By James Davis
“His demeanor had a familiar change. From methodical searching to frantic determination. His block head and ears perked with intensity ... he began to move with purpose.”
Late season pheasant hunting in Wisconsin is not for the faint of heart. With a few days left in the season my prayers for some fresh snow had been answered. However, the arctic blast whose below zero temps that followed the storm was not expected, as it held both man and beast hostage in its icy grip. Exactly two days were left in the season. With the long off season looming, it was decided cold temperatures or not, one last crack at some longtails was in order.
I am fortunate to have access to a great piece of property. With a mix of cattail sloughs, native prairie grasses, agricultural fields, hedgerows, and stands of pines, the property is a five star resort to the local pheasant population. A text to the owner the night before solidified my plans and was followed by a trip to the store for a bottle of his favorite single malt as an appreciative thank you.
Backing out of my driveway the next morning, the snow had a familiar grown as my tires compressed the fresh powder. The trucks temperature gauge was registering a crisp negative one degree. It was downright cold! I had felt the sting in my fingertips while opening the kennel door and loading “Pilot” up and my lungs had burned, breathing in the arctic air.
Heading north on the interstate I thought about our plan of attack. Hunting the edges.....as many a bird hunter will tell you edges are one of the keys to successful upland bird hunting. Where a CRP field meets a small woodlot or a cattail slough joins a cut cornfield. Distinct changes of cover create these edges. These are the areas in which pheasants tend to move through on the way to feed or to roost. Depending on the time of day they are usually a good spot for a dog to pick up a fresh trail.
Anticipation is what drives us and the forty five minute drive felt like fifteen minutes as I slowly turned into the freshly plowed driveway in Brownsville, Wisconsin. Parking next to the massive red barn, I noticed the temperature had crept to four degrees. Add a stiff wind to the mix and temperatures like this are brutal. Fortunate for us, the sun was out, giving way to clear blue skies. A motionless flag sat on the pole. The silence of my weather observations was broken by the soft whines of Pilot, who had sensed our arrival and was quietly protesting the fact that he was not out chasing roosters. Turning to look, his golden eyes meeting mine, both eager for the mornings adventure.
Bundled up, we made our way down the hill from the barn to the open fields below. Crystals of hoarfrost covered the prairie grass and with the sun shining on the fresh snow, a beautiful winter day was unfolding. Snow is always an added bonus and provides a chance to see fresh tracks helping paint a picture of where birds have been frequenting. Edges were again on my mind as we worked our way towards the sorghum field that bordered a small frozen cattail slough. I figured that edge would be one to explore offering country club amenities to the local pheasant population. Warm and dry cover in the cattails and an unlimited grain buffet in the still standing sorghum field.
As we inched closer to the sorghum, Pilot, my dark brown Chesapeake, began to methodically work back and forth quartering in the hopes of catching a whiff of a crafty rooster that had passed through. The silence of our walk was broken with each step by the squeaky snow under my ancient rubber bottomed bean boots and that of Pilot crashing through the sturdy sorghum stalks. Working deeper into the field to the edge of the sorghum and cattail slough we had yet to see a track or catch a scent.
Pushing ahead we began moving through the field towards a distant hedgerow. The hedgerow stood out as it was actually a line of Christmas tree sized pine trees which had been planted to serve as erosion control in the form of wind breaks. Native grass had grown in thick filling the spaces between and underneath of the trees. These areas were often frequented by pheasants looking to stay warm and hidden from overhead predators.
My attention drew back to Pilot his demeanor had a familiar change. From methodical searching to frantic determination. His thick tail working in a tight circular motion, his pace quickened, his block head and ears perked with intensity. He began to move with true purpose. My heart raced....the thrill of the hunt. My grip on the weathered Remington 870 tightened. My eyes grew narrow as I locked on Pilot, his nose was to the snow working towards the familiar smell filling his nostrils. Like a shark sensing blood in the water, Pilot plowed into a thick grassy patch under a small pine and the rooster exploded into the air. The rush of the flush. His cackle breaking the silence as he climbed higher in the air. By habit the gun was mounted and the safety pushed as I swung through the fleeting rooster. His bright white neck collar stood out as I gently squeezed the trigger. The cackling giant folded. Pilot whose eyes had never left his mark
trembled with excitement, waiting for his name to be called, sending him for the retrieve.....”Pilot”......and the missile was sent. Almost as quickly as the search started he was on the way back with the king of upland birds held proudly in his mouth. Tail feathers dragging and his beautiful colors bouncing off the canvas of fresh snow and sunshine. Pilot took his spot and sat beside me. His nostrils flared and sides heaved as I slowly reached down and accepted the prize. Happy puppy!