A Passion for Grouse

    The first rise of the day was explosive. Breaking the morning’s stillness, a pair of ruffed grouse shattered leaves in a tangle of dry, wild grapevines as they sought escape from a heavily ticked setter and a graying man with a worn 16-gauge L.C. Smith.
    The last rise of that same day was much more delicate. With the sun just edging the horizon, a large, shadowy form rose from a clear current to a thread-wrapped hook adorned with a tuft of deer hair and a wisp of feathers.
    That morning, when the sound and fury of the flush and of the gun subsided, the setter made a single retrieve. Then the woods were quiet once more. In the afternoon the delicate take was followed by another explosion, one that lasted long enough to let me know that I had tied into a fine wild brown trout whose survival skills were easily greater than my abilities as an angler.
    In the time between the first rise and the last, the dog and I wandered. We hunted a river-bottom covert where the tangles were shadowed by black willows and crisscrossed with a network of winding, carefully mowed trails. We ventured beyond a seldom-used railroad track to a hillside where we explored crumbling stone walls and the damp ground beneath gnarled old apple trees. The birds that flew before us were glimpses and rumbles of wings beyond range, but the fruit on the ground about us showed signs of recent feathered feasts. We snacked as well, and in the warmth of the early October day enjoyed a fine, slow pace far different from the frenetic scrambles through briers and brush that we were accustomed to.
    I welcomed the change in gait, pleased that the setter had at last allowed me to adopt it. For after three days of hunting a succession of carefully managed coverts in New York’s Battenkill Valley, I needed to spend a little time considering all that I had seen and learned during my visit to the idyllic countryside just west of Vermont’s Green Mountains.
    The land of covered bridges, spectacular fall colors and roadside vendors of apples had treated my dogs and me well. We’d moved grouse and woodcock every day, averaging a couple of flushes per hour even though our hunt was taking place in early October, ahead of the best woodcock flights and a fortnight before the prime days of a grouse season that lasts into February.
    The Valley was new country for us, and we’d learned that although the small “postage stamp” coverts woven into the fabric of the rural community contained birds and were favored by hunters with tightly controlled, close-working dogs, there were also larger pieces of both private and public land comprising thousands of acres where my canine companions and I could stretch our legs as we are prone to do.
    Thinking back, I remembered working my young Brittany along with the setter on a hillside above the Battenkill River. Cornfields, faded red barns, distant church steeples and a busy farm-to-market road made up the view as we worked the edge of a forest that climbed into the mountains above. Halfway to the top we found the tangled remains of a long-abandoned orchard. It seemed perfect cover but yielded only brief interest in old scent until I noticed the Brittany was no longer coursing ahead. The dog turned up behind me, on point, in an open and less-than-likely-looking corner near yet another stone wall. The bird that had slipped away from the older dog had not fooled the pup. It was a proud moment for the youngster, and when the easy shot was made there was a touch of swagger in his retrieve.
    The remembering was fine, as it so often is, and the sunny warmth that eventually led me to abandon the 16-gauge for the long rod certainly contributed to my contemplative mood. That frame of mind also may have played a part in my failure as a fisherman—it’s the only excuse I have—but I didn’t care. Once the roiled waters had settled, the lost trout became a small part of a trip that had left me with much to consider.
    Later that evening, ensconced in a comfortable chair on a porch overlooking an expansive lawn that led to the Battenkill River, with dogs at my feet and a strong drink in hand, I reflected that although both the morning and evening results were probably predictable, this time it had been different. Although I’ve missed plenty of opportunities to double on grouse and lost my share of good fish, I rarely accomplish both feats in the same day. And I’ve never done either in such a gentlemanly fashion or environment.
    The misses were of my own doing of course. The gentlemanly circumstances —including miles of manicured trails meandering through excellent grouse cover and with rest stops featuring sheltered tables with benches, chairs and even “necessary houses”—were provided by my host, Capt. Bob Storc.
    One of the many things I’ve learned in my not-inconsiderable travels with dogs and guns is that although the search for birds and coverts may dictate my destinations, it is frequently the people I meet along the way that make my journeys much more than just hunting trips.
    Bob Storc, in addition to being a very successful businessman and a charter-boat skipper on Long Island’s Montauk Point, is a long-time devotee of the Battenkill Valley and the owner of the Battenkill Lodge, where he plays host to a fine assortment of hunters, anglers and guides.
    The lodge is obviously more than just another business to its owner. It is a labor of love. The immaculate grounds bordering the river offer a soothing view and some of the lodge’s many access points for the fisher-folks. Those grounds also include a neat, small kennel with three runs—although well-behaved dogs accustomed to quartering with their masters are allowed similar privileges when they visit Storc and his lodge manager: a charming, unrepentant old Irishman named Martin Frances Broderick Park.
    The log buildings, constructed in 1994, contain four spacious, modern suites for guests and still manage to ooze the sort of charm that makes the historic Battenkill Valley appealing to folks who want to step back in time.
    Visitors to the area who find themselves experiencing a sort of déjà vu as if they’ve stepped into a Norman Rockwell painting shouldn’t be surprised. The famous artist did most of his work here. Grandma Moses painted her primitives just down the road. And Lee Wulff, the patron saint of many an angler, once lived beside the river, practicing his craft and perfecting his art.
    Although I hesitate to say that all of the valley’s charms are lost on lodge owner Capt. Bob, I would note that the man rarely slows down enough to enjoy the tranquility of the surroundings as others might. The reason, I think, is that Storc is a man on a mission. He is a man with a passion for—and perhaps an obsession with—ruffed grouse.
    The 800 or so acres Storc has accumulated in various parcels are evidence of the man’s commitment to and understanding of grouse habitat. Carefully managed timber harvests include numerous small clearcuts of varying ages and provide a continuous supply of the brushy cover ruffed grouse love. The network of more than seven miles of groomed trails that make the properties so easy to hunt also provide miles of edge along with stretches of both clover and grit.
    Rural New York, with its native hawthorn, aspen, berry-producing shrubs and picturesque old orchards is a great natural habitat for grouse, but Storc is never content and seeks to provide all of the improvements his considerable energy and resources allow.
    As knowledgeable about grouse as most biologists I’ve met, Storc frets over “stems per acre” and “vertical cover” like a farmer searching the sky for rain. He studies his holdings along with those of his neighbors and plans “corridors” so that fluffball chicks can make the journey from nesting cover to sheltered areas where they can find the protein-rich insects that allow them to survive.
    Although many grouse hunters and grouse researchers speak of the autumnal “crazy flight” in which young grouse seek new territory, Storc insists that the fall dispersal is primarily a “walking dispersal.” As the bird he loves so much is far down the food chain and ever vulnerable to predators, Storc worries over corridors once more and manages his grounds to protect grouse at that stage of their lives as well.
    In visiting with Storc and touring his coverts it struck me that the man is more akin to a master gardener than a habitat manager. If he decides a covert would benefit from a half-acre of aspens in a particular spot, he plants them. If an isolated patch of forest floor becomes a touch too open, he thins just enough trees so that sunlight can penetrate and warm the seeds of shrubs and briers that will provide food and protection for grouse passing through.
    An active student of grouse behavior, Storc recently has become convinced that cock grouse almost always face east when they drum. As something of a student myself, I’ll chew on that revelation a while before I swallow. But if Storc decides it will benefit the birds, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover him supervising a crew moving deadfalls about in his woods so that they provide a nice, level surface that is square with the rising sun.
    It’s long been interesting to me, though it’s apparently incomprehensible to many non-hunters, that those of us who hunt are usually the most active in providing for the very game we hope to someday pursue with lethal intent. Bob Storc is a classic example of a man devoted both to promoting grouse and to taking them.
    More than 40 years ago, when he was 26 years old, Storc took his first ruffed grouse. An avid record keeper, he’s now taken 835 more. Over those years he also has raised a large family, remained married and been quite successful in business. He’s hunted in Scotland, England, Africa and Argentina. But his passion remains for ruffed grouse, their habitat, their protection and the kill.
    Storc has a goal of a thousand grouse for his ledger. Although he’s amazingly active and still moves through the woods with that hint of grace common to old athletes, he knows he’ll never cover the ground he once did. No doubt he also knows the old adage “guns don’t kill grouse, legs do.” That knowledge coupled with ankles badly damaged in a treestand accident a few years ago are, he admits, part of the inspiration for the Battenkill Lodge’s elaborate network of trails.
    The passage of time exacts its toll on all, and Storc has 45 years of grouse chasing behind him now. But Capt. Bob is not slowing down much. He’s still expanding his trail system, still acquiring property and still planting aspens—trees that won’t produce ideal grouse food or cover for some years to come.
    One of the most interesting things I learned during my visit with Capt. Bob Storc was the clear direction of the man’s priorities. A sharp fellow who certainly understands the value of promotion, I’m sure Storc will be glad to receive calls from new clients and guests. But he also made it plain to me that he especially would welcome interaction with gentlemen and gentle ladies interested in habitat management and improvement and in encouraging younger people to embrace the challenges and rewards of upland hunting.
    Taking a thousand grouse is a lofty goal, but with coverts like those Storc manages, I’m confident he’ll achieve it. I sure hope he does—and then some. The grouse hunters and the ruffed grouse of this world need more folks with the energy and interests of Battenkill Lodge’s Bob Storc.

Author’s Note: For more information about grouse hunting in New York, contact Battenkill Lodge, 516-671-7690; www.battenkilllodge.com.

Tred Slough (aka Robert Holthouser) is a carpenter and freelance writer in Surry County, North Carolina. He is the author of the book A High, Lonesome Call, published by Countrysport Press. For more information, visit the SSM Store at www.shootingsportsman.com.