Ruffed grouse are small, chicken-sized birds. They are ground-dwelling, woodland creatures that spend most of their lives on the forest floor searching for insects, seeds, fruits and other grub and, during breeding season, other grouse. Like many of their upland brethren, grouse numbers are being squeezed by habitat loss. When the neighborhood goes to hell, grouse, quail and their kin don’t move. They disappear.
Grouse hunting is not for the weak-hearted or slight-winded. The critters prefer rough, rugged country. In Kentucky, grouse are eastern birds—hill country critters. Grouse season stretches from November through February across that patch of the state that begins with a line of counties from the Ohio River to the Tennessee border and includes (north to south): Campbell, Pendleton, Harrison, Nicholas, Montgomery, Clark, Madison, Garrard, Lincoln, Pulaski, Russell, Adair and Cumberland. From this line east, Kentucky’s grouseland extends to the Virginia and West Virginia borders.
A few grouse are rumored to reside in the Pennyrile State Forest, Tradewater Wildlife Management Area and Ft. Knox Wildlife Management Area, although state officials usually acknowledge that bird numbers on those properties are light.
I’ve hunted grouse only a few times. It’s enjoyable in the way running a marathon or kayaking a Class V boulder-strewn rapid is enjoyable: glad to have done it; pleased to have survived it.
My first grouse outing was more than two decades ago, somewhere southeast of Morehead. I’ve forgotten exactly where. I was hunting with a colleague, Jonah, a veteran of many grouse campaigns. He knew what to expect and seemed to exude a slightly evil pleasure in the knowledge that I didn’t.
The day was cool and overcast and just windy enough to give the winter air a bite. We climbed from the truck. A hillside towered before us, steep and unforgiving, with a mixture of young timber and scrub brush. My friend was explaining that we had “a little climb,” but once we reached the top, the terrain would be fairly level. I studied the landscape. Something seemed slightly manmade. We were in coal country, the land having once been whittled and scraped by house-sized machines.
We gathered coats, caps, gloves and guns. My friend unleashed King, his springer spaniel, who darted about as if suffering a series of violent spasms. The dog then bolted up the hillside as if rocketed from a slingshot. We followed, me resolutely, my friend as if he were enjoying a Sunday afternoon stroll through Cherokee or Iroquois Park.
After an embarrassing number of rest stops for me to catch my breath and allow my heart rate to return to double digits, we reached the top, which, thankfully, plateaued. We were standing atop a leftover of mountaintop removal, I decided. The forest was young regrowth. Fifteen years, maybe 20.
This was really prime grouse cover, my friend was explaining. The birds preferred regrowth forest cover. The dog reappeared. I then realized it had never been more than a few feet from its master. This was a fine bird dog. Trained. Focused. Waiting for a command. Anxious to complete its task. We began making our way through the winter woods, which were surprisingly open. There was little ground cover, and the walking was easy. The breeze had died, but the cold had become bone deep. A light sleet began to fall. We crossed a small gully and climbed across the corpse of a large oak that had probably been on the forest floor since Lyndon B. Johnson had lived in the White House in the 1960s. The sleet was now falling with a steady patter. Neither of us had brought rain gear.
The dog appeared to our left; inching forward, stopping, then stepping with pause and purpose. My friend motioned for me to stop. Then, with a wave of his hand, he motioned for me to move three steps to the right.
The whirl of a grouse’s wings when it flushes is always startling—a woodland explosion that cannot be imagined until it’s heard and can’t be forgotten once it has. As a defense mechanism, it is nearly 100 percent effective. Only the most steel-nerved hunter fails to rush his or her shot.
The bird was streak-like in its movements, tilting and whizzing through the timber, head high and rising.
I fired twice, emptying both barrels of my ancient and scarred side-by-side 20 gauge, a childhood relic. The second blast ended in a puff of feathers that cartwheeled to the ground. King was again electric. He arrived at his master’s side, his mouth bulging with feathers. Jonah took the bird from the dog’s mouth and handed it to me.
“Nice shot.”
I’d fired from reflex. It seemed impossible that the shot had reached its mark.
I took the bird and then reached to pet the dog, who seemed to be trembling. I then realized it was me.
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Kentucky’s grouse season continues through Feb. 28. The daily limit is four birds. For more information, including a downloadable copy of the Department Fish and Wildlife Resources Kentucky Ruffed Grouse & Young Forest Strategic Plan 2017-2027, go to fw.ky.gov and click on “hunt,” “game species” and “grouse.”
Readers may contact Gary Garth at editor@kentuckymonthly.com