We were back up north trying to hit the King and reacclimatize ourselves to familiar ground, after spending the better part of autumn down south, chasing Sharptail out on the open prairie. This is not altogether unlike trying to get around on a high four seam fastball after a steady diet of breaking balls and off-speed stuff.

Those first few weeks back home we avoided the sudden sense of claustrophobia created by ten-year-old cutblocks and coniferous canopies, opting to leave them until later in the year. Instead, we worked the valley, seeking out the wooded draws in the short grass hills, where the safety stayed fixed in the on position as we were reminded that northern birds, don’t hold like their southern cousins.

Track, point, track, point, track, bump.

Going, going, gone.

Eventually, the sequence started to end on point, as the dog recalibrated to the new deal and what was in front of him. It was up to me to finish the equation as the birds erupted out of impenetrable cover, wove through aspen stands, or gave me the old “how’s she going” behind the trunk of a large poplar, but I just couldn’t catch up to one, whiffing at every opportunity.

Too far ahead, behind, above, or below, or more often than not, just caught looking.

The success rate of my Sharptail shooting seems to fair better when I take a patient approach before pulling the trigger, waiting and taking that one extra heartbeat to make sure. However, this strategy runs counter to the goal of hitting a Ruffed Grouse on the wing, where a more aggressive approach reigns supreme. Often times you just have to swing on one and try to make contact before they disappear into the void.

For the dog and I, there always seems to be an adjustment period when moving between the two, but eventually, we both put it together again and get on base with a well hit single going the opposite way.