Montana Dog Report: The Kids Are Alright

Our most recent trip to Montana stands out for a lot of reasons, but chief among them is the good dog work we had among our motley crew of 2 pointers, 3 setters, 2 shorthairs and a visla. All did respectably well, and most did remarkably so.

We won't soon forget Sage's nice 250-yard casts and authoritative points -- all from a middle-aged setter that ought to be a lot more hampered by a chronic ankle inflammation than he is. Vegas -- my seven-year-old shorthair that I'd about given up on -- decided to do her best all-age impression and point a covey of Huns at 200 yards, remaining rock-solid when they flushed just out of gun range.

But as far as I'm concerned, the trip belonged to the youngsters. Our first day in Montana, I picked up LuLu, my 18-month old Phantom Kennels pointer. You may remember that I dropped her off with trainer Nolan Huffman back in early June. Since that time, she was under Nolan's expert tutelage all summer and early fall at his Lewistown kennel.

For her first hunt, we ran her on some native prairie bordered by wheat stubble that had produced for us in previous years. While she didn't make game, she handled beautifully and ran with style and aggressiveness.

Apparently too aggressively. That evening, as we were putting dogs on the chain gang, LuLu came out of the trailer unable to put any weight on her rear left leg. Shit. We brought her into the cabin and discovered a 3/4 inch-long (and nearly as deep) gash in the fleshy part of her leg near her achilles tendon, most likely from a barbed wire fence. It was a scant quarter inch from possibly severing the tendon -- easily ending her hunting season and perhaps her career. As it was, she was done for at least a day or so of recuperation.

The other youngster on our journey was Finn, Wes' nine-month-old Berg Brothers setter. I raved about this rascal months ago, and after hunting with him in Montana, I have no reason to change my opinion. He runs confidently, points with a high tail, and seems to enjoy every aspect of the game. There were a couple bird bumps and a heavy-jawed chomp or two, but that's not meant as a criticism. I had to continually remind myself that this dog was seeing his first birds and indeed the first autumn of his life. He's going to be a winner.

When it finally came time to put LuLu on the ground again, she was ready, and so was I. We had decided to hunt abandoned homestead (or "hunstead" as Ben O. Williams and fanboy Jon calls them) surrounded by grass and wheat. Tasty stuff.

With little wind and nearly 65 degrees, conditions weren't ideal. LuLu charged onward anyhow, happy to be on the ground again. I admired her muscular frame and cracking tail gliding effortlessly through the golden grass ahead of me.

Then all hell broke loose. Before she could wheel to a stop, a partridge took flight a few feet from her. And another. And then a dozen. All told, some 75 Hungarian partridge, sounding like a massive creaking, squeaking jet engine erupted from the farmstead. I simply stood there, in stunned disbelief.

Thankfully, I had enough wits about me to track their flight, and five separate coveys put down within a few hundred yards of where we were standing.

We spent the rest of the afternoon chasing those birds, getting points on all five coveys -- many from LuLu -- as well as a nice retrieve or two from her. I think she's going to be a special dog.

Montana Recap

Greetings loyal readers... and my apologies for not being so loyal to the blog. It's not that I haven't wanted to write or that I don't have anything to write, I just haven't found the time to write it.

Thankfully, much of that busyness is hunting induced. Barely the middle of October, and I've managed to witness my dogs point prairie chickens, pheasants, bobwhites, woodcock, ruffed grouse (as much as any dog can get a point on those bastards), Hungarian partridge, sharptail grouse, and an errant sage grouse in three states. Combine my hunting pursuits with being a (more-or-less) productive father, husband, and societal contributor -- well, something had had to give.

Apologies aside, I'm back from our annual Montana trek, and it was one for the ages. Advance bird reports were tepid at best, so we really didn't know what to expect. Boy, were we pleasantly surprised. The weather, the dogs, and the birds all conspired to give us ten full days of exceptional hunting. In fact, I can't think of a single field we walked that we didn't move gamebirds.

So why'd we fare so well? A few thoughts.

• The weather was perfect. Most of the state was suffering under dry, 80-degree weather and as soon as we crossed the Montana border, it rained more than an inch in 24 hours. The rain left after that and we were treated to lows in the 30s and highs in the low 60s for the rest of the trip. Scenting conditions soared and we could afford to run our dogs the full day.

• Our timing was perfect. Guides, trainers, and biologists we talked to reported seeing fewer than normal birds in September. That's partially because of the heat and lack of rain, but it's also because the area we hunted had a late hatch (thanks to a very wet and cool spring). Conventional wisdom holds that young birds don't give off much scent. By the second week in October, the birds had a chance to grow -- even though we took a lot of young birds with immature plumage.

• We know the area. It's the fourth year now that we've spent at least part of our trip in this part of the state. And not unlike home, the more you hunt it, the better you know it. We've got a nice list of honey holes, and we're more adept at quickly identifying what sort of terrain attracts those prairie birds, which means it's easier for us to find new hotspots. And there's so damned much public land that you don't want to get into the habit of doing more driving than hunting. Montana is a BIG state.

Of course, the birds were only a small part of the fun. The scenery was simply stunning -- God used the whole color palette when he made Montana.  We marveled at the precociousness of some new pups and the determination of our senior dogs. We met some new friends and caught up with old friends. And like any hunting trip, we ate well, drank well, and slept well.

I'll have a more thorough report in the coming days... just as soon as I catch up at home and at work!

Hi From the Backseat.

I'm two hours into a 20 hour trip to Montana. I'm not a night person, so Jon and Wes are manning things til 4am or so, and then I'm pilot.

So much to look forward to... Friends, scenery, and old haunts. But I'm most jazzed about seeing LuLu in action. Nolan says she's ready to go, and I believe him 100 percent. But I'm still nervous. Sort of like seeing your kid for the first Christmas after a semester at college, I suppose.

Here goes. G'nite.

Oh, and I'm writing this on an iPad. Thanks, Mr. Jobs. 'Cept I can't figure out how to add a photo.

Road Photo Friday: Video Edition

What happens after a week of chasing Montana huns and you find yourself back at the motel, tired and slap happy? 

You try to chug a 24-ounce Budweiser, of course.

Adieu, LuLu.

Today is the day that every parent works toward, yet somewhat dreads.  Their kid is going to college.

It's still a ways away for my God-given progeny, but my other pride and joy -- my 16-month-old pointer LuLu -- is headed to charm school today.  She's been a terrific young dog and a pleasure to train with a ton of natural ability.  But I'm smart enough to realize that I don't have the time, knowledge, patience, or wild birds to help her reach her full potential.

Enter Nolan Huffman.  I was introduced to Nolan and his wife Danelle last fall while chasing birds last October up near Lewistown, Montana.  But his reputation preceded him.  A season before, I had the treat of hunting in Aspermont, Texas on Rick Snipes' ranch, and he proudly told me his string of pointers had been trained by Nolan.  So it all kind of came together for me.

Jack and I are driving to Waverly, Nebraska this afternoon to meet Nolan at the NSTRA Performance Classic Trial and drop off LuLu.  Nolan is no slouch in the NSTRA, winning this year's South Carolina Regional and the 2010 Grand National Invitational last year.

From there, he'll head up to his training grounds around Lewistown, and he'll have LuLu until we come up to hunt in October.  I am expecting great things in the next four months (no pressure, Nolan).

It's a sad time (not so much for the kids, who are the primary turd shovelers), but also an expectant time.  Wish us all luck!

When The Going Gets Hot, The Hot Go Redneck

It wasn't all birdhunting on my recent trip to Montana. For more than a couple days, our efforts were stymied by mid-80 degree heat. I'd like to say we stopped for the dogs' safety, but truth told, those temps are damned hot for the hunters, too.

To pass the time, we spent a couple of lazy afternoons target shooting. We had my AR-15, a Savage .223 bolt-action, a Ruger Blackhawk chambered in .357, and a Charter Arms .38 snub nose.

Good fun was had by all, although I wouldn't rate any of us as ready for sniper school. We found a few prairie dog towns, but after the first shot or two, they wizened up and the closest shot we had was at least 300 yards away. That's a wee bit far for wingshots like us.

No matter -- we shot a couple hundred rounds' worth and had a ton of fun doing it.

Tip From The Road: in a pinch, empty .223 brass makes a great makeshift trailer door peg when you accidentally drive off without securing a padlock.

Road Photo Friday: A River. In A Bar.

Hunting traditions are funny things. For three years now, Jon and I have visited the Montana Tavern in Lewistown. It's a friendly dive, just the way we like it.

It's old school, with pool tables, a long bar, and precious little in the way of foo-foo drinks.

Every year, despite my better judgment, I order a shot of Yukon Jack here, and every year I swear it's going to be the last time I subject myself to that rotgut.

The jukebox is decidedly 21st century, wirelessly piping in damn near any tune you can think of. When the jukebox is silent, you're entertained by the din of a surprisingly active police scanner behind the bar -- a nice touch.

I'm not sure if we fell into the actually, apparently, obviously (or ridiculously) camp.

But the wackiest thing about the Montana Tavern is a feature that we somehow missed for the two previous years. A river runs through the damn place.

It's sort of hidden in the corner, but there it is, sure as shit. Enclosed in pine, plexiglas and rebar, you can look down through a cutout hole in the floor and see an honest-to-God artesian spring creek flowing underneath the bar.

Lewistown was built over this spring creek, and it has flowed through the bar for as long as it's existed. Local lore has it that the original owner fished while he worked, and reliable sources confirm that there is indeed a decent-sized brownie that frequents the watering hole (so to speak). It's also said that bartenders used to keep the kegs chilled in the cold spring-fed water. The rebar gate was added when locals would float the creek after the bar had closed and help themselves to purloined refreshments.

It's hard to argue with this claim.

Above the river shrine rests these treasures. A portrait of a bare-breasted indian woman and an apparent knockoff of same to the left, a couple fish mounts, and a really odd-looking beaded, feathered antelope horn mount.

If you're ever in the neighborhood, it's a must see. Heck, you might just start a tradition of your own. Just stay the hell away from the Yukon Jack, hoser.

Montana 2010: LuLu's First Point

This video requires a bit of setup.  LuLu, my 8 1/2 month-old pointer pup had only brief wild bird contact prior to our trip to Montana.  Over the course of our two weeks in Big Sky Country, she started figuring it out.  She pointed several times, including one where the hun covey flushed wild, and another where she mistakenly crowded a flock of sharptail into flushing.

This time though, she put it all together.  We had just put her down and were gearing up two other dogs to run a nice-looking strip of sage along a wheat field.  Before I finished collaring Dottie, my Astro indicated that LuLu was on point.  Sure enough, 50 yards behind us, just above the bar ditch, she was rock solid, pointing into the field on the other side of the road we had planned on hunting.

The video picks up after we crossed that fence (Dottie is the first dog you see in the video).  LuLu is the second, to my left.  Please forgive the overenthusiastic whoops and hollers -- but I can assure you that they were borne of true excitement, not outdoor-TV-manufactured idiocy.  (Honest idiocy, if you will.)



Forget the double-double.  That little pup slamming on point is something I won't soon forget -- having it on video was icing on the cake.

Montana 2010: Final Wrapup

Yes, I am alive.

I've received several notes wondering what the hell has happened to me over the past three weeks.  Unfortunately, my blogging about hunting and life in general has taken a backseat to, well, hunting and life in general.

After a week or so unpacking, refamiliarizing myself with family and office, and repacking, the kids and I are now in grouse camp in northern Minnesota, and I'm writing this post, fittingly, around a roaring campfire.

More on that later -- but first I've got to recap the Montana Odyssey.  Here goes.

The chukar hunt that started things was something of a harbinger for the entire trip.  We had a ton of fun, had (mostly) great dog work, met some kindred spirits, ate, drank, and generally lived it up.  I'm never one to measure the success of a hunting trip by body count, but this year was our most successful in terms of birds pointed and birds taken home.

We learned a lot about huns, and we're starting to think we might have them figured out.  Here's the secret. 

They're mostly found in sagebrush.

Or grass.

Or coulees.

Or wheat stubble.

Or near rattlesnakes.

But the nice thing is that when you finally do locate a covey, they always hold for the hunters to arrive, and they always fly together.  Unless they don't, which is typically the case.  But when they do, when it makes it all worthwhile.

The only complaint was that it was hot -- really hot.  Halfway through the trip, I called my family who was in Dallas with relatives.  She was lamenting how cool it was there -- a balmy 72 degrees.  In Lewistown that day, it broke 90.  Al Gore was right, apparently.

It wasn't all us, though.  We hunted a couple days with a local -- one of the finest, most knowledgeable bird hunters to walk the high plains.  And I'd tell that straight to Ben O. Williams, and I'll bet you he'd agree, too.  But no, I'm not gonna tell you who he is.

But the real talisman?

The moustache.  Behold the power.

Montana 2010: Never A Dull Moment

Montana 2010: Five Up, Three Down

Montana 2010: The First Day, Hail Mary Edition

I'm much too tired to write this cleverly, but here's the deal.  Jon, Wes, and I (along with six dogs) left Kansas at 5:30pm on Friday evening.  We drove straight through, all night long, to Carbon County, Montana.  We arrived at 10:30am Saturday morning and put down Doc, Dottie, and Sage.

For those in the know, Carbon County is one of the few counties in Montana that hold a population of chukar partridge.  It was a longshot, to say the least -- we called it our "Hail Mary" attempt at punching our Montana card for a new species of bird.  In fact, none of us had ever shot a wild chuck anywhere.  Hell, when Jon called the Montana FWP, they advised him not to waste his time searching for these crafty birds.

That, of course, was taken as a challenge.

So imagine three corn-fed flatlanders, hitting the biggest, ugliest hills we could find.  And we tackled them.  As best as three dog-tired dudes could do, somehow feeding on the deprivation of sleep, energy, and a couple thousand feet in altitude.  Nothing though.  As the sun reached it apex, we headed down a drainage and back to the truck, birdless.

And then, as any bird hunter knows, luck changes on a dime.

Dogs got birdy.  Locked up.  Relocated.  Locked up again.  Solid this time.  Wes went in to flush Doc's find, and all hell erupted.  Ten birds, probably.  Three died.  A fourth fell when Dottie pointed a single, her tenth upland bird species of her ten year career.

Hard to beat today.  But we're gonna do our best to try for the next 14 days.



Road Photo Friday: Do Not Move

This photo was taken last fall in Stanford, Montana... and there quite possibly is only one other person in the world who will find it as funny as I do.  I snapped the shot after a long day of hunting huns with Jon, my buddy from Four Seasons of Bird Hunting.  It had been a long day -- and a long week, in all honesty -- and that strange box with the foreboding DO NOT MOVE label struck us as hilarious.  Why was it there?  What was in it?  And why was its owner so dead-set against its transport?

As any hunter will attest, it's these stupid little things that tend to spawn stupid big conversations when you've spent lengths of time on the road. We'd toss back some beers that evening, sneak to the house under the cover of darkness, and move the box six inches... across the yard... on the roof?  Or we'd stuff it full of raccoons.  Of course, none of that ever happened.  But it sure was funny at the time.

Looking at it now still cracks me up... to say nothing of the two satellite dishes bolted on a purple single-wide with a "Seasons Greetings" sign proudly hanging up in early October.  Something tells me they weren't trying to get a jump on Christmas 2009.

The Transcendental Coulee

Jon and I surveyed the massive coulee outside the driver's side window, and came to a stop.  Without even discussing it out loud, we both understood that we'd have to hunt it.  That's how it goes sometimes.  After hunting with someone enough, you tend to anticipate your buddy's thoughts and ideas long before either of you ever need to say a word.  Perhaps it's a latent trait that still manifests itself after thousands of years of man combining his strengths for a successful hunt.

At any rate, it was the first hunt after saying goodbye to JD, his father, and his seriously injured lab, Ruby.  Earlier that morning, we had bid farewell to Allan, an outdoor writer friend whom I had invited up from Helena who had the misfortune of choosing to join us for the worst 24 hours any hunter could imagine.

Now, it was just me and Jon and our seven dogs... and one gargantuan coulee.  I don't recall if it was a conscious decision or fate of the rotation, but we put down our two veteran dogs -- Jon's Sage, a beautiful five-year-old English Setter, and Dottie, my nine-year-old pointer.

We each set out with our dog -- I took the right side of the coulee, Jon the left.  In retrospect, we could have easily hunted each high-low side up and back, but for some reason, we didn't.  No matter.  Over the first several hundred yards, I could feel the stress and anxiety of the last 24 hours start to leave me.  Prior to that time, there was a part of me that simply wanted to pack up and head home to the safety and comfort of my family.  I'm glad I fought that urge.

All of these thoughts were swimming in my head when Dottie began getting birdy, and finally came to a stop at the edge of a drainage, just below the rim of a cut wheat field.  I picked up my pace, and made the wise decision to circle around the brushy draw to afford myself a shot.  I was almost there when the covey of huns exploded.  Most flew straight down the drainage, protected by brush and into the safety of the main coulee.  But one trailer bird gave me a dream shot, and I didn't squander it.

And then I noticed it.  The colors had become brighter, more vivid.  All of my senses were heightened and alive.  I saw Dottie, and noticed she was sharing the same elation that I was feeling.  I picked up the beautiful bird, felt its warm, limp heft in my hand, and realized that I was experiencing something profound.

Sometimes, we need to experience death or near-death to appreciate and understand how blessed and sacred life is.  And I'm convinced that my experience on that coulee was God's undeniable way of letting me know that he was with me.  All I had to do was look around -- in literally any direction -- and there was irrefutable proof that his hand was in everything.  And I knew I was right where I needed to be.

Dottie and I continued our walk, and I let the Montana wind dry the tears on my smiling face.  The feeling of rapture faded, just as it had come on.  We didn't find any more birds in that coulee, but that was beside the point.  I had faced serious injury or death the day before.  I had taken a life moments before in the form of that lone hun.  And I emerged -- feeling thankful, relieved, humble -- and very much alive.

I had been to hell and back in Montana.  But for a few brief minutes, I found heaven.

FOUND!!!

I received an email late this morning from J.D., owner of Folsom, that his pup had been found -- alive and reasonably well.  Nine days have passed since that terrible accident.  The little guy was hungry, thirsty, and had an issue with one of his paws, but is apparently in good shape.  He was found on the same farm where we lost track of him -- the poor bugger must've been too scared to come out.  I can't say I blame him.  At any rate, we're all breathing a little easier.  Sometimes, there are happy endings.  Thanks for all your prayers and well wishes.  ((photo credit: Four Seasons of Bird Hunting))

To Hell and Back on the High Plains, Part Two

In my previous post, I alluded to another disaster that befell us on our trip, but this one was more insidious, and requires a bit of background. But it's a cautionary tale that every hunting dog owner should heed. This is a long post, but I encourage every sporting dog owner to read it to the end.

Jon and I picked up three "mercenary dogs" in northeast Colorado from Scott, a hunting buddy and pheasant guide. We had hunted with two of them before -- an aptly-named shorthair named Rebel and a loveable Vizsla named Scar (named for a "war wound" he got on his noggin at birth).

The third dog was a year-and-a-half-old male pointer named Tick. He was a stylish and alert dog, and Scott had worked with him to hold steady to wing and shot. It would be fun to run him, I thought -- he reminded me of Stony, a tough but sweet pointer who died when he was about 10 years old of mysterious causes.

Another reason Tick reminded me of Stony was his frame. Both dogs were lean -- very lean. To those unfamiliar with hunting dogs in general and English pointers in particular, they generally have very little, if any, body fat. Typically, they're run daily, and take on the look of serious marathoners. So we loaded up the pooches and set off for Big Sky Country.

To Montana and Back, With a Stop or Two in Hell

We pulled out of Stanford, Montana and pointed our rigs east onto Highway 87, after having consumed some axis venison chili and sandwiches in the sun-washed parking lot of the Sundown Motel.  My buddy Jon was behind the wheel, and I took the back seat behind him, allowing an outdoor writer buddy of mine who came up from Helena to ride shotgun.  We were pulling a trailer of seven dogs, a rogue's gallery of pointers, setters, shorthairs, and a vizsla.  Behind us were JD and his dad, in a Toyota Tacoma with a topper holding two crates that contained Ruby, a loveable yellow lab, and Folsom, an enthusiastic six-month-old setter.

Our caravan was heading to the first field of the afternoon, and our planned turnoff was less than a mile or so out of town, so I don't think we ever even reached the 70-mile-an-hour posted speed limit.  As we were looking for our turn, we probably slowed down to somewhere around 40 mph.

Out of the blue, we saw JD's silver truck streak by us on the right hand shoulder -- although at the time, it didn't register to me that it was their vehicle, because it was completely demolished on the back end.  And the crates weren't holding any dogs.

We quickly slowed to a stop just ahead of them, and got out of our vehicle to render aid.  JD and his dad were out of the truck (thank God) and appeared dazed, but otherwise fine.  Further back, an 18-wheeler was coming to a rest, and two very disoriented but alive dogs (again, thank God) were stammering along the highway.

Knowing that JD and his dad would be busy with the accident scene, Jon ran to Ruby, who was rapidly becoming woozy and bloodied.  I took off after Folsom, who by this time was making a beeline towards a farmstead a half mile away -- scared and confused, but with no outward signs of injury.

I made it to the farm within a minute of losing Folsom behind a corral fence, and Jon quickly joined the search in his vehicle.  Beyond the farmstead, there was nothing but open land, and we were both reasonably sure that we made it to the farm before he had a chance to move beyond it.

But that might have worked against us.  Animals often run for a short distance and hole up in the nearest safe spot -- and like any farmstead, this one was packed with outbuildings, farm implements, vehicles, and a hundred round haybales that each contained a cubbyhole just large enough for a frightened setter pup to hide between.

No one was home at the farm, but I decided trespassing in this case was acceptable, or at least explainable.  We searched the property thouroughly, to no avail.  We expanded our search to the surrounding ranch roads -- still nothing.  We stopped into gas stations, motels, and any other place nearby, and while the locals were exceedingly pleasant and helpful, no one found Folsom.  We spent the next day and a half in vain looking for Folsom.

Folsom is still missing, and I can only presume that he did indeed hunker down somewhere, and internal injuries got the best of him.

Ruby, after trips to two different country vets, is now at home recovering after surgery to repair her pelvis -- broken in two places -- along with assorted scrapes and puncture wounds.

The truck driver was issued a ticket.  There were no skid marks, and as you can see from the photo, there were no hills or other obstructions to block his view -- he simply wasn't paying attention to what was on the road ahead of him.  (The accident took place at approximately the same place where the tanker truck is.)

As terrible as this all was, I'm realizing how lucky we all were.  JD and his father were sore, but safe.  JD had the forethought to swerve onto the right shoulder and missed our vehicle.  Had he not, I have no doubt he would have sheared off the top of our dog trailer, rolled his own vehicle, and probably ours as well.  The semi hit with such force that it was rendered inoperable, and the front seats in JD's truck were torqued out of alignment.

It's taking some time to make sense of all of this, and thankfully, it didn't ruin our trip -- but it sure put a damper on it.  Right now, I'm shelving my guns and gear until I get everything straight in my head -- hopefully that'll come before the Kansas pheasant opener.

More on this very eventful trip later.

Hungry For Huns

The Zip-Loc block of ice labeled "4 HUNS 09/08" that was laying in the sink had finally melted, revealing four skinned, whole birds, slightly larger than bobwhite quail.
In nearly two weeks of traipsing through the entire eastern half of Montana, this was the extent of our Hungarian partridge bounty. Jon and I went to Montana last fall, looking for new experiences and challenges. And Big Sky Country delivered on all fronts. We shot as many sharptails as we cared to, and found the sage grouse hunting to be embarrassingly easy (beginners luck?). But for the most part, the Hungarian partridge eluded us. So this quartet of birds was literally worth its weight in gold, thanks to more than 2,000 miles driven in a 13-miles-to-the-gallon pickup and four-dollar gas. Mrs. Scampwalker hadn't yet blessed a return trip this fall, so there was no telling how long it'd be before I got the chance to hunt them (or eat them) again. This meal would be a special one.
The preparation, however, was a simple and classic one: wrapped in bacon, with pickled jalapeno rounds stuffed into the breast. They were sprinkled lightly with salt, pepper, garlic powder, and hot Hungarian paprika (a fitting touch, I thought), sourced from my parents, who had recently completed a tour through eastern Europe. The key is to grill the birds over hot, but indirect, heat. Doneness is as much calculated luck as skill. When pinched, the breasts should feel firm, while still yielding slightly. (Did I just write that?)
As an accompaniment, we prepared farfalle with homemade basil pesto, wilted leaf lettuce salad with bacon and hard-boiled farm-fresh egg, and a fresh-baked French baguette. This was truly a meal of God's bounty -- grown and harvested naturally, prepared and eaten with respect.
And eaten it was. My son quickly abandoned the knife and fork and tore into the bird with his teeth. My daughter commented that the bird tasted like the soil and grass where it lived. To non-hunters, that seems absurd, but those who kill and eat their quarry will no doubt understand.
It was truly one of the most enjoyable and exquisite gamebirds I've ever eaten, and I quietly savored every atom of sweat, ache, effort, and pride that went into hunting this lone Hun. I was satisfied. I wanted more. My wife did too. And now, I'm planning a return trip to Montana this fall.

The Last Best Place Proves Why It Is

I know full well that I may get flamed on this post -- and maybe by both sides -- but here goes.

A very interesting battle is shaping up in the great state of Montana, and I'm surprised (but shouldn't be) that the drive-by media hasn't weighed in on it more.

You can read the full AP story here, but I'll try to condense it as I see it. Like many independent-minded, self-reliant folks, Montanans were upset with the federal government's increased meddling in virtually every aspect of their lives (tea parties, anyone?). So the Montana legislature passed (and the governor signed) a bill that exempts from federal law any gun or ammunition manufactured in the Big Sky State, as long as it's only sold and used within its sovereign borders. No registrations, no wait periods, and no background checks. Texas and Alaska are considering similar legislation.

I doubt that Smith and Wesson is talking to relocation experts just yet. But as a man who appreciates fine firearms, the thought of a law that encourages the guild gun trade in the U.S. is exciting to me. Hell, since I'm an out-of-stater, I'd even subject myself to Uncle Sam's rules to get a custom-made, limited run bird gun that's built just for me. Yet another reason to go to Montana again this fall, right?

I suppose it's a gun control issue, but like many, I agree that it's more about the Tenth Amendment than it is the Second Amendment. I give Montana a lot of credit for forcing the issue and standing up to Washington. But in all honesty, I think the bill's supporters have an uphill battle, since it would be a tall order to ensure a gun bought for in-state use didn't leave Montana. Predictably, the antis are screeching a similar tune, but for all the wrong reasons.

"Guns cross state lines and they do so constantly," says Peter Hamm, a mouthpiece for the anti-gun Brady Campaign. "This is a Sagebrush Rebellion-type effort to light some sort of fire and get something going that's pleasing to the gun nuts and that has very little actual sense."

No, Mr. Hamm, you're wrong. Thinking that a thug from South Central LA will travel to Kalispell to pay $7,000 for a custom Mauser makes ZERO sense. Let's enforce laws that are already on the books that are meant to punish the bad guys who use guns to commit crimes. Once we figure that out, then we'll argue about harassing the good folks in Montana.

You heard it here first, folks.