Looking For Ice

Typically in early January it is easier to find ice in Montana than to avoid it. In fact, on many lakes by this time of year fishermen are brave enough (or foolish) to drive one-ton trucks across 12-18 inches of hard water.

2012 has been an oddity thus far. As of today, Fort Peck reservoir is still void of ice on most of its expanse. Canyon Ferry has some ice, but it also has some areas that are not safe for an angler on foot. By this date last year on my January ice-fishing trips, we were driving on roads that were carved out of snowbanks and drilling through 20 inches of solid ice.

On this first trip north, we changed up our normal routine somewhat. Instead of driving on the ice, Laura and I pulled our gear with ice skates. We made it to our destination in a matter of minutes and were fishing as soon as the holes were drilled. To save weight, we carried a hand auger instead of a gas unit, which wasn't an issue considering the ice was only ten inches thick.

While the fishing was less than stellar, it was nice to be back on the ice with nothing to worry about except keeping your fingers warm and your bait fresh. While there is a lot of technology available to ice fishermen these days, the simplicity of staring at a hole in the ice, waiting for a subtle tap on your line, is a refreshing change of pace. We only brought home enough perch and walleye for one meal and since it was months removed the last taste of fresh fish, it was a welcome treat. As was being back on Montana ice.

The Final Hunt

I really didn't have time to hunt today. I had bags packed, bags containing clothing for Big Sky skiing, clothes for the beautiful people. And it was windy as heck. Steady winds 25-30 mph, gusts more than that.

But, I had to hunt. The Montana upland season was coming to an end. And there was no snow on the ground, no other excuses to stay indoors this late December. This hunt was more for the dogs than me. My old girl Tess, would be nine by next season and at that age in a dog's life, there are no guarantees. When I grabbed my gun and orange vest, they confirmed how much they wanted to hunt. Jumping, dancing and whining. Thanking me and begging me.

Since I only had about three hours to make hay, I had to hunt close to town. Average habitat, but good enough. The dogs were intense, I was intense. When they got the least bit birdy, I got prepared, held my gun slightly tighter than I did earlier in the season. I walked fast, wanting to cover as much ground as I could, without snow, the birds could be anywhere. They weren't just forced to seek refuge in the heavier winter cover.

When we complete our first hike, about a three mile walk through fairly good grass, close to grain stubble, we never saw a bird. I had seen pheasant tracks in the ice on the creek bottom and had seen a number of Hun roosts on the higher ground. But, no birds seen.

Despite being nearly out of time and having a four hour drive ahead of me once back in town, I couldn't end the season on a somewhat sour note. The dogs had hunted hard, but with very little reward. So, I crossed the highway and tried one more spot, a long shot, but with this mild December weather, the birds could be there.

And they were. Tess pointed three sharptail that took flight from a higher elevation. I shot quickly, hitting the bird, but decided to take a 2nd shot, to confirm that it was dead and a prize for the little setters. It might sound like fiction, the quest for the perfect ending, but it was. I was almost to the truck, when Abby pointed and Tess backed her. I took one step and a small covey of eight birds rose up. I emptied both barrels, dropping a Hun for each dog to bring back to me. I nearly had tears in my eyes, noting how perfect of a finish it was.

Bonus Time

In Montana and other states such as the Dakotas, some autumns our upland seasons end early, occasionally as early as Halloween. Snow can fill the grasslands completely, often icing over, creating a crust that is unfriendly to both dogs and birds. Sure, the birds are still out there, but often they congregate in farm yards, making them off-limits and just as well, if they are subject to five months of winter survival.

Thus far, 2011 has been a wingshooter’s blessing. There has been only one significant snowfall to date and the bulk of that has melted. Pheasants are still seeking refuge in tall CRP and Hungarian partridge are spending their time, well, where you find them. I am still seeing coveys in stubble fields and the shorter grasses, and on sunny hillsides. All of a sudden I am making up for lost time, days that were taken up by work, big game hunting and other necessities of life.

Despite the obvious added hunting opportunities for hunters and our beloved gun dogs, perhaps the biggest benefactor is the birds themselves. They are still enjoying the good life, having plenty of access to food and continuing to put on fat reserves to survive the winter ahead. Fortunately, we are already down to just three months of it.

Time To Come Clean

My name is Jay and I am a bird hunter.

That is my only explanation after finishing my 2nd big game season in a row without shooting an elk, antelope or deer. I guess I just shoot birds. Not the worst habit to have, but is it better to be a specialist or be mediocre at a handful of pursuits?

Granted, I passed on a cow elk, two miles downhill from the truck, the day after Thanksgiving. On the final day of Montana's big game season, I also chose not to shoot a decent muley buck, after watching him through my scope for a few minutes. I was after a whitetail this year. And, I haven't drawn an antelope tag in two years. But, I live in the middle of Montana, so no excuses will suffice.

But, if you find yourself racing home from deer hunting at 9AM on the final day of the rifle season, to pick up your bird dogs and go hunt pheasants somewhere, you might be a bird hunter. The pheasants came easy this Sunday, the dogs had a great time and I hunted in a t-shirt in late November. To heck with deer and elk.

Sure am glad that Dad shared some of his elk meat, though.

Finishing In The Sage

Upon returning to Montana from a trip to MN, where ruffed grouse and woodcock were on the menu, I added a couple of days to hunt pheasants once I crossed the border. Needless to say, shooting a big October rooster seemed like child's play, after fighting to get shots at crafty ruffs and diminutive woodcock in the North Woods.
Eventually I had to return to my email, voicemail and old school mail.
However, as I was nearing my home in central Montana, it dawned on me that the sage grouse season was about to close November 1st. Since I hadn't hunted sage grouse in a couple of years or so and I was in the midst of prime sage grouse country, I pulled over. The dogs were 7 days into a fairly intense road trip, but when their dog box opened, they still showed the same excitement they did a week earlier.
I grabbed just enough water for the dogs with about an hour hunt in mind. I headed for a large sage flat on public land where I had seen birds a few years ago. It was a case of deja vu, as the dogs became birdy on the same knob, pointing the same flock of sage grouse, which flushed in the same direction as years before. Obviously the birds were a newer generation, but everything else was a repeat. I only shot one big male sage grouse, not needing to shoot another majestic, native bird that is struggling in some parts. I headed back to the truck, but not before the dogs also found two coveys of Huns, which added to my mixed bag of birds very nicely, putting an exclamation point on my 2011 upland odyssey.

A Drop in the Bucket

Fish mortality associated with irrigation ditches is a problem throughout the West. In Montana alone it is probable that hundreds of thousands, if not millions of fish (not all are trout) perish in irrigation ditches on an annual basis.

Trout Unlimited is working to raise funding for, and install screening on irrigation ditch headgates, but progress is slow. Additionally, many regional TU chapters are hosting events in cooperation with landowners to rescue fish stranded in irrigation ditches.

A fishing buddy and I recently held our own unsanctioned fish rescue on the irrigation ditch that runs by my house. This ditch diverts water from the Gallatin River, and likely claims the lives of thousands of fish every year. In about two hours of work with a boat net, a bucket and a sheet of window screening we managed to rescue nearly 100 fish. Many of them were fingerling whitefish, but a number of them were fine brown trout that belong in the river.

Our efforts were just a drop in the bucket, but every bit helps. Contact your local TU chapter to learn more about opportunities to get involved.

Pleasant Pheasant Surprise

Most of us Montana bird hunters headed into the 2011 pheasant season with lowered expectations. Winter was pretty brutal, as it started early and lasted until April, without a lot of reprieve throughout. When spring did arrive, the state was saturated, with above average rainfall and a fair amount of lowland flooding. It was an unfortunate “perfect storm” scenario.

However, thirty minutes into the opener, I commented to Ryan that there were enough birds to hunt this fall, despite the negative outlook by wildlife biologists, farmers and hunters. By ten o’clock, when we had our limit of six roosters, I upgraded my description from “enough” to “average numbers". In one field alone, we moved probably 50 birds in a mile-long walk. However, there were areas that were fairly void of birds, but typically have held pheasants in the past. Over the course of the weekend, we did put on a few fruitless miles too. But, overall, there was plenty of action and good dog work.

The trade off for more birds than expected, was the quality of the birds. According to Ryan’s dad, who is a rancher and spends a good amount of time on the land, many pheasants had an unsuccessful first hatch, but managed a very successful second hatch, due to the lush grass that developed. Since many of the late hatches occurred around August 1st, the evidence was present this opener. We saw pheasants that would cackle like a rooster, but had no coloring whatsoever. One flock of pheasants were the size of Hungarian partridge. We vowed to select only the mature roosters over points by the dogs, but despite the attempt, we still ended up with a few young birds.

It was a pleasant surprise to see what Mother Nature can giveth after she taketh away so much during winter and spring. It should make for some decent hunting longer into the season. Let’s hope that winter doesn’t arrive early this autumn.