THERE WILL BE BLOOD

For hunters of ruffed grouse, there will also be sweat and tears, but glory all the same.

A hazy reflection off the dirty glass failed to show the grin on my face as I peered through the front counter for a better view. I was just a kid back then. And, my favorite part of the annual fishing trip with my dad was stopping by the country store for supplies. That meant chocolate bars and candy and baseball cards—the kind with the bubble gum inside—all the things a young boy needed to stay occupied for a few hours on the Rainy River in October.

Topps or Donruss? Willy Wonkas or Jujubees? My head was spinning with wonder when I was interrupted by the sharp sound of sleigh bells signaling someone else entering the store’s front door. Just then, my dad struck up a conversation with the new patron in line behind us.

I peeked over and could tell this guy had just cleaned mud off his boots with a stick. His chaps were so tattered that I couldn’t believe he’d be seen in public like that. His lumberjack-plaid shirt looked itchy, and the rolled-up sleeves revealed some recent scratches on his forearms. He hadn’t shaved in days and even had a fresh wound on his cheek. To that point, his appearance had me thinking, Was this guy just in a bar fight?

Then I noticed the blaze-orange cap and big smile, and it dawned on me . . . He’s a ruffed grouse hunter.

“How’s the huntin’?” my dad asked.

“Seen a fair few birds. Flushed 10 just this mornin’, I did,” the man replied. “Up over there on the county land west of town. Dogs did real good.”

The two continued the conversation in the language we call “Minnesota nice.” At the time, I noticed that he never stated how many birds he brought home. He kept talking about flushes—never the birds bagged.

Flushes? I was taken aback by this idea. Remember, I was a kid back then. Wasn’t killing birds always the goal?

I grew up hunting ruffed grouse. I’m a proud grouse hunter today. But, it took time, honestly, for me to truly understand the ethos of the tradition and the motivation behind the madness. Hunting ruffed grouse in the Northwoods is more than mystical. Flushes matter, because sometimes that is all you have.

But this is certainly unique in the uplands and begs the question: What makes us come back for more, year after year? Because there will be blood. There will be sweat . . . and maybe even some tears, sometimes. But there will be glory all the same. I can guarantee you that.

***

Ruffed grouse hunting is the ultimate upland challenge—one that tests the mettle of every wingshooter but proves the existence of both the “beauty” and the “beast” inherent in our hunting heritage.

There will be blood. Ruffed grouse live in the most gnarly and impenetrable haunts of the forest. They hide among shadowy, dense trees with tangling vines that grasp arms and legs and thorns that are long and sharp. The birds require these regenerating forests to survive: for food, cover from predators, and safety to raise their chicks. To be successful, you must be willing to hunt where the birds are—to get scratched on the cheek or poked in the eye on occasion. The effort might cause physical pain, but to conquer the confrontation with nature is well worth the risk.

Blur of birds. Often in early season, hunters only hear the flush in the green jungle of leaves. When a bird is seen, the image is a blur of brown . . . for a mere second. Ruffed grouse shooting is quick and instinctive. William Harnden Foster, the well-known author and artist, helped invent the shooting sport of “skeet” (an Old Norse word for “shoot”)—developed to replicate 12 scenarios of flying ruffed grouse. Shoot skeet, and you’ll understand the premise of “snap shooting” to bag more birds.

Access is easy. The Northwoods boasts millions of acres of public lands, especially in the Western Great Lakes region. Minnesota alone promotes over 6 million with more grouse harvested than any other state. Headquarters for the Ruffed Grouse Society is in Pennsylvania, and forest birds can be had in stretches of Appalachia. Ruffed grouse are hunted across the mountainous regions of the West. New England is historically renowned for its “pa’tridge” hunting. Opportunities exist for day or weekend trips for many upland hunters across the nation.

There will be sweat. Thousands of miles of logging roads and trails will take you to where the grouse live. Property lines are easily delineated on interactive agency mapping websites, apps such as OnX, or through good ol’ county plat books. Hot tip: You can locate an old timer’s hunting spots by flipping through their plat books to find the pages stained with coffee. Once you find a target, get the job done through time afield and sweat equity. Plan to burn calories and spend boot leather on these trails to find birds.

Don’t get lost. Looking at an aerial map of public land with a willingness to explore off-trail, finding ruffed grouse is like discovering the “X” marking the spot on a treasure map. But, you will never know unless you decide to go. A GPS unit or a compass in hand are key. The strategy of locating the fortune—the right combination of food, habitat, and terrain—enables the addiction of finding birds when your hard work comes together.

You have been warned. Ruffed grouse hunters won’t be found at the saloon by noon. Lombardi referred to a man’s finest hour as lying exhausted on the field of battle . . . victorious. The old coach was talking about football, but the saying also goes for grouse hunters sitting on the tailgate at dusk. Because the flush of a bird is sweet and missing a bird is bitter, a grouse in the hand is a true treasure for those willing to embrace the challenge.

***

There will be tears. Libraries hold the knowledge of our forefathers, and those words on yellowing pages of worn books are ripe to mold the minds of readers inclined to open the dust jackets to reveal the stories within. Havilah Babcock, famous writer of all things quail, might disagree, but ruffed grouse hunting is the pinnacle of upland hunting nostalgia in America.

Ruffed grouse hunters are enamored with the “poet laureate” of the woods, Burton Spiller, and we also have Corey Ford, Gene Hill, and George Bird Evans, among other classic authors. Decades have passed since these gentlemen walked the forest floor with their bird dogs and then put pen to paper, but the essence of the experience has not changed. They tell it well.

A favorite of the current upland writers is Ted Nelson Lundrigan, a lawyer from Pine River, Minnesota, and author of three books: Hunting the Sun, Grouse and Lesser Gods, and A Bird in the Hand. Ted is a personal mentor of mine in life’s arenas of grouse hunting and dogs, writing stories, and practicing law. Legend has it that he takes all of October off from work to spend the golden hours hunting the “Promised Land”—his favorite Central Minnesota covers. That is how important the experience is to him.

Hunters of ruffed grouse often hunt alone. We call it a “solitary pursuit” with an introspective focus on one, simple goal: to respect nature by appreciating all that is around us. Ted has an innate sense to explain this on paper: “I have other covers that are pretty much birdless, but I don’t go there for the hunting. These are just beautiful, spiritual places to be—churches in the natural world. They speak to me and I walk in them to listen to the voices and soak up what they have to tell me.”

Years back, during my own lawyering days, I met with Ted at his office to negotiate a case. Sitting down at the conference table across from him, I first noticed a menagerie of memories on his wall. A vintage image showed his revered dog “Beans” on point. The expression on his daughter’s face as she fanned the tailfeathers of a red-phased bird was priceless. In another, Ted sat on a log, presumably taking a break in his favorite cover, with a lit pipe and the look of a content man. The faded photographs are the pieces to his upland puzzle.

These moments are the treasures that we bury deep within ourselves to help express our feelings and explain our actions. “Have I taken any trophies?” Ted once wrote. “I have held on to and I have let go of places, people, dogs, guns, and game birds—all in pursuit of six hours of life without a care in the world. That is surely a trophy, the greatest of all and as rare as the unicorn.”

We are willing to make the necessary sacrifices in life to achieve the true riches of each moment afield. Not until you experience it yourself will you truly imagine the reality of the sentiment for what it is. And know that even those closest to us will have a hard time seeing it the way we do.

“When I come home, my wife asks me if I ‘got anything.’ I always answer, ‘Yes,’ and go downstairs to clean the gun and hang up my hunting clothes,” Ted said.

“’Where is it,” she asks.

“I can feel ‘it’ stored away in small parts I don’t understand right then. At times when I do understand, I get a lump in the throat and a thrill in the heart.”

As we talked that day, I asked Ted about each and every picture on his wall. Stories started to flood the room. I listened to his tales of dogs long gone. He described how the Promised Land inspired him to write stories on paper for all to read. I could tell that the cherished memories deep inside him were rising to the top. I’m not sure which ones boiled over, exactly, because he didn’t say.

But at that moment he understood the meaning of it all, again. I knew it because I could tell there was a lump in his throat . . . and a thrill in his heart. The feeling is signaled by seconds of silence and reflection—the moment of choked quiet required to collect ourselves before we can utter another word.

Nothing else needed to be said, as I understood it, too.

Why do we hunt ruffed grouse? Because there will be blood. There will be sweat . . . and almost some tears, sometimes. However, the ability to understand this glorious feeling of remembrance with emotion, but without words, is the answer to the eternal question.

~ Matt Soberg

First published in the Pheasants Forever Journal.