Chukars often run uphill and fly downhill. It makes great sense to approach them from above if at all possible.
In addition, there's more public land hereabouts (primarily BLM) than you can shake a stick at, much of it accessible via a maze of sketchy dirt roads. The downside is the sometimes lousy weather. But it can be nice, too. During the first week of December, last season, I had more than a week of sunny, calm, 25 to 40 degree days--which is what passes for warm in that part of the world. And that's perfect for dog work, too.
Did I mention dogs? You're going to need one, unless you enjoy sprinting up 45 degree slopes on your own. I use pointers because they cover a lot of real estate and theoretically, find more covies than a close-ranging retriever or spaniel. But when a wing-tipped chukar is down and running--and boy, can they run--having a strong retriever on the job is awfully nice.
Chukars, I've been told, run uphill and fly downhill. I didn't always believe that, so a couple seasons ago, in my role as objective reporter, I decided to test the thesis. On the way back from an afternoon hunt, Powder located a covey in the precise bottom of a deep gorge. I moved in and found nothing. Quickly, I noticed several sets of diamond-shaped tracks heading straight uphill. I should have quit right then, but nobody has ever accused me of being a fast learner. I started climbing, following Powder as she crept ever higher. Occasionally I'd catch a glimpse of one of the birds, just up ahead and just out of range, peering curiously at me over its shoulder. By the time I was halfway up and gasping for breath, I'd pretty much abandoned any semblance of rational thought. I was determined to put the birds up, even if it killed me in the process--it nearly did.
Twenty minutes later, I finally made it. I was dripping sweat, my bad knee was throbbing, and I was chilling rapidly in the winter wind. Worse still, Powder still hadn't pinned the covey. Then, suddenly, I heard her beeper. I staggered toward the sound and caught a glimpse of her furry little behind on point sixty yards away. Which is precisely when the covey flushed. It lifted off casually, as if it were taking a relaxed jaunt to the corner convenience store for coffee, then tilted into the wind and sailed downhill. I never saw them again.
Guess I showed them.
Most of you are undoubtedly quicker on the uptake than I am, but it bears repeating: Chase a covey uphill if you must, but if your dog doesn't pin them in 100 yards or so, give it up. Since I regularly ignore this rule, I'll explain my reasons.
Coming in above a covey is usually the best strategy, because you have a chance of pinning them between you and your dog. If you're chasing birds toward a sheer rock wall, they'll probably stop at the base of it. They may not--I once watched a covey climb straight up a seventy-five-foot rock face and then bail off the top like so many Acapulco cliff divers--but chances are they'll hold.
