Kismet
UPH Guru
Young Bert, the not-right dog almost always contributed to his legend.
He and I went over to a farmette with boggy land near a soybean field that had been harvested. It was windy as hell and had been about 30 degrees the night before.
Walked to hell and back. Saw nothing. We were finishing our loop through the bog when YB got birdy. He went through the thicket and I went around. Well, almost around.
There's nothing quite like the feel of your leg sinking into water, then mud, then muck all the way up to your crotch. Cold water. (Did I mention the previous night's temps?) I had 16in rubber boots on. I was in 32 inch water/mud/mire--the kind that will pull your boot right off as you attempt to lift your leg up. I arched my foot to keep the boot on and spread myself down to leverage my leg out of the goop. Seemed to take forever, but finally got it out, and hopped over to some grassy hummocks in the marsh.
It was then that a hen pheasant flushed to my left and crossed diagonally in front of me. Startled me, but hens are not legal, so...no worries. I was wiping off the gun (The birds are getting moved around, so I had the 12ga, single shot, Hercules 30in, Full), when a rooster YES! A ROOSTER flushed a little further than the spot from which the hen had flushed.
With remarkable presence of mind (I think), I brought the goopy gun up and fired at the rapidly receding bird. I saw YB tear off in that direction, and while I thought I'd shot behind the bird, there was a chance that he was hit and going to glide down beyond some scrub trees.
I sat down on some dry ground and tried to get the boot off. The suction from the water, socks and jeans was incredible. There is a methane smell to a bog. I was wringing the socks out in the COLD, and heard YB's collar bells still ringing every now and then. Finally got the cold socks on, then drained the boot, then re-shod myself. Still frigid footed, but improving.
I called for YB. I was done. I yelled again. One last time.
Jingle bells....I saw him, loping around bushes with something in his mouth.
Well, well, well. Maybe I was a better instinctive shot than I thought. At least there would be some pheasant at the end of this stinky icky boggy yucky gonna-kill-me nightmare.
With a benign indifference, Bert trotted up to me and lay his retrieve in front of me:
A beautifully formed, completely unshot, absolutely illegal hen pheasant.
jaysus. He must have run over it when he was chasing the rooster and grabbed it before it could escape the brush cover it was in.
Yes, I cleaned and skinned it. No, I did not take it home. I gave it as a thank-you gift to the guy who lets me hunt there.
He didn't ask the gender of the bird, and I didn't offer the information.
That dog, or that bog, is gonna be the death of me.
He and I went over to a farmette with boggy land near a soybean field that had been harvested. It was windy as hell and had been about 30 degrees the night before.
Walked to hell and back. Saw nothing. We were finishing our loop through the bog when YB got birdy. He went through the thicket and I went around. Well, almost around.
There's nothing quite like the feel of your leg sinking into water, then mud, then muck all the way up to your crotch. Cold water. (Did I mention the previous night's temps?) I had 16in rubber boots on. I was in 32 inch water/mud/mire--the kind that will pull your boot right off as you attempt to lift your leg up. I arched my foot to keep the boot on and spread myself down to leverage my leg out of the goop. Seemed to take forever, but finally got it out, and hopped over to some grassy hummocks in the marsh.
It was then that a hen pheasant flushed to my left and crossed diagonally in front of me. Startled me, but hens are not legal, so...no worries. I was wiping off the gun (The birds are getting moved around, so I had the 12ga, single shot, Hercules 30in, Full), when a rooster YES! A ROOSTER flushed a little further than the spot from which the hen had flushed.
With remarkable presence of mind (I think), I brought the goopy gun up and fired at the rapidly receding bird. I saw YB tear off in that direction, and while I thought I'd shot behind the bird, there was a chance that he was hit and going to glide down beyond some scrub trees.
I sat down on some dry ground and tried to get the boot off. The suction from the water, socks and jeans was incredible. There is a methane smell to a bog. I was wringing the socks out in the COLD, and heard YB's collar bells still ringing every now and then. Finally got the cold socks on, then drained the boot, then re-shod myself. Still frigid footed, but improving.
I called for YB. I was done. I yelled again. One last time.
Jingle bells....I saw him, loping around bushes with something in his mouth.
Well, well, well. Maybe I was a better instinctive shot than I thought. At least there would be some pheasant at the end of this stinky icky boggy yucky gonna-kill-me nightmare.
With a benign indifference, Bert trotted up to me and lay his retrieve in front of me:
A beautifully formed, completely unshot, absolutely illegal hen pheasant.
jaysus. He must have run over it when he was chasing the rooster and grabbed it before it could escape the brush cover it was in.
Yes, I cleaned and skinned it. No, I did not take it home. I gave it as a thank-you gift to the guy who lets me hunt there.
He didn't ask the gender of the bird, and I didn't offer the information.
That dog, or that bog, is gonna be the death of me.
