South Dakota pheasant

I went pheasant hunting in South Dakota last weekend, leaving after work on Friday and driving the 6 hours to the ranch past Aberdeen. We stayed in the old farmhouse again, the one that seems to be a fly farm in its own right. Dead flies like spilled raisins on the floor under the windows. They seem to come from inside the house itself. There are not hoards of them outside, and no way that many could get in through the windows sealed with plastic anyway. The house wasn’t good enough to compete with the double wide that replaced it. The farmer resurrected the old farmhouse after many years of abandonment, emptying it of the accumulated junk of farm life to make it a place for the “paying hunters”. Never mind that the floors are not straight, none of the doors close fully or the fact that there is no longer a kitchen, it gives us a place to sleep in the vast pheasant habitat of this part of the world.

There are birds here. We see them on the horizon as they fly from our approach. We see at least hundreds over the course of two days. Educated about hunters now, after five weeks of being nearly constantly hunted, the birds run at the first sign of people. The four of us manage to shoot four of them the first day. We may have gotten close enough to shoot more of them, but the rain in the afternoon makes it hard to see into the wind that’s shrieking through the ventilated rib of the shotgun, and I can’t be sure. If I lived here I’d never hunt in this, but the distance from home and the amount I’ve paid for the privilege means my motivation to put up with it is high, and I try to make the most of the day, even after the rain thickens as the temperature drops and starts to sting the exposed parts of my skin. The fading light eventually forces the issue, and I head for dryness without a limit of birds.

Sunday dawns clear and cold, but the snow melts and the air warms to a perfect temperature by 10:00 am shooting time. The old dog loves this weather, cool enough to run a bit without panting. I didn’t know if he would jump into the truck again today, it took so much effort to pick his back half up off of his bed this morning. But he knows about the birds too, and makes the jump with enthusiasm.

We walk a standing corn field this morning, first thing. I normally hate corn, but this is less than head height, unlike the Iowa corn I grew up with. In Iowa, you can’t see over the corn, you can’t see the other hunters in or out of the corn, and you can’t see the birds fly to shoot them. You can see the birds run, clear down the other end of the rows, usually with even the well trained dog trailing them all the way. It’s just too enticing, even for a good dog, who usually only smells them. The only reason to walk standing corn in Iowa is to push the birds out of it over the posted hunters and into something you may be able to hunt them in. But here, a rooster flies and I hit it hard with my first shot. It drops “like a turd from a tall cow”, as my friend the lawyer from New York says. I don’t know where he picked that expression up, since he has to rent a car or take a plane to even see a cow, but he uses it naturally.

The old dog sprints over to where it fell and stands over it, knowing I will walk over and pick it up. He’s a mixed breed of uncertain parentage; he looks like a lab with golden retriever colored fur. He was picked up “for free” by my wife at an antique farm equipment show. He was described as the son of a Golden Retriever bitch and a Beagle. He was supposed to be small. He’s 85 lbs now, 5 pounds heaver than when he was in his prime, but not a fat dog. Dad had to be a Lab. I didn’t discover his nose or his talent for birds until late in his life. One spring he accidentally found a hen pheasant sitting on a clutch of eggs. She was in the unlikely place of an urban, weedy, empty industrial lot near my home, where I had let him off the leash to chase bunnies. He went back to that spot all summer, more interested in the bird smell than the rabbits. Inspired, I took him to the trap range and slowly exposed him to the sound of shotguns. By late summer I had him to the game farm and introduced him to his first dead bird. He never learned to like feathers in his mouth, and will only pick up a bird if it runs or if he might loose it to another dog. So, I walk over and pick this one up. My next dog will be a real hunting dog, he will find and retrieve the birds I shoot. But, I do not wish to hasten the day I replace this old dog.

On Sunday, I leave after two hours of hunting and one bird. There was a time when I would have never left without a limit and with more hours of hunting light. But, the two boys at home will get tucked in by their daddy tonight, and the old dog will be able to walk in the morning. I drive past snow further east. It’s three in the afternoon and it still mostly covers the ground. Maybe, with more snow and colder temps, the flow of hunters will slow. Maybe the birds will settle down and forget about people walking the fields. Maybe the old dog and me will get to come back one more time, and maybe we will shoot a limit of birds before sundown.