I have access to a great spot for pheasants, even this year, and it’s only about 15 minutes from my house. It’s the kind of place you don’t take lightly because access only comes from a very deep friendship with three generations of the same family. That they probably like my old Lab, Hank, as well as me certainly helps.
Since this family hunts deer on the same lands means I can’t access the dense CRP fields and food plots until the last of the doe seasons is over. No problem, January has always been my favorite month for hunting pheasants.
The long-awaited first hunt in the fields happened this morning, and I knew it wouldn’t last long. Hank’s about 13, and dense grass saps his energy fast. I figured he’d have an hour’s worth of power at best, especially with the warm temperatures and heavy winds.
All through the weeks of anticipating the trip I figured I’d be caring my Ruger over/under shotgun, which brought an end to hundreds of pheasants and quail before I became hooked on waterfowl hunting. But when I went to get it, I noticed another gun. It’s an ancient Remington 1100 semi-automatic with a cheap camo paint job.
It was my father’s pheasant gun up until he died in 1997. Jerrod shot it for waterfowl for a few weeks, hence the paint, before he moved on to a magnum model. Back in the early 1980s I’d carried the shotgun several times when dad wasn’t along. It’s still the only gun with which I’ve shot a limit of four wild roosters, with three shots, while standing in one spot.
When I lifted the gun for the first time in years last night it felt good, and snapping it to my shoulder it pointed exactly where I was looking. I left the Ruger at home.
The landowners had recently seen up to about 40 pheasants in just one part of the place, so I figured we would see birds. Indeed, two roosters and a hen crossed the road at the property’s edge as I drove up.
The land is a 1960′s mix of well-managed prairie grass with a lot of forbs. The fields are framed with brushy fencelines with nice plum thickets and just the right amount of cedar trees.
Hank and I looped around to get the heavy wind in our face and when the food plots were empty of birds we waded into the grass…but not very far.
I think 18 or 20 pheasants erupted from the grass a few yards in front of the dog. As usual, the illegal hens offered slam-dunk shots and several roosters flushed out of range. One did rise within about 15 yards but made a beeline right at the landowner’s house as if it was headed to the back porch, which means I couldn’t shoot.
Fifty yards from there, though, we pinned a running rooster where tall grass met an open lane and it fell amid a true jungle of plums, hedge trees and cedars. It took some time to get Hank over a woven wire fence, and to where he could even enter the thickets. He found the bird at the bottom of a dry creek.
The plan was to shoot one bird each trip the rest of the season, and head for home…but on the way back Hank again started working scent. Probably 100 yards from where his trailing began two roosters flushed inches from his pouncing paws. I shot one and let the other one go.
I’ll head back out a few more times before the season closes the end of the month. The trips will be short for Hank’s sake, and I’ll carry the old shotgun for mine.
But we’re off to a good start – old dog, old proven shotgun, two shots and two roosters in less than an hour. It kind of reminds me of old times.