We ease our way up a small ridgeline in a tried-and-true cut one of those spots that has quietly produced birds year after year in the Pennsylvania Wilds. The air is damp, the leaves are slick, and the cover is just nasty enough to give a grouse the upper hand. It’s the kind of place where you don’t talk much; you just listen and trust the dogs. Fi, my veteran grouse dog, hits the edge of the ridge drop and slams into a point carved out of stone, right on the lip where the ground falls away. Jac