The dogs are spitting heat my way. I know their pain. Two weeks of prepping for an upcoming hunting road trip that full time hunters would drool over is little consolation to these rocket ships with fur. They’re tired of the promises, they want immediate action. Trying to explain delayed gratification to two bird dogs is about as pointless as trying to explain it to a teenager.

They want results now.

The night before in the family’s new mobile command center, camper to the laymen, the pounding of rain on the roof lets me know what I was in for the next day.

“You knuckleheads are on your own,” my wife murmurs in the predawn hour. “The kids and I aren’t setting foot in that misery.”

“You hear that pups? We’ve been cut loose. You’re in for a long hunt now!” I whisper out to the sleeping dogs.

Coffee is made and the whines of excitement are heard throughout the campsite in the predawn hour.

We drive through the dark in a foreign land. I wish I had waited for light in order to catch a glimpse of what Idaho has to offer, but extending my hunting time takes precedence over eye candy.

As the diffused glow of sunrise casts its bluish hue over the landscape, the mountains that are to serve as our day’s playground rises out of the plains.

We delve into the bowls of the mountains, my eyes looking out for the perfect patch of aspen on the mountainside. This piece of promised land is a vision never before seen. Like when the first settlers from Europe looked over the ocean’s horizon, not knowing what to expect except what the murmurs and rumors had been ruminating.

Not only am I in a strange land, but I am hunting a creature unknown to me besides what I've seen on the idiot box and read about in articles.

I’m here to kill the King.

Chasing Ruffed grouse have eluded my adventures so far and I was determined to remedy that. With a ten month old rookie setter and a grizzly but seasoned pudelpointer we were going to dethrone the King. We were not your typical marauders, but when at war you take what you have on hand into the field.

I pick a dirt road at random, one that has enough gravel down to ensure I wouldn’t be ending this hunt in a curse of frustration with a truck axle deep in the mud.

Painted on the mountainside ahead of us is a giant island of aspen trees floating in a sea of sagebrush. It’s steep, has pockets and perfect edges, and it’s reminiscent of an episode of a popular upland show.

The truck slides to a halt and the hellhounds are released.

“Trial by fire you two,” I say, “And remember what we agreed upon, if anybody asks why we were unsuccessful, it was your fault. You’re going to need to jump on the sword on this one, by fragile ego just couldn't handle the embarrassment.”

They’re off. Weeks being on furlough has their legs pumping like pistons of a locomotive. They have a head full of steam and subtlety is left behind at the truck.

We press through the sagebrush, looking to gain some elevation and the promised land of the undergrowth tucked into the aspen. The glorious burning of my lungs is always a solid reminder of why I love the mountains so much. Nothing is given to you here, you are earning every bit of success the good old fashioned way of sheer effort.

The valley floor falls away and storm clouds threaten above. Threats are only effective if you shy away from them. A tidal wave of water could overtake these mountains and we wouldn’t budge. Stubbornness has pushed many a man to success, and I reckon along those lines, kills them too.

I look up to see a brown and white blur crossing in and out of jungle thick cover that no man should willingly subject himself to. Two mig jets flying crossing patterns looking to lock on to their prey.

Braker, my pudelpointer, cuts along the edge of trees and can’t find his brakes in time. Up flush is three ruffed grouse. I watch them do exactly the opposite of what I expect them to do. They dig themselves deeper into cover instead of taking the less obtrusive and clear flyway out into the open.

They know where safety lies.

Braker watches their tail feathers as they become specks in the forest.

“Ease it up ‘ol boy, no different than the Duskys you're used to. They’ll hold, but not when you rocket your nose up their ass,” I reprimand him.

It was a first for both of us. I had no right to beat him up about it, he was excited. Hell I probably would’ve shot myself in the foot if I attempted to shoulder my gun. Excitement can breed mistakes.

“Alright, let's try again,” I say as he sets into motion.

The same scenario plays itself out over the next hour. Interchange dog and mistake but the results remain the same. They just aren’t picking up the scent in time. I’m determined to not turn my pointers into flushers, so no matter how easy the shot, the lead stays in the shells. Point or your mouth will remain featherless.

I don't mind, just watching them with the pure joy on their faces, doing the one thing they’ve been set on this earth to do keeps me motivated. Exposure will take some of the aggression out of them.

I press into the thick, stopping to look down at the GPS and see the dogs around a hundred yards out from me. As they take care of the hard part, I look up and admire the beauty.

If this isn’t the postcard picture of where to hunt Ruffed grouse, then I’ve been watching the wrong TV shows.

No sooner than the mental image is taken do I hear the explosion of feathers.

The pause. Always during the pause.

My shotgun automatically raises up. The pocket of my shoulder that has seen the butt of this gun hundreds of times before accepts the shotgun and welcomes it home.

I swing and cover the bird with the bead. He’s flying away from me, seeking out that cover that will provide him with freedom.

Hell, I ain’t a pointer. I’m a flusher. You’re not a bad example if you aren’t caught in the act. Go ahead, let it fly.

The Citori punched, sending a cloud of death at the expecting bird. Feathers drift in the sky long after his body impacts the earth.

As I walk over, I’m greeted by two excited birddogs wanting to get in on the action. I point Braker in the general direction and he tears off, followed closely by Pistol.