Fur Trail: Hunting Sharptails

It was really too cold for bellycrawling, but I’d come this far. I slid the .22 rifle out in front of me toward the small promontory, then crawled to it over the grass and snow. My fleece jacket slid over the ground easily, but my cotton pants were wet from snow that had melted under my legs. And my right foot was getting cold. The discomfort was bearable, though, because I could warm up quickly if I needed to – I was, after all, in the backyard.

The snow had brought the sharptailed grouse back. When I first got out to Montana, there was snow on the ground, and I’d seen sharptails walking by my kitchen window in the mornings. They fed in morning and evening, and during the day they’d congregate – “covey up,” in the parlance of bird hunters – under some trees on the far end of the barn. As the snow melted, the sharptails moved away, presumably back to higher elevations. For about a week I didn’t see them. But the recent snows had brought them back. Late in the morning, I’d seen them fly in from the north and land under their favorite grove of trees at the far end of the barn, beside Otter Creek, just a hundred yards from the cabin.

Sharptailed grouse.

Sharptails make good eating. I stood several hundred yards off from the grove where the birds were coveyed and tried to figure out how to kill one. If I’d had a shotgun, I’d have gotten close to the barn and walked toward the grove, then shot at them when they flew. Wingshooting – that is, shooting the birds when they’re flying – is the usual way of shooting grouse, quail, or any upland bird. But I didn’t have a shotgun. I did have a bolt-action .22 with iron sights. It was no good for wingshooting, but if I could get within 30 yards and could spot a bird before it flew, I could kill with it.

The sharptails were wary. You couldn’t just walk right toward them. Before they left the property the first time, I had tried on a couple occasions to sneak up on the covey. It wasn’t easy. When stalking a deer, you can wait until the deer is grazing, or wait until the deer is looking the other way, then creep forward. Or you can move sideways until there’s an obstacle between you and the deer – a bush or low hill, for instance – and advance without being seen. But with a covey of birds, those methods don’t work as well. There’s always at least one bird with its head up, scanning for predators. And if you put an obstacle between you and the bird you want to shoot, another bird in the covey is likely to have you in its line of vision. When that bird sees you, he’ll fly, and the others will follow. When I’d stalked this covey before, I’d spooked the birds well before I got in range. If I’d been a coyote, I’d have starved. The best thing about human civilization, I sometimes think, is the ready availability of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

But today I had a taste for grouse, and this time I’d use Otter Creek to get close. I’d sneak up the creekbed from the south, crouching below the level of the bank, until I got near the grove where the birds were hanging out. Then I’d sneak up the bank and bellycrawl through the tall grass until I could get close enough for a shot. So, rifle in hand, I walked a wide circle around the grove, far enough away from the birds to avoid spooking them. Once I was beside Otter Creek and about 400 yards south of the sharptails, I put a large clump of willows between me and the birds. At this distance, the willows obscured me from the entire covey. I walked toward them.

When I reached the willows, I crouched behind them and peered through. The leaves long gone, all that remained were the dark, brittle stems. Gently I pushed a few aside and watched the grove. The wind blew softly, clear and cold, and rattled in the willow stalks. I waited. I wondered if the sharptails had moved on. But then the movement of something tan caught my eye, and when I looked closer, I could make out a head poking above a feathered grouse body. They were there. I watched them for a moment, then retreated from the willows and slid down into the creekbed.

I had hoped to sneak up the creek in my waterproof boots, keeping my feet in the water, but the cold snap that had brought snow had also left a layer of ice over the creek. I needed to cross to the opposite bank, and this was as good a time as any to test the ice. I kicked it, and it held firm. I slid a foot onto it, then shifted my weight onto the foot. The ice held. I brought my other foot onto the ice and started to slide across the creek. The ice cracked. My foot fell through to the creekbottom below, but thankfully my boots were taller than the creek was deep. Water swirled around the rubber and neoprene. I crashed, waded, and slid to the opposite bank through the blocks of broken ice, then crouched on a ledge by the edge of the water. I moved along the ledge toward the grove of trees. At one point the ledge narrowed to almost nothing. I tried to cross, but slid toward the creek, hit the ice with my right foot, and broke through. Here the creek was deep and water poured down the top of my boot. I jerked it out of the water. Cold – real cold. But I was too close to the covey for cursing. So I crawled forward, trying to move as quietly as possible through the dried grass and the snow. I was close enough, I thought, to hear the covey if they flushed. And I hadn’t heard anything, so they were probably still there. I crawled forward. I felt a chunk of ice beside my ankle.

When I neared the grove, I found a gently-sloped section of creek bank and crawled up. As I neared the top I flattened against my belly, pushing the rifle ahead of me, dragging myself along by my elbows. I wanted to come up over this hill with only my eyes showing. The fronts of my cotton pants were soon soaked from the snow, and they were cold pressed against my thighs. I heard myself breathing hard, and stopped to rest. You can’t shoot a rifle accurately if you’re gasping for beath. I waited awhile, then crawled forward. The water sloshed around inside my waterproof boot. My breath crystallized in the air before me. I moved slowly to minimize the rustling of the grass. Finally I lifted my head. Through the waving stalks of grass, I could see the grove of trees next to the barn. And on the near side of the grove sat a sharptailed grouse. Twenty-five yards away. I lifted the rifle and braced my elbows on the ground. I lined up the target, front sight, rear sight, then squeezed the trigger.

The crack of the rifle did not scare the birds – I guess they didn’t know what it was. I shot three sharptails, then lay the rifle aside and watched the rest. They huddled against the earth for awhile, necks tucked in, immobile balls of feathers. Fat-looking birds, like butterball turkeys pumped full of feed before Thanksgiving. Then some began to move. When the sharptails stood they looked sleek – tall birds with elegant necks and strong legs. Proper gamebirds. Patterned plumage that varied from dark, pine-bark brown on their wings to light, two-by-four tan on their necks. Underbellies of white flecked with brown. Short downturned beaks. They strode leisurely among the trees, heads poking forward then sliding back, stopping sometimes to peck at the earth. I like hunting, killing game that I will eat, inserting myself into the food chain directly. But the most thrilling part of a hunt is observing animals that do not know – or in this case, have forgotten – that you’re there. That makes it worthwhile. That makes it worth braving the cold, falling in creeks, crawling through the snow in wet pants. I watched the birds for a moment more, then rose to my feet. The birds flushed and I walked toward the cabin to get Duke. The thrill of hunting is especially worth braving the cold if you’re only a hundred yards from your house.