My August Confession

LATELY, MY MIND HASN'T BEEN WHERE IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE

ENTRY 003 • FIELD REFLECTION

This time of year I catch myself drifting away to a prairie hillside, watching two Brittanys lock up on a covey of sharptails that chuckle at me on the rise. Other times, my mind wanders back into some of our favorite places to walk in the grouse woods.

Maybe it's because the calendar finally rolled into August.... and quite frankly, I couldn't care less if the lawn doesn't get mowed again or my emails don't get answered.

Because mentally, I'm already following my dogs on a cool morning as the first rays of sunlight begin to dance across the horizon.

A covey of Sharptails on the rise during opening week on the prairie.

Every year it happens around the same time.

The calendar still says summer and the chores are still there.

But somewhere along the way, my mind quietly leaves without me.

The first place my mind always drifts back to feels a lot like August itself. Hot and dry, but with the ability to walk ankle high grass carrying a shotgun as your dogs shrink into tiny specks against the open prairie.

The sun melts away into cut wheat fields and twisting draws on the prairie.

The prairie is calling

It's the first place where upland seasons open and bring us back into the field to fill the void we've been missing.

The scenery here is like a painting you can touch. Gentle, rolling hills swallowing a sunset you'd think you could only dream about.

The silence itself is breathtaking too.

One evening, my Brittany Aspen pointed several coveys of sharptails before the sun finally began to sink below the hills.

We had worked our way to the top of an alfalfa ridge that overlooked miles of rolling prairie, where we found a covey feeding above in the alfalfa.

Aspen pointing on the edge of the alfalfa field.

From there, we dropped down the backside toward a cut wheat field, where Aspen froze on point about 150 yards from me just inside the cut wheat.

As I approached, the sun hung low, burning dark red just above the horizon. The last covey rose from the cut wheat, and our final sharptail of the day folded against the red evening sky.

Aspen brought the bird back, and we simply sat there, enjoying the last few minutes of daylight, surrounded by the sound of nothing.

Aspen retrieving a sharptail to hand in 'the golden hour'.

As the sun disappeared beyond the hills, somewhere out across the prairie another covey chuckled before going to roost.

I smiled, knowing tomorrow would bring more of the same.

The sun that evening, hanging low, burning dark red before fading into the horizon.

HOME IS WHERE THE NORTHWOODS START

After getting my prairie fix, my mind drifts back home.

It's mid-October now, and the leaves are changing. Sweet fern fills the air with an aroma that immediately tells me I'm home.

Fall in the Northwoods is a special experience, one of those things that, if you know, you know. And if you don't, my words probably don't do it justice.

It's getting late in the afternoon. The day's warmth is beginning to fade, and the changing aspen leaves glow as the sun starts its descent.

Somewhere in the aspens ahead, a ruffed grouse is taking those same cues. The sun is dropping, and it's time to feed. For a grouse hunter, that means turning the dogs loose and getting lost in one of our favorite October covers.

The Northwoods color coming to life in the late afternoon sun.

I start off walking a logging road that winds through an older, 20-year-old cut before transitioning into a younger, 10-year-old stand.

The first thing I notice is a hawthorn tree loaded with bright red berries—grouse candy. A good sign we're in the right place.

Not long after, my Brittany, Yeti, starts getting birdy. He slows to a crawl before freezing in the trail, standing tall with his tail quivering.

I step off the logging road and circle ahead of him. He's locked onto an autumn olive bush, and by the intensity in his eyes, I know there's a grouse inside.

Five steps into the thick cover, I catch movement.

A ruffed grouse erupts from the autumn olive.

I shoulder the gun and fire both barrels as the bird threads through the trees, but it slips behind a pair of trunks before I can catch up to it. A shot I was sure I could make.

I counted my chickens before they hatched.

The grouse won this round.

The Hawthorn tree, just before we found our first grouse.

A few hundred yards down the trail, the story repeats itself.

Yeti goes on point just inside the cover off the trail. This time a pair of grouse flush, followed by a pair of shots, neither connecting.

As discouraging as it seems, there's still time left in the day. And I tell myself all it takes is one flush for things to turn around.

We've made our way to the end of the logging trail, dead ending into a sea of aspen. Where the trail ends, the aspens fall away into a bowl filled with fir trees. An ideal place for grouse to roost after feeding for the evening.

We work our way around the bowl while Yeti drops into the middle before beginning to work his way back towards me. I can tell by his pace he's starting to slow, and I'm hoping he comes up on point with a grouse pinned somewhere between him inside the bowl and me on the outside.

I can't hear Yeti moving anymore, and I get an alert from my GPS confirming my suspicion. He's on point.

As I approach the edge of the firs where Yeti's location is, I see a small opening in the apsens where the trees have thinned out. I'm already picturing a grouse busting from the bowl and crossing this opening—this is the spot I need to be.

A few more steps and wings explode into a thunderous sound from the bowl.

Birds take flight in every direction, but I can hear one coming my way, right towards the opening.

I plant my feet and ready my gun. The bird enters the opening at full speed, flying from left to right. I swing through the shot and the bird folds on the backside of the opening it was trying to escape through.

The opening of thin aspen trees next to the bowl of fir trees. The bird is just above my barrel to the left in this frame.

Yeti comes up out of the bowl, bounding with a look of excitement as I yell "Dead Bird!".

Within seconds he's located the downed bird, prancing around as proud as a bird dog could be. I let him enjoy a few laps with the bird in his mouth. He earned this one.

When he finally makes his way to me, the prize is a mature red-phase grouse. A true October trophy, glowing in the late afternoon sun.

A moment that sums up my October daydream.

THE RUT IS ON

At this point, I've replayed the first half of the upland season in my mind—dreaming of the days to come.

As I wander through those memories, I start to think about a place that I hold dear to my heart.

Between two ridges lies a narrow opening that stretches through the timber like a hallway.

I return to this spot every year on November 15th, opening day of Michigan's rifle deer season.

While I'm a bird hunter at heart these days, deep down I still have a long love affair with deer season. Bird season closes down, the freezer needs filling, and there's a quiet satisfaction in knowing a couple of deer will feed my wife and I through another year.

I find myself back in that opening once again, as I think about it often. I've described it to myself as heaven on earth. Looking down the opening there's a towering ridge at the end that glows in the suns setting light. It's a cinematic place.

Along the edges this time of year, the trees are lined with rubs and scrapes that instantly raise your heart rate as you walk by.

It's a excellent spot to sit with my grandfather's .243 WIN as deer routinely cross the opening to go from one oak ridge to the other.

And if luck is on your side, a buck will cruise through looking for a hot doe.

Looking down the opening on a mid-November Day. My little slice of heaven on earth.

The morning of opening day 2024, there was a light layer of fog that blanketed the valley. The first hour of the morning went by without any action.

By this time I start getting a little restless. Looking to fill my mild case of boredom, I shoulder my rifle and look through the scope down the opening.

Just as I do, I catch movement. A pair of legs moving through the brush, walking towards the opening.

Within seconds a dark bodied buck emerges into the opening, back lit by the light colored fog.

My gun is already shouldered. All I have to do is click the safety off.

I take a deep breath and squeeze the trigger.

The buck drops in his tracks.

A center punched .243 cartridge that dropped the buck.

I sat there for a few minutes, enjoying the moment as buck fever set in.

It all happened so fast, buck fever didn't have time to catch up until after the shot.

I texted my dad and let him know I had a buck down. He was hunting a few miles from me.

The buck was a beautiful dark bodied, dark rack northern buck.

THE FREEZER IS FULL

September, October, and November have all passed through my thoughts.

Now snow is falling. The calendar has rolled over to December, and the conditions are perfect for late-season roosters.

But just as I drift away for one last memory... reality sets in. It's only August and I have work to get back to.

Take it from here and wander into your own December daydream, following bird dogs through a layer of snow in December—prime conditions for late-season pheasant hunting.

The Uplander Field Journal
Entry 003 • Field Reflection
Until next time,
— CE