Havoc with Huns

In 1928 ornithologist Dr. John C. Phillips wrote on the first gray, or Hungarian, partridge release in North America: “The earliest attempt at introduction, which so far as known was made by Richard Bache, son-in-law of Benjamin Franklin, who stocked his plantation on the Delaware River near what is now the town of Beverly, N.J., with Hungarian partridges, dates back to the latter part of the eighteenth century.”
If my 40-year history with Perdix perdix is any indication, you have to wonder if Bache had a measure of his father-in-law’s sense? These birds have been wreaking havoc with me and probably plenty of other upland hunters ever since they ran off the boat. One example, now almost 35 years old, sticks in my memory.

As budding young uplanders, we had nothing but trouble with the running, wild-flushing birds. Hunting partner John Champion and I read somewhere that Huns would get tired and hold after being flushed four times in succession. John, Bob Plains and I tested the theory one morning in the vast north-Utah dry-farm country. Other than in drought years, the long, north-south basin and range valleys are decent Western Hun habitat, and in good years the long walks can be quite productive.
Hun numbers were up this particular year, and as we crested one rise 10 birds flushed wild 150 yards away in a huge cut wheatfield. The birds flew around the slope in a tight bunch, and we easily marked down the dots against the yellow stubble 400 yards away. We pursued with gusto, knowing the birds had nowhere to go. True to form, they again flushed wild when we were 100 yards away, protesting with the “rusty gate” call as they flew on at roughly the same elevation. We marked them down a second time and, because of the level walking, were able to press on quickly. Twice more the performance was repeated. At the fourth flush, the birds abandoned their contouring and flew straight downhill across the field and settled like a handful of thrown beans on a sage-covered knoll—a veritable island in an ocean of wheat. Now we had them!
Hustling across the field with guns at port arms, we heeled the dogs until we started up the knoll, then set them free. They hit red-hot scent, got bird crazy, eased toward the top and pointed. We slipped past to the crest, guns poised, hearts pounding... Nothing. Once released, the dogs ran around confused where the scent ended on the backside of the hill. The Huns had flown out blind!
Discouraged, we returned to the truck, where we got out coolers and folding chairs and made lunch. With more than a few disparaging remarks about outdoor writers and Huns, we glumly chewed our sandwiches. Afterward, we packed up the guns and crated the dogs, and when John slammed the tailgate shut, 10 Huns blew out right behind the truck. Those birds had been holding 15 yards away the whole time we’d been eating!
Although my luck with the twitchy little immigrants can best be described as “mixed,” there are a few things I’ve learned through the years that “Hun-ters” might find useful. First, once a covey is found, unless extreme weather conditions or habitat change intervenes, the birds almost always can be found within a three-quarter-mile radius of that location year in and year out.
Gray partridge are extremely loyal to their home range, with good reason. It contains all of the elements they need to survive during the yearly cycle: nesting cover, brood cover and insects, low windswept ground, and what researchers call “idle” ground. Some kind of grain nearby is also good, but I know of many coveys that exist miles from it. The birds can cope well with snow if it isn’t too persistent and blows free in places. I have seen them fly into 12 inches and bury themselves. I would suspect that’s how they survive some winter nights on the howling prairie. Studies have shown that Huns’ home ranges rarely cover more than 150 acres and that their daily movements rarely exceed 200 yards, so key habitat elements need to be close. They like edge. It also doesn’t hurt if there’s an isolated granary or equipment shed around. There the birds can loaf in the summer shade and find shelter in the winter. The reason the Utah dry-farm country has birds is it’s good mix of “idle” habitat: fingers of wheat meshed up against big sage, great basin rye, serviceberry, snowberry and bitter brush in places that combines and plows can’t negotiate. There often are large idle islands in the middles of fields where too many rocks or steep terrain prevent planting. Usually there are relics of tractors, drills and rusting combines in these out-of-the-way pockets.
Other regions have good gray partridge populations too, but like most upland coverts, each has a different “flavor.” Traveling to sample them and learn can add great enjoyment to the sport. In eastern Washington, the Palouse hills roll like the giant Pacific swells that beach on the opposite side of the state. The country is wide open, planted mostly in small grains and lentils, and often windy. Huns can be almost anywhere there is permanent cover, including grassy waterways; steep, untilled hillsides; or weedy fencelines. Food is not the issue. It isn’t hard to find coveys by driving the gravel early and late. Getting permission is another matter.
Alberta and Saskatchewan are more wide open, flatter and almost all wheat, and any shelterbelt or break in the monotony can produce birds. Old farmsteads are almost a sure thing. Permission is not difficult to get; finding a property’s owner is.
Montana Hun hunting is so huge and varied that it could be the subject of its own book. The birds generally are found in the eastern two-thirds of the state, but good pockets exist elsewhere. Public areas can be quite productive, but much-harried birds can get hardened. The Dakotas have birds in varying numbers—with North Dakota generally offering better hunting than South. Key habitat runs northwest to southeast.
Another thing I’ve found is that good dogs are invaluable in finding and bringing to bag these russet-tailed birds. Some people do well road hunting—and this is one way to find coveys—but it is not the method that most sportsmen prefer. I, for one, choose to hunt with dogs. What type of dog works best for gray partridge? It can be almost any breed, the basic requirements being intelligence, bidability and adaptability. My friend Roger does quite well with Australian shepherds. Huns are nervous birds, and a dog that pushes them hard will reap nothing.
Pointing breeds are the most popular choice for canvassing open spaces and holding birds for the approach of the Gun. But a classic air-scenting, staunch-broke pointer will find many coveys elusive. Like running roosters, Huns don’t play by the rules. If a pointer is able to locate a skittish covey without flushing it, there’s a good chance the birds will run out before the hunter is able to approach. It also may be that the birds never freeze initially and aren’t pinned. Whatever the case, a Hun dog will need to roll with the punches. It will need to relocate, use ground scent, creep, find air scent, and do everything in its power to corral these skittish birds without flushing them. Smart dogs eventually figure this out for themselves, and thus intelligence, caution and lots of bird contacts are keys to success. I doubt we do more than hinder the best dogs with some of our well-meaning corrections.
One late-September day in central Montana, John Mullin and I hunted behind Dennis Kavanaugh’s English setter Comet as he “roaded” a covey of Huns for an honest 15 to 20 minutes. The dog, as good as I’ve ever seen, had indicated the covey with a rock-steady point at the upper end of a large basin, but after a good deal of tromping about and no birds, Kavanaugh had released the setter and started the chase. I lost count of the number of points and relocations. Comet probably covered 600 yards—working the birds, losing them, and then finding them again.
We tagged along, not sure where it would end, all the while enjoying some spectacular dogwork. Thankfully, the encounter ended well, as the birds made a stand at a steep decline that opened out onto a large valley. And even though the flush was long, John brought down a brace.
Obviously, having a dog that retrieves is important. As members of the pheasant family, gray partridge are much tougher than grouse. A broken-winged bird in the thick stuff is almost impossible to recover without a dog. Continental breeds can shine here, and many hunters use them exclusively.
Unlike single quail and warm-day sharptails, Huns have no shortage of “stink.” A dog with an excellent nose is not required to find a setting covey. When the birds run, however, it is the dogs with the best noses that usually win. Moving singles and even coveys can be difficult to sort out. Purists will insist that time is wasted by boot-polishing, foot-scenting dogs. Remember that to ensure staunchness, many trialers will never shoot birds over their dogs. However, if you really want to play the Hun’s down-and-dirty game, a dog that is adaptable enough to break and trail can be an asset.
A third thing I’ve learned is that Huns are unpredictable. Be ready for anything, and never assume. I have to admit that early season gray partridge can be very accommodating. This is by far the best time to enjoy success and to give a young dog valuable exposure. That said, I have seen early season birds flush wild, run and vanish without a trace.
John Champion was with me on another notorious early September Hun hunt. We were driving into the head of our favorite valley when we rounded a curve and spotted a huge covey moving off of the left side of the road and running up the hill next to the highway. Because the slope was steep, we could see the birds as they ran between clumps of sage. Both of us sat open-mouthed; there were well more than 50 of them. Neither of us spoke for a moment, then we said simultaneously, “Do you see that?” We agreed that there were probably 75 birds on the ground in front of us and, seeing as both of us had worked as biologists, the estimate wasn’t sport-shop speculation.
We quickly donned our vests, broke out the guns and dogs, and took off in pursuit. You probably can guess the result. In 45 minutes of searching, we never saw the birds again—not a feather, not a trace, nothing. With that many Huns, we should have found at least a few stragglers. To this day it is the largest group of gray partridge I have seen or heard of, and if there hadn’t been a witness to back me up, I might have thought I was hallucinating.
After being pressured once or twice, Huns quickly will delve into their bag of tricks. They will run when you expect them to hold, hold when you expect them to run, land where you least expect them to and flush under your feet—or 50 yards behind you. It’s not enough that they double back running or freeze and let you walk past; they have to flush loudly out of range to let you know it.
Two years ago while hunting in Oregon’s high desert, I witnessed another dastardly Hungarian maneuver. We had flushed a covey along a creek bottom and watched them flutter in a short way up a saltbush hillside. We marked them well and ran, two of us flanking the landing zone to force their hand. After a thorough, hard search with a couple of pretty good dogs, we found nothing. Then in a classic move, I was straddling a high and very taught barbed-wire fence when I heard the birds flush behind me. The only thing I could do was laugh. The birds apparently had landed on a 50-foot-wide patch of bare ground and frozen immediately, leaving no foot scent. With no wind, the dogs had not picked them up. We had of course skirted the bare ground, “knowing” the birds would never hold there and had run off through the low shrubs.
To defend yourself against such chicanery, guns and loads need not be complicated. A stiff powder charge behind No. 7-1/2 or larger shot is fine. Because Huns often flush long, a light to middleweight double with two triggers and one tight choke can be employed with great effect. It is delightful, indeed, to pull the rear trigger on that 40-yards-behind bird and see it fall. But please fight the urge to use the open tube if it doesn’t; a close bird is sure to flush while you’re empty. A 28-gauge could work in the hands of a disciplined shooter, but it’s not my first choice. A 20-gauge works well, but be sure to use field and not target loads. Seeking true perfection in a Hun gun, how could a 6-1/2-pound, 29-inch, double-trigger 16 with an ounce of No. 6s in the .018" left barrel and the same weight of No. 7s in the .004" right tube be improved upon?
Finally, one more memorable hunt needs mentioning. It happened in 2002 where Idaho and Oregon meet on the breaks of the Snake River. In this sloped country, though chukars are the main attraction, it’s not unusual to run into a covey or two of Huns during the course of the day. My English setter Angus was a seasoned veteran—a dog in his prime at age seven. (Sadly, this turned out to be our last hunt together, as he inhaled cheatgrass on the trip that later lead to a fatal lung infection.) We had hiked a thousand feet above the river bottom, and the snowy Willowa Mountains were visible in the distance. The chukars had been cooperative, and by 1 pm two brace rested heavily in my game bag.
Angus was a goer, and as often happens with even close-working dogs in chukar country, I lost track of him over a hill. When he’d been gone five minutes, I suspected that he’d found birds and began searching for him. Cresting a dry, rocky outcrop, I spotted him on point 200 yards below in the middle of a steep, sparsely vegetated slope. I slipped around the back of the ridge and dropped into a small draw, beetling downhill as far as I dared. When I traversed back toward the open face, I found that by luck I had measured the drop perfectly—coming out 50 paces below the still-downhill-pointing dog.
With haste, I walked uphill directly below Angus, effectively pinching the birds. And when a dozen Huns erupted noisily five yards below him, luck smiled again and two birds went down hard, their feathers wafting slowly toward the rushing creek below. Angus broke at the shot, but he soon came back over the ridge with a bird, spitting it out when he saw that I had seen him. Then we searched the hillside near the other mark, and after much encouragement he found the second bird.
We took a short rest, and then moved on, contouring north, as the steep drainage behind us was virtually uncrossable. Gaining a little altitude, we crossed the ridge separating the dry, hot south slope and the shady, grassy north slope. Here Angus ranged out and up and went on point about 150 yards away—the same covey, no doubt.
It was almost too easy—the drop down, curve around, climb up and pinch. Ten birds blew into the sky from the tall golden grass; two tumbled back into it. Oh, what a day! What a hunt! What a fine gamebird!

Clair Kofoed is an Editor at Large for Shooting Sportsman.