11/10/2025
We ease our way up a small ridge line in a tried-and-true cut one of those spots that has quietly produced birds year after year in the Pennsylvania Wilds. The air is damp, the leaves are slick, and the cover is just nasty enough to give a grouse the upper hand. It’s the kind of place where you don’t talk much; you just listen and trust the dogs.
Fi, my veteran grouse dog, hits the edge of the ridge drop and slams into a point carved out of stone, right on the lip where the ground falls away. Jack, the young Britt, honors from behind, frozen and staring holes through her. I walk up expecting the bird to be buried in the deadfall below, already rehearsing where I’m going to send the shooters.
As I slip past Jack, I see Fi do something subtle only a dog you really know will show you she turns her head just slightly to the right, away from the tangles I’d been focused on. No bird flushes. I trust her and step in, but the woods stay quiet. I give a soft release command, and the dogs melt off the point, easing forward with noses down, tracking instead of charging, every step careful, measured.
They slip past the first deadfall, nothing. They circle the second, still no point. Then they feather their way toward the third tangle in the back corner of the cut, where the deadfall meets a line of young pines. That’s where everything tightens. Fi drops into a crouched, flat-backed position, tail rigid, head low and locked in. Jack snaps to a stop behind her, perfectly backing, and suddenly the whole picture just screams “bird.”
I bring the hunters up, three generations walking in on the dogs about forty yards out, threading them between the pine edge and the deadfall. There’s a half-second of silence, and then the woods erupt.
An explosion of wings bursts out of the deadfall, the grouse clawing for altitude up through the twelve-year-old clearcut regen. The bird tops out over the young treetops and starts to roll left just enough of an opening. The firing pin drops, the shot pattern blooms, and the king of the woods folds and disappears back into the cover.
The celebration is instant shouts, laughter, a little disbelief that it all came together just like that on their first grouse hunt. Fi, steady as ever, tracks in and carefully gathers the bird. She walks back slow, head high, and places the grouse in my hand with that soft, practiced grace that only a seasoned bird dog has. Three generations of hunters, one veteran GSP, a young Britt backing like dhe’s been doing it for years, and a mature ruffed grouse in the bag.
Days like this are why we guide. Wild birds, wild cover, and families building new traditions in the PA Wilds.
Grouse Brook Kennel Guide Service is where good dogs, good covers, and good people come together over the king.