Ultimate Upland Lodge

This morning I took my lab Wyatt out for a weekend stomp on public ground. Yesterday while in the field at first light I saw several other trucks with hunters trying to hunt the same field which we beat them to that day.

Needless to say, the public options close to population centers here in Nebraska gets lots of attention. And I think that can get a bit discouraging for some.

But I find it helps to look at this concentration of hunters as a challenge. There are smart birds in these fields that hunters and dogs walk past. I've always believed that for every bird you see there are at least two that you never lay eyes on.

We got up and out at first light again because the only public field you can guarantee that has not been hunted in a day is the first one.

Wyatt worked well all morning and we finally were coming to the area I suspected would be holding the birds. Of course one rooster got up long and cackled as it made a safe escape. But out of the corner of my eye, in the opposite direction, I saw another bird flying low and silent. This was the old bird we look for. Smart birds don't cackle when they take off. This one  flew about 100 yards upwind of us into a hillside with light cover. Now that is strange and something I hadn't seen from many roosters. Normally their policy is the thicker the better.

I got Wyatt headed in the right direction and I figured we had this old bird dead to rights. It was strange that when we made it to the area that I had marked him down, Wyatt picked up some trace but not the typical hot scent of a recent bird. And now I know, that bird flew to light cover because 1) in light cover he wouldn't drag across nearly the amount of grass and weeds thereby leaving a smaller scent trail and 2) he could run more freely in the light stuff.

So we circled around a couple times and though Wyatt was acting birdy, he never indicated that a flush was imminent.

And so we turned back toward the heavy cover and I wrote off this rooster as smarter than us. I stopped to look around  just to speculate exactly to where he had disappeared. And with this pause, five feet to my left the old bird jumped skyward from a small tuft of weeds amongst a hill of ankle-high prairie grass.

A bit startled, I fumbled with the safety and the mount but the shot was true and the bird crashed. Wyatt was only a couple seconds behind for a routine retrieve. But the bird was gone.

I had crushed this pheasant. There was no doubt in my mind that I had hit him with nearly every pellet of the ounce-and-quarter 6s.  And yet somehow he had managed to shake it off and strap on his running shoes.  Wyatt was on the trail but that bird headed right into some of the thickest, nastiest cover and dry creek bed that we've hunted in this state. I put a glove on one of the weeds where the bird hit the ground to mark the spot, then just stood there and listened as Wyatt thrashed through the rough stuff. After about five minutes, the brush busting ceased around 75 yards from my marker glove.

I suspected my little buddy had found the bird and was now just adding a bit of drama. So I shouted for him to bring it up and I beeped his collar a couple times to break the silence. Lo and behold he pushed his was from a brush filled creek bottom with that old super bird in his jaws. I was smiling ear to ear and the folks in the neighboring county could probably hear my praises. A bird that was lost is now destined for pheasant alfredo.

And that's why I hunt with dogs.

Always Bet on Bob

Snow never lies.   It's a commonly accepted notion that when the white stuff falls, late season bird hunting will improve.  In some circles, this might even be accepted as gospel.  I can count many days in my bird hunting memory that include a fond association with bitter cold temperatures, frozen snot-cycles hanging from my beard, and hands so cold that my fingers managed to find both triggers at once.  There's an important outcome that's typically brought on by the alliance between cold snowy weather and bird hunting - a plump game bag filled to satisfaction.... or so I thought.

Abby's on the mend, chasing tails and taking names!

I had a chance to get together with some friends yesterday to do a little late season pheasant hunting.  I've not had a chance to hunt this section of Colorado much before.  With a considerably large amount of dry crop land, the scope and size of the CRP and other hunting areas we had access to was a welcome change of pace from the irrigated crop circle country I typically hunt.  This gave the hounds a chance to really stretch their legs.

Monday, November 22nd: my dog has been cooped up in the house for almost two weeks, recovering from an injury he sustained while in South Dakota, the result of a tangle he got into with some barbed wire while chasing after a wounded pheasant.  He injured his back leg and the puncture was quite deep, having reached a joint.  I was instructed by my vet that he really needed to sit back and enjoy some butt kickin' pain killers as well as a heavy dose of antibiotics to ward off the possibility of a serious infection that could diminish his performance permanently.  With those words ringing in my head, I wasn't taking any chances!

Now.... I'm here to tell you... dogs, particularly gundogs, DO NOT know they are injured five minutes after the injury occurred, especially when they are nine months old.  I'm not sure if any of you have ever attempted to keep a nine month old GSP quiet and inactive for an extended period of time, but I can assure you it's an exercise in hopelessness.  Fuel that fire a bit with a two year old toddler that just got the flu, the anxiety that comes with planning a huge family Thanksgiving dinner, and you've got yourself a recipe for some household tension.  If I could just make it to Friday, I would find relief in the form of grass, a dog off the IR, solitude, and birds. 

November 23rd: my son develops the Flu and I still need to get to the grocery store.  Fifty percent of the household is now sick.  The dog is losing patience, taking his frustrations out by chewing up one of the two remaining binky's my daughter has left in the house.  Without those, all hell breaks loose. Friday is just around the corner.  I tell myself I can make it.

November 24th, 2:00 a.m: my wife develops the flu, throwing up everything but her toenails the majority of the night.  Both kids are still very ill.  I ask myself, what am I going to do tomorrow?

November 24th: tomorrow's here and I'm in deep poo.  The kids are showing signs of improvement but are still feeling crappy.  My wife is completely incapacitated.  I glimpse a devious look in my dog's eye and now realize that he's formulating a plan to pilfer the last remaining binky the minute I let my guard down.  I still have to go to the grocery store... the day before Thanksgiving.  I'm in over my head.  Friday is just around the corner though so I press on.

November 24th, 5:00 p.m: I catch my first break.   The family calls and tells me they don't want to come over due to the toxic contaminated air that's bound to be hanging around by Thursday.  No cooking!  I think to myself, I could be making the turn as I throw the bird back in freezer and cancel plans to do battle with the supermarket.  It never occurs to me the risk of contamination is a distinct possibility.  Friday is almost here and visions of sunrise, pheasants, golden grass, and my young puppy frolicking through the field begin to creep into my head.

November 25th, 3:00 a.m. disaster strikes.  I'm down and out through the weekend.  Next year... flu shots all the way around I suspect.  The dog still looks pissed as I put the gun back in the safe Sunday evening.

gt signing off! 
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