Smiling Shorthairs

This is how I know for sure the Woodcock flights are in. When Dan smiles in the back of the truck you will need some extra shells. Now where did he go this time. Does anybody make electronic bells for the old die hards?

German Shorthair Screen Savers

Help yourself to a German Shorthair Screen Saver. No game farm here or planted birds. This is the real thing in Northern Wisconsin Grouse & Woodcock habitat.
Pick your favorite from previous posts. Just click on one and save it!
Signed
The Judge

Wore out bird hunter

The way I see it is:
20 year old Browning Upland Special
Broke in Double Tins, nearly 20 years old, took 15 to do it.
Rangey German Shorthairs
One wore out huntin' buddy
Cold Beer
Cool October weather
The sounds of Geese flying South
And some prime Grouse & Woodcock Cover, yes there is a dog on point and a hunter in the picture.
In Heaven It's always October.
Signed
The Judge

Woodcock & Grouse hunting

Once again I was forced to take out those rangey Shorthairs. Why does my life have to be so difficult, I go bird hunting every day with those pointers, have a couple beers when I'm done and then I have to clean the damn things. Life is so unfair to me. This is the "Southern Belle" one of our old cagey Shorthairs on point again. Almost out of shells again, Another dilemma I'm faced with. Maybe bird season should be shorter, NOT!
Signed
The Judge

Grouse & Grouse Shooting

Another day out in the woods in N. Wisconsin. Seen plenty of birds, missed six and got one. Covered a lot of ground today. I need a cold Bud Light. Check out the tattered Filsons & the tattered hunter.

Hillbilly Brown Dogs

I just don't understand, what is so hard about seeing the liver colored shorthairs.
After a little bit of a search I found the "Southern Belle" on point. I missed the grouse, the photo session is to blame, of course. I know most of you don't have to search because of electronics, I just like the sound of the bells. Just a old die hard bird hunter.
Signed,
The Judge.

Dan the Shorthair

Here is our newest addition to our Pointer family. A pure Hillhaven German Shorthaired Pointer. I'm always being bashed for hunting those "Liver" colored shorthairs. Well it snowed here yesterday and the only pointers you could see were the "Hillbilly Brown Dogs" as Scooter refers to them. I think old Dan is figuring this bird hunting thing out.
Signed
The Judge

Woodcock are where you find them

Here is a picture of some prime Grouse and Woodcock habitat. I was down in here today chasing Woodcock, got a few too. This type of cover is typical of the areas we hunt in Northern Wisconsin. I'm quite sure you could catch some native Brook Trout in here as well. This area was covered with snow yesterday! Enjoy the scenery for now. More posts are on the way, too tired right now.

Pointer Puppies

Watching the Puppy Work
Few things warm the cockles of a Bird dog man’s heart more than watching his puppy start to come around. Those first few points in the field are more exciting than dropping a double. Sophie the dog in the foreground wasn’t honoring Frieda’s point (Frieda is the white dog you can barely see behind the tree). She moved by and when the scent hit her she spun and locked up. They both held for two pictures and then I stepped in and flushed the bird.


Sophie is my wife’s dog. We were out to dinner one evening and she spied some pointer pups for sale on a bulletin board. She acted like a small child; can I have one, please please, they are so cute and on and on. I told her we needed to do some research, check out bloodlines and such. It used to be easy, just call the Hills and take the puppy that liked you. Now you have to do some home work. After a few cocktails and some more pleading I relented, hey, I was having trouble deciding what to get her for our Anniversary anyway. She tracked down a guy on the internet with a ready to go pup that fit the bill and Sophie was part of the family. She looks like she is going to be a good hunter.

Scooter

GERMAN SHORTHAIRS AND SHRIMP

This is a mid day break at bird camp. We had a couple of Woodcock and grouse from the morning hunt so it was time for a snack. Being stranded up in the North woods of Wisconsin forces you to rough it a bit, so the best we could do for a little snack was grilled Shrimp and a couple cold beers. Oh well, we survived it, wasn't easy though. I made sure Scoot didn't screw them up from my lawn chair. The shrimp turned out to perfection, thanks to my administrative skills.
Signed
The Judge

Bird Hunting Trinkets

Well just as I figured, poor little Tavern Granny was once again sucked in. As I mentioned on my last post about Scoot getting many undeserved bird hunting gifts, he conned his wife again. This time he really raised the bar, he suckered her into buying him a 29 foot camper w/ all the goodies. What the hell, poor little thing works 12 hrs. a day, she might as well spend the cash. We have some great photos of last weeks adventure into the Wisconsin's north woods with our shorthairs. One thing I found out is, grilling shrimp at the campsite is a must.
Signed
The Judge

GROUSE HUNTING OPENER

Would you go hunting with this guy? Shorthair owner/ politician, has more lines of B.S. than any fisherman, logger or attorney all piled together. I will need to do some splainin' here. He takes "Tavern Granny" on a overniter to bird camp. You just know he is sucking up for another undeserved pointer trinket. Notice he is sporting his new Single Tin Filsons. He was always bashing me for being a "Filson Man".
Any way this is bird camp for this year, Trout streams close by and plenty of pecker pole popple to hunt in.
Pointers seem to like him though as well as the folks at our watering hole, the Nimrod.
Signed
The Judge

Tales of the Big Mean White Dog

Tales of the Big Mean White Dog

My 9 year old pointer Frieda is very vocal and has always been a bit of a Prima Donna. She also isn’t hesitant to throw down with another dog which ended up putting her in a portable kennel a lot when she was younger. On one occasion two hunters stopped their truck by the side of the road to chat with us and she started barking loudly and aggressively at them. Later at the Nimrod, we saw the same two hunters and one said to the other ‘those are the guys with the Big Mean White Dog.’ What can I say, she is an Alpha female. She has mellowed considerably with age and we don’t have problems with her anymore. Every once in a while we still refer to her as the Big Mean White Dog.

This past weekend my partner in crime, the Judge, had to work. My wife wanted to go camping. I wanted to get out in the woods. My wife is a dog lover so we took the two Pointers and our Golden Retriever up to where we have the Bellagio parked. The Golden actually works pretty well for a flushing dog though she runs out of gas pretty quick and the young pointer is just a little over a year so I didn’t anticipate a highly successful outing. My wife is a photography buff so she hoped to get some pictures. Worst case scenario; the woods are beautiful this time of year even with the foliage just starting to turn color. We saw some birds and got a couple of points. The pup backed up the Big Mean White Dog on one occasion. The birds either were flushed by the retriever out of sight or just flushed where getting even a chance at a shot was impossible.

The most interesting thing happened when we made a push down in this little hole by a river. Beaver had put a fresh dam in sometime over the summer; the area has always held a few birds and I wanted to show my wife the dam. She had never seen one and I wanted to get her the opportunity for some pictures. As it was hot out the dogs all dove in the water when we got close. They were upstream of the dam where the current was slow and they ended up covered in the black smelly silt we like to call Loon Shit up here. I directed them downstream of the dam where I knew the bottom would be cleaner and the pup and the retriever dove in. The current was a little faster and the bank a little steeper and the pup failed at her first attempt to get out. She ended up going under water and then the current got her. She doesn’t have that much experience swimming and she started to panic. My wife not knowing that the water would be shallow a short ways downstream also panicked. Enter the Big Mean White dog. Frieda jumped in the water, swam out to the downstream side of the pup, and herded her to the shore. She acted like it was all in a day’s work. I love that Big Mean White Dog.



This is the shallow side it dropped off steeply on the other edge.

Scooter

The Gizzard Song

The Gizzard Song
The opener was beastly hot. We got fleeting glimpses of a few birds and tossed up a few shots that were more prayer guided than aimed. I personally owe the County for some stumpage because I don’t think those popple are going to grow very well without tops. The heat required resting the dogs more often than usual.
So we are sitting at our favorite Up North Marinette County watering hole, the Nimrod and two ladies are sitting next to my longtime hunting partner, The Judge. They are looking at the menu and interested in some carry out. The Judge, always helpful, suggests the gizzards. The ladies tell him they don’t like gizzards. He says don’t make me sing you the Gizzard Song. They tell him ‘OK Sing us the gizzard song.’
Then he looks at me with this, I maybe had one too many shorties out of that last bucket look, help me Scooter. Like I’m supposed to, off the cuff, whip out a pitch pipe and write and perform this gizzard song. Ok, I saved his life once but writing a song takes a little more thought. I think he has come to expect a little much out of me. Here is the Gizzard song:

Gizzards Gizzards, those chewy tasty hunks of gut
Gizzards Gizzards, better than those fried sheep's nuts
Put em in a crock pot
Cook em all day
Sautéed with onions
All your Guests will say
Gizzards Gizzards, those chewy tasty hunks of gut
Gizzards Gizzards, better than those fried sheep's nuts
Best part of a chicken
Some will say
You can get them at the Rod
On Sunday
Gizzards Gizzards, those chewy tasty hunks of gut
Gizzards Gizzards, better than those fried sheep's nuts

I think I spoil the Boy.

Filson Waxin' Shorthairs & a Six Pack

Bird season opener is now only two days away. Weather is great, dogs are anxious and it's time to wax the double tins. Here is all you need to get it done. One six pack of your favorite swill, two German Shorthairs running around and trying to help and of course the wax. Rub the wax vigorously into the fabric, fronts first. When the beer is gone you are done. Works every time like a charm.
My lovely wife is conditioned to this fall procedure, yours may not be yet, never give up! At this point she is putting dishes together for our campsite dinners. Poor Nancy,(Tavern Granny) Scooters bride has raised the bar on numerous occasions to make our bird hunting trips more like a trip to a luxury resort, is more than likely out buying Scoot another undeserved bird hunting trinket.
Size only matters when your Woodcock Huntin'
Signed
The Judge

The Judge and the Shorthairs

THIS IS WHAT A BIRD HUNTER LOOKS LIKE!
This photo will never be on a magazine cover, but it does show our love for the sport.
Signed the Judge.

Grouse Season Opening

Here we go again, shorthairs, camping & chasing Grouse and Woodcock through the pecker pole Popple. Scooter went out and bought himself some Filsons, finally. Some people take a while to catch on. He bought the "Single Tins" which I refer to as the candy ass model. Camper is under a total cleaning as it is every season. Mice like to call it home in the winter months. Four pointers, two old beat up bird hunters and some refreshments in the North woods of Wisconsin, sounds like fun to me! We will soon be providing you with many humorous pictures of our escapades. We won't be telling you how to train your dog or which gun to use, what we will be telling you are real life adventures that should have you laughing. So stay tuned, and enjoy.

Pointin' Dogs & Cool October Days

Yes they are nearing again, the bird hunters fountain of youth. After some reflecting on so many seasons chasing the woodcock and the timberland chickens I seem to be a little confused. We could barely keep track of our Shorthairs and we each had only one dog. Now that we have reached the 50 mark we have decided the only smart thing to do is, each of us ought to have 2 dogs in the pecker pole popple. The only thing I can think of this deal is, all of the reconstructive surgeries we have had to our knees, shoulders ect. must have been successful. And I can't believe Scooter would bash my FILSONS again! If I shot at low flying Woodcock such as he does, I'm quite sure he would have bought the "Double Tin" variety too! Yes, the Hills are partially responsible for the fix I'm in.
Signed
The Judge

The Dogs go Shopping

The Day the Dogs Went Shopping

For a while the Judge and I hunted with the Hippie Van. Picture three high energy pointers roaming free in a van, they all want to look out every window at once and they all think they can drive better than you. If you were riding in the front passenger seat you were constantly pushing them in the back because they just don’t respect who calls shotgun. Put a little bounce in the ride because the shocks weren’t all that new and it made for some fun times. When you finally get to where you are going to hunt they all pile out the first door open like a jail break.

We had Hazel Nate riding with us when he was 10 or so and he was going to stay in the Van while we went into the Athelstane General Store. He wanted to come in and he couldn’t contain the pointers. Next thing you know we have one dog running down each aisle headed for the meat counter. Fortunately the owner had a good sense of humor and the store wasn’t full of customers. We always used to buy frankfurters for the dogs there so naturally the Judge figured they were worried we would forget. By the way we asked the owner one time what the difference was between franks and hot dogs. She explained ‘Franks ain’t got lips and assholes in them’. The dogs got their franks, we got what we needed, and Nate scored a candy bar and everyone was happy.

Hazel Nate

We called him Hazel Nate because he was always getting stuck in the hazel tangles

The Dead Salmon Incident

One trip in the hippie van was to a local area boat landing. A duck hunter had alerted us to the cackling of rooster pheasants he had heard when launching his duck skiff. We put the pointers in the van and headed for the public hunting grounds surrounding the landing. We pushed through the entire area and came up empty handed on the swing back towards the parking lot the dogs got a little rangy. We heard the bells stop. Unfortunately the Judge’s pointer had found a week old dead salmon that some fisherman had left in the brush and was rolling in it. I was lucky enough to keep my dog from joining in on the smelly fun.

As I said we were in a van and the little rinse that the river gave the dog was not quite enough to cut the rancid odor. We headed down the road with our heads out the windows, gagging, choking, and retching. I had tears in my eyes. We left the smelly dog at the Judge’s place and took the non smelly pointer in my truck out to chase some birds around Harmony. Our hearts weren’t in it and we ended up visiting Breezy at the corner of D and 64 it was Frieda’s first time in a tavern and she was really well behaved.

Filson Man
This is the Judge lovin’ up Frieda on the left and Belle on the right after a long day in the grouse woods. The Judge was a hunting fashionista for a while. Every opportunity he had he was praising his Filson double tin pants. They stood up in the corner on those cold mornings and looked kind of uncomfortable to me and it did look like it took him a while to get them warm and limber. I often thoughtfully suggested we drag them behind the truck for a while to loosen them up. When my old vest was finally shredded I purchased a non-Filson vest and the Judge was constantly tolling the virtues of his vest over mine. He would occasionally pose on the deer paths he likes to walk as if he was auditioning for the cover of the LL. Bean catalog. I started calling him Filson Man.
I finally decided to join the club and purchased my own set of single tin brush pants. I have to tell you these things are the bomb. They keep my legs scar free and warm. So if you have to walk down in the tangles all the time like I do or even if you run into the occasional clump of berry brush on the deer paths or abandoned logging roads you walk on get a pair of Filsons. They are a little costly but they stand up to the wear and tear you get following a couple of shorthairs through the habitat. And remember, a little bacon grease on the cuff keeps your dogs close working.

Scooter

Porky Opener

Opening week end a few years back, too warm and everything all thick and green, but you just have to get out with the dogs. We were in one of our favorite covers on our very first push and the dogs were a little ways out of sight but we could hear the bells pretty well. Then we heard the barking. When we arrived on the scene Frieda and Belle, our pointers, were tag teaming a porcupine. Frieda had to be pulled off it. They were covered in quills. We walked them back to the truck. I had read that snipping off the tip of the quill made it easier to pull out because it released the air in the quill. We got out the clippers and our leathermans and went to work. After removing enough quills from their muzzles so they could drink water the puppies had had enough and were impossible to hold.
We needed a vet. We stopped at our favorite watering hole, the Nimrod, and started going through the phone book calling all the local veterinarians. Every call was greeted with a taped message instructing us to go to Green Bay. Rick at Peshtigo Veterinarian Service was in. So we headed back home to Peshtigo with our pitiful pointers. He told us not to clip the quills if it ever happened again. It gives him less to grab onto. He sedated them and pulled out the quills. Gave them some antibiotics and we were on our way. We now had two unconscious pointers in the back of the truck.

We thought this was hilarious and laid them out on my front lawn. While we drank a few beers we demonstrated how well behaved our dogs were to passersby. ‘Watch this, Stay!’ ‘Play Dead’ we thought it was pretty funny. Pretty soon my Father came walking over. My parents only live a few houses away. My mother had seen us drinking beer in the front yard with the dogs laid out and sent him over to find out what was happening. She told him it looked like the dogs had died and those two goofballs are having a wake in the front yard. Quite the opening day.

German Shorthairs and Cast Iron Frying Pans

On our previous post, old uncle Scooter pretty much summed up the enjoyment we have shared the last 20 years. My post has more to do with camp cooking. Nothing tastes better than your bacon, eggs and taters cooked in cast iron over an open fire. Cast Iron requires a bit more care than your modern YUPPIE pan. Don't sink it in soapy dishwater and set it out to dry. The only sure fire method to preserve those precious pans is to let the pointers lick them clean. That's it! Your pans will look like new forever. The more liver colored the pointer the better the potlickin' will be. So if yer out camping with friends and shorthairs just remember, if ya want clean cast iron, let the Liver dogs do the dishes. (TRUE STORY)

Woodcock Flights and Shorthair Camping

5 days camping up in the north woods of Wisconsin in mid October. Not the Indian summer Octobers we have had lately but the ones where the dogs watering dishes were sometimes frozen over in the morning and maybe you woke up to snow flurries. We didn’t do it in a hard shell camper like we do now. We did it in a tent. We were waiting for the flights. That glorious event when the woodcock head south and book resting space in the local habitat. When pointer’s eyes glaze over at the overwhelming scent of multiple ‘woodies’ and the shoulders of the bird hunters ache from the days snap shooting at double and triple flushes, when the pocket full of shells runs low on a push through big cover, the flights, the flights are a little slice of bird hunting heaven.

Cool nights drinking beer around a campfire, how about that shot? Remember when Otis was curled around that popple in between us pointing a tight holding woodcock, and Clyde staring up at that dead woodie stuck by its bill in the crook of a pecker pole popple. Laughing like hyenas, put another log on the fire and crack open another cold one. Late at night finally asleep in our bags only to wake up with the dogs howling back at a pack of coyotes that may have come a little too close to camp.

Frosty mornings clutching coffee cups, huddled around the fry pan bacon, eggs and taters sharing with the hounds, asking what cover should we start the day with? Let’s go ‘where they ain’t’ (secret spot) we have to beat those guys from Cedarburg there. We do, just pulling in ahead of them, laughing like hyenas again. We limit out in about 2 hours. Now we head to down town Athelstane, talking smart at the Nimrod (best Pizza in the area by the way). In the afternoon we scout some new covers, park at some likely spot just at sunset and wait for 5 o’clock Charlie, see a few woodcock fly into that popple thicket on the other side of the marsh. Maybe we will hit that spot first thing tomorrow, Nah; we got to beat those claim jumpers from Cedarburg one more time.