138 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Aug. 3, 1912 
Grouse Hunting in the Idaho Lowlands 
By CHARLES STUART MOODY 
“You bet!’’ I explained. ‘If it had not been 
for you on the other side frightening him from 
the bank I never would have landed him; he 
was so strong I simply couldn’t turn him.” 
“He’ll weigh six pounds sure as a fiddle,” 
announced my friend admiring my prize. “He’s 
certainly a son of a gun of a yaller bass!” 
“Any way, I have had the experience of my 
life. I will present him to you, but I want you 
to tack his head up and save it for me,” I said. 
Mack smiled all over, and after urgent solici¬ 
tations accepted my gift. I afterward learned 
from a card sent to me by the recipient that the 
fish weighed five and a quarter pounds and was 
twenty-one and a half inches in length. 
With the capture of the big fellow the black 
gnat lost its potency. Finally after offering sev¬ 
eral deceits with only ordinary success I gave 
niy old favorite, silver doctor, a chance to dis¬ 
play its effectiveness. That it had attractive 
powers was immediately proven. In a short time 
the weight of my creel drove me to the Jessie 
homestead. Even if it had not, the ominous 
growlings of a near thunder storm would have 
hastened me to shelter. I had only gained the 
west side of Current River when the storm 
lashed forth in all its fury, and by the time I 
reached the warm fireplace I was soaked to the 
skin. 
I burrowed clothes from the head of the 
house, though they could easily contain two of 
my frame. I felt comfortable and remained be¬ 
fore the radiant fireplace watching my garments 
pouring a cloud of steam throughout the restric¬ 
tions of the room, and knowing well that the 
terrific downpour of rain would ruin the fishing 
for a week or more. Still my mind reverted 
“THE BLACK GNAT LOST ITS POTENCY.” 
longingly to the small stream hidden in the hills, 
and I sensed that the lure of its pleasures was 
so strong upon me that another try at the red¬ 
eyes of Big Creek would follow soon.* 
*In writing the article, I have purposely withheld 
from giving the name of my host Jessie; as he is a 
rather dangerous animal and the valley is full of lawless 
feudists, I would not care to have some of your readers 
run in there for a trip and meet with disaster. That 
district has been noted for its monthly killings of the 
most cold-blooded kinds. 
I think you will be pleased to learn that I secured 
conviction of the notorious duck shipper in the Sunken 
Lands, DeLisle Godair, for attempting to ship 100 wood- 
ducks. This has about cleaned up the last shipper on 
the Missouri side of the big overflow. 
U NLESS more stringent protective laws are 
enacted the dusky grouse (Dendragapus 
obscunts) and his nearest kin the sooty 
grouse (D. o. fuliginosus ;) will have gone to join 
the passenger pigeon and the heath hen in the 
land of things that were. 
It is not so many years ago that the foot¬ 
hills of the mountains of north Idaho were 
covered with these, the handsomest of our up¬ 
land game birds. The “burned over” lands 
were the breeding places of the birds, and there 
they congregated literally in thousands. After 
sunset of an evening in spring the air was ven- 
triloqual with their musical hooting, nearly 
every burned log harbored its nest. In summer 
and early autumn the young coveys assembled 
in the service berry fields, then later, when the 
frosts came, retired to the deep-leaved firs 
where they spent the winter. Grouse shooting 
was good those days, and I fear that we did not 
appreciate that there would come a time when 
it would not be so. 
I have always had a feeling of love for the 
grouse, there is something so wild and free, 
something that breathes of the pines, about 
him. One Christmas time I was an alien, far 
from home. I tried to kill the time by walking 
down the streets of a great city. There is 
nothing more depressing in this life than to be 
among a city of happy holiday busy people and 
not know a soul there. I passed a poultry store 
and saw a grouse displayed. The poor fellow 
was long since dead, but he, too, looked lone¬ 
some, out of place, far from his native pines. I 
bought him. No matter what I paid, it was 
more than I could afford. The landlady and her 
daughter who were more familiar with domes¬ 
tic fowls of the masculine persuasion, thought 
I. had brought some new and rare variety of 
turkey for my Christmas dinner. The next day 
I sat down to my lonesome meal and my great 
roast grouse brought up visions of the blue 
mountains and crystal streams of the West. 
The West was calling, and before the meal was 
ended, I had resolved to heed the call. 
Ah me! things were changed. The former 
wilderness now blossomed with homes, the 
waste places were grain fields, the grouse were 
gone. Like the wild Indian, they had retired 
before the onward march of civilization. 
The prime requisites of grouse shooting 
are a hard close-shooting gun, an intelligent 
dog, and a sturdy pair of legs that will not 
rebel when called upon to carry the hunter upon 
the steep and rugged sides of the mountains, 
for it is there only he will find the game, and 
even there he may consider himself fortunate if 
he kills a brace of birds in a day’s tramp. The 
grouse is, as I stated before, a rare bird. But, 
ah! the joy of bagging one or two of these big 
handsome blue-gray fellows with their smooth 
glossy plumage. 
It is early autumn, a tang of frost is al¬ 
ready in the early morning air as you tumble 
out in the “false morning” and hustle into your 
shooting togs. Across the lake the mountains 
loom dark with a fog hanging over them. Be¬ 
fore the sun has peeped above the eastern 
horizon you are panting up the steep side of the 
hill following the sinuous winding of a dim 
trail. The hills rise by successive “benches,” 
each “bench” several acres in extent. When 
you have reached the last of these you enter 
a forest of open pines beneath which dense 
thickets of service berry bushes grow. Upon 
“MRS. DENDRAGAPUS’ NEST.” 
these berries the grouse will be found feeding 
in the early morning. Turn down the “bench” 
and hie on your dog. If there are any birds 
feeding and you have never hunted grouse there 
is a surprise in store for you. You are wading 
waist-deep in the service berry and buckthorn, 
your dog working in front, hidden by the under¬ 
growth. All of a sudden you imagine a bomb 
shell has burst beneath your feet and you get 
an indistinct impression of something like sev¬ 
eral dozen birds all going in different directions, 
the beating of their wings making a sound like 
mimic thunder. I requires a quick eye and 
good judgment to pick out your bird and let 
him have it. He who hestitates is lost, for no 
bird flies that is wiser about putting a tree or 
a hill between himself and the hunter. The 
wise old grouse hunter carries his gun at the 
ready and fires upon the first flash of a wing. 
For so heavy a bird the grouse flies very rapid¬ 
ly, with a rolling motion of the body which is 
very disconcerting. 
After you have hunted the upland “benches” 
and the day is well advanced, it will be well to 
seek some hidden spring in a wooded canon, for 
there the grouse congregate at midday to drink 
and rest in the cool shade. Some years ago 
quite a discussion went the rounds of the sport¬ 
ing press as to whether the grouse ever drank. 
Some persons who should have known better, 
asserted with the greatest solemnity that they 
never did, because forsooth, they had never 
seen them do it. Not only do they drink, but 
that frequently, so frequently in fact, that you 
may always be certain of finding them in the 
heat of the day around some spring or water¬ 
course. At such times the birds are less wild 
than when on their feeding grounds. A covey 
of young grouse flushed near their watering 
place will generally take to a tree where they 
are adept in hiding among the leafy branches. 
There are much easier things seen than a young 
