Golden Hour
Well-known member
It was midday in late November. The temp was close to forty, not a cloud in the sky and a slight breeze came at us from the northeast. Things were lining up for Sage and I to push the ravine that runs through the cut corn into the wind without the godd@mn sun in my eyes. Finally. I can’t tell you how often the sun is in my eyes. It pisses me off.
Sage gets birdy and I see a few pheasants get up ahead of us. I keep watch and see that they land back down in the ravine close to the road. Awesome. Still on the land that I can hunt. I’m not sure if we spooked them or if they just got up to get closer to the road to pick gravel. To be honest, I don’t give a spit. Because I saw him. The bird known as RICK. Everyone (meaning Sage and I) has been drooling over this bird for a long time. By long time, I mean the last twenty seconds since we saw that group of birds get up and then land back down. You see, I’d been at a swim meet for my daughter earlier that day. Normally I’d have a bird or two in the vest by this point in time, but nope, not today. I was getting splashed and running a stopwatch instead of spraying BB’s and running after my dog. So here I am, trying to bust a cap before the sun sets on us. And RICK is about 300 yards ahead of me.
I’m super impatient to get up to where those pheasants landed because I know they won’t stick around for long. It’s a guessing game – do I keep hunting the ravine in the hopes that there may be more pheasants in the grass or do we hustle up to the spot I know has a bird? I’m just kidding. I never hope to find a pheasant when I know I can find one. Sage and I run. Well, it’s more of a fast waddle as I’ve got too many shells, a water bottle, can of chew and an ecollar remote bouncing around like Dolly Parton on a jog. After 11 seconds of this nonsense, I say f*(% it, and stop running, whisper yelling at Sage to stay close. Fortunately, my dog knows that I’ve got about 12 seconds of sprint mode in me and after that, the tank is empty. She obliges and keeps looking back at me, like she’s surprised I’m still there.
We are now about 60 yards from where the birds landed and about 80 yards from the road. The ravine is about thirty feet wide, so as long as I can push them up to the road, I’m going to get a shot. My knees start to shake as I think about how long I have really, really wanted to harvest the RICK. My buddies (meaning random pheasant hunters on the internet) will be totally jealous. Unless they shot more birds, then I’ll be jealous and this whole endeavor pointless. But I can’t think about that now.
At that moment, Sage gets birdy. She starts moving fast. I break into that stiff strut/waddle motion that I think resembles running to keep up. Then it happens – THE FLUSH! Hen! Hen! Hen! The anticipation is overwhelming. Again, my mind goes back to the history I have with the pheasant and to know he’s within gun range is such a surreal feeling.
Then it happens, twenty yards behind me I hear the noise. That unmistakable sound of wings pounding against the prairie sky, lifting RICK aloft like an angel on his way to heaven. I mutter some curse words as I guessed wrong where he’d flush. Fortunately I’m armed with a functioning semi-auto shotgun and some three inch deuces. I spin like a figure skater to face the rooster (I actually did a 540 degree spin, but I don't want to come across as a bragger so I keep that in the parentheses) and draw a bead. And time stops. It’s like an out of body experience. RICK in the air, Sage bounding toward him in anticipation that I might get lucky and knock him to the ground, and me, the quintessential hunter, the man who bailed early on his daughter’s swim meet to get here, for this moment in human history. Suddenly, the earth beings to spin again and RICK is putting distance between us. I squeeze the trigger.
Naturally, I miss on my first shot. I think I mentioned I was pretty stoked to have a chance at RICK, so keep your judgment to yourself. Plus, I’m pretty winded from running. I shoot again and this time, it feels right. RICK falls lifelessly to the ground. I spend the next twenty seconds in a euphoric bliss and Sage finds him and I have this bird in hand. A most worthy adversary. I look at his spurs. Oh. Spring of the year. Whatever. I turn to Sage and ask, “Think you can find another one??”
Merry Christmas my brothers and sisters in pheasants!!
I do not mean to minimize the metaphysical nature of pheasant hunting that so many of us experience, rather, I hope to mock the big buck hunters who have a seemingly unhealthy relationship with the deer they stalk and tell stories that seem to be more reflective of a college freshman trying to finish up his composition paper so he can get to a kegger than a selection from Walden’s Pond.
Sage gets birdy and I see a few pheasants get up ahead of us. I keep watch and see that they land back down in the ravine close to the road. Awesome. Still on the land that I can hunt. I’m not sure if we spooked them or if they just got up to get closer to the road to pick gravel. To be honest, I don’t give a spit. Because I saw him. The bird known as RICK. Everyone (meaning Sage and I) has been drooling over this bird for a long time. By long time, I mean the last twenty seconds since we saw that group of birds get up and then land back down. You see, I’d been at a swim meet for my daughter earlier that day. Normally I’d have a bird or two in the vest by this point in time, but nope, not today. I was getting splashed and running a stopwatch instead of spraying BB’s and running after my dog. So here I am, trying to bust a cap before the sun sets on us. And RICK is about 300 yards ahead of me.
I’m super impatient to get up to where those pheasants landed because I know they won’t stick around for long. It’s a guessing game – do I keep hunting the ravine in the hopes that there may be more pheasants in the grass or do we hustle up to the spot I know has a bird? I’m just kidding. I never hope to find a pheasant when I know I can find one. Sage and I run. Well, it’s more of a fast waddle as I’ve got too many shells, a water bottle, can of chew and an ecollar remote bouncing around like Dolly Parton on a jog. After 11 seconds of this nonsense, I say f*(% it, and stop running, whisper yelling at Sage to stay close. Fortunately, my dog knows that I’ve got about 12 seconds of sprint mode in me and after that, the tank is empty. She obliges and keeps looking back at me, like she’s surprised I’m still there.
We are now about 60 yards from where the birds landed and about 80 yards from the road. The ravine is about thirty feet wide, so as long as I can push them up to the road, I’m going to get a shot. My knees start to shake as I think about how long I have really, really wanted to harvest the RICK. My buddies (meaning random pheasant hunters on the internet) will be totally jealous. Unless they shot more birds, then I’ll be jealous and this whole endeavor pointless. But I can’t think about that now.
At that moment, Sage gets birdy. She starts moving fast. I break into that stiff strut/waddle motion that I think resembles running to keep up. Then it happens – THE FLUSH! Hen! Hen! Hen! The anticipation is overwhelming. Again, my mind goes back to the history I have with the pheasant and to know he’s within gun range is such a surreal feeling.
Then it happens, twenty yards behind me I hear the noise. That unmistakable sound of wings pounding against the prairie sky, lifting RICK aloft like an angel on his way to heaven. I mutter some curse words as I guessed wrong where he’d flush. Fortunately I’m armed with a functioning semi-auto shotgun and some three inch deuces. I spin like a figure skater to face the rooster (I actually did a 540 degree spin, but I don't want to come across as a bragger so I keep that in the parentheses) and draw a bead. And time stops. It’s like an out of body experience. RICK in the air, Sage bounding toward him in anticipation that I might get lucky and knock him to the ground, and me, the quintessential hunter, the man who bailed early on his daughter’s swim meet to get here, for this moment in human history. Suddenly, the earth beings to spin again and RICK is putting distance between us. I squeeze the trigger.
Naturally, I miss on my first shot. I think I mentioned I was pretty stoked to have a chance at RICK, so keep your judgment to yourself. Plus, I’m pretty winded from running. I shoot again and this time, it feels right. RICK falls lifelessly to the ground. I spend the next twenty seconds in a euphoric bliss and Sage finds him and I have this bird in hand. A most worthy adversary. I look at his spurs. Oh. Spring of the year. Whatever. I turn to Sage and ask, “Think you can find another one??”
Merry Christmas my brothers and sisters in pheasants!!
I do not mean to minimize the metaphysical nature of pheasant hunting that so many of us experience, rather, I hope to mock the big buck hunters who have a seemingly unhealthy relationship with the deer they stalk and tell stories that seem to be more reflective of a college freshman trying to finish up his composition paper so he can get to a kegger than a selection from Walden’s Pond.
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