ABCs by John C. Street

There are unwritten rules that govern behavior in the outdoors, rules that go beyond obeying the game laws, respecting private land ownership and - yes, it can’t be said too often - gun safety.  These understood edicts, recognized by most sportspeople, may be thought of as the lubricant that keeps things working smoothly, stopping the build up of friction that can easily cause damage to the outdoor experience.

This missive, then, is a story about one of those unwritten rules, a rule that Mr. Ken Szabo, Editor and Publisher of the monthly newsletter, the GROUSE TALES, calls the “ABCs.”

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Anyone who has spent time pursuing activities that requires canine assistance and shotguns will eventually come to think of a few places as their own.  The outdoor literature refers to these as the “Home Covers.”

The possessiveness that the individual feels towards these familiar haunts generally has nothing to do with their name being on a deed filed in the courthouse.  It has everything to do with the comfort and intimacy that comes from knowing a place, a sense of belonging that transcends legal documents and that is best understood in metaphysical terms.

While the scenery may be breathtaking or the solitude a balm to the soul, the real sense of home ground is - like the old adage about beauty - in the eye of the beholder.  Many things, eye appealing or not, are combined in these special places.

Several of my best grouse covers, my “Home Covers,” are topographically ugly.  They are reclaimed strip mines regenerating in stunted pine, gray dogwood, vibernums and Autumn Olive, the scars of decade’s old mining activities still apparent.  But these home grounds hold memories for me, memories of a young dog nearly as bullheaded as myself, of tinkling bells suddenly gone silent and staunch points.  The grouse are still there.  The bell tinkles no more.

An acquaintance, then in his first heady days of pursuing flying game, cajoled me at every opportunity to introduce him to grouse hunting.  Over time, his shear persistence overcame my misgivings and a date was set. 

The chosen Saturday was in all ways nearly perfect.  Two days of cold fall rain had cleared off to high pressure dominated sunshine with a morning temperature that made a flannel shirt just right.  An intermittent breeze ruffled the remaining foliage and the grouse were everywhere they should have been.

By early afternoon, even with some unimaginably poor shooting by the guest, a limit of birds was in hand.  But the man was safe - if not overly proficient - with his shotgun, was willing to bust his fair share of tough cover without complaining and knew enough to fuss over the host’s dog; pleasant company by any standards.  

Although I had been careful not to give the hunt too much of a build-up, I was grateful that expectation and reality had merged on this occasion, providing a glimpse of grouse hunting the way it should be, not the way it most generally is.

After this hunt, several weeks passed during which time fate evened things out.  Not wanting to put too much pressure on one cover, I had worked several smaller pieces, even tried some new ones that looked good but mostly weren’t. 

Finally, thinking the dog deserved a day with more than an occasional crossing of bird scent, I decided to return to my home cover, promising myself to be judicious with what was left of next year’s breeding stock.

You will understand my chagrin at finding a car parked at the only wide spot in the road but you may not understand the thoughts that went through my head when it turned out to be my guest’s vehicle.  As I was pulling on my chaps and digging out the dog’s collar I heard voices on the ridge above me.  And by the time I had checked for shells and was adjusting my vest, I could see my guest coming down the hill accompanied by three other people.

“You may as well hit another spot,” he said cheerfully when he was close enough for conversation.  “We’ve just about got this place cleaned out.”  And they did.  For three hours I scoured the cover, moving only two birds from the upper branches of pine trees, both offering a reasonable opportunity.  I never shouldered the gun.

During the holidays, my wife and I encountered my guest and his family out shopping. While the women shared pleasantries, I inquired about hunting.  My guest proceeded to tell me that he and his three buddies had spent “every Saturday” in my home cover, up to and including the day that I had met them there, and had “taken eleven birds.” 

And, “hey,” he concluded, “we’d sure appreciate it if you’d show us some more spots.”  As my wife dragged us away to, “finish our shopping,” I thought to myself, "I bet you would."

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The ABC Rule:  If hunter A takes hunter B to a favorite cover, hunter B must never return without the explicit consent of hunter A and under no circumstances may hunter B take hunter C to that cover.

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So, will I ever take that guest to any of my other "home covers"? 

I might….just as soon as Hades freezes over.