Favorite Pheasant Hunts
Noisy wing beats and a surprise cackle of a bright cock pheasant nearly takes my breath away, even though the process has been repeated for me a hundred times or more.
I have selectively chased these colorful birds in hunts spanning fifty years. The taking of an especially difficult bird under challenging circumstances make certain hunts special. When visions of timely mastering the challenges flood back to me, I relax, smile, and pause to relive those exciting times again. Following are highlights of hunts that have multiple replays in my memory, like enjoying a favorite song. Hopefully my words will capture the emotion of the hunt and allow you to experience the thrill of this pursuit of pheasant with me.
It has surprised me to discover that favorite hunts remembered are not where birds flushed frequently and success was measured by the weight of my game pouch. It has been the taking of a single bird following a long day’s hunt when I am best able to savor the hunt with feeling of accomplishment. These are the hunts that allow me to feel like a true hunter, rather than just an adequate shot.
Nearly exhausted, I was ready to quit after hunting in vain for several hours without a dog. Tediously exploring heavy cover growing along the side of an irrigation ditch near Prosser became interesting when a faint rustle in tall grass caught my attention. As I moved towards the sound, a large rooster erupted scolding me with furious wing beats and warning cackle. Once I regained my composure, my aim was true, but my shot felled the bird in the middle of a deep pond. There was brief convulsing by the rooster on the surface and then, to my amazement, it sank from view to the bottom of the pond. Not willing to give up easily after all my effort, I removed my clothing and carefully waded into the shoulder deep pond towards where I had marked the bird. Tail feathers rising from the bottom when lifted produced my pheasant. That rooster weighed five pounds, the largest I have ever taken.
A few days after a brief November snow storm, I began following faded pheasant tracks through eastern Washington sagebrush. Tracking conditions were difficult with crust in many areas obliterating imprints. Anticipating the bird’s path, I forged ahead, picking up the trail again where the snow softened. After two hours of following the same track, the images became fresher. Tracks had shown my bird feeding, casually strolling, and then sprinting through the snow as he sensed my presence. When I neared a thick patch of sage, the bird took flight. It took a long distance shot where a single pellet to the head brought the large cock down. After all the lengthy tracking involved, I felt that I had come to know this bird.
My wife Linda joined me for a day long hunt on a private farm in South Dakota late in their season. The farm had once held birds, but it had now been hunted for a few weeks and remaining birds were scarce and smart. For two hours the farmer joined us, but the remainder of the day we hunted his fields by ourselves without the aid of a dog. The day was pleasant as was the scenery on his vast farm. Deer and antelope continuously bounded away from us as we explored ditch banks, sunflower fields, orchards and fence rows. Near the end of our endurance, a lone rooster took flight far ahead of us. One long shot brought the bird down.
