Into the Blue(s)

Into thin air in pursuit of blue grouse

People collect some interesting things. From bottle caps to beer cans, baseball cards to Beanie Babies, the objects of obsession are as varied as the individuals who covet them. Just spend a few hours lurking on eBay or perusing the auction catalogs or flea market aisles, and you'll spy the-oftentimes odd-items that inspire.

Which is why I wasn't embarrassed to admit that I'd become a collector. No, not of cars or Cabbage Patch Kids or even guns (I wish), but of gamebirds. Grouse specifically. I say "admit," because it was more a realization than something arrived at by design. I had just unpacked the mount of the sage grouse I'd taken in Wyoming the previous fall and set the strutting bird on a tabletop to admire. The taxidermist had done a wonderful job, as I almost could hear the old boy booming. Then I began scanning some of the other mounts in my office-the walking sharp-tailed grouse, the soaring prairie chicken, the flushing ruffed grouse-and it hit me: Hey, I wonder how many grouse species there are, anyway?

A quick flip through Tom Huggler's Grouse of North America showed seven on this continent-10, if you count both lesser and greater prairie chickens and the three "races" of ptarmigan, but what collector would do that? I was more than halfway there!

A blue grouse, a spruce grouse and a ptarmigan were the three that had eluded me. Hardly the most challenging birds from what I'd read. But with spruce grouse illegal to hunt in my home state of Maine and the other two living many miles away, it was going to be a challenge to get them.

Then I recalled a conversation with Gary Hubbell, a writer and photographer who doubles as the principal owner of Outwest Guides in Marble, Colorado. Gary had told me about the quality blue grouse hunting he offers, and a quick trip to his Website (www.outwestguides.com) confirmed that this was the kind of challenge I was looking for: horseback hunting in some of the state's most beautiful high country. It would be an adventure in the spirit of TR and his collecting treks for the Smithsonian and the American Museum of Natural History . . . on a much smaller scale of course. I was hooked.


It was the third week of September as I maneuvered the rental car south along Route 133 where it hugs Colorado's Crystal River. The day before I had flown into Grand Junction, and now I was about two hours into a very scenic drive. Gary's directions had referenced the towns of Carbondale and Redstone and the base of McClure Pass, and when I turned off of the highway and saw "the most beautiful meadow in the world with horses in the corrals," I knew I was on the right track. Another 21/2 miles up the hill, I arrived at the Marble Outpost, a modern log lodge set in a regal stand of ponderosa pines and aspens.

In the driveway were Gary and his wife, Doris, along with my hunting partners for the trip: dog trainer John Luttrell and his assistant Brad Vail. John is the co-owner of Oak Tree Kennels, in Clark, South Dakota, and he and Brad had driven down not only for the hunting but also to deliver a pair of Gary's pointers they'd been training as well as an eight-week-old Lab pup bought by the Hubbell's young sons, Reed and Jake. (The boys had saved for two years for the dog, and John proudly held up a zip-lock bag full of small bills and change. "I'm not sure whether to stop at a casino or a strip joint on the way home.")

That evening over dinner Gary explained a bit about where we'd be hunting and what we could expect. Outwest Guides' territory is basically the entire Crystal River drainage surrounding the town of Marble-named for the stone that is mined there, including the slabs that were used for the Lincoln Memorial and the Tomb of the Unknowns. The area is comprised of several hundred square miles of the Maroon Bells-Snowmass and Raggeds wilderness areas along with the White River National Forest. The Marble Outpost sits at 7,900 feet elevation, but we would be hunting the subalpine zone-from 9,000 to 11,000 feet-and occasionally the alpine zone above timberline, or 11,500 feet. Vegetation would be mostly aspen groves and stands of dark timber (Engelmann spruce and subalpine fir) interspersed with grassy meadows, or parks. The scenery would be spectacular.

Temperatures likely would be cool to cold in the mornings and warming as the days progressed, so we would want to dress in layers. We also would want to be sure to pack raingear, as mountain weather is changeable and severe and there almost always is an afternoon rain -or snow-shower.

The mode of transport, as advertised, would be mostly horseback-and shank's mare when we arrived at "birdy" areas. Such areas would be determined by the dogs as well as by Gary, who'd rely on pre-season scouting and years of experience.

In terms of bird numbers, a good day would mean getting into several nice coveys-perhaps seeing as many as 30 blues and taking a limit of three. Just as easily it could mean arriving home scratching our heads and wondering where all of the grouse had gone.

Gary made it clear that he takes special care to husband his coveys by not overshooting individual groups. He may hunt a particular covey once a year and take only one or two birds from it. By conserving the resource, he does his part to ensure that there will be birds in subsequent seasons.

The following morning it was time to "cowboy up," so we drove to the corrals for saddle and stirrup adjustments and some rudimentary lessons in horsemanship. Gary takes pride in his horses, and it was obvious in the way the animals looked and responded. Dan Brumbaugh was our wrangler that day, and he helped Gary load our mounts on the trailers. Then it was a short drive to the trailhead, where the horses were off-loaded and we climbed aboard.

It's hard to explain the exhilaration of riding into the high country. The promise of things to come as the horses pick their way ever-upward into a brilliant azure sky. With purposeful enthusiasm, pointers Dottie and Timber coursed across the sidehills as Bosco the black Lab charged to and fro in a more conservative search. John was concerned about the pointers transitioning from the South Dakota flatlands to the higher elevations, and he kept them checking in periodically.

We'd ridden about two miles when Gary called a halt beneath a piney knob where he'd found birds in the past. The horses were tied to short pines and the guns removed from the scabbards. Then the climbing began.

You don't get a true appreciation for the work the horses are doing until you set out to cover ground on your own. At best it was 50 yards and stop, labored breathing for a minute, then another 50 yards. Thankfully, I had opted to bring my wife's Marrochi, a 12-bore over/ under that weighs just 61/4 pounds. It almost felt like cheating, carrying such a lightweight wand. Almost.

Gary, who kindly had slowed to my pace, walked beside me, his breathing barely labored. He explained a bit about where he typically finds grouse: "Early in the year I find coveys of hens and birds of the year in more open parks on south-facing slopes, while the big roosters often hang out solo or in groups of twos or threes in or near dark timber. The most productive areas have openings, pines for roosting, water and, in the early season, plenty of berries [snowberries, serviceberries, mountain ash, currants and thimbleberries], forbs and herbs." Blue grouse are reverse migrators, and later in the year they actually move up the mountains and feed almost exclusively on pine needles. Needless to say, early season birds are better on the table.

We had just entered a stand of cool dark timber when shots were fired below. Feathers could be seen drifting through a shaft of light. We climbed down to find Brad holding a blue grouse that Bosco had delivered to hand. The bird was one of four that had been walking in front of Brad and that, once flushed, had made the mistake of peeling back overhead.

It was a handsome bird. Slate-blue on the head, tops of the wings and back, with white flecking on the chest and belly and beneath the tail. The yellow-orange comb over the eye was a telltale sign that it was a male. The bird also had an impressive heft-somewhere between that of a chukar and a sage grouse.

We returned to the horses and rode on, higher still, backtracking a cascading creek. Gary said that the high country can receive eight to 10 feet of snow, and we saw evidence where some had cut loose and plowed down the mountain in an avalanche. The trees had been laid flat like matchsticks-the occasional crown pointing uphill, indicating the massive trunk had tumbled end for end.

We enjoyed lunch at a tent camp that typically was occupied by elk or mule deer hunters but that this week was vacant. Gary pointed out spots on surrounding slopes where he and clients had taken bucks and bulls in years past. He also mentioned that he offers tented blue grouse hunts for more adventuresome wingshooters . . . .

A short ride out of camp, we dismounted and began walking through a series of parks and timber stands. We'd gone a couple of hundred yards when I spied movement to my left: the head of a blue grouse hot-footing away behind a deadfall. The bird took several more steps and flushed-right into an open alley in the conifers. My second shot brought the big rooster back to earth.

As Gary and I were admiring the bird, John began banging away below. We later learned that Dottie had flash-pointed a grouse that, once flushed, John had winged before it landed in a tree. When sticks had failed to dislodge the bird, John had resorted to No. 6s.

With three grouse in the bag, we headed for the trailers-the circuitous route taking us across wide meadows and some hairy washes that required dismounting and leading the horses. By day's end we'd ridden 10 miles, and there were some sore posteriors in camp that night, I assure you.

The next morning we drove up the other side of the valley and set off on a different-and steeper-trail. The first leg of this ride was about gaining elevation, and we spent a lot of time hugging our saddle horns as the horses steamed up a series of switchbacks. Our dog team had been reduced by one, as Dottie had succumbed to soreness, and in an effort to preserve the remaining pair, John and Brad had fitted Timber and Bosco with makeshift boots fashioned from bike-tire inner tubes and duct tape.

Upon reaching one of the few flats on the mountain, we walked an area that Gary had found productive in years past. This day, however, it held no birds-only stunning views of the surrounding peaks and the vast Anthracite Basin (where the world-record Rocky Mountain elk was taken in 1899).

Another hard charge on the horses and we topped out at 11,000 feet. The cover was sparse, with short spruces scattered among a sea of rock. A wonderful spot for a rest. We ate our sandwiches while Gary regaled us with stories of guiding and some of his more interesting packing jobs, including bringing out the body of a climber who'd made a fatal misstep on a snow slide.

We continued down the ridge to a timbered bowl, where we tied the horses and set off on foot. There we found grouse almost immediately-birds that Gary determined were part of a large bachelor group. In an hour we flushed 10 and bagged three-all large, mature roosters with broad gray bands lining their fans. A collector's dream.

One bird lived up to the blue's "fool's grouse" reputation, flying into a tree and sitting on a limb for five minutes while I hurled rocks and sticks at it. When it finally decided to leave, it caught me off-guard, pitching straight down and away. My rushed salute sailed right over its back. (Who's the fool now?) I made amends when Bosco-a pointing Lab-pinned a grouse in a copse of young firs. The bird flushed through a small opening, and at my shot set its wings and careened 200 yards downhill before crashing to the ground beside John.

We took two more grouse on the ride out: one that flushed off the trail and that John followed up in the quakies; the other that Bosco rooted out of a patch of thimbleberries and that Gary chased down and dropped with a snappy crossing shot. (He had asked the rest of us if we wanted to try for the bird, but we all had had our fill and were happy to watch from our saddles.)


That evening we were standing outside the lodge admiring our birds and gazing up at the steep face we'd crossed hours earlier. I had gotten my blue grouse, but even more important were the friendships I'd made and the adventures we'd enjoyed. It was then that I realized that I wasn't collecting mounts for the mantel as much as I was gathering memories that could be polished off and enjoyed long after the feathers had faded.

And that type of collection is more valuable than any I can think of.


Author's Note: In addition to outfitting upland bird and big-game hunts in the Colorado Rockies, Outwest Guides offers horseback rides, overnight pack trips, guided fly-fishing trips and more. For information, contact Outwest Guides, 970-963-4688; www.outwestguides.com.


Ralph P. Stuart is Shooting Sportsman's Editor in Chief.

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