The last day of pheasant hunting season for Nebraska.
I wake up at 7:30a.m. to a Winter Storm Warning. Planning to hit the last "cherry" and undisturbed private field I have access to. I ready the dog, myself, and chip the inch of sleet off of my truck as it warms up.
I can barely see through the trucks windshield as we drive to the field. I think, "we are some of the die hards", as I load up. At this point I do everything to not spook the birds (loading my shotgun in the truck, putting my gloves on).
Before us lies a big big cat tailed slough in the midst of a couple of hills on an undisturbed CRP field. I KNOW there are at least 13-20 Pheasant that call this little piece of heaven their home. Ive seen them rush out of this in the 2 times I have slovenly tried to hunt this place due to reasons I wont go into now. I am the only one that has permission to hunt this. My "go to" spot.
Darlin` and I set out. The weather is blowing snow and sleet but the wind is at a canines favor for our direction. The sky is so perfectly that color of white that reminds you of a Christmas when you were so little. The snow is drifted and DRIFTED in a way that every other step is a couple of city blocks of walkings worth of labor. . My breathing becomes labored, my dog digging herself out of a snow drift every other step: in ten yard intervals, happy still. Her spottings of white and black become hard to mark at a visage. Still...
With the highway at our backs we reach the thick cattails. My fingers numb up. The wind is totally at our face. I ignore this knowing that this will only help my dog scent the birds. This time I try to not race through the thicket, but rather let the dog work it. I keep thinking "last day", I can never focus. Its early and Im sure something will stir....I see tracks of our game everywhere, although slightly covered by sleet. My dog is searching in such a manner that I don`t feel I need to correct her or even coach. My shotgun is getting locked up from the falling ice. To myself I question if it will even work under these conditions.
At the end of the slough after anticipating every possible scenario we see nothing. I know its over. This sort of solace falls over me: thoughts of the ones that got away to make more... sort of thing. Im walking the long way back to the truck with even more falling ice thinking about the dozen or so Roosters I have in the fridge, and how awesome it will be to smoke them in the spring when this is even a more distant of a memory. My dog walks close.
I unload my 20 gauge, put my dog in the truck, scrape the ice off of the windshield and make my way home.
The slippery and cautious drive back wields memories of days earlier when my father in-law John came out for a hunt and shot that Rooster from way far away (i wished I had a camera for that one) or when Donnie made his way all those times past tough weather so we could grab a couple of hours hunt up here (that could`nt have been easy, especially from so far away). When my pup Darlin` pointed, tracked and cornered that runaway rooster in that bean field..after that I didnt refer to her as a pup anymore. The day I finally got my first limit...that hunt ended at 9am on a sunday when I had to work. Accidentally locking my keys in my running truck at that field, then Donnie opened the door lock with some wood and wire found in a PF habitat field (in cold cold and windy weather) and then having cold beers for us to share in my truck after we got it open.
I wake up at 7:30a.m. to a Winter Storm Warning. Planning to hit the last "cherry" and undisturbed private field I have access to. I ready the dog, myself, and chip the inch of sleet off of my truck as it warms up.
I can barely see through the trucks windshield as we drive to the field. I think, "we are some of the die hards", as I load up. At this point I do everything to not spook the birds (loading my shotgun in the truck, putting my gloves on).
Before us lies a big big cat tailed slough in the midst of a couple of hills on an undisturbed CRP field. I KNOW there are at least 13-20 Pheasant that call this little piece of heaven their home. Ive seen them rush out of this in the 2 times I have slovenly tried to hunt this place due to reasons I wont go into now. I am the only one that has permission to hunt this. My "go to" spot.
Darlin` and I set out. The weather is blowing snow and sleet but the wind is at a canines favor for our direction. The sky is so perfectly that color of white that reminds you of a Christmas when you were so little. The snow is drifted and DRIFTED in a way that every other step is a couple of city blocks of walkings worth of labor. . My breathing becomes labored, my dog digging herself out of a snow drift every other step: in ten yard intervals, happy still. Her spottings of white and black become hard to mark at a visage. Still...
With the highway at our backs we reach the thick cattails. My fingers numb up. The wind is totally at our face. I ignore this knowing that this will only help my dog scent the birds. This time I try to not race through the thicket, but rather let the dog work it. I keep thinking "last day", I can never focus. Its early and Im sure something will stir....I see tracks of our game everywhere, although slightly covered by sleet. My dog is searching in such a manner that I don`t feel I need to correct her or even coach. My shotgun is getting locked up from the falling ice. To myself I question if it will even work under these conditions.
At the end of the slough after anticipating every possible scenario we see nothing. I know its over. This sort of solace falls over me: thoughts of the ones that got away to make more... sort of thing. Im walking the long way back to the truck with even more falling ice thinking about the dozen or so Roosters I have in the fridge, and how awesome it will be to smoke them in the spring when this is even a more distant of a memory. My dog walks close.
I unload my 20 gauge, put my dog in the truck, scrape the ice off of the windshield and make my way home.
The slippery and cautious drive back wields memories of days earlier when my father in-law John came out for a hunt and shot that Rooster from way far away (i wished I had a camera for that one) or when Donnie made his way all those times past tough weather so we could grab a couple of hours hunt up here (that could`nt have been easy, especially from so far away). When my pup Darlin` pointed, tracked and cornered that runaway rooster in that bean field..after that I didnt refer to her as a pup anymore. The day I finally got my first limit...that hunt ended at 9am on a sunday when I had to work. Accidentally locking my keys in my running truck at that field, then Donnie opened the door lock with some wood and wire found in a PF habitat field (in cold cold and windy weather) and then having cold beers for us to share in my truck after we got it open.
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