In grouse country near Chicken, a bird dog has his day

After a full day of driving and a few days of walking old logging roads and mining trails, we took a break and drove to the town of Chicken, which refers to itself as "the middle of nowhere."

This expression is true if "nowhere" refers to a remote area with no plumbing or electricity. But we were at the far end of a road and on the last day of our bird hunting trip when we arrived in Chicken, a campy outpost survivor of the Gold Rush era with a giant metal chicken erected in its center.

Two days earlier, we had crossed the divide of low, wooded hills and entered an area known as "the Fortymile country" to hunt birds. It was our third year making the trip during the moose hunting season. Each year we took one of our English setters, and this year we hoped to provide 3-year-old Cogswell a chance to find a variety of birds.

During these few weeks, the otherwise quiet atmosphere at the top of the world is bustling with moose hunters. Gear-heavy four-wheelers occupy parking lots and vestiges of old roads along the Taylor Highway. Even members of road construction crews glass for moose.

Cogswell was still new to bird hunting, and his style so far resembled an old English chap. As the offspring of two big-running field setters, his technique struck us as a bit unusual. He worked close to us and often stopped, appearing to ponder rather than point. It was no wonder he found few birds working just 15 feet ahead of us. He often looked back at us as if to ask directions.

Earlier that morning, I spotted a male spruce grouse low in a tree. It wasn't until Cogswell saw the bird I pointed that he stopped in his tracks. It's supposed to work the other way around, with the dog pointing the bird.

He ran to the downed bird after the shot, his tail wagging. He seemed to understand the mechanics of what we were doing.

On the drive to Chicken for lunch, I thought about our prospects. Cogswell had stumbled upon birds, but I couldn't recall a time he had worked a scent cone or searched an area the way our other dogs did. Perhaps he was a flushing dog more than a pointer. What could we do to help him?

"I think he thinks we are the ones finding the birds," I said to Steve. "He doesn't seem to understand that it's his job to find them."

Steve was noncommittal on my theory. His thoughts focused on what other factors might be the cause for the few birds we had found — the time of year, the weather, the moose hunting activity.

On the previous day, we had worked a section that Steve had deemed perfect sharp-tail habitat. The dense brush patches with stunted spruce perches were a perfect mix of furled earth, recent burn and a tangle of antler-shaped branches.

I enjoyed watching Cogswell trot through the red leaves of blueberry shrub in the blackened landscape with mountains in the distance — earth once roamed by large cats. The lower jaw of a Panthera leo atrox — the American lion — was found near the mouth of Lost Chicken Creek.

Overgrown ditches, meander streams and remnants of placer mines denote a lost history and seemingly bird-rich country. The combination of alpine, muskeg and stands of young aspen and birch established after a fire — more than a million acres burned in 2004 — created an infusion of nutrients ideal for ruffed grouse. Sharp-tailed grouse also prefer recent burn areas.

"Where are the birds?" I asked. Perhaps rather than insult Cogsy's bird-dog abilities, it was better to believe there were fewer birds than one would expect. We all needed more time than a single trip each fall to figure it out.

Steve had driven the entire way — 490 miles from the Kenai Peninsula, where it was still raining — and did not share my sunny outlook. He was tired and frustrated.

"Maybe after we get back from Chicken," I said before lunch, "we'll find a sharp-tail and then a ruffed grouse, and Cogswell will have a trifecta of birds in one day."

"Humph," Steve said, which I took to mean he was not interested in the power of positive thinking.

In Chicken, Cogswell and I marched up to the giant metal chicken and Steve snapped a photo. It occurred to me the metal chicken resembled a great Trojan horse.

"Cogsy," I whispered. "Do you think all of the birds are hiding inside?"

Cogswell did not point the chicken. Instead, he urinated on the nearby signpost.

We headed back to the game fields by midafternoon to hunt the remainder of the day. Cogswell held a point on a sharp-tailed grouse, and we were delighted to have a second bird. The regulations allowed 15 grouse per day, provided not more than five are sharp-tailed.

We would have loved to have seen Cogswell find so many wild birds, but as we hunted into the evening hours we admitted that two birds in a day was enough. It just made us question ourselves as hunters.

With only a half-hour of light left, Steve refused to give up.

"One last hill," he said. He referred not so much to an actual hill as to a theory — it was always with one last effort that things happened.

This statement had proved true so many times I could never decline the challenge. Instead of having hope, my thought was to enjoy the moments we had with Cogswell. We had eight other dogs back at home, and this was his trip — his chance to be the one dog and our opportunity to get to know him apart from the others.

"There," Steve said.

In the last surge of the day's light, I could barely make out the shape of a ruffed grouse behind a clump of brush. Cogswell froze in a point that was all his own, standing tall with an alert head and tail, as compared to the forward-leaning points of the other setters.

He ran to the bird after my shot and didn't seem to understand my over-the-top enthusiasm. Cogswell had done something rare in the bird hunting world — found three species in the span of one day, our last day, and it wouldn't have been as special if we had found an abundance of birds instead of these perfect three.

On the long drive home, Cogswell slept in the back seat while Steve and I had the same conversation we'd had in previous years. What makes a hunt worth the trip, and how long does it take to figure a place out for us and for the dog?

As much as we want hunting to be just about obtaining food and maybe gainful work for a bird dog, when it comes to a life-encompassing pursuit, especially one shared with dogs, it isn't about need or greed. We keep going back for a chance to be in wild places — middle-of-nowheres and Neverlands — and to wonder what our place is there and figure it out in the time we have.

Christine Cunningham of Soldotna is a lifelong Alaskan and avid hunter. On alternate weeks, she writes about Alaska hunting. Contact her at cunningham@yogaforduckhunters.com