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8/14/2019 Wildwood Church

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For devout grouse hunting disciples,this little hunting camp in the heartof Minnesotas north woods has long

been an annual pilgrimage.Story & Photography by Mike Gaddis

HURCH in the

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CILDWOOD

HURCH in the

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CILDWOOD


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heres a Minnesota morning on my mind.Twas a dawning in the mellowing middle o

October, and I stood on the ringe o an oak ridge, rustyand red, upon its plunge to a chaste-white stand o aspen,

shingled with gold, beore that, too, surrendered to a blood-redthicket o sumac. The moment was cold and still, my breathclouding the air, beore me a broad, rolling expanse o paintedmidwestern armland. The elds a medley o timid green, straw,

orange and umber here and there wandering veins o ginger,sentinels o bottle-green spruce shivering beneath the glint oa heavy rost. Only now, the rst rays o the sun stretching acrossthe tops o the trees, to touch in pale yellow ngertips the icy-blue sprawl o the land. As opposite, across a milky blue sky, thesleepy globe o a Hunters Moon lapsed slowly or bed.

I had not come here casually.At my eet was a small stone cairn, bone-gray and hoary

with lichen. At its head, the stoic trunk o a grand old tree,the valleys o its ashen bark mustard-yellow with ungus, itsroots carpeted with moss, Irish-green. To the tree was axedmore than a dozen dog collars, some recently new, some

mottled with mold, others rotting, blackened and old. Aboutthe little shrine, twenty-some dogs were buried, relinquishedreluctantly to eternity. Crme o the grouse woods, best othe best, dogs that were the equal o their quarry.

Lilly, white and ticked, a lady setter who belonged to one butgave the largest o her heart to another; to no one else wouldshe ever allow her all. And when she gave her all she wasphenomenal, legendary or her ability to mark sight or sound thedeparture o a bird up wild, to ollow, point and bring it beorethe gun. She died at eleven, the one sacricing to the other halher ashes. To scatter here, and elsewhere, about the coverts theymost loved. Tesekos Claire, a shorthair named or a mountain in

British Columbia; or she was solid as thehills. Buzz, tri-colored setter male, slain atthe threshold o his prime by an inectionin his heart sac, incredibly gited on gameor the time he had. Tre and Patches.Reilly. A treasury o others, endeared bybrilliance, immortal by memory.

The dogs o then, the dogs onow. Breath and soul o a littlecover bird church in the wildwoodcalled Little Moran.

Upon the legacy o the lost, theparadigm o the present resounds. Themeasure or great dogs still, that liveand breathe. Dogs yet to be enshrined.We had been privileged to three othem two days beore. Scout and Jack,English setter males. Drummer, setteremale. It is an article o the covenantyou may count on. Should you avorsetters, here rests your touchstone. Iand Matt Gindor, owner and principalconsultant o The Sporting Traveler, wereon the guns, the dogs cast under the able

auspices o Kevin Sheppard and Steve Grossman.We had seen each dog individually. All were

outstanding. Though o the two males, which wassupreme? Scout on-his-toes, youthul and proud,almost wholly white. Slashing, suave. Jack, so validlyveteran, white, chestnut, and ticked, a slight glitchin his lick rom an old cover-war wound. Sage, sly.Around the convivial congress o the dinner table,

we had argued and wagered the match.Witness, now, the morning they ran. It is born

fawlessly clear, the sun bathing the autumn-cladridges with resh light, the air stinging crisp andspanking clean. First brace, rst cover o the day,the dogs scratching and whining to be ree. Yourheart in your head, your soul on your sleeve. Hereis October, here at last, nowhere on Gods Earthyoud rather be. For all-else in the Kingdom, Here-and-To Come,though you haveknown and loved

and considered itsentirety, there areguns and grouseand dogs.

My Lord,Matt said, to noone in particular.

The dogsare staged andtrembling. Shellschambered,guns breeched.

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The cover beckoning sobeautiully beore us, TheThree Ditches, a haven ohazel and gray dogwood,sweet Sicily, beechnut, andbush cranberry. A tersewhistle and the dogs areo. Searching, reaching,to the gripping, tension-strung clang o the bells.The woods are a wash ocolor, the setters paintedboldly upon them, inmerry strokes o white.Their brilliance waxestheatrical, a commandperormance rom the

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teve Grossman, left, and Matt Gindorff parallel Shiloh,

fore, and Jack on a woodcock point at Little Moran

in Minnesotas North Woods. Opposite: Gindorff and

Grossman share a restful moment with Jack.

S

instant theyre sent to the moment theyre up.Uncanny, how Scout slices the cover, though so patently

orward, how he can take the merest whi o scent and inquestioning circles corroborate it so smoothly to its essenceand make a bird. How Jack plays o him to the thump ohis own drum, sweeping the ringes, nailing the limb nds.

Ha-ha? Steve asks Jack i hes really sure.Hell yes, he says, read my hips.Grouse!In ront o the old dogs stoven and steady stand, a bird

goes out. Hard and low, fat away, through the trees. Theusual glimpse. Forgetting the cover, Matt swings and pulls.The little twenty-eight barks and in a happy moment osurprise, maybe the bird has allen. Seconds later, Jackplaces the splendored, gray-phase truth o it into hand.Another grouse, another triumph.

All the while, Scouts beeper blares rom the hill. Hurry.Were up, and his upliting stand grants a bird o my own.

Theres a woodcock or two between, a couple out strong,another that came in on the red-eye, under that big, bloatedmoon, too groggy to fy.

Drum-thunder! Departing wings. Scouts to the task. Minutes


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later, road and stick, road and stick,and he has him. Whoom, whoom.Matt and I dont.

Its Jack now, over here. Hardlyaterwards, Scout again there! Beep

here, beep where, as we leap-rog nd-to-nd. Taking the nearest, scurrying tothe arthest. Both dogs inspired. A rare,ne pair. Read the beepers. Road andstop, road and stop point. Pinned. Attimes the two dogs close, to a dividedstand a point and back the morningsun streaming in through the brightgolden daze o the popple, the dogsshining alabaster under its touch, asaround swell the rusty-red hills.

Twelve grouse and nine woodcock,

the fush count or the morning. Apleasure o them pointed.

Well o the beaten path,The Little MoranHunt Club is a quaintand happy little cover.

Fountains o both hope and harmonybubble here. A mood as mellow as lateOctober apples and as expectant as theabrupt hush o a setters bell. Little Moran

is a grouse hunters camp, not an endorsedsimile, but the smoke rom the altar intrue northwoods tradition. Unpretentiousas lea mold, honest as highbush cranberry.

Beore I made the pilgrimage, a grousehunter once remarked to me, I you seekthe wellsprings o your aith, you go to achapel. I you wish the armation o yourreligion, you go to Little Moran.

High praise, but I could beginto believe.

Wed lunched that day with Scoutand Jack about a small, green knollaside the dark waters o the Crow WingRiver. The several parties o us. Guidesand guests. An amicable little occasion.Trading the mornings glories.

Beore, Act Two. Matinee, in the HubCap Cover. Rock and Lilly, the puppies,a waltz with woodcock. Anything goes.Bird! Bird! Whoom Whoom. Justun, eathers, rolic and riends. But nowthe drama would darken. The DevilsTriangle, a tangle o hazel so god-awul

clotted you had to slug through, hope ordaylight, light a match between. A bird ortwo, but Satan wanted your soul.

I remembered Steves saw aboutmean, gnarly places. You want to alldown. Youtry to all down. But its sodamn thick, you cant. So, there it is.

Finally, sunshine again. Act Three.

The Hayield Cover. An amicable wandero popple, hazel, and scarlet-stemmeddogwood, along the trace o an alala ield.

Scout or an encore, with Drummer,the dista lead, sturdy little grouse-woods type tri, ballerina throughthe woods. How they turn the birds.Drummer normally Jacks partner;they dance so well. Lookout, Jack. Sodoes Scout. Gable and Astaire. Point back. Bird! And again. Comes to earththe third woodcock, my limit bird.

Kevin collects two more.Who is this Scout ellow, anyhow?

Jack wants to know.

Curtain Call. Lounging aboutthe edge o the green hayeld,we salute the cast, celebratethe reverberating wonders

o the hunt. Around us, the sot light othe setting sun melts the aspen leaves,butters the ull moon climbing throughthe white trunks o the aspen trees,

sotens the diamond glint o the EveningStar. Just ahead o night, in the magic butmelancholy netherworld o twilight, woodducks traded to roost, bound or somebackwoods pothole. The echo o theirexodus, plaintive and lonely. Stillness.The day is spun, the play now done.

But gentle on my mind, here in thepromise o this new morning, on thehillside, by the little cairn.

They would rest here one day, Ithought, Scout, Drummer, and Jack.

From passionate root-stock rose thismodest place o the heart, and its premisehas never wavered. Steve Grossman wasbut a sophomore in high school, when heand his Grandpa sat down and designeda wildlie plan or the ancestral arm. Theold man knew the boy loved the arm.He had been raised up on it, wild andoutdoors. Had taped a twenty-gaugepump across the handles o his mini-biketo ride out hunting. Chasing grouse. Theold man knew the boy hoped some

day to so the plan. For i andwhen the old man had said.

Lie swept the boy on, but neveraway. A little English setter gyp taughthim pheasants. It lived in me orever, herecalls. Others taught him grouse. Therewere human mentors as well, Bob West atPurina, Jim Marti at Burnt Creek Setters,

who had bought Jet Train, rom theFruchey Ghost Train line, George Newtonat The Dakota Hunt Club. George let theboy train some dogs; word got around hewas turning out some pretty decent ones.

So Jim Marti sent him a couple tosee i he could handle setters. I was akid about twenty, Steve remembers,gured I could train anything. Notthe case, I ound. But what he didnd was a lie-long anity or setters.

Along then another love intervened.

In college, he met a home-state girlrom Thie River Falls, near AgazzizWildlie Reuge, where as a boyagain he had hunted geese with hisGrandpa. Had allen so in love withgeese, he cried at the very sound othem, every evening when at the endo the hunt they had to leave or home.

When I ound Gayle was rom ThieFalls, Steve admits, thats about all else ittook to all in love with her too.

Twenty-ve years in union now,

two ne sons to boot, Steve and GayleGrossman have built Little Moran,together, into the harbor o the heartan ardent raternity o grouse-huntingclients revere as Mecca. Because in 1984Steves dream arched. I and when had come. He and Gayle moved back,assumed management o the amily arm,adding a hundred-twenty acres to theoriginal two-hundred, including a smallstream called Little Moran. And out camethe plan he and his Grandpa had done.

We were newly married, Gayleremembers, o the beginnings, a lothappy, a little scared.

Steve wanted a hunt club. The onlything on the arm we had suitable tomake into a lodge was a chicken-house.Josh, our oldest, was a year old at thetime, a babe in arms. And here Steve was,shoveling chicken manure to makeway or a hunting lodge, and rom thedust and the stench he smiles up at us,and says Isnt this great?

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Shortly aterward, Jim Marti sent SteveShiner, another little setter gyp. Justa little orange and white ragamun, aamily dog the kids pulled on the sled,who turned to be a veritable cracker-jackon grouse. In 1986 Steve and Shinerstarted taking a ew club membershunting, and rom there evolved what

has become one o the premier setter,gun-dog kennels in the nation, and aguided grouse-hunting operation that hasearned a long-standing cadre o clientsso devout and loyal that Steve has neveradvertised but once. In the beginning,in this magazine were proud to say.

Today, Steve Grossman is aortyish man o moderate buildand midwestern stoicism, whocomplains o not having enough

butt to hold his chaps up, whose locus olie in practice and appearance intersectssomewhere between Robert DeNiroand Walter Matthau. His passion or dogsand cover birds burns like a peat re, hotand erce beneath the loam, suracing infaming pockets o exuberance at a greatnd, the escape o a wily old cockbird,the promise o a good brood year.

Gayles warm, indigenously cordial,pragmatic, attractive kind o a meltbetween the schoolmarm on Little House

On the Prairie and a midwestern highschool homecoming queen. She managesthe Club while Steves in the woods,keeps the guests happy, juggles ten thingsrom Sunday. A grand cook, especiallycreative with game, shes the imaginativeorce behind the great dinners at TheGranary, the Club-site restaurant.

Like the Swiss pheasant we hadenjoyed the second evening with TomWord, sons David and Scott, and SandyWilliams, their riend rom CottonPlant, Mississippi, who has ownership inthe Old Paul Rainey Place shades oTippah Farms, Er Shelley, Pioneer. Tomhas been coming grouse hunting here,unailingly, or seventeen years.

Its the way I keep track o my age,he says, when Ive been to Little Moran,Im a year older and a year younger.

A kind thing, pulling your boots o oan evening ater a grouse hunt, nothingmore necessary than your hunting duds,and gathering with kin, new and old. Just

guides, Steve, Gayle and guests, therearound that lovely-laden table, sharinggrouse tales. Good wine, good cheer, andalways, happy little vignettes about dogs.

We had a black-and-white setter oncenamed Double Fred, Steve said, causeyou always had to call, Fred! FRED!

The marvel o their tenacity.

Kate, Kevin explains. Two monthsago she had a C-section, actuallydied on the table. They massaged herheart, brought her barely back. Nowhere she is, knocking grouse cover.

The mystery o their mien. An oldgrouse-hunting riend died, Steveremarks, I was to deliver his eulogy.He had a big, beautiul black-and-white setter dog. I took the dog withme, to the church. They said theycouldnt let the dog into the church; it

was extraordinary and I said TomDuvall was no ordinary man.

So we went in, me and the dog,took a pew near the ront, while Iwaited to give my part o the eulogy.And others waited to give theirs.

When all o a moment, the setter litedhis muzzle, oered the most mournul yowlIve ever heard. Raised the hair o everyonethere, stopped the organist mid-key,brought tears to the whole congregation.

There was the aura o all this

this passionate couple, a amily arma hundred years along, two more boysto carry on, a Club so comortable asit should be, clients more like amily,the rhyme and romance o setters that anointed the hallowed little spoton the hillside where I stood this newmorning that made it honest.

But most o all, it had been Shiloh,Drummer and Jack, again, the eveningbeore. Who had consecrated in nal thissmall woodland totem o inspiration andincantations, who had peaked my yearningto stay, now that it was time to leave.

Just being so solidly and aithullywhat they are.

Shiloh, hard-going, rst-year dog,scratched and gouged ace-to-chest,bruised and bloody as a bare-knucklesbrawler never fagging, pointing birds juggernaut o courage and beauty.Drummer and Jack. Loosed last brace othe day, into the Road Grader Cover, bya beaver pond, two minutes down and

ast to grouse. Bird! and I had stoppedit in the blue-green boughs o a spruce,side o the path, as it sped or reedom.Drummer had brought the completingwonder o it to hold in my hand.

Every bird more beautiul than the last.Then the both o them, slamming-

to-stop ahead, in the dimming minutes

o day. Beepers beckoning. We thoughtthey had pointed one last time in thattight corner. We had hurried there, tond them backing each other, true tothe end. A promise or tomorrow, asupon the chilling air the ragrant breatho evergreen rose to mingle with thedank, musty spoor o the bog.

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he dogs of then, I thought,thedogs of now.

As ever there would be, I

hoped, and grouse, and menworthy o appreciating them. As longas there were these, thered be a LittleMoran, thered be such a sacred place,and no matter where else we would liveto be, always there would be a piece ous wanting our way back.

IF YOU WANT TO GOHad I to write this story in one word,

it would be genuine. Checked andweathered with character, truthul to intent

and integrity, humble and hospitable, LittleMoran exudes the grouse and woodcocklegacy. As its decades-loyal fock o clientswill arm. With, on average, only thirty-six days each season to hunt, prime-timeopenings are limited. But, like a lot o usaging hands, some o the original clientsare booking a ew less days. Nows anexcellent time to gain a niche.

The honesty o the grouse/woodcockcovers at Little Moran is not or everyone.Not all devilish, but oten trying. I yourheart beats to the tune o the Drummer,go once and youll go again.

Bird numbers were pleasing. Thefush-count Season Summary, justreceived or the 36-day, 2005 season,records an even 600 grouse and 901woodcock, both up rom 04.

Little Moran is just one o theDestinations o Distinction oered byMatt Gindor and the equally genuineolks at The Sporting Traveler 701-232-1965; www.thesportingtraveler.com.

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