We used to rest on the west side of the Salmon River near Grangeville, Idaho, look across at the vertical slopes rising from the narrow fringe of sandy beach on the east side, and shudder at the prospect of hunting there. The slopes weren’t really vertical, except for some solid spans of dark, rocky cliff. But they were steep enough to give that impression. Someone always mentioned the chukar hunter who fell from the cliffs and passed on to the great cheatgrass mountain in the sky.
I don’t know how it affected the others, but I always watched my footing more closely when we started hunting again. I suspect that my partners, some of whom had been smokejumpers in their younger days, paid less attention to the topographical perils than I did. People who make their living jumping out of airplanes aren’t squeamish about heights.
We eventually began hunting the slopes across the river—the friendlier portions of them. If we picked our route carefully, we could wind in and out of the canyons and above or below the precipices. It was satisfying in a masochistic way. Chukars were there, and that’s the name of the game.
There are easier ways to hunt the red-legged birds. There’s the jet boat routine, where you cruise the river until you spot birds, then go after them. It works well early in the season when the weather is hot and the birds are concentrated near water. Late-season snowstorms sometimes push chukars to lower elevations, making them more accessible to hunters. But most of my hunting has involved climbing the high, brown hills.
I’ve hunted chukars alone, but I don’t like to. The country is steep and rugged. It’s nice to have a partner or two in case of an emergency. I’ve never had a problem more serious than a leg cramp or a fall into a clump of prickly pear, but I breathe easier knowing someone will look for me if I have an accident.
Speaking of falling, the question is not whether you will, but how many times. There are two schools of thought: You can use your gun to break your fall and save your body, or you can use your body to break your fall and save your gun. One of my hunting partners has a once-pretty 20 gauge over/under with more tape holding it together than a running back’s knees. The proponents of the second school have expensive taste in guns and a working man’s salary. They also have a high pain threshold and believe human flesh will heal faster than fancy French walnut. I wear a leather shooting glove on my left hand, the hand I use to break my fall.
When it comes to equipment, all things pale in importance before a good pair of boots. Vibram (lug) soles are essential, and boots should fit well and be broken in. Just to be safe, I always carry moleskin in my hunting vest and use it at the first sign of a blister.
It had been several years since my last chukar trip when I got a call from my Missoula-based hunting partner, Joe Elliott. “I hear Idaho has lots of chukars this year,” he said. “Why don’t you drive over from Helena and stay at my house Wednesday night. If we get an early start we’ll be hunting by noon the next day.”
“Sounds great,” I said. “Groucho has never pointed a chukar and I’m anxious to see what he can do.”
As promised, the next day found us at the river looking up at the steep hillside we planned to hunt. We turned out our young Brittanys, Groucho and Rana, and headed up the slope. The climb was slow, hard work. We gauged our progress by keeping an eye on a lone ponderosa pine far above us. Whenever we stopped to catch our breath we noted with satisfaction the tree was inching closer, while our truck parked at the river was getting smaller. Steelhead anglers in the river below began to look like the little plastic fishermen you see on birthday cakes.
We followed a rocky gully for a time, then split up to look for chukar sign. I’d been climbing for about an hour when Groucho caught a whiff of scent and pointed upslope. I heard a clatter of wings in the rocks above me, and three chukars sailed past at the edge of shotgun range. I swung on the closest one and pulled the trigger. The bird tumbled down the slope and out of sight.
This was Groucho’s first chukar and he had some things to learn about retrieving them. In steep terrain, downed chukars often roll and flutter a long way down the mountain. Good marking helps, but chukar dogs soon discover that birds often end up fifty yards or more below where they first hit the ground.
Groucho worked the scent downslope for ten or twenty yards, then returned to the place where the bird had fallen. His eyes had told him where the bird should be and he was having a hard time believing his nose. Finally I went down the hill with him until he sorted out the trail. At the end of it lay a dead chukar.
I love all the western game birds, but there is something special about chukars. The birds’ blood-red beak and red legs contrast sharply with their olive-gray back and breast. Black and chestnut vertical stripes on their sides give them the look of feathered zebras. A mature chukar tips the scales at a little over a pound—bigger than a Hungarian partridge but slightly smaller than a ruffed grouse.
Brought here from India, Pakistan, and Afghanistan in the 1930s, chukars prospered on the dry, rocky slopes above western rivers like the Salmon, Snake, Malheur, Owyhee, and Columbia. Their success is strongly linked to cheatgrass, an annual grass introduced to North America from the Mediterranean region. Because it sprouts in the fall and provides green shoots throughout much of the winter, cheatgrass provides a dependable food supply when other foods are scarce.
After resting a few minutes I put the bird in my vest and began picking my way through the sagebrush and slide rock. I could hear a dog bell upslope so I knew Joe and Rana were up there somewhere. While I studied the terrain above me, I heard Joe shoot; a few seconds later a dozen birds rocketed down the hill toward me. Chukars passing overhead don’t leave much time for analysis. I barely had time to mount the gun, catch up with a bird, and slap the trigger. I tagged one with the improved cylinder barrel of my over/under but the rest of the birds were gone before I could get off a second shot. The bird’s momentum carried it far down the mountain where it hit and somersaulted down the slope.
This time Groucho made the long trek downslope without a hitch. He had just delivered the bird to me when three more chukars lifted from a grassy knob above. These were farther out, speeding downhill and crossing. I missed with the first barrel but scored with the second. Groucho plunged back down the mountain to retrieve it.
I felt a little smug after connecting on three of my first four shots, but chukars have a way of evening the score. The trouble started when my feet slipped in the loose rocks as I moved in to flush a bird Groucho had pointed in a rockslide below me. I didn’t get off a shot. Then I missed a downhill screamer that flushed below me. A few minutes later I missed the safety catch on what would have been the easiest shot of the day. I got a fourth bird eventually, but not before I had blown several more chances.
Although nothing can prepare hunters for the kind of shots they may get while sweating their way across a chukar slope, a trip to a sporting clays course will help, especially if it has some changes in elevation. But sporting clays can’t simulate the bad footing, fatigue, and rubbery knees that afflict chukar hunters. Most shots are taken downslope, which requires getting the muzzle ahead of and below the target—it’s not a shot wingshooters have much chance to practice.
I’ve found I can sometimes tip the odds in my favor if I’m able to work my way below the birds before they flush. Air wafting upslope on a warm afternoon will carry chukar scent to a pointing dog and, if the cover is good, birds below him will hold well. When my dog points downhill, I try looping below him; if I succeed without disturbing the covey, I know they’ll have to come out over me or pass in front of me, because chukars rarely fly uphill. Both of these shots are easier than trying to hit a bird that’s screaming straight downhill.
Once I’ve moved a covey, I mark its line of flight. Chukars always fly downhill, but after the initial dive they often turn and follow the contour. I drop downslope a bit, then follow them as quickly as I can. If the covey scatters, and I can get there before they regroup, I often have excellent singles shooting. That’s when a dog is a tremendous asset, since the singles tend to sit tight.
Pointers get the nod over flushing breeds with most chukar hunters for the simple reason that it is difficult to move quickly on a chukar hill. Chukars like to run and don’t always hold for point, but some do. Pointed birds, obviously, give hunters more time to maneuver into position for a shot.
Any dog is useful when it comes to retrieving downed birds. The late Ted Trueblood, who knew chukar hunting as well as anyone, summed it up this way: “No matter how carefully you mark them down, no man can find a chukar that lands running in thick sagebrush or plunges down into a hole among the rocks, as they often will do.” My hunting partner once winged a chukar that we couldn’t find; after several minutes of looking, his Brittany pointed into a pile of rocks. We took the rock pile apart piece by piece and found the bird.
Chukar country is hard on dogs as well as hunters. I carry two quart bottles of water and sometimes it’s not enough. Dogs whose feet haven’t been toughened by plenty of fieldwork will develop sore pads. Dog boots have saved the day on more than one of my chukar hunting trips.
Theories on guns and loads for chukar hunting abound. I hunt with an over/under, but the two-shot limitation has cost me plenty of chukars. A sleeper boiling out after the covey rise is not unusual, and I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve been caught with an empty gun. I like improved cylinder and modified chokes with No. 6 shot. Although I hunt with a 12 gauge, there’s no question a lighter gauge will leave you fresher at the end of the day.
Speaking of the end of the day, my knees tell me when it’s time to start back down the mountain. By 2 p.m. on the day of my chukar hunt with Joe, my knees had long since quit whispering and had begun to shout. Far below at the river I could see Joe and Rana walking along the road toward the truck. We’d tried to keep in contact, but sometimes it’s hard to do in steep terrain. Later he explained that he’d hit a bird that locked its wings and sailed halfway to the river. He’d dropped down to look for it and didn’t have the energy to climb all the way back up again.
By the time I got to the road my feet felt like they’d been through a paper shredder. For hunters whose knees have suffered years of abuse, going downhill at the end of the day is harder than going up in the morning. At the truck, Joe and I compared notes. He had fanned on a couple of covey rises, slipped and fell several times, and managed to scratch down only one chukar.
“I should have had at least four,” he said.
“Don’t feel bad,” I replied. “I should have had my limit with all the chances I had.”
Sitting by the river cleaning our birds we could hear the taunting chuk-chuk-chuk-chuk calls of birds high on the mountain. I’m not sure of the exact translation, but it didn’t sound polite. On the plus side, we’d gotten off the hill in one piece, with only our egos bruised. There is a saying among hunters addicted to pursuing chukars: You hunt them the first time for sport, but after that it’s for revenge.