Chukar Hunting Magic Under a Total Eclipse

The place is magical enough. Add the drama of an annular eclipse of the sun, and the voodoo ascended to another level. We were in the heart of the display, smack-dab beneath the paths of the two stellar bodies as they crossed one of the least-populated spots in the lower 48 states, which was also my favorite Nevada locale for hunting chukar partridges.

The rare alignment of Earth, sun and moon gradually, and agonizingly slowly for chukar hunters on opening morning, slid a big black blot (the moon) between sun and Earth. The orb’s rays bled out around the moon’s edge, creating a blazing ring encapsulating it. Spectacular is a word I seldom use, but this was a spectacle. I can’t help but think some of the mystery and magic became part of our hunt that day.

It started with an interesting convocation of crystal-gazers and astronomy nerds, some with tie-dyed and flowing robes, parked in the middle of the country’s darkest corner. An annular eclipse needs sun to bedazzle we humans, so we spent the first precious hour of hunting season rubbing elbows with a crowd that we thought would cringe and perhaps throw rocks at orange-clad bird hunters. Instead, between frantic attempts to find a cell signal, they welcomed us with offers of coffee, astronomy lessons, peeks into planetarium-worthy telescopes and loans of “eclipse glasses.” I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, we each loved the mysterious, natural world ... just in our own way. They look upward for a sign; we search the horizon for a dog on point.

Viewed through glasses, the skyward spectacle was impressive; the earthly work wrought by solar power was equally dazzling. Eerie, vermiculated patterns of searing light were created by trees, cloaking ground and people in otherworldly patterns like alien camo. Colors changed, birds stopped singing, and for that brief moment of perfect alignment, the landscape was quiet, soft, foreign.

As the line of vans and VW Beetles slowly drifted back to civilization trailing incense smoke, our quest began in earnest, hours later than usual but in good, slightly altered spirits. Enchantment beckoned right here at ground level in the sere lava-and-sage landscape of northern Nevada. The first volcanic slope we ascended glistened, the polar opposite of an ink-black night sky. The glitter came from millions of bits of obsidian, glinting against the beige sand.

As I stooped to investigate a smooth, elongated “Apache tear,” I felt an inkling, a subtle but clear signal. Or was it a magical telepathic message from my dog? The young wirehair quivered then side-eyed me in hopes I could slog uphill the 200 yards to where he pointed. High-stepping over sage and boulders, I jogged toward him until a chukar launched, signaling a 20-bird covey to join the first in an ascent toward the sun, now free of its lunar barrier. One lazy bird chose a downhill trajectory, right into my waiting pattern of No. 6 copper-plated shot. It was the first of many enchanting experiences over several days that I would attribute to the celestial event we’d witnessed.

FEELING SMALL

We explored wrinkled landscapes that looked like they were formed by giants playing with bed sheets, stone cairns too tall for man to build, terrain shark-finned with rock spines. We found opals born of ice and trillions of tons of Earth pressing soil into gem, thunder eggs wrought into crystal by fire. They reminded us how puny humans are, specks on the cosmic radar screen. The message lodged deeper in our souls. Was it because we’d witnessed a massive intersection of our home planet with forces greater than us?

As the acrid dust filled our snouts, the dogs’ noses worked overtime. Puffs of weak wind pulled them toward summit after summit, where we caught our breath and headed to the next. Burning soles and aching knees later, the Lab trundled toward a rare kitchen-size patch of bunchgrass. He stopped, flat-footed, and gazed at his master. That’s when the covey rose like those fountains in Las Vegas. Here, there, everywhere ... picking a target was about following the gun writer’s advice: focus on one bird, don’t flock-shoot. Sure. Maybe we were supposed to witness this sorta-celestial event with due respect, too, rather than killer instinct.

Later that day, we crept with awe toward a gorge suitable for the next Lord of the Rings sequel. Volcanic walls 500 feet tall reached across the abyss as if trying to reverse the cataclysm that tore them asunder. The crevice sheltered a trickle of trout stream offering the only water in this desolate landscape.

At its mouth water pooled, offering a resting place for fish and sustenance for the birds skittering along its willow-clad banks. When we walked toward it, my dog slowed then cat-danced into a tentative point. The pair of chukars that rose from the flat ground surprised my partner so completely he didn’t even close his Spanish side-by-side.

I was a little more on the ball. Buff-gray against a robin-egg-blue sky, those birds seemed to slow down just for me and my bad gun mount, letting me tame a waving muzzle enough to hit them both. Luck or celestial boon? I thanked my dog, my friend, my shooting instructor and the cosmos. The only thing rarer than an eclipse: a double by yours truly.

We are slow learners, my buddy Dave and me. But we do learn, so we went in search of the broken-up covey. Head-high brush was my lot; Dave took the clear ground. I paused my bushwhacking to catch a breath in a small clearing. At my feet was a tiny, symmetrical fire ring laid for tonight’s sing-along as if waiting for the residents of Lilliput (sans Gulliver) to hunker down and roast marshmallows. Kids? Prankster? Alien visitors from space? I haven’t decided, but the vibe was totally out of this world. Birds soon interrupted my reverie as Dave made up for his earlier goof by dropping two himself.

CLIMBING HIGH

The roaring buzz of flushing valley quail called from a distance, but we were here for chukars and set our sights on a nearby slope populated by truck-sized boulders tumbling to the valley in a sump at the base of a 100-foot cliff. The bottom was littered with bleached bones: wild horses, cattle and many we didn’t want to identify. It was an eerie place to start a climb, but that helped us pick up the pace a bit.

Further motivation came in the distant “chuk-chuk” of birds teasing us from the cliff, where we heeled the dogs and poked around carefully. As we worked upstream (that cliff becomes a waterfall a couple times a year), Dave’s right barrel rang out. He’d found those tricky birds. We chased that bunch of runners from streambed to abandoned guzzler, from old cow camp to the only tree we’ve ever found on that range. They crested the ridge and launched over the top and out of sight, except for the one that landed in the stunted juniper we’d passed.

Both dogs watched the bird’s final approach and landing, and like hounds on a coon, they beelined toward it. Front paws on the trunk, they bayed helplessly, unable to climb and flush it. I’d have sworn that bird looked smug—until humans arrived with thundersticks. A well-thrown lava rock boosted the bird into Dave’s shot string. The chukar gene pool is better for it.

We split up to circumnavigate one massive outcropping, and shots echoed as Dave’s Lab pushed birds into the air. Most fled downhill, but one skirted the rock pile and settled a hundred yards uphill from me. I heeled my wirehair and trudged up the slope, as quietly as I could on a scree-covered mountainside. Looking to my left, I saw the young dog was gone, frozen 50 feet behind me on point. Following his nose, I snuck toward the bird, dislodging a small boulder that startled the bird into a towering flight. As I spun to shoot, both feet came out from under me, the bird rocketed overhead and my knees connected with more rocks. The desperation shot connected, and before I could take inventory of ligaments and tendons, the wirehair was back with the chukar in his mouth.

We ran out of slope and side-hilled south until a taller ridge came into view. I was lagging; Dave was in the lead and uphill from me. As I rounded a point, he was standing, open-mouthed, under a backlit rock arch that we might have been the first to see in centuries. At least locals said so; the old-timers had never heard of it. We imagined an angel chorus breaking into song but instead heard chukars laughing at us, so we sent the dogs in. We’d just exited the arch into the blazing (and whole again) sun when the covey erupted. Both of us missed. I blamed the sun, intact and right in our eyes. Coincidence? Maybe not.

THINKING BIG

When a celestial phenomenon starts the day, it rides shotgun the entire hunt. We second-guessed everything. Gigantic petroglyphs called to us from a sheer rock wall a thousand feet above, and we tightened our bootlaces and loaded our guns. What we found was no secret, mystical message from ancestral hunters but just a bizarre pattern created by packrat pee. The discovery was not without purpose, however, and perhaps not simply by chance.

A few feet below the rock “art,” a 10-foot shelf held a small arch and the biggest assemblage of chukar poop I’ve ever seen ... and I’ve seen a lot of it! Given time and patience, pass-shooting birds as they came to this mega-roost might have worked, but the dogs would have none of it. We said a prayer to the bird gods and headed cross-slope to a flat spot and rocks arranged like bowling pins.

We wound through that “bowling alley” chasing hinky breezes and birds that taunted us and our dogs with their distinct calls. One chukar couldn’t handle the suspense and blasted off from the far side of a rock I was approaching. Luckily, my best shots are instinctive, i.e., almost-wet-my-pants startled. The bird fell, landing in a patch of bunchgrass softly, as if left by a proud taxidermist. Who arranged these rocks for me? Why? Is there really a higher order of things astronomical? Or was it just another volcanic eruption? These questions filled my mind as I stroked my dog’s flank before trudging uphill ... again.

We missed our fair share, but I blamed that on the curvature of the earth, holding my mouth wrong, bad gun mount and cross-dominance. Sometimes I took credit for courtesy, giving my buddy the shot—though I doubt he believed me. We never truly blamed our foibles on the heavenly miracle we witnessed that morning, a mind-expanding experience most will never have. We disappointed dogs, laughed at each other’s stumbles and marveled at the incredible giant’s playground in which we walked, boulders like building blocks and piles of earth resembling a gargantuan sandbox.

That night we lounged and sighed in warm springs under more stars than Neil deGrasse Tyson could name in a lifetime of social media posts. We recounted hits and misses and reflected on wondrous dog work. We gave silent thanks to the natural world we are privileged to explore, our adventures often guided by, appropriately enough, the moon and sun.

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