Pheasant Hunting

A Lesson in Retrieval

An early November storm left several inches of fresh snow coating the farmland and sagebrush country of Eastern Washington.  For my hunting buddy Emery and I, it was another excuse to go pheasant hunting.  We decided to hunt near Ellensburg, where a harvested wheat field abutted a stream containing cattails on slow moving stretches.  Numerous pheasant tracks imprinted in the fresh snow immediately confirmed that this area was a good choice for our hunt.  

Buck was a mix of golden lab and retriever; technically Emery’s dog. It had been an irritation to Emery that even though he spent the year feeding and caring for Buck, the dog seemed only to want to hunt for me. Just one year old, this had been the first hunting season for Buck. Emery’s dog training was impromptu. He believed if he owned a good hunting dog, its natural instincts would tell it what to do. Buck became interested in the tracks and followed their scent while racing far ahead of us into a patch of cattails. Several pheasants noisily escaped on the wing, exiting from the far end of the cattails. Buck returned to us excited with his hunt while we pondered our prospects of ever getting a shot.  

For lack of a better plan, we slowly trudged along the edge of the stream, while admiring a perfect, snow covered landscape.  After a short distance, a rooster lost its confidence in its ability to hide from us and erupted from snow covered cattails.  With a customary warning cackle, the rooster became airborne and began to fly across the stream.  My fortunate quick, long shot tumbled the bird into the brush on the far side of the stream.

Buck had been watching the show and instantly proved he was eager to help.  Easily navigating the stream with a strong bound and brief swim, he plowed into the far side cover.  After what sounded like a brief tussle, Buck began swimming back to us, with the bird firmly clenched in its mouth.  Halfway across the stream Buck suddenly stopped and began to chew on the bird.  Frantically Emery waved, yelled, swore and threw snowballs to get Buck to give us that bird.  Eventually Buck tired of the game, or got too cold standing there in the water. Buck wandered to shore with the pheasant, a little worse for wear, still in his mouth.  Emery administered brief impromptu training lessons with a few cuffs, more name calling, and classic angry stare.  Soon we were back to hunting.  

Buck followed behind us for a spell, and then, for no apparent reason, jumped into the stream, swam across to the far side, walked up the hill to a snow covered fence line, stuck his head into the snow, and emerged with a startled, live rooster pheasant. Buck returned to the stream, swam all the way across this time, walked right up to Emery, and presented him with a totally live, un-chewed bird.  

Buck eventually became a great hunter. He had good instincts.  There was a time though, in the middle of that stream, when we had our doubts.