In the 40's and 50's my family would try to take a couple of days to go camping and fishing sometime during the summer. Often it would coincide with the summer rains that would come around the 4th of July and thoroughly wet down the farm's crops so that we could justify diverting the water into the reservoir that fed our home and ask a neighbor to milk the cows and feed the livestock. My dad's favorite place to camp and fish was Lost Canyon. The head was on the high slope of Hesperus Peak the tallest peak of the La Plata Mountain range. At over 14,000 feet it was majestic and we looked out on it every day from the front window of our home on Summit Ridge. Our farm was at 7,000 feet, 8 miles from the entrance of Mesa Verde Ntl. Park, 10 miles from Cortez, 8 miles from Dolores and about 12 miles from Mancos. On those fishing trips we camped on the rim of Lost Canyon and hiked about a mile and a half down into the canyon to the creek. On more than one occasion dad would watch for what he called "Mountain Chicken" to go to roost so that the next morning he could revisit their roosting spot with the single shot .22 to bring back a couple for breakfast. I remember them to be like fried chicken and about the size of the fried chicken Mom used to harvest on the farm. I now know they were high mountain Blue Grouse. They are protected now, and there is a season. I don't know if there was one back in the 40s or not. They seemed to be plentiful then. Of course Lost Canyon had not been logged, the road was dirt and it took us several hours to negotiate the unimproved road to get to where he camped.
In the story Coronado's Gold the four high school aged boys are camping and fishing during the same era that I remember as a kid.
In Coronado' Gold Cliff and Carl decide to treat their friends with a change from fish with fresh mountain chicken for breakfast.
Carl’s internal alarm woke him, and he woke Cliff. It was a half-hour before sunup. Dawn was beginning to lighten the meadow. The two boys hurriedly put on their shoes and took up their atlatls and spears. They loaded bone point darts onto two spears each and set out for the aspen grove. Carl’s photographic memory took them precisely to the spot where they had sat at dusk the night before. Cliff had learned to mark locations so that he could return to them, so they had it double covered. He was very impressed with Carl.
On the way, Cliff had whispered the plan. They would as quietly as possible sneak close to the tree or trees where the blue grouse were roosting. Cliff was pleased to see that Carl was taking note of how he was walking silently. After a few feet, Carl too was walking nearly as quietly.
Carl would point out the bird he would throw at and Cliff would do likewise. They would load a spear and have a second ready. If they missed on the first throw, they would throw a second. They would each try for one bird. That would provide enough meat for breakfast and leave the rest of the flock untouched.
At the tree they believed to be the roost, they found grouse roosting on three different branches about twenty feet up. They had to stand back to be able to throw at a comfortable angle. Their throw would be about 35 feet, easily within range.
They both took aim and threw at the same time. Cliff’s spear flew true. Carl’s flew on by. One bird tumbled from the branch. The other birds nervously danced on the branch but did not fly. Carl loaded his atlatl calmly, took aim a second time and threw. His bird tumbled from the branch.
“Good shot, Carl,” Cliff said slapping him on the back.
Cliff picked up both birds, bound their legs, cut their throats and hung them on a branch to bleed clean before they retrieved their spears. Both darts were still impaled in the partridges. The spears had fallen free.
"They carried the birds, the size of full grown hens, back to camp in time for a cup of freshly brewed coffee.
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