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 didnīt 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 didnīt 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,...
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