Bob Peters
Well-known member
I had to work a late night, then help a buddy with mechanical problems; wrenches turned, bearings cleaned, lubed and fixed, he's all good to go. Now at home sucking down cold suds my mind goes where it always does, thoughts of days afield with dogs chasing birds high and low. Through thinnest hilltop grass, down to lowest of swales, bluestem, cattails, phragmites and cane breaks over my head. I never questioned any of it. In earlier years, sure. At this stage in the game, I've learned that when nose sniffs above shoulders, then glues to ground, if I want a chance at the crack of nitro with a bead on a roosters neck I better keep up with that pretty shock of fur hurrying through the cover with a fiendish intensity. I've never rode a buckin' bronc in the rodeo, but I have ran full steam ahead after a bird crazy flusher. I'm not saying the two can compare, but I am sayin' one wants the end result much more than the other.
If you've only chased birds out the back door or you've driven 'round hells half acre, I don't think there's a difference. Seeing a dog, one that you know well, run and strive and chase to put up a bird to the gun is something in my short time round this earth can't be equaled much. The season started before I realized and ended even quicker. I remember heading to the great plains and seeing more birds than I knew existed. I can't forget Roxy, still a young dog, never losing confidence and carrying me through those four days, flushing and finding a limit of grouse. I still see her playfully running through a cattle pond multiple times, then looking at me with an expression that said, "Why so tense boss?" I saw and listened. Relaxed. We shot our limit that day and every day of our trip. There's a lot you can learn from a dog. And there was Skye in South Dakota. Lollygagging maybe? No. Confident in herself she worked slowly until she hit the scent of a pheasant, then in movement so feverish she layed out everything she had to put up a rooster for me. I've got no stage fright hunting with buddies, but I cringe when I miss one the dog worked so hard to put up. Humans be damned, the dog is the one I dread to disappoint. But there are things beyond hunting. Seeing the horizon open before me on the national grasslands, words can't explain that. Or driving back to our rental house in SD in January. Intentionally lost on backroads, up through some hills I think were the Coteau des Prairies, we came down from the plateau to a breathtaking view of the plain below. Hayfields, farms, open sky all in front of us, me and my buddy were speechless. Somehow we'd come down from the hills to a heavenly prairie that couldn't be imagined. He stopped the truck so we could snap a few photos that are woefully inadequate of the scene we had witness to.
Lastly, I've an image in my mind, hunting with Skye in southern MN. The cover is thinner, the birds less, than many places we've been in SD, IA, Western MN. This is not lost on me, but as for the dog, she hunts as hard and thorough regardless of state boundaries or covers placed in. I have a special memory from the season recently past. We walked a fence-line thinned by snow in late season. I'd about given up hope, and figured Skye had too. But suddenly she leapt into the thin brush and grass, staring intently. I paused, realizing she's not one to bluff. When that rooster ran and flushed under her intense gaze I raised the gun and dropped him with a lucky shot. I'll never forget that. Mainly the dog. I told her "good girl" and said a silent than you to my grandpa, gone five years, who grew up and lived across the road. I had no sense of glory, only hoping that a future generation could appreciate what it is to pheasant hunt. Also knowing what it means to me and to Skye to be out there chasing the few wild birds that remain. I wish I could talk to my grandpa one more time. Ask him about that old Browning Superposed he carried. Ask him about the covers he hunted, and maybe I've hunted them too? And more than anything to tell him about Skye, how that old field bred golden retriever had found and retrieved the birds I was lucky enough to shoot.
I apologize to those of you who had to read this fairytale. Perhaps I romanticize pheasant hunting? Yes surely so, for it is something I can never seem to get out of my mind. All I can say is everything written is true. Pheasant hunting is something that once in my blood will never leave. The dogs I've hunted with never will be forgotten from my mind. Birds shot, covers seen, wide open plains, prairies, wetlands, what more could you want? Dogs, tails wagging, excitedly carrying back a heavy bird. Expectant eyes brown as an autumn field, I can't think of anything better. Best of luck to all this coming season. Signing out, Bob.
If you've only chased birds out the back door or you've driven 'round hells half acre, I don't think there's a difference. Seeing a dog, one that you know well, run and strive and chase to put up a bird to the gun is something in my short time round this earth can't be equaled much. The season started before I realized and ended even quicker. I remember heading to the great plains and seeing more birds than I knew existed. I can't forget Roxy, still a young dog, never losing confidence and carrying me through those four days, flushing and finding a limit of grouse. I still see her playfully running through a cattle pond multiple times, then looking at me with an expression that said, "Why so tense boss?" I saw and listened. Relaxed. We shot our limit that day and every day of our trip. There's a lot you can learn from a dog. And there was Skye in South Dakota. Lollygagging maybe? No. Confident in herself she worked slowly until she hit the scent of a pheasant, then in movement so feverish she layed out everything she had to put up a rooster for me. I've got no stage fright hunting with buddies, but I cringe when I miss one the dog worked so hard to put up. Humans be damned, the dog is the one I dread to disappoint. But there are things beyond hunting. Seeing the horizon open before me on the national grasslands, words can't explain that. Or driving back to our rental house in SD in January. Intentionally lost on backroads, up through some hills I think were the Coteau des Prairies, we came down from the plateau to a breathtaking view of the plain below. Hayfields, farms, open sky all in front of us, me and my buddy were speechless. Somehow we'd come down from the hills to a heavenly prairie that couldn't be imagined. He stopped the truck so we could snap a few photos that are woefully inadequate of the scene we had witness to.
Lastly, I've an image in my mind, hunting with Skye in southern MN. The cover is thinner, the birds less, than many places we've been in SD, IA, Western MN. This is not lost on me, but as for the dog, she hunts as hard and thorough regardless of state boundaries or covers placed in. I have a special memory from the season recently past. We walked a fence-line thinned by snow in late season. I'd about given up hope, and figured Skye had too. But suddenly she leapt into the thin brush and grass, staring intently. I paused, realizing she's not one to bluff. When that rooster ran and flushed under her intense gaze I raised the gun and dropped him with a lucky shot. I'll never forget that. Mainly the dog. I told her "good girl" and said a silent than you to my grandpa, gone five years, who grew up and lived across the road. I had no sense of glory, only hoping that a future generation could appreciate what it is to pheasant hunt. Also knowing what it means to me and to Skye to be out there chasing the few wild birds that remain. I wish I could talk to my grandpa one more time. Ask him about that old Browning Superposed he carried. Ask him about the covers he hunted, and maybe I've hunted them too? And more than anything to tell him about Skye, how that old field bred golden retriever had found and retrieved the birds I was lucky enough to shoot.
I apologize to those of you who had to read this fairytale. Perhaps I romanticize pheasant hunting? Yes surely so, for it is something I can never seem to get out of my mind. All I can say is everything written is true. Pheasant hunting is something that once in my blood will never leave. The dogs I've hunted with never will be forgotten from my mind. Birds shot, covers seen, wide open plains, prairies, wetlands, what more could you want? Dogs, tails wagging, excitedly carrying back a heavy bird. Expectant eyes brown as an autumn field, I can't think of anything better. Best of luck to all this coming season. Signing out, Bob.
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