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.
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