Pheasants: My Exotic Misconception

As I flip through magazines and scroll through websites I see an upland bird community that shares a fervor for hunting and the inevitable challenges that come with it. Men and women from New England to Oregon working hand in hand with friends and dogs to pursue birds in the depths of eastern hardwood forests and in the wheat fields of the mid-west. This community pursues upland bird species large and small but there is one, one bird that always seems to dominate the pages of these journals. A bird oddly enough that isn’t even native to our country but, as far as I can tell, no one seems to be complaining. This past week, I learned why.

For me, I’ve always looked at the pheasant as an exotic, a species that we fawn over and heavily manage and one which frankly, I just haven’t understood. Not that I don’t understand the bird itself, I mean, I understand that it wants to survive and reproduce, but what I have until this week failed to understand is why guys go so, forgive my language, bat-shit crazy over these things. I’ve never been to South Dakota but from the articles I’ve read you’d think these guys have pheasants on their minds from dawn till dusk. That everything else in their lives is secondary. It seems a little nuts if you ask me. But then again, I’ve only been pheasant hunting once before and while my cohort was successful in shooting down a rooster, I saw the event the same as any other hunt, nothing more and nothing less. So, having this in mind I headed out this week to try again and see what all the fuss was about.

Living in eastern Oregon there are few opportunities to hunt pheasants with the exception of the Ladd Marsh Wildlife Area. Nestled at the base of the Elkhorn’s the wildlife area claims to support a naturally reproducing population and as such, if you want to chase pheasants, it’s the place to go. I’ll admittedly say that I’ve been a little hesitant to hunt there in the past, somewhere along the way hearing that all their birds were farm-raised and released throughout the year. It was, in a sentence, a proposition which didn’t exactly appeal to me. However, after speaking with one of the fish and game staff biologists I learned that only once a year do they actually release birds and that is specifically for the early season youth hunt; the majority of the birds being shot or dying within a week or two, the typical farm-bird fate. So, feeling better about my venture, with a map in hand and some quick advice from their biologist, I headed out the door and went in search of my first pheasant.

The dog and I really couldn’t have asked for a better day. With a slow moving storm system looming overhead, the temperatures were cool and the winds, which are typically howling in that valley, were quite manageable. As I stepped out of the truck I only had a vague idea of how to approach these birds but I told myself to work the edges and let the dog go. I will also admit I was a little nervous, hoping that I would be able to identify roosters when they flushed up having gotten word that some males were still growing in their head plumage. But if I’ve learned anything, I knew if I was to be successful I would just have to trust my eyes.

Starting my walk it wasn’t long before I saw my first group of pheasants get up. They managed to fly off ahead of me into a “Safety Zone” but that was no matter, I was just happy to see some birds and as any hunter knows, seeing a few birds or a deer or a herd of elk makes all the difference in a day’s motivation. So I pushed forward, every minute loving the beautiful landscape, the Elkhorn’s to the west and the Wallowa’s to my east. With Farley running around I could very quickly see that he was focused, popping the occasional hen out of the grain fields, too far off to my dismay, but looking happy as could be. I knew we were onto something.

Farley performed beautifully, his tail indicating birds with precision, moving in on and busting up hens less than five yards in front of me. He seemed so focused. He was working like a machine, nose on the ground pushing forward at a pace like none I’d see before and I soon realized there were some distinct differences between this hunt and any hunt we’d done before. For most of our hunts we have been out in sagebrush, short grass environments where Farley has clearly been able to see far ahead of him. This of course has made deer and pronghorn likely fixtures for him but here, amongst these tall grains and grasses, the sight line was gone. And also absent from this hunt was what I have come to refer to as his kryptonite, jackrabbits. In turn, as I watched him early on I saw that without the other distractions he had only his nose to work off of and in these tall grasses with birds a plenty, I saw a bird dog I’ve never seen before; I loved it.

Within the first hour we had already seen over twenty hens and a lone rooster, each new flush teaching me something. I quickly learned that I couldn’t call to Farley as loudly; as far as I could tell, every time I did birds would launch out of some hiding spot way out ahead of me. I learned that this hunting would be lesson in speed walking; when the dog got on a trail he was a canine on a mission. I learned that I need not worry about identifying roosters as my eyes seemed to be trained just fine. I learned that pheasants, like feral pigs, make these sort of tunnels through the thickest vegetation in the middle of grass fields and underneath trees. I subsequently learned that my little dog, not known for his aggressive nature was, without hesitation thrusting himself into these dark abysses to find birds. And above all I was learning that pheasant hunting was muddy, aggressive, fast paced, and just some seriously good down home fun. This, I remind you, was all with the first hour.

Farley would end up tracking birds over great distances and I knew it was only a matter of time before I would have my chance. Oddly enough, that chance came about more by a bird’s confusion then anything I did. As I moved through a thick patch of chest high grasses a young rooster flushed up ahead at about 30 yards and as he began flying directly towards me I thought to myself, “Is this really happening?” But the question was fleeting and I shouldered my gun, pulled the trigger, and dropped my first bird. The excitement was tangible and Farley and I were happy to be kneeling next to my first pheasant, a beautiful young male.

 

The day would progress and Farley would continue to work me hard. So hard in fact that I had to stop him on multiple occasions to give my legs some rest. His pace was brisk, his pattern, methodical, and I was seeing a bird dog that had most certainly stepped out of the in-training stage to become a full on focused bird machine. Many times throughout the afternoon he worked himself into the thickest of grasses, tail moving furiously, and within seconds a hen would make her way out into the grey sky. Every time was fun to watch and every time my impression of pheasant hunting began to change.

I was able to bag two quail along my walk but it was at the end of the day that I reinforced two lessons that define the Haines Hunters and perhaps many other hunters out there: don’t stop hunting until you are at the truck and follow your bird after the shot. This proved truer than ever as the clouds darkened.

With nearly seven hours under my belt and less than 200 yards to my truck I broke one of those important rules and threw my gun over my shoulder. Although it was still loaded I knew, just as any other bird hunter knows, that shouldered guns don’t kill birds. And as fate would have it, the little dog, working his tail off until the day’s end, busted an adult rooster out from a small tree thicket, just out of sight. As I looked up the rooster was well overhead, almost directly above me and throwing my gun back into my hands I looked down my ribbing and shot. The bird however, kept going, and learning from my experiences earlier in the day, I ran out to see where he was going. I had learned at this point that while pheasants flush hard they don’t flush particularly far. As such I tried to spot where the rooster landed and having a good touch down point in mind I called the dog over, praised him, and quickly set off in pursuit.

Moving into tree line I had marked in my head I began to weave back and forth, waiting for that inevitable eruption from the grasses but the eruption that I heard would end up being that of a very different kind. As I turned over towards a large commotion in the brush I looked down to see none other than Farley backpedaling out of a thicket with the rooster in his mouth. “Holy shit, my dog just caught a pheasant”, I thought to myself!  And wanting to quickly reward him I reached over to take the still live bird and finished it off. I was ecstatic! Did that just happen? And that enthusiasm would continue upon inspection of the bird.

As I looked the bird over I realized that the reason my dog had been able to catch him was that I had broken his leg when I shot and in that moment, I very simply reinforced my two basic lessons. I reinforced that putting the gun over your shoulder has never made anyone in history a more effective bird hunter and it reinforced that all the work and time the little dog and I have put in has been worth it. It also reinforced that if I hadn’t run to see where the bird landed I never would have known where to go and if not for the dog I might have walked right past him without ever knowing he was there. That type of partnership is why we go out.

At the end of the afternoon perhaps the most important thing I took away was that my views on pheasant hunting have changed dramatically. Pheasant hunting is challenging, it’s hard work, it’s dirty, and it’s definitely fun. I came home from that hunt smiling ear to ear and the dog, completely exhausted, was instantly asleep on the drive home. I had bagged two roosters and a couple quail, the collective providing me with arguably the most fun I have ever had on a bird hunt. Overall I saw over 30 pheasants and simply put, it was just damn exciting.

I drove away from that hunt with nothing but great memories and as I sit here tonight I have birds in the cooler and a chance to let my legs recover. With fresh snow falling outside I can’t imagine that this day could have gotten any better and now I, like many South Dakotans, go to bed not counting sheep but counting pheasants.

 

 

Drought, Birds, and Money

Working my way through one of my favorite bird hunting spots I felt that somehow this year was different. That unlike the previous years birds were not flushing up from their usual hangouts and that despite my best efforts to find new sign I was coming up empty. Even the brown dog, jumping out of the truck as if he’d just sucked down one of those high energy drinks, was soon looking at me as if to say, “Hey, where the hell are all the birds?” Beginning to ask myself the same question I bent over to look at the ground and as I examined the grasses I started to realize that my fears from the summer were coming to fruition. That the birds, along with the moisture, had gone away some time ago.

The drought and dry season that devastated the entire Midwest and extended itself over into Oregon was now showing its colors. It had first played a role in my deer season and I could now see that it was taking a hold of my bird seasons. Not a good sign. Oddly enough, before this past month the effects of the dry seasons were only seen in small doses. Living so close to the mountains and having reliable river flows through our county this area was kept under the relative cloak of normalcy. Only our fire conditions mimicked the Midwest which, in and of itself caused many difficulties. But now, as I’ve headed out to bird hunt and enjoy my fall I’ve found myself seeing what the lack of rains really did to our rangeland.

It has been several weeks since our opening weekend and I have had little to no luck on either of my outings. With such success on my grouse hunts earlier this fall I had the silly notion that I would pick up right where I left off last year. Wrong. As I walked around on opening day I saw not only a plethora of hunters out which was odd, but also a very different landscape than the previous year. A landscape, that due to job and financial difficulties for me, I had not been out to in some while.

Walking the landscape I could see the damage our rangeland had to endure. A lack of water not only stressed our native grasses but the invasive weeds that intermingle their way through our countryside had taken full advantage of the stress; finding a way to survive where others could not. And while there were many native grasses that did make it through the season, much of the green sprouts utilized by upland birds at this time of year were nowhere to be found. It was in a word, depressing.

To top it off I can only imagine the strain young broods will have likely had to endure and while I really have nothing but my general knowledge to go off of, I would assume this was a tougher year than normal. On the other hand, that does not mean that every brood was decimated. There are very likely other broods that did succeed and as such, I believe that given the right landscape and conditions, there are most certainly areas out there holding the birds that I seek. Now the challenge becomes finding those areas, evaluating the habitat, and changing my search parameters.

If there is one thing I have prided myself in over the years it’s my ability to find those areas. To bounce from here to there and begin to cue in on the smaller things in life, or in this case, a bird’s habitat. But this year I find myself in the other unfortunate position of being squeezed by money troubles harder than I have ever been squeezed before and in a time when I should have put in at least half a dozen hunting days in I have been limited to two, having but one bird to show for it.

Part of hunting is getting out, exploring new locations, and marking them down on your map for future reference. Sort of a way to create a running tally of birds seen during which months so that heading into the next season, that same map, posted up on your wall, gives you detailed information about what you saw and where. And while I am still young and remember most of these things off the top of my head I know and understand that it will not always be that way. So, by developing this habit now I may in fact provide myself with some discipline later on in life…or at least one would hope.

However, as I mentioned, money troubles have made life difficult for me and this means that from here on out my decisions will have to be much more map based as opposed to driving around and looking at the area with my own eyes. Not really the best way to do business but, that’s just the way it is.

I will concede however that some of these spots did not really heat up for me until the first week in November and we are admittedly, a few weeks away from those days. So I keep up hope and face the upcoming challenges with excitement and trepidation, never really knowing what I’ll find myself in should I arrive at a new spot. But on the bright side, this is how we learn, how we find those spots that no one else has tried and as the markups on your maps continue to grow we know that when another dry season comes around, our chances of early success will be improved.

When all is said and done I welcome the challenge and with a full season of grouse hunting already under my belt I don’t feel quite as pressed to be out every day. However, soon enough, with the fall winds blowing in from the north, I’ll have to begin sacrificing home needs for gas and practical life purchases for shotshells. A tough move but above all, I consider myself a bird hunter and I can’t let a little thing like money get in the way of me and the dog getting out into the sagebrush.

Perhaps that’s wishful thinking. Even optimistic. Glass half full. Ah, I’ll keep telling myself that.

Deer Disappointment on Mt. Emily

With the dust kicking up behind the truck and our campsite in my rearview mirror I began my descent down Mt. Emily. The hour drive home ahead of me, all I could do now was turn on the radio and reflect on the weight and disappointment of not bringing back my first deer. I had pushed up the mountain with hopes beyond words and dreamed of my encounter in the early morning mist. I had thought many nights about how the weekend would unfold but, as it goes and as the name implies, hunting is never easy and alas, I left with nothing and everything.

For me, what I’ve wanted really above all else, beyond taking the shot, is to have the opportunity to put an animal on the ground and clean that animal with Mike or James. I’ve wanted to experience that, learn from it, and commit those images to memory. I’ve wanted it so that I can take those mental pictures with me down the road that is my hunting life, building a foundation for years to come. I can still remember our trip to Montana when Mike first showed me how to field dress an upland bird. It was spell-binding watching his knife move with ease and efficiency and since that time I have cleaned every bird in the exact same way; all the while having others telling tell me that it’s easier to do it like this or maneuver it like that. But I’ll take the words and movements of a wily, weathered bird hunter over theirs any day.

Speaking with James in my driveway this past weekend I realized that what I wanted was not so far from what he himself had wanted many years ago, traveling with Mike into deep drainages and over high mountains to get the very same experience. To learn from a man who had done it his entire life and to pick up on the minute details that can only be taught out in the woods. And as the world turns James would eventually experience this for himself but he also, as mentioned in the past, took the initiative and found a way to do it without Mike’s help. He found a will to push himself and a way to put together the collective knowledge he had to get the job done. It seems for me that this was not my season, not quite my time, but with a little luck I will live many years into the future. I will walk this earth and walk out into the mist of many more cold, early mornings and with those years will come many other chances to shoot a deer, more chances to learn the process first hand.

I should note that despite warm weather and some long days with deer seemingly taking the form of ghosts, I was privy to one of the wonders of our eastern Oregon forests and that was to see bull elk in all their magnificence, bugling across the mountain, with antlers growing to incredible lengths. It was something I had never heard or seen before outside of an elk farm or feed site, and they were simply put, spectacular.

On the second day of hunting I had seen my first big bull smash out from a thicket deep in the canyon below me and as he rose onto the adjacent hillside I could see his massive weight carry over the hill. In seconds, with an amount of ease and power we as humans will never know, he was gone. But it was during my fourth day on the mountain that I got my first real up close encounter with a bull and I can tell you as I sit here today, I was not disappointed:

With a momentary pause above the vast drainage I could hear an elk bugling far below. His call was deep yet crisp and I could tell from the volume he was some distance off. Standing there, the canyon seemed to act almost like a channel to funnel the sound, playing like a melody to my awaiting ears. I listened for several minutes and the call continued, uninhibited and unrivaled. Unable to force myself to move on I stood still, gazing out over the trees but then, like written in a novel, I heard a loud bugle ring out and this time, it was much closer. As my head snapped to attention I could just see a shape through the trees. I squinted to adjust my eyes and then, across the drainage, with the morning light exposing his silhouette, I found myself closer to a bull elk than I had ever been before.

The shades of brown across his body were deeply defined by his muscles and pure size, forming the image of a forest giant. His antlers were long and traveled the length of his back, sporting many tines, branching out above his body. They were also shades of brown, painted together with auburn, chestnut, chocolate and tan. As he reared his head back  and let out another loud bugle I could see what it was he had his eye on. A group of cows were making their way down a trail in front of him and I could begin to see the scene unfold. Following in their tracks, like any bull would, he was not long to follow and as he bugled again I watched the dance play out with great joy. I could hear the thunderous stomp of his hooves on the ground and while I could not feel the actual vibration below me, the sounds were enough to make me feel as if I was standing right next to him. He pushed down the game trail in quick pursuit and it was then that all my other cares were lifted and I remembered distinctly why I had travelled to this place.

Hunting and being successful brings one great joy. It is the culmination of practice and hard work but success, as many before me have clearly said, it not the only reason we hunt. I saw a scene unfurl before my eyes that I would never had witnessed had I been home on my couch. I saw a monster buck disappear into the woods on our first day out that I would have never known was there and would go on to put in hiking days from sunrise to sunset, pushing myself to the extremes of fatigue. I may not have had the opportunity to sit next to a deer with James and field dress the animal but I enjoyed myself. I walked the woods in search of deer and for the many out there who droves their vehicles up and down the roads hoping to shoot something from the hood of their truck, my experience meant that much more. And in the end they may have brought home a deer and a story but I was able to bring home a memory. Hopefully someday, with more seasons underneath my belt, I’ll bring home both.