Right as Rain

Not-so-fair-weather grouse hunting

Grouse hunting in the rain may be one of the most abysmal ordeals in outdoor sports. Few activities are more disheartening than slogging through damp vegetation and skidding over slick deadfalls. Besides, there’s nothing endearing about a disheveled grouse carcass—especially one that’s been riding around in a vest all afternoon. The wetter it gets, the more it resembles a road-killed possum. 

This same dictum applies to sodden, middle-aged sportsmen, whose appearance seldom improves in inclement weather. Clammy shirts cling to wilting torsos, receding hairlines appear even sparser, and the dank aroma of advancing age intensifies in the humidity. 

All told, grousing in the rain is nothing short of depressing—especially when glowering skies and continuous showers persist for days. There’s a reason the Chinese used water as a torture technique. 

But foul weather is a common occurrence in the fall, and wingshooters who wait for perfect conditions seldom venture afield. That’s why it came as no surprise when Bird Camp coincided with a heavy dose of wet weather. Sarge, Joey and I arrived at our rented cabin in a downpour that continued throughout the day. That night we drifted off to sleep to the steady drum of rain on the roof and awoke to water-smeared windowpanes.

Seasoned sportsmen always pack for the worst and hope for the best, however, as most outings involve a sampling of each extreme. Sometimes the equation is lopsided, but it felt like we’d been dealt a hand from Job’s personal deck of cards. 

The impending forecast dictated specialized gear: knee-high rubber boots, water-wicking brush pants, waxed cotton and wool, synthetic base layers, electronic boot driers, bore brushes, oversized bottles of Hoppe’s No. 9 and endless rolls of paper towels. Proper equipment always helps but never completely mitigates the suffering.

The first few days we simply endured, convincing ourselves the dismal conditions would improve . . . that clouds can only hold so much moisture. We hunted in the mist and drizzle, flushing occasional birds, but contacts were sporadic at best. 

By the morning of the third day, nothing had changed. An ominous pewter curtain loomed overhead as we bellied up to the kitchen island, sipping scalding cups of coffee and hoping for a break in the weather. Hours passed, and the day morphed into one of those drooly afternoons that oozes like a chronic head cold. 

Finally we decided we’d moped long enough and stomped outdoors like petulant children, allowing destiny to take its natural course. There comes a point in every outing when moisture permeates even the finest weatherproof apparel. It’s not a matter of if you’ll get wet, but when. Gore-Tex delays the encroaching dampness, but eventually base layers begin leaching like sponges and the shivering begins in earnest. The weight of water accumulates, and each step feels like slogging through pudding. 

And that’s not all: Glasses fog over, and leather gloves turn wrinkled hands a jaundiced shade of amber. Even rubber boots, the benchmark of so-called waterproof gear, can’t prevent the inevitable. Moisture seeps over pants, and socks draw dampness like lantern wicks. And these are only a sampling of the tribulations that plague the wet-weather grouse hunter. 

My English setter, Winston, seemed bewildered. Is this what it’s like to live life as a Labrador?  He shook and shuddered, his wispy tri-color coat wringing wet. His regal tail, normally a majestic plume, looked more like a barn rat’s. At that moment, he was misery personified—or perhaps, dogified. 

The influence of foul weather would undoubtedly affect the birds. A downpour befuddles the avian brain, and this weather was bound to change behavior, especially among grouse, which tend toward neurotic anyway. Rather than walking around, they’d be huddled in hemlocks and cedars, feathers clapped tight to their bodies to retain valuable BTUs. This habit minimizes odors, as well, creating vexing situations for the dog. Winston would surely struggle with scent.

Motoring away from the cabin, we silently accepted the fact that flushes would be few and far between. We were headed for “Emma’s Glory,” a nearby covert that had proven reliable for many seasons and was named after a productive hunt with a buddy’s French Brittany. Viewed from the busy road, that public parcel of land appeared no different than any other clearcut, but ambiguity was part of its allure. A towering wall of oaks bordered the eastern edge, and knee-high bracken ferns blanketed the understory. In the early season when the canopy was thick, Emma’s overflowed with grouse and woodcock.

But that was early season; mid-October was another story. 

When the flora finally yields to the frost, the resident grouse migrate from the aspens to adjacent evergreens and scrub oaks. This exodus isn’t optional. Without the lush, overhead cover, raptors cast a spiteful eye upon the naked landscape, making an easy meal of any grouse that lingers too long.

That mini migration was bound to happen soon—if it hadn’t already. Half the aspens were already bare, and the withering ferns were nodding low. Residual leaves quivered anxiously from the treetops, as if they realized the next cold breeze would send them drifting earthward to wither and rot. 

Parking the truck, we stepped into the weather as water cascaded from the roof and pooled upon the open tailgate. Retreating deeper into upturned collars, we powered up GPS units and uncased oily double guns as the damp gear grew wetter. 

Earlier in the year, Emma’s held a large population of resident woodcock, but those birds had probably shipped out when skies were clear and the wind blew from the north. We hoped a few grouse would fill the void, but it was a tall order and everyone knew it. We weren’t holding our breath. 

Pushing shells into open chambers, we forged ahead, with Winston walking point. The seasoned setter began making game almost immediately but seemed uncertain. He turned frantic circles, his tail gyrating and nose snorting as he tried to isolate scent. In theory the humidity should have made for exceptional scenting, but grouse rarely move on drizzly days, behaving more like teenagers in a coffee shop. 

That’s what I was thinking as a bird suddenly rumbled up underfoot, surprising everyone. Instinct took over, and a load of No. 8s from Sarge’s vintage Remington halted the grouse mid-flight. A fragrant cloud of burnt powder hovered in the humid air. Really, is there a finer aroma in outdoor sports? 

Smoothing the feathers back, Sarge admired the bird before pressing on through the dribbling aspens. To our surprise, Winston got birdy again and began snorting and puffing. Point . . . creep, point . . . creep, point . . . creep. We’d seen this behavior before: a runner. As the season lingered on, the survivors learned that skulking through the ferns on foot offered a safer option than flying—at least where human hunters were concerned. 

We trailed the fugitive a few hundred yards before Winston locked up near a gnarled thornapple shrub. Sarge flanked wide to the right as Joey and I quartered in on either side of the rigid setter. A few steps later we watched slack-jawed as not one, but two birds exploded into flight—one from the tree, the other from the ground. We fired almost in unison. 

“Get him?” I inquired. 

“I don’t think so. You?” 

“Yeah, it should be down right over here,” I replied with a grin, walking to where the bird had fallen.

But the grouse wasn’t there. “Dead bird, Winston!” I shouted. The hyperkinetic setter seemed interested in the area but turned up nothing. We searched diligently but managed to find only a single, errant feather. Disappointed to the core, we finally threw in the towel and moved on. Situations like that are inevitable at times, but they always cast a dark cloud over an afternoon. 

Pushing farther into the ferns, we wild-flushed a few more birds that offered nothing in the way of shots. Sweeping to the north, Joey suddenly exclaimed, “There’s a grouse running on the ground up ahead, and he’s dragging a wing.” 

Could it really be? A long shot, perhaps, but not out of the question.

A few seconds later Winston tackled the absconder in an explosion of feathers. A quick check of the GPS coordinates confirmed we were less than a hundred yards from where I’d wing-tipped the grouse. Recovering that bird was like finding a needle in a haystack, and the weight rested comfortably in my vest. 

By now Winston had settled into a pace according to the conditions, and before long a solid, nose-on-the-deck point confirmed that at least one woodcock had tarried behind. This one was resting beneath an autumn olive shrub and flushed out low as we crowded in. Joey centered it with the bottom barrel of his Red Label—an unexpected bonus on a hunt that just kept improving. 

Five minutes later Winston froze again. Joey and Sarge bulldogged through the dense aspens while I curled quietly out of the thick cover and quickly hustled ahead. The tactic didn’t always work but proved effective in this case. Wings clattered deep within the cover, and suddenly a grouse burst from the treeline, peeling away over an opening. I cut down the bird with a lucky right barrel, and it folded like a damp dishrag.

Any pessimistic thoughts about hunting in the rain all but evaporated when that second grouse found its way into my game bag. I may have been wet, but I was happy and warm. 

All in all, it had been a decent day, despite our initial expectations. The weather had conspired against us, but the drizzly afternoon had been marked by fantastic dogwork and more flushes than we’d expected. 

Angling through a channel of trees leading back to the truck, we realized Winston’s bell had fallen silent. The GPS indicator showed him 35 yards away, and we were headed in that direction when five grouse thundered out in a roar of wings. We all shot . . . and all missed—overcome by the unexpected helter-skelter flight. 

After a brief huddle, we agreed to follow up where two of the birds had flown. Winston slammed to a stop again a few hundred yards from the initial flush. This has to be it. As we walked steadily toward the setter, a nervous grouse flushed wild far ahead. But Winston held steady, and soon a second hammered skyward. This one was much closer, and Joey’s over/under came up almost automatically, tracking the bird as it roared away. The barrels flipped, and a load of 7s caught the grouse full swarm. Down the bird went, wings thumping as it tumbled earthward in sight of the truck.

We wiped down the guns and stowed them away, then emptied our game pouches, smoothing ragtag feathers and gently laying the birds on the tailgate. It was a pretty good haul. 

A flask of bourbon made the rounds. Hunting in the rain, we reasoned, wasn’t so bad after all. On the contrary, it was a rare pleasure that few wingshooters ever learned to appreciate. As it turned out, there was something magical about spending an afternoon in a drizzle. We broke out briar pipes, and almost on cue the clouds parted, exposing a portal of clear sky. The rare glimpse of blue was shocking after having become acclimated to fifty shades of gray. 

And what happened next was nothing short of breathtaking. Shafts of sunlight streamed through the portal, and a vivid triple rainbow arched across the landscape. Remembering it now sounds saccharine or maybe a bit too Hallmark, but the word surreal doesn’t do it justice. The best I can muster is . . . magnificent. The colors were so vibrant, each high-definition segment of the spectrum was clearly separated from the rest.

I’m always suspicious when someone says God spoke to them in a sign. Don’t get me wrong: I talk to my Creator regularly. I believe in miracles, but I’m not sure dead relatives show up as cardinals. The human brain has a knack for seeing what it wants to see. However, that rainbow seemed like an obvious sign, on par with Noah’s experience after the great biblical flood. 

Or perhaps it was simply a reminder that the most enduring outdoor memories are full of trials and tribulations: somber skies and icy drizzle, missed shots and blown points, forgotten guns and misbehaving dogs. These hardships certainly make the bourbon taste better, the pipe smoke smell sweeter and the recollections all the more satisfying. 

That’s what I was thinking when the clouds overlapped again, the patch of blue disappeared and the rainbow vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Precipitation pelted us anew. With that, we piled into the truck, pipes still smoldering, and turned the wheels toward home. Everything felt right as rain. 

Jon Osborn writes about wingshooting and fly-fishing from Michigan, where the gamebirds are elusive and all the trout are snooty.

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