Category: Tom Keer

No one ever filled up a freezer with grouse and woodcock, and that’s why folks who purse these birds are never considered meat hunters. A whitetail doe or a cow elk, that’s called filling the freezer. The cost center procuring the savory grouse or the two small medallions of livery tasting woodcock breasts places the gamebirds on par with truffles, caviar, and tuna. Ours is a whacky pursuit of a foxy local bird and a seasonally migratory bird with an upside-down brain. Go figure.

No one thought much about my driving an F-250 into the fields to scout for deer. My 13-year old legs were long enough to fully depress the clutch pedal so I wouldn’t grind the gears, and my torso was tall enough so I could see well enough above the dashboard. All kids drove young in farm country, and there were even a few lanky 10-year olds who drove pickups with a hay wagon in tow.

The day was hot, really hot, and more intense than any single one I could remember from summer’s past. It came after a week of all-day, all-night scorchers which wreck havoc on a bird dogger’s training routine. Seasonal heat is inevitable, so we improvise and shift our sessions to early morning and early evening. Even then, though, days with near hundred degree heat and 98% humidity are just plain miserable.