being in constant doubt, stop to consult the map. Just as the GPS indicated that we’d entered Montana public land, a sharp-tailed grouse flushed from the brushy roadside. 
“Stop! Mike, get your gun!” I yelled, restraining the dogs in the cab while he jumped out, retrieved his shot- gun, and loaded it. The grouse flew again, Mike shot into the setting sun, and it fell stone dead 40 yards dis- tant on the scrubby plain. Not wanting to lose another bird, I ran and scooped it up with no thought about usurping the dogs’ retrieve. 
   As the sun cast long shadows, we admired the bird before quickly scrambling back into the vehicle. In the fading light, we wondered whether we’d recognize the fork in the road that the map indicated with a spidery- thin Y followed by a line that looked like a piece of cooked angel hair pasta. 

    After much probing and anxiety about overcooking the grouse, I pull it from the oven. I simmer the pan juices and fat on medium heat while adding a few more crushed juniper berries, a quarter cup of the red wine, a handful of cranberries, a tablespoon of maple syrup, and a splash of apple cider. When the cranberries burst and the juice reduces, I blend the mixture into a coarse sauce. Cutting the bird lengthwise, each serving has a breast and leg. If this roast sharp-tailed grouse were perfume, an apt description might be: the top note is a tangy blend of fruit intertwined with sturdy game; the middle note is reminiscent of worn leather and milk stout in a cowboy bar; the base note lingers like the scent of high plains sage on a sunny fall day. 

    “The fork in the trail has to be just over that rise!” I exclaimed, trying to reassure myself as much as direct Mike. The trace, a tattered ribbon in the dust and stubble, no longer meandered but straight-lined up the bluff in front of us. 
     “Oh my,” I understated as Mike, never one to hesitate, hit the accelerator and charged up the hill like cavalry. At the top of the hillock, the split appeared, like a wavy mirage. We agreed the left prong was the way to go. The sun hung inches above the horizon as we lumbered along, squinting to stay on course. 
With no light pollution and clear skies, the heavens would be incredible. If we were caught overnight, all we’d need was a star chart and maybe a couple of beers. 

    The grouse is succulent and delicious, not so much as a result of my culinary skills, but because of the bird itself and its backstory. We chew slowly, savoring each bite and the memories of the previous day. 

​    We pressed on, and as darkness wrapped around us, we reached a gravel road. In the distance we saw twinkling ranch lights to the north, but headed south to intersect the paved road leading to Lewistown. Ravenous and exhausted, we stopped in Hobson, a speck of a town, for a hard-earned burger and beer before driving the last 25 miles or so to Lewistown. We would eat the grouse the next evening after another day’s hunt. 
​
    Our dinner is punctuated with RV-made apple pie à la mode. I pour two cordials of cognac, its sweet acidity cutting through the butterfat of the crust and ice cream, enhancing the bright spiciness of the fruit. We continue reliving our adventure and plan the next day’s hunt. A feeling of warm well-being seeps in, reminding me that the journey—being lost under the Big Sky, chasing birds, and soothing achy muscles with tired dogs at your side—matters more than a full pouch of game. 

Spring seemed just around the corner--just over a foot of snow left and temps in the 40s! That hope was quickly squalled with a fresh dump of two feet over the weekend. 

​We hadn’t even crossed the Vermont-New York state line when they started fighting in the back seat. Their bickering and posturing reminded me of my two boys when they were small fry—they had plenty of room in the back seat to sprawl out, but one of them inevitably crossed an invisible line and all hell would break loose.
 
In this case the “they” were our two male vizslas—Reggie, a yearling, and Chopi, a senior of 10 years, who had little tolerance for the little dog. When we got the pup last December, the situation made for a long, claustrophobic winter with the constant grousing between the two—and I don’t mean pointing a partridge. 
 
The plan to drive Montana to pick up the trailer and then drive back east to Minnesota to upland bird hunt, I soon realized was as demented as the dogs were crazed. In Michigan’s Upper Peninsula we thought about duct taping a cardboard wall between the two of them until we stumbled on the soccer field strategy. Reggie will sprint circles around big fields to the point of exhaustion, so two to three times a day for at least thirty minutes we would find a soccer or football field in some town for him to race around. If he slowed for even a second, we would call him back triggering him to continue running like a grayhound. This seemed to settle him and by the time we reached the Montana border, they had their back seat squabbles worked out, mostly.
 
After six days of driving for 2,900 miles we finally reached our hunting destination of Appleton, Minnesota. The final day of driving included white knuckling the trailer through South Dakota in a snowstorm and howling winds. Just glad to be alive, I set a very low bar for hunting—don’t shoot anyone and don’t loose Reggie; anything more would be gravy. 
 
The first several days of hunting I was glad for my low expectations. The wind never stopped blowing hard, it was cloudy and in the low 40s, and the dogs had to range far to cover the humongous fields and wetlands, scarce of birds. Still, Chopi and Reggie never gave up. With heads held high in the air trying to find scent, they checked out brutal covers of thick sedges up to our waists, reedy swamps, and prairie grasses over our heads. And they did find, point, and flush pheasants—they were learning the covers faster than we ever would. The old hunting adage, trust your dog, rang true. In terms of bringing home dinner, I’ll say that it was a good thing we didn’t depend on our kill for dinner.
 
Yesterday, the indigenous, Lutheran Viking, hunting goddesses colluded in our favor. In the late afternoon, the winds died down to around 10 m.p.h. with brilliant sunshine. The first wildlife management area (WMA) we visited proved a poor choice because there was a combine harvesting corn, which might have driven birds toward us, but the WMA was small and there was an unusual amount of high-speed trucks on the gravel road. The second cover was tough covers, but the dogs were hunting well and for us. Still, we only flew a couple of hens that we had to pass up. 
 
Just as the sun was throwing long shadows and we were making our way back to the truck, both dogs became birdy. They worked the brushy cover together, interleaving their paths until they both simultaneously slammed on beautiful, picture-perfect points. I walked to their frozen bodies, flipped off my safety and glanced over my shoulder to make sure Mike saw the point and was ready. I stared at the two of them and reminded myself that hunting, maybe life, doesn’t get any better. The veteran dog and the adolescent pup were cooperating together as a team. I could have watched them forever, but I wasn’t sure how much longer Reggie, or even Chopi, would hold the point, or if the still unseen bird would run rather than fly. I tried to etch the image of the dogs in memory before kicking the brush. A fine rooster cackled and flew straight toward Mike and a moment later two shots rang out.
 
On the way back to camp, we stopped at a local bar to watch my hometown team the Milwaukee Brewers play the last game of the series against the Dodgers. The Brewers played the series well but lost the last game ending their hope of going to the World Series. Unlike the Brewers, we can play the game again tomorrow and for another three days after that we until we have to end the season out here and head home. But there is still grouse hunting in New England and next fall, where our rookie Reggie will be a little more seasoned and our shooting will not disappoint.

     The best dog in the universe—the brightest star in the cosmos—has departed earth for the great hunting grounds in the sky.

    A chocolate Labrador, Cosmos was born near Columbus, Nebraska from a long line of duck dogs, who retrieved hunted waterfowl from the early winter waters of the Platte River. When she was a young pup, she was shipped to Vermont where she spent eleven years raising ruckus around Lincoln and beyond, charming children and, at times, annoying humorless humans. Had Cosmos lived in England’s Yorkshire Dales some 60 years ago, she surely would have been subject matter of James Herriot, for Cosmos was a dog of the town folk.

    A party girl, when the neighbors hosted a solstice party, Cosmos was there. Did she smell the BBQ, or notice the increase in cars, or hear the boisterous laughter? She was quick to join frolicking in the snow, eating hotdogs, and chasing other dogs and sleds. When the town fire department grilled chicken for a fundraiser in the center of town a mile away? No problem finding out about that and paying a visit—better than dog chow and lots of new friends to be made. 

    For a spell, we experienced frequent calls about her visits to the elementary school during recess and the after-school program:
    “Hello. Is this the owner of Cosmos?”
    “I’m not sure Cosmos can be owned, but yes I am the one listed on her collar.”
    “We just want to let you know Cosmos is here at the school playground.”
    “Oh my, I’ll come fetch her right away.”
    “No, no. Not right now! Can you wait until recess is over, say 12:35? The children are having so much fun running around with her.”

    The family across the street didn’t have a dog, so Cosmos would often pinch hit, sitting on the couch with the kids watching TV, eating ice cream, and sometimes staying for a sleepover. When the other neighbors lost their dog, Cosmos moved in for several days.

    Cosmos also knew when to sound the bark alarm. We live on a steep, dirt road that becomes very icy at times. One early morning the plow truck didn’t make the curve and slid off the road, down the embankment, rolling on its side. The truck was invisible in the pea soup fog. Cosmos ran across the road and barked and barked until I came out to find the source of the problem. Thankfully, the driver was not hurt and climbed out of the cab. Had he been unconscious, it would have been Cosmos who saved him.

    Cosmos was not only a dog-about-town. A backwoods adventurer, she liked to ride in the canoe. But if she saw ducks, she would spring out of that canoe, like a frog from a lilly pad. While she was not a pointer, she could find upland game birds, flush and retrieve them. As soon as you took the shotgun from the gun cabinet, she would run in circles around the house barking and yipping with joyous anticipation. A fearless swimmer, Cosmos would dive in after sticks in the thundering whitewater of the swollen New Haven River in early spring. She could hike and hunt all day, tiring only when we got back to her beloved truck. 
   
​    We were caught by surprise—she seemed immortal— when she reached the age of eleven and contracted a disease that brought her wonderful life to a rapid end. She is buried next to our old English Pointer Pie, who was a partner in crime with Cosmos for many years. Cosmos earned the distinction of being arrested in three states. Each time we picked her up, the dog warden declared something like, "If you ever need to give up Cosmos, I'd love to have her. She's something special."

    There were many dogs before Cosmos and will be at least several more after her, but she will always be The Best Dog in the Universe.

​Chopi, the red dog, nose high in the air, catches bird scent.
Quickening his pace to a brisk canter
He weaves a serpentine trail through the rushes
Up the coulee into the wind.
 
Bolting to the thorn apple grove
Nose to the ground infusing the top notes of dry grass, sage and upland birds
He slams to a stop—a copper statue.
I slide the safety off and shoulder my shotgun
Ready to shoot: a cock pheasant, Hungarian partridge, sharp-tail grouse?
What lies hidden in the brush?
 
An explosion of broken branches reveals no bird.
Backward I reel, suck deep catching my breath
And freeze like the dog on point!
A white-tail buck sporting a tree of a rack
Erupts from the thick shrubs and high tails to the distant horizon.
 
I lower my gun, slide the safety on, and marvel at what I flushed
When the familiar cackling of the gaudy ring-neck pheasant
Yanks my attention.
I point my gun, and lead the bird.
But the trigger won’t pull so
I laugh at the lost bird, now too far away--
Saved by the buck I still see
Bounding across the sun-lit wheat field.

​-Sally Baldwin

by Mike Burgess,  guest blogger
​​There are plenty of birds here. According to the postal worker, this is one of the twenty-five best pheasant covers in the US. Today we saw a covey of 12 pheasants. A local hunter told us that the pheasants stay in the high country until it gets cold and then they group up and come down to the draws and coulees. Pheasants stroll in people’s yards as though they are chickens. One evening, peering through binoculars, we saw four pheasants in trees, like lords looking over the landscape.

The dogs are completely fagged out and limp around like abused slaves. We have started hunting them only once a day for fear of crippling them permanently. Sometimes we hunt without them in the afternoon and leave them sleeping on cushions behind the seats in the truck. They have claimed this space as their den. I think they suffer from anxiety that they will be left in this unfamiliar place.    

Yesterday, we saw a dozen pronghorn antelope cross the dirt road in front of us. Two were bucks with horns. The lead one had the biggest rack and the last one with the supporting role, I suppose, sported a moderate rack.

We spent one evening after hunting in the Lutheran church basement, a domain familiar to Sally as a result of her Scandinavian upbringing in Wisconsin. We ate a home-cooked benefit dinner with the residents of Froid, Montana. Froid is French for cold. We sat with an elderly man and wife who filled us in on local history and weather. These folks were not demure and spoke to us right away in a loud and direct voice. They informed us that most of the people here are either Scandinavian or German descent.

​We got permission to hunt on a 5,000 acre ranch near Plentywood, in the far northeast corner of Montana—a stone’s throw to both Saskatchewan and North Dakota. The ranch was homesteaded by our trailer park landlord’s grandfather in 1907. While standing on a bluff, it includes everything you can see to the horizon in almost all directions. Andrew’s dad is an artist and a hunter who has erected Tepees on the historical site of the stone circles that the native Indians (Sioux) left on a prominent hill. This is the home of Sitting Bull. The Indians wandered the plains seasonally and used the same family camps and the stones held down the bottom skins on their tepee. When the buffalo were gone, they were given canvas wall tents.  

The mostly empty landscape is divided in to ‘block management’ sections. We have maps that show the general location of the blocks.  We drive around the blocks looking for covers such as draws, creeks and fence lines that have tall grass, shrubs and rarely trees. Then we find the sign in box and give our self permission to hunt and get a detailed map. There are hundreds of block locations and we usually look for a stream running through the piece. The pheasants are generally in the narrow cover along the streams and the sharp-tail grouse and the Hungarian partridge can be in more open ground higher up.

 It is sunny every day and the landscape is overall honey colored with dramatic shadows at the edges of the wide flat valleys, the evident result of water finding its way for eons. Sun glasses are mandatory when hunting this sun drenched terrain. This is the head waters of the Missouri river. North West Montana gets 13 inches of rain annually. We have seen two corn fields but the predominant crop is wheat.

The grain trucks are often double trailers and travel on the two lane blacktop at 70 mph. It is safest for a hunter to travel at this speed as the truckers are professionals intent on getting their produce to the grain elevators along the railroad. On the other hand, the speed people maintain in town is close to 15 mph. The posted limit in Medicine Lake is 8 mph. The towns are generally two to three streets deep and I suppose the people don’t want to get to the other side of town too quickly.  
​  
-Mike Burgess

After countless hours of:

• ripping out moldy, mildew, rotted detritus; 
• re-framing, re-insulating, re-flooring, re-walling, re-upholstering, re-painting;
• scrubbing, scouring, scraping the old roof;
• epoxying and applying 20 mils of EDPM to the new roof; 
  
• installing new tires;
  
• installing the fifth wheel rails on the truck;
  
• welding 2 inches of addition height to the 5th wheel gizmo that connects truck to camper;
• and, most importantly, repainting with Rustoleum Hammered Metal-Rosemary spray paint the shiny gold door knobs, drawer and cabinet pulls, towel racks and vent covers

we might have the ultimate hunt camp on wheels. Thirty days and we’re out of here, bound for eastern plains of Montana.

Here are some pics of the mostly finished beast.

After the failed hunt trip last fall to the Midwest, I am ready to give it another go. I didn’t have to beg Mike much to sign on to hunting upland birds for a month or so in Montana and Idaho this fall. Immediately the discussion turned to housing options for the trip: Go light and car camp, stay in hotels, or buy some sort of camper that we could use for all kinds of trips? With the rambunctious dog pack, a camper seemed the best option.

In a moment of insanity on the way to the Clark's annual Fourth of July picnic, we bought from some nice, elderly folks a fifth-wheel; that is, a mondo camper that is bigger than some houses I’ve lived in. The three-grand price tag seemed a good deal. It was clean with no mouse droppings and everything seemed to work. I had visions of turning it into a mobile hunt camp complete with built-in gun racks, antler displays, and camo throws and pillows. The powder blue couch and frilly curtains would have to go. I could always flip the RV to some other crazed hunter, I figured, who would love the sporting décor.

Mike spent the weekend crawling under his Toyota Tundra installing the rails and other stuff that is required to connect the bed of the pickup to the RV. The bolts were too short and things didn’t quite fit, but, of course, he made it all work.

Several days ago we went to pick it up in Bristol. The tires are very cracked and needed air, but the trip to Lincoln is just five or six miles. Getting it up the driveway to the only place where it can be parked was an adventure in near jack knifing and complicated maneuvers to avoid the ditch, trees, and other obstacles. I watched with terror thinking we should have bought one of those micro campers that sit on the truck bed as Mike contorted the truck and RV into yoga poses of the downward dog and feathered peacock.

The next day I started what I thought was going to be the beginning of my remodel job that would include new flooring, painting, re-upholstery and other cosmetic changes. What I found when I started peeling away the wallpaper was layers of rot, water, and daylight streaming through the shell in the bed area after I had stripped out the wall boarding and insulation. The pictures tell it all. As I clawed the hammer through the soggy ruins I kept wondering how we could have missed the telltale signs during our pre-purchase, ten-minute inspection. I remember thinking that it looked well cared for and the owner said he had fixed the roof leak.

I am not much of a carpenter, but I am good at ripping out stuff. It’s now completely stripped down to the studs. This weekend I’ll be learning how to reframe an RV with master craftsman Mike Burgess at the helm. I sort of got a taste when we built the shed last summer. Keep you posted. Cheers!