It's said that it takes half a good dog's life to develop into a grouse dog, which may be an understatement. Still, my dogs and I are willing to give it the old college try, which we've been doing now for lo these many years on our annual trip to Wisconsin.

Where did the grouse go? Good question.

We're prairie hunters, the dogs and I. Huns and sharptails are the home team. Wide open country and widely scattered coveys, that's me. Going to Wisconsin is like--how do you Americans say it?--it's like…going over to the dark side.

Up 'nort, as the up-norters like to say, you can hunt all day over your dog and never actually see him hunt; instead, you catch glimpses of him as he rockets through the trees. But that's okay, because when your dog does go on point, the bird probably isn't going to be there anyway.

Still, after four years of wallowing around at the bottom of the cycle and feeling sorry for themselves, the grouse are trending up again. Praise unto the Lord.

Which got me to thinking: What is it, exactly, that goes into the makings of a grouse dog?

To get there, though, you must first understand this: grouse are trophy birds. I can't take credit for that designation; it originated with the esteemed John Palmer, of whom I've written before. Since retiring from the New York State police department, he's thrown off the bonds of convention, good taste and assisted living to devote his life to hunting grouse and quail. We who still have to work for a living can only stand back and marvel.

You go, John!

No doubt about it; ruffed grouse are trophy birds. My average--and this is when the cycle is on the upswing--is about one bird a day reduced to possession. It's not like I'm not trying; I'm out there trying to reduce birds for all I'm worth, but year in and year out, a bird a day is about as good as I get.

Slow years are vastly worse. Two years ago, which was about as slow as it can get and still resemble a hunting (as opposed to a hiking) trip, I killed, in 10 days of hard walking, exactly zero birds. Skimming through my 2005 shooting journal reveals all kinds of self-disparaging remarks. Nothing new there.

The author's setter typically hits a point like she has piled into a wall.

But the dogs are a different story. Unlike me, they actually seem to get better with practice. It's not easy getting a dog acclimated to woods and swamps when you live and hunt on the prairies. From some of my Montana covers, I can see halfway into the next county. From some of my Wisconsin covers, I can see halfway to the next popple thicket, a good 30 feet. That kind of worldview draws down your perspective on things.

What it doesn't change is my position on close vs. far-ranging dogs. My best grouse dog is arguably my Brittany, Powder, who is anything but a boot polisher back home. But in Wisconsin she closes up considerably. Much more important is that, when she cuts scent, she slows down and works it out, no matter how long it takes to find the bird.

Last fall, for instance, we discovered an area less than 10 minutes from the cabin we rent.

This particular spot is what I call mixed cover--a combination of cutover aspen, hardwood and conifer stands. A logging road runs the length of the place, and several spurs branch off the road and lead to dense popple thickets of just the right age class.

Farther up, the road swings wide of the Brule River, then doubles back on itself like a giant horseshoe.