Siren song of the chukar draws young and old hunters alike

I find it impossible to put together letters on paper that will reproduce the call of a chukar partridge. Somehow, I think that if I could say and write that sound, perhaps I could also explain the spell chukar hunting has upon me.

I’ve seen the call written most often as “chucka-chucka-chucka,” a reasonable but nevertheless inadequate attempt. Sometimes, I sit at my computer trying to verbalize chukar sounds. So far, I’ve been unsuccessful, for this little bird’s call is a taunting, complex assemblage of highs and lows, louds and softs, echoes, wind, and exasperation.

Most people say I’m too old to hunt chukars. After a half-day on the basalt cliffs and cheatgrass-slickened slopes, I’m inclined to agree.

Chukar hunting once caused me a severe kidney infection due to dehydration, a nasty mess of blisters when I crawled along a ledge through an infestation of poison ivy and some sanitary issues when I stepped on a rattlesnake.

Still, I am drawn to it.

Last year, the sound of chukars once again drifted down the canyon as I pulled into my Snake River chukar camp the evening before the opener. I smiled as I and swung down from the truck. “Chucka-chucka-chucka, yourself you little buggers,” I said.

“Chukar camp” is a rather presumptuous label for the assortment of campers, trailers, and tents that have accumulated at the boat ramp each year. Friends and I have been gathering there for nearly 50 years on the eve before opening day. I walked along the row of vehicles listening for familiar voices. A trailer door opened and a balding head popped out. “You look like you need a beer.” It was Sam.

“Probably wouldn’t turn it down if you’re buying,” I said.

Sam thrusts a beer in my hand. Our voices were like magnets, as other doors were opening and other friends were drifting toward Sam’s trailer – 17 of us in all. We stayed up late to catch up.

At 5 a.m. the next morning, the aroma of frying bacon somewhere down the line indicated Homer was up. I snuggled in my sleeping bag wishing for a cup of coffee, and then Sam handed me one through the tent fly.

At 5:40 a.m. I crossed the road and the fence, stepped over the railroad tracks and began a steady climb upward. I climbed for an hour and when I got as high as my legs and lungs would allow, I began zigzagging across the slope looking for birds. I found a few, shot tolerably well, and was on my way back down by noon with an empty canteen.

Camp seemed a lot further than it did in the cool of the morning.

Back at my tent, I watched with binoculars a young hunter who had also succumbed to the siren song I know but can’t write. A covey of chukars was spread out across the rugged face straight up from camp and he pursued his quarry doggedly. Unconsciously, I tried again to mimic the sounds I heard drifting down the canyon.

“Shut up out there!” Sam hollered from his trailer. “I’m trying to nap.”

I dashed into my tent for my notebook and pencil, and then dashed back to my chair. This time, I had it! My voice grew louder and I scribbled furiously without even looking down. With mouth open, I drank in the clamor.

“Well?” Sam called at last through the screen door of his trailer. “What did you get?” He knew of my quest.

Excitedly, I looked down at my tablet.

“Well?” Sam asked again. “What is it?”

I hung my head. “Chucka-chucka-chucka,” I said softly.