WARBA, Minn. _ In a dense forest of young alder, aspen and maple trees north of town, Debbie Petersen hollered for her dog, Riley, to slow down.
She didn't want him to stomp on any baby woodcock chicks, the "little puffballs" as she calls them, the reasons we were here.
"Easy!" Petersen bellowed in a voice used only by hunters trying to get through to their dogs. "Whoa! Slow down!"
Riley, a smart-nosed Gordon setter pointing dog, complied. And soon he was off again, at a slower pace, sniffing the air for any sign of woodcock. It didn't take long until he was locked-up on point.
One woodcock flushed left, another right, and Riley held tight as he was trained. As I looked down at my left foot, trying not to squish any puffballs, there was a third woodcock just inches away, under a fern, perfectly still and perfectly camouflaged among last year's brown leaves on the ground.
Most of the chicks Petersen and Riley were finding were too small to fly even a little. But these birds were a few days older and managing to get away.
"Stay still; don't move," Petersen ordered as she crept toward the little bird from behind. "I'm going to try for a hand-grab."
