An increasingly panicked whine came from the back seat as we ripped down Oregon’s Hwy 395, approximately 1,491 miles away from home. Fortunately, and unfortunately, I knew what was happening as I made the best pit maneuver I could muster in the loaded down Ram. Annie hastily exited, as I shook my head, realizing it was only day 7 of 14, and we were on near miss number two—and miss two. The misses were ugly. Let’s just say cleaning out a kennel at -20 degrees with no running water is a feat I’ll never hope to repeat. Nothing a little Purina FortiFlora and boiled chicken and rice in a hotel kitchen can’t fix, right?

Got a Spare?

We’ll start in September for the annual prairie pilgrimage in search of grouse. If you’ve ever driven through a small midwestern town past about 4:00 pm, they are quite desolate. That's why when I looked down at the truck tires, I was a little distraught. With just two days until opening morning, the treads on both front tires were worn nearly to the belt plies on both edges. A thousand miles earlier, these tires had only had about 10,000 miles on them. I didn’t mention, this was the second such occurrence, and after diligently rotating and aligning, it was like getting punched in the teeth.

Here’s the fun part. I was only about an hour and a half away from my final destination, but in those 80 miles there was no cell phone reception, gravel roads, and little civilization. Typically, that’s the way I like it, but in this instance, not so much. The best worst-case scenario is blowing out both tires, and having to spend the night on the side of a gravel road. With this rose colored thinking, I dropped the truck into drive, and pointed her west. Thankfully, we made it, but the look on the mechanic's face when I drove up to the tire shop told the whole story. When I told him the saga, the look he shot at me was equivalent to “you’re a damn idiot.” No harm, no foul right? This is where I started thinking about paying the bird hunting gods. In this case, cold hard cash was the price of a fantastic prairie hunt. The remainder of September was quite tame, but then there was October, awaiting its payment.

A Northwoods Upland Adventure

I was hunting at the Ruffed Grouse Society Annual hunt in Minnesota, and with the tremendous bird numbers, I was giddy to be hunting in a new area. Each team of two people is assigned to a “huntsman,” and I happened to be paired with the local Conservation Officer, Tom. The second guest in our party was unable to make it, so Tom jumped into my truck as we headed off to traipse through the Northwoods. We started on his family property, quickly moving a handful of grouse within the hour. No birds knocked down, but given the thick pines, that wasn’t abnormal. The next spot took us into mining country as we navigated roads, once busy with trucks hauling iron ore to the ports along Lake Superior. The cover was gorgeous, with the perfect density of aspens. It would have been nothing short of combat walking, fighting the nearly impenetrable wall of trees. I opted to drop Amos, my 1-year-old pointer. He had no problem punching into the cover with tenacity as we walked the overgrown roads listening for his bell to cease ringing, marking a pointed bird. Things were about to get hot and heavy, as no more than 100 yards into our walk, Amos’ bell stopped, and the GPS alerted us to his location. I swung around him and attempted to push the bird towards Tom. The textbook maneuver worked as the bird quartered across his shotgun; a quick pair of shots sent the bird to the forest floor. We were only 10 minutes in and already a bird! This continued for the entire loop, and it made for some pretty easy hunting. I was brimming with pride as this young dog was putting on an unexpected clinic. We ejected our remaining shells, as we reached the truck, signaling the end of the walk. I touched the button on the tailgate to let the other two dogs out, but nothing happened. Walking to the driver’s door, I fished through the endless number of pockets between coat, pants, and vest. The door was locked, and being I didn’t have the keys, deductive reasoning would say they were in the truck.

It could have been worse though, after all I was hunting with a warden from the area. Quickly, he got on the phone with his friend in the sheriff's office. In short order, the truck was opened, and I reached for the starting button on the truck. If it started, it meant the key fob was within the truck and we were good to go. However, we were not good to go. I pressed the button, and instead of the engine firing, an alert flashed across the screen: “no key detected.” That’s when my heart sank. At some point in our zig zagging two-hour walk, the key must have left my pocket. It would have been easy to leave the truck there and make the four-hour drive home to get a spare, but I had two dogs locked in the back of the truck, putting that plan out as unfeasible.

Thankfully, I had turned my onX tracker on before the hunt. However, there’s probably a better chance of winning the lottery while simultaneously being struck by lightning than finding a black key fob in the middle of a 200-acre aspen cut. What did we have to lose? Painstakingly, I followed my footprints to the first flush via the dotted line on my phone.

Here’s where the bird flushed and headed towards Tom. Here’s the big rock that I jum...what are the odds? Lying on the golden leaves of October, I laid eyes on the most beautiful find of the day: a lone key fob. Not only did we have a few birds to show for our effort, but now a way home. The day ended there, as we walked back to the truck and toasted to our incredible luck.

That wrapped up October’s shenanigans, and with a quiet November, it was only a matter of time before something happened. Oddly enough, nothing bad really happens when you’re close to home and everything is convenient.

Wandering Bird Dogs in Arizona

December’s Oregon chukar and quail trip was marked by two dogs with the aforementioned “bad guts,” which is a story for another day. In reality, that whole episode was just wildly inconvenient. There were no vehicle issues, and other than having to air down some tires to get out of the snow and mud of the coastal range after an awesome day chasing Mountain quail, it felt like my luck had turned for the better. I’m really not sure if I believe in luck actually. It feels like all these mishaps and blunders are a way of paying dues to the bird hunting gods, because there’s rarely a great trip where something doesn’t go awry. At least that’s the theory which currently holds the most weight.

January was my time to play snowbird and get out of the brutal Minnesota winter, exchanging it for the dry heat of the desert southwest. I was meeting good friend cowboy George Lyall after he wrapped up a work trip. Things had aligned perfectly as I would hook onto a dog trailer, throw in all seven of our dogs, hunt my way down, and then pick him up in Phoenix after he was done.

I am very comfortable and accustomed to traveling with dogs, but the difference between three and seven would be like grouping the tallest ski slope in Indiana with Breckenridge. I had hunted with George numerous times and felt like I had a good grasp on his dog’s personalities and tendencies. Boone and Tucker, George’s 11- and 12-year-old pointers, were not apt to go far. Neither was little Mini, a field bred English Cocker. Rip on the other hand was a young pointer I needed to keep my eye on. With about half an hour left of daylight, it was time to feed, and air out the dogs. Being this was only in Nebraska, I wanted the stop to be short and sweet, so we could make a dent in the 24-hour trek.

I dropped his dogs and decided to opt for regular e-collars, and not mess with the hassle of GPS. Everything was going swimmingly as seven dogs ate in harmony. As each would finish, they went back into the box. Then, the notoriously picky eater, Rip, was the only one left. I walked to the other side of the trailer to find a half-eaten bowl of food and no white pointer. No worries, as I stim’d him on the e-collar. No dice. At about the 10-minute mark, panic started to creep in. At this point, the working hypothesis was that he had left the range of the e-collar and was unaware of my electric commands.

At the 15-minute mark, it was time to call George and let him know I successfully made it six hours without losing his dogs. It took a minute to even convince him that I wasn’t messing around. I now know why people say don’t panic, as I was pretty much there. Legs shaking, mind racing. How could I have lost his up-and-coming prospect? The roads were muddy, and turning the truck and trailer on the small two track was technically a little tricky but something I had done countless times before. However, with the adrenaline coursing through my veins, I probably looked like a hammered drunk tourist trying to back in their new boat for the first time.

The phone rang, as George informed me the farmhouse two sections away had found Rip trying to play with their dogs. Whew...tragedy averted! Shaken, I vowed that the dogs would never be let out without GPS collars again.

Paying the bird gods, I thought to myself. As it turns out, neither blood nor money had been doled out and the gods must have rejected my offer. Two days into pounding through the desert sand and we had little to show for our efforts. On top of that, I had donated multiple hours into picking out cactus thorns and went through plenty of vet wrap covering blown pads. Was this a good enough offering? On the surface, the answer was, yes.

Finally, we were hot and heavy into the quail! The morning was filled with multiple large coveys of scaled quail, and I felt the monkey was off my back. Reveling in the bliss, I went to let George’s 12-year-old pointer out for a little rest in the sunshine. At this point, I let my guard down, and thought the old boy would do nothing but lay under the trailer. I had already broken my rule from a week before. Tucker had other plans and decided to make a three-mile jaunt in the endless desert landscape. The problem here is there wouldn’t be a farmstead or civilization for 50 miles in any direction for a number on a collar to do us any good. The first tactic was a whistle, but the winds and a hard of hearing dog made that effort fruitless. The next was to send up a drone to find a pure white dog in a sea of short grass. I thought this would easily help us put tabs on the pup. At that point, it was time to call George. It took a minute to convince him that I was indeed an idiot and lost his dog—again. It made me feel a little better after he said to double check underneath all the trucks and trailer. I knew it wasn’t the case. The other half of our hunting party was three miles down a different wash, as I drove over to solicit their help. Just as I yelled over from the truck that I lost another dog, Katie shouted “There he is!” as this tiny white dot meandered against the horizon. Taking off in a dead sprint, I tried to cover the 600-yard gap before he peeked over the next rise. I crashed to the ground multiple times in my dead run, feeling the cactus thorns and volcanic rocks dig into my knees and palms. It wasn’t until I put hands on Tucker and laid across the sandy road, that I realized the bird hunting gods had a larger price tag on the morning hunt, and I still owed. As it turns out, I had paid enough, as George arrived to greet all four of his dogs, healthy and accounted for. We hunted through the hills in search of the intricate plumed Montezuma quail, and were fortunate enough to enjoy fantastic dog work in a truly unique landscape.

Anytime you see a post on Instagram with a beautiful photo of a dog stacked up with birds in hand, remember, that there’s a lot more that happens behind the scenes. Every trip is filled with mishaps and memories, and without one, the other wouldn’t be as sweet. My only hope is to learn from each one—and try not to repeat it too many times.