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.

German Shorthairs Back In The Day

Notice the nice little pile of Woodcock on the shell box. The Pointer on the left is Clyde aka "The Southern Gentleman" Otis is on the right, notice how his ankles are taped like a Thorough Bred race horse, he was! Clyde was about 14 in this Pic. and Otis was around 9 or 10. Our current pile of Shorthairs are 10 and younger. That's how long these boys have been gone, they were true legends in Northern Wi. Grouse woods and taght Me and Scooter a great deal about bird hunting, and spoiled us as well.