“CHICKEN IS CHEAP”
Musings of a First Year Grouse Trialer
By Joe Guzman
There was a time in my life when I used to fancy myself as quite a bird hunter. And why wouldn’t I? After all, my game bag was heavier almost every time I returned from afield, I knew of lots of places to find birds and my dogs pointed and retrieved all of the birds that I shot (well almost all). Besides all of that, most everyone that I hunted with, friends and acquaintances alike told me so. But, it wasn’t until these past few years that I began to realize that they, nor I, really didn’t know all that much at all.
I came to know bird hunting somewhat late in life, but not nearly as late as grouse trialing. Even though my appreciation for the outdoors began at an early age, through numerous family camping vacations, summer camps and fishing with my father, I was twenty before I experienced my first wild bird hunt. The songbirds and jays that I wrecked havoc on in suburbia with my red rider not withstanding. I had never even carried a firearm in the woods until a ‘farm boy’ college roommate of mine invited me to visit his home for a weekend. Once there he put a single shot .410 in my hands and then with an expression I’ll never forget said, “Let’s go bird hunting”! After a brief but thorough gun safety course held at the tailgate of a 63 Dodge pickup, we headed off into ‘Barbers Woods’ with the enthusiasm only known to those that have gone before. After listening to the report of the 12 ga. for what seemed like a half a box of shells, I recall being admonished, born more of frustration, that “you’ll never get one if you don’t shoot”!
Later that overcast October afternoon I admired a beautiful brace of birds as Mike’s father pointed out to me the distinctive characteristics of my first two ruffed grouse. It wasn’t until I had experienced my friend’s frustration many times myself that I truly appreciated what had transpired that day, two shots from the little .410 and two birds! What I understood even less, was how deep that the hook had been set!
For the better part of the next twenty years every fall my thoughts were of how much of my remaining vacation time could be devoted and how much could be stolen from other obligations, to this passion. Spring and summers were spent training dogs and reading every publication that was remotely connected to the sport. Somehow though, through all this time something within me remained somewhat unfulfilled. It was something that I couldn’t quite put into perspective nor put out of my mind. The ‘annual’ bird hunting trip had gradually been replaced by other more noble obligations that young fathers willingly take on, like soccer, football or basketball games, and scouting or school events. It wasn’t until I found myself as the only one able to make the annual trek to our hallowed coverts in northern Michigan that I finally figured it out……
As I sat high on the bank with the bright midmorning sun warming me and the melodic sound of the river spilling over the beaver dam in the valley below, I found myself once again admiring a beautiful brace of grouse. Only this time they were collected with the assistance of a loyal companion that lay resting at my side, and with a well cared for double 28 ga. These, like the two the day before, fell to a single shot each. In the realm of the hunter within me, it simply didn’t get much better than this. However, instead I felt a strange hollowness within. This was a time that was traditionally shared by companions, and although I relished the solitude of the place and time, without them it was different. The taking of this noble bird was now somehow anti-climatic, and then the obvious, dawned on me.
“Chicken is Cheap”.
Grouse hunting itself tends to be a rather solitary sport, with all of the dog training, and conditioning, the scouting and the inherent secretiveness that goes with it (and this of course is what draws so many of us to it). But, time spent in pursuit of the “king” in his home covert, under beautiful October skies, with that new prospect or seasoned veteran, that is the true joy. It is the very moment when the ultimate instinctive act that generations of selective breeding and the hours of experience given culminate in that single spine tingling, hair raising moment. That moment, when time itself seems to stand still. It’s when the deafening silence of the bell gone still is replaced by the sound of your own breathing. When your senses tell you that you are more aware than at any other moment, and when you and your trusted partner have truly become one.
“POINT!”
lns:o="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" xmlns:w="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:word" xmlns:m="http://schemas.microsoft.com/office/2004/12/omml" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40"> This is the single moment that we all devote so many hours in pursuit of. This is the moment that fuels the drive required for those hours dedicated. It is the moment that defines the bond and teamwork of the hunter and his dog. But for some it also fuels a need and a desire to share with trusted others our love of this sport and the granger in which it takes place. With the passing of seasons, the moments that follow have become more like the victory lap, while nice, not nearly as satisfying as the race that got us there.
After all, “Chicken is Cheap”.
As modern times have changed so have our reasons for hunting. We no longer go afield to simply ‘fill the pot’. The reasons we go have become more individual. This can be easily seen in what is worn and carried by all of us. The person that goes simply because they are hungry is truly the exception and that is a good thing. For all that has changed
over the years (and much of it not for the better) the single common obligation that we all share, is the need to preserve our sports heritage for all that will follow us. We, like those who showed us the joy, are merely caretakers or trustees of this privilege.
This is not at all unlike the sport of field trials, whose past is steeped with rich traditions. Just this past year, 1999, was the 125th anniversary of the field trial game itself and the year in which the 100th running of National Championship and the 57th Grand National Grouse Championship was held. This was the last time that these as well as many other historic events were to be held in this millennium. It was also to be my first full season as a participant in this captivating sport. Although my start was not nearly as auspicious as my introduction to grouse hunting (in fact down right humbling if the truth be told) the hook, I fear, has been set just as deep!
The reasons that Field Trials have had such a strong and rich history became very apparent to me this past season. At them, I rediscovered some of the competitive juices that have flowed within me. I befriended many fine people that rekindled the camaraderie of sport that even I didn’t realize how much I’d missed. People who had only a hand shake before been total strangers, willingly and openly shared their experience and genuine offers of assistance. These are the real ‘salt of the earth’ people that we all know
and strive to emulate. I felt the motivating spirit of new challenges and opportunities. I also had the opportunity to enjoy the rewards of volunteering and the satisfaction of knowing that the contributions were sincerely appreciated. However, as with all things that involve people, I also witnessed some of the less flattering and uniquely human characteristics that are grouped under the label of ‘politics’. As strong as the sport currently is (as the large entries attest), we could all do ourselves a great favor and take a few lessons from the partners that we run with. They are always honest, never pretentious, and always quick to forgive us in their efforts to please.
Field Trialing is a unique sport, one where the competitive fire must burn in not only the handler but also in the athlete in their charge. The birds that they pursue are wild and effected by every condition that Mother Nature can throw at them. The courses are as varied as the bracemates, and both are dependant upon the draw. The judging is individually interpreted to a standard and therefore varies from saddle to saddle. But these are just some of the very reasons why this sport is so compelling. These are the same reasons that have kept the competitive fires burning so brightly for so long. There are enough detractors in the form of various activists groups that would like to see the fires extinguished. Don’t let politics, pettiness, or shortsightedness lend to their cause. Remember that we are all, seasoned veteran and rookie alike, merely caretakers or trustees of this privilege we call field trialing as well. Be the first to extend a hearty welcome to the newcomer, and make their first impressions their best, not their last. Be the first to volunteer where your expertise or efforts are needed, not the last. Remember the ideals of the sport and strive to keep them foremost in all that you do in connection with it. After all, “Chicken is Cheap”.
Musings of a First Year Grouse Trialer
By Joe Guzman
There was a time in my life when I used to fancy myself as quite a bird hunter. And why wouldn’t I? After all, my game bag was heavier almost every time I returned from afield, I knew of lots of places to find birds and my dogs pointed and retrieved all of the birds that I shot (well almost all). Besides all of that, most everyone that I hunted with, friends and acquaintances alike told me so. But, it wasn’t until these past few years that I began to realize that they, nor I, really didn’t know all that much at all.
I came to know bird hunting somewhat late in life, but not nearly as late as grouse trialing. Even though my appreciation for the outdoors began at an early age, through numerous family camping vacations, summer camps and fishing with my father, I was twenty before I experienced my first wild bird hunt. The songbirds and jays that I wrecked havoc on in suburbia with my red rider not withstanding. I had never even carried a firearm in the woods until a ‘farm boy’ college roommate of mine invited me to visit his home for a weekend. Once there he put a single shot .410 in my hands and then with an expression I’ll never forget said, “Let’s go bird hunting”! After a brief but thorough gun safety course held at the tailgate of a 63 Dodge pickup, we headed off into ‘Barbers Woods’ with the enthusiasm only known to those that have gone before. After listening to the report of the 12 ga. for what seemed like a half a box of shells, I recall being admonished, born more of frustration, that “you’ll never get one if you don’t shoot”!
Later that overcast October afternoon I admired a beautiful brace of birds as Mike’s father pointed out to me the distinctive characteristics of my first two ruffed grouse. It wasn’t until I had experienced my friend’s frustration many times myself that I truly appreciated what had transpired that day, two shots from the little .410 and two birds! What I understood even less, was how deep that the hook had been set!
For the better part of the next twenty years every fall my thoughts were of how much of my remaining vacation time could be devoted and how much could be stolen from other obligations, to this passion. Spring and summers were spent training dogs and reading every publication that was remotely connected to the sport. Somehow though, through all this time something within me remained somewhat unfulfilled. It was something that I couldn’t quite put into perspective nor put out of my mind. The ‘annual’ bird hunting trip had gradually been replaced by other more noble obligations that young fathers willingly take on, like soccer, football or basketball games, and scouting or school events. It wasn’t until I found myself as the only one able to make the annual trek to our hallowed coverts in northern Michigan that I finally figured it out……
As I sat high on the bank with the bright midmorning sun warming me and the melodic sound of the river spilling over the beaver dam in the valley below, I found myself once again admiring a beautiful brace of grouse. Only this time they were collected with the assistance of a loyal companion that lay resting at my side, and with a well cared for double 28 ga. These, like the two the day before, fell to a single shot each. In the realm of the hunter within me, it simply didn’t get much better than this. However, instead I felt a strange hollowness within. This was a time that was traditionally shared by companions, and although I relished the solitude of the place and time, without them it was different. The taking of this noble bird was now somehow anti-climatic, and then the obvious, dawned on me.
“Chicken is Cheap”.
Grouse hunting itself tends to be a rather solitary sport, with all of the dog training, and conditioning, the scouting and the inherent secretiveness that goes with it (and this of course is what draws so many of us to it). But, time spent in pursuit of the “king” in his home covert, under beautiful October skies, with that new prospect or seasoned veteran, that is the true joy. It is the very moment when the ultimate instinctive act that generations of selective breeding and the hours of experience given culminate in that single spine tingling, hair raising moment. That moment, when time itself seems to stand still. It’s when the deafening silence of the bell gone still is replaced by the sound of your own breathing. When your senses tell you that you are more aware than at any other moment, and when you and your trusted partner have truly become one.
“POINT!”
lns:o="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" xmlns:w="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:word" xmlns:m="http://schemas.microsoft.com/office/2004/12/omml" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40"> This is the single moment that we all devote so many hours in pursuit of. This is the moment that fuels the drive required for those hours dedicated. It is the moment that defines the bond and teamwork of the hunter and his dog. But for some it also fuels a need and a desire to share with trusted others our love of this sport and the granger in which it takes place. With the passing of seasons, the moments that follow have become more like the victory lap, while nice, not nearly as satisfying as the race that got us there.
After all, “Chicken is Cheap”.
As modern times have changed so have our reasons for hunting. We no longer go afield to simply ‘fill the pot’. The reasons we go have become more individual. This can be easily seen in what is worn and carried by all of us. The person that goes simply because they are hungry is truly the exception and that is a good thing. For all that has changed
over the years (and much of it not for the better) the single common obligation that we all share, is the need to preserve our sports heritage for all that will follow us. We, like those who showed us the joy, are merely caretakers or trustees of this privilege.
This is not at all unlike the sport of field trials, whose past is steeped with rich traditions. Just this past year, 1999, was the 125th anniversary of the field trial game itself and the year in which the 100th running of National Championship and the 57th Grand National Grouse Championship was held. This was the last time that these as well as many other historic events were to be held in this millennium. It was also to be my first full season as a participant in this captivating sport. Although my start was not nearly as auspicious as my introduction to grouse hunting (in fact down right humbling if the truth be told) the hook, I fear, has been set just as deep!
The reasons that Field Trials have had such a strong and rich history became very apparent to me this past season. At them, I rediscovered some of the competitive juices that have flowed within me. I befriended many fine people that rekindled the camaraderie of sport that even I didn’t realize how much I’d missed. People who had only a hand shake before been total strangers, willingly and openly shared their experience and genuine offers of assistance. These are the real ‘salt of the earth’ people that we all know
and strive to emulate. I felt the motivating spirit of new challenges and opportunities. I also had the opportunity to enjoy the rewards of volunteering and the satisfaction of knowing that the contributions were sincerely appreciated. However, as with all things that involve people, I also witnessed some of the less flattering and uniquely human characteristics that are grouped under the label of ‘politics’. As strong as the sport currently is (as the large entries attest), we could all do ourselves a great favor and take a few lessons from the partners that we run with. They are always honest, never pretentious, and always quick to forgive us in their efforts to please.
Field Trialing is a unique sport, one where the competitive fire must burn in not only the handler but also in the athlete in their charge. The birds that they pursue are wild and effected by every condition that Mother Nature can throw at them. The courses are as varied as the bracemates, and both are dependant upon the draw. The judging is individually interpreted to a standard and therefore varies from saddle to saddle. But these are just some of the very reasons why this sport is so compelling. These are the same reasons that have kept the competitive fires burning so brightly for so long. There are enough detractors in the form of various activists groups that would like to see the fires extinguished. Don’t let politics, pettiness, or shortsightedness lend to their cause. Remember that we are all, seasoned veteran and rookie alike, merely caretakers or trustees of this privilege we call field trialing as well. Be the first to extend a hearty welcome to the newcomer, and make their first impressions their best, not their last. Be the first to volunteer where your expertise or efforts are needed, not the last. Remember the ideals of the sport and strive to keep them foremost in all that you do in connection with it. After all, “Chicken is Cheap”.