New Coverts The ineluctabledraw of new grousecoverts. BY TOM KEER had searchedfor a way to accessthe coven across the river from Freight Train for years. I was desperate-I ached for the opponunity to run a dog through that slice of Heaven. After banging on farmers' doors, studying maps, and looking at aerial imaging, I found a road that would put me a 3-mile hump away. One da5 I took the road lesstraveled, and my heart pounded with excitement. It was a bumpy ride, and if the low-hanging treesand brush weren't scratching the paint off my truck, then the cobble remaining in the washouts threatened to tear off the oil pan. There were no turnoffs, no turnarounds, only a main line in. Despair hit when I came upon a century-old maple that had fallen acrossthe road at a distanceof about 4lz miles from my covert. I gave up. But every time I ran the dogs in Freight Train and they pointed woodcock in the Japaneseknotweed along the river, I stared lustfully at the other side. I tormented myself for two seasonsby packing along a pair of binoculars.I'd ceremoniouslyplace the rubber eyecupsto my face, starethrough the objective lenses,and work the focusing wheel'to perfection. \Vhat I saw only heightened my desire ro bear wimess to it fusthand. An alder run pockmarked by high-bush cranberries ran along the river, and there were long runs of goldenrod, and fruit-bearing crabapple trees galore. A meadow was back in, and along the backside were lots of white- and black-trunked trees. Those trees with tight bark were aspens,while those with loose, shaggy bark were white birches. Severalwhite pines rimmed the field; there were pockets of tangles with raspberries. A hillside ran
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up to the saddle,and near the top was an apple orchard. The tree limbs were so tvvistedand contorted rhat I could tell they hadn't beenpruned in quite some time. Their red fruit was significant, so much so that it made me overlook the rambling stone walls created by a long-ago farmer who obviously struggled with geometry.
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gorgeous mid-October day, when the foliage was An. lr.-rlpeak and reds, oranges, yellows, and greens adorned the valleS I hunted Freight Train with my buddy, Jeff. We ran my daughter's setter Albert and he locked up in the knorweed along the river. It was the only patch where the ground was soft and wet. I walked up a woodcock, a small male and it flushed in front of Jeff, who dropped it with one shot.
"Fetch it up," I said to the dog-and no sooner did I speak than a grouse thundered from a position below us. I caught a glimpse of old ruff as he did what he does best: He eluded us by flying across the river. Mr. Grouse fluftered down gently in that sweetestof tangled messes,indicating that he was no stranger to this game. ri7hen Albert returned with the woodcock, there was minimal fanlare and celebration. We were focusedon that grouse. I looked downriver and there was a deep pool. Rats. Upriver, there was a shallow riffle that ran to some pocketwater. I saw a way to cross the river and get into the wild. Jeff saw it too. "rWanna?"I said. "Let's," Jeff replied. \7e traded dogs and brought out Rowdy girl, heading for the shallow riffle. The water wasn't deep but there were lots of slime-covered rocks, greasy ones. Rowdy loved the water-a character trait not lost on English setter fans-and she had fresh legs.Shewent down to the pool and paddled through the soft current and quickly arrived at the other side. She waited while we slipped our way to grouse Valhalla. I turned on her beeper,we loaded our guns, and set forth to explore this slice of grouse Heaven. Beauty and grouse perfection surrounded me, and I felt I was home. rouse represent everything that is pure and wild. Their f \Jnumbers were best during the decades following the change from an agrarian to industrial lifestyle. Their populations have been helped along by focus on pollution in the 1970s, ozone depletion in the '80s, acid rain in the '90s, and climate change and global warming in our new millennium. Jeff and I named the covert across from Freight Train River \falk. It didn't just live up to expectarions-it far surpassed them. And where the field met the woods, I found rwo markers bearing a single name and birth and death dates. I figure the owner of this land was a grouse man, and two of his dogs were buried in the land to which they devoted their lives. The water was high last year and I couldn't get across.I'll let the covert linger a bit and survey it from a distance.I'm getting a linle long in the tooth mysel( so if too much time passesbefore the river is low enough to cross again, as a grouse man I'll have to figure out something.Next season,maybe I'll bring a canoe.
COVEY RISE IO5
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