My father, my GSP Bruno, and I hunted in Cheboygan and Presque Isle Counties today. I shot one ruffed grouse during our brief hunt in Cheboygan County on which Bruno made an excellent retrieve to hand. Then I took my dad to one of my favorite coverts in Presque Isle County. Upon cresting a ridge that overlooked a large pond, a single ruffed grouse launched from a lone pine tree at the pond's edge and flew straight away over the pond. I shot the bird which splash-landed 40+ yards away in the middle of the pond and quickly sent Bruno to retrieve it. I knew immediately that this was going to be a difficult retrieve for Bruno--the approach to the pond's water edge was extremely marshy with spots of open water, lots of swamp muck, short swamp berry bushes, and at times thick marsh grass. Bruno broke though these obstacles like he was an amphibious tank, then leaped into the pond water, and swam another 25 yards to pick up the grouse that floated atop the pond. I decided that I would give my 1.75-year-old GSP a hand and tried with much difficulty to walk via a different route than Bruno had taken atop the boggy marsh vegetation to meet Bruno at the water's edge as he turned to swim back with grouse in mouth. But three quarters of the way to the pond's water edge, I lost my footing as I placed my left boot on top of what I thought was a small firmly-anchored grassy hillock. That grassy knoll suddenly squirted from under my foot across the surface of what was actually a small partially-hidden quicksand area, and I went straight down to my armpits in quicksand before my lightning-fast reaction--placing my 20 gauge o/u shotgun abreast crosswise--caught some nearby vegetation and saved me from disappearing for good. I couldn't touch any bottom, but fortunately I stabilized my position. My 75-year-old father had watched all this happen from the ridge above and yelled encouragement to hold on and that he was going get some rope in my truck to rescue me. I yelled back, "Don't come down! I'm OK. Where's Bruno?" All I could think of was the safety of my dog for I could no longer see or hear him swim. Despite my calling to Bruno and getting no response, I sensed that he was near but in peril. I threw my 20 gauge o/u shotgun back toward shore atop some thick swamp vegetation, grasped bush branches within reach, and carefully crawled on my stomach atop the swamp vegetation toward the pond water's edge to locate my dog. When I saw Bruno, grouse still in his mouth, he was stuck up to his shoulders in quicksand, wide-eyed and whining gently to be rescued. He was sinking fast and couldn't free himself from the muck. With a sudden burst of adrenaline, I surged toward him across the remaining swamp vegetation, reached out with my right hand while hanging on for both our lives with my left hand to a nearby pencil-thin bush branch, and pulled him out from his now neck-deep muck predicament. I grabbed the muddy grouse from his mouth, tossed it toward shore, retrieved my shotgun, then followed him to a shoreline that had firm footing. There we washed the quicksand and muck from our coat and clothing. We were wet, exhausted, and lucky to be alive! Whew, what a day afield bird hunting!
