Pheasants Afield

It is a great feeling when the temperature begins to cool off and the crisp air fills your lungs in the morning. It is an even better feeling when you are standing in front of hundreds of acres laid out before you as you take your first steps out with shotgun in hand and a dog on point. Saturday marked the beginning of my favorite hunting season: pheasant. It is the combination of working side by side with a dog that makes bagging a bird all the more satisfying.

This year marked the beginning of a new era in my hunting life. My old trustworthy lab, Sam, past away in May and this was the first year that my dad's dog, Watson, would get the opening day start. He is only a year and half and very green. My dad did hunt him last year, but always had Sam to guide him. This year he was going in alone.

Suffice to say, Watson preformed wonderfully. Granted, it took nearly a half hour for him to drop below the speed of sound working the field, but when he did, he was just fine. He weaved between us and worked the thickets and acted as if he had already three years of experience under him. We were able to call him off the deer that he kicked up, and ignored the rabbits as they were flushed out.

The only part that was missing was a bird in the pouch. Watson could not seem to track down a single bird. I was getting anxious but my dad reassured me that Watson would get a bird up...if there were any in the area. However, Saturday's hunt ended with nothing to show for it.

Sunday was shaping up to be the same way. No birds up but we did not hear much shooting so we knew there just weren't any bird around. After lunch, my dad convinced me to try an area that we not never hunted that was closer to home. Small and surrounded by marsh and forest, the area was promising but limited in opportunities. We had reached the end of the hunt when I noticed that Watson was running like a madman. Running out of the thicket, into the long grass, back into the thicket. He was not acting "birdy" in any way that I had seen a dog before, but it has been a long time since I hunted over a green dog.

Suddenly a bob and jump in the long grass in front of me caught my eye and the iridescence of the back feathers of a rooster flashed by. A rooster was running through the weeds in between my dad and I. I shouted at dad to get back which froze the rooster, and as soon as dad was safely running away my 12 guage roared and the red hot pellets slammed into the bird. First bird of the season, in the bag.

Watson instinctively fetched the bird up and pranced his way to Dad (he was the one who trained him), proudly holding his prize up. High fives and a couple milk bones later, we returned home.

Man do I love pheasant hunting.