What we were trying to do seemed unlikely to happen. In the vast Northwoods of Maine, my buddies – a couple German shorthaired pointers – and I were going to try to find a couple of ruffed grouse. That alone was a challenge; the second challenge would be if I could actually hit one if we found one.

Still, the trip had begun even better than I’d hoped. I’d rented a camp on the shore of Ragged Lake, which is about a half hour north of Greenville. It was a much-detailed and well-designed camp built by Paul Depres, a paper-mill worker and wood carver.

The camp had no power, but Paul had rigged a large drum to gravity-feed water down to the sink; water was gathered from an old well up the road, pulled up from its shallow depth by a bucket. There were propane lights and range, plus a woodstove.

On Saturday, we did a short hunt with my dog Jamie, who’d turned six on the previous day. On Sunday – there’s also a ban on Sunday hunting in Maine – Paul and my friend Rich Cousins showed me around the area, and I formed a general plan. I would use the main roads for travel from spot to spot, and hunt from the side roads that were impassable to vehicles.

Suddenly it was Sunday afternoon and they were leaving. I was alone at a gorgeous camp in Maine, a happening I’d been anticipating for months. The next morning, the dogs woke me at five and I cooked a half pound of bacon and three eggs. I read by a gas lamp until it got light, then set off from camp with my youngest dog, Homer.

There was no shortage of places to hunt near the camp and I’d thought to start that way as I familiarized myself with the area. I had to focus of keeping Homer reined in close to me; he’d caught my attitude of eagerness. After about an hour, I saw Homer slow from canter to trot, raising his muzzle and I had my gun ready.

He stopped in what seemed to be an awkward point, his back humped a bit, his head low. And then I got closer and saw that his right back leg was in a leg-hold trap. I laid down the gun and rushed to him, and greatly scared, he tried to bite me a couple times.

Lucky for us, I have a couple friends who trap and knew how to open the trap. Then, and now, I hold absolutely no animosity toward that trapper – animals can be released unharmed from leg-hold traps. When Homer got out of the trap, he didn’t even limp, but I opted to return to camp and put him in a crate.

Later that day, about four miles from there, his dad Jamie pointed a grouse at the edge of a small clearing. We’d been moving downhill fairly steeply, on an old two-track grown-in road. Ahead of me Jamie had flashed into the type of point I just love; leaving skid marks. In just a moment or two the grouse flushed, moving right to left for me and coming to about eye-level due to the terrain. I shot when it was right across from me and elated, saw it drop in a thicket of whips.

It would have been hard to say who was happier. Jamie frisked to the retrieve and pounced when he arrived. He pranced to me and I whooped and hollered.

Later that day I hunted with Homer and was dismayed. The trap experience had changed his hunting style and he did little more than slowly trot, high-stepping and continuously returning to jump up on me.

I decided to get Jamie and let the two of them hunt together. The plan worked well and awfully – Homer soon forgot to be afraid and the two hoodlums were working cover like mad men.

Of course, they soon busted two grouse well out of shooting range. We pursued them and nearly got one, which I missed.

During the four days we hunted, we got three grouse and I missed five. I lost count of flushes. Homer did get a grouse of his own, late on a brutally-cold and windy afternoon.

Some might call getting away to a Maine camp “disconnecting” but for us it was “reconnecting.” I can’t ask the dogs their opinion but I’m fairly sure it’s unanimous – we want to return next year.