“It can’t get any worse than this,” I said to Jon before it did.
By the afternoon of our first day of pheasant hunting in South Dakota, we’d seen scores of wild pheasants erupt from the shelterbelts, but most had been flushed out of range by our frenzied, wild running pointing dogs. Overwhelmed by pheasant scent and running birds, Jack, my year-old wirehaired pointing griffon and Jon’s diminutive French Brittany, Lilly, tore through the cover like demons who’d never had five minutes of training. Once the birds were flying, it was all over; a 20 mph wind-assisted their escape to the massive sanctuary slough that dominated the middle of the farm. We were embarrassed and nearly skunked. Adding insult to injury, the group-owned hunting van that Jon and I had driven to South Dakota from Iowa had died in the field that morning.
College roommates long ago, Jon and I had made it an annual tradition to pursue pheasants with friends near his boyhood home in southwest Iowa. But pheasants there were on the decline, and the allure of South Dakota was strong. So when Tim, a fellow physician, suggested I combine some teaching at his medical school in Sioux Falls with some late season pheasant hunting, we jumped at the opportunity. Matt, the fourth hunter in the party, was a friend of Tim’s who’d arranged for us to hunt on his family’s farm, 800 spectacularly beautiful acres, high and wild and managed for pheasants, outside of Winner, South Dakota. It was also through Matt’s connections that our sad-looking van had left the field on a flatbed tow truck heading for the Ford dealership in town.
With very few birds in the bag when we paused for a breather, Jon broached the question that was on all of our minds.
“Why not go into the slough?”
Denne historien er fra Spring 2020-utgaven av The Upland Almanac.
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Denne historien er fra Spring 2020-utgaven av The Upland Almanac.
Start din 7-dagers gratis prøveperiode på Magzter GOLD for å få tilgang til tusenvis av utvalgte premiumhistorier og 9000+ magasiner og aviser.
Allerede abonnent? Logg på
Tailfeathers
The essence of fly fishing, I think I've decided, is time.
Ten Questions with Tim Flagler, Fly Tyer/Cook Extraordinaire
Culinary Creations from Gordon Hamersley
GREY on the Wing
Hands clutching the wheel of a large, lumbering vehicle whose vintage and purpose partially prompted the invention of \"powering steering,\" disengaged the clutch and applied the brakes, bringing it to a stop.
James Purdey & Sons Ltd.One of London's "Best"
At the conclusion of a recent breakfast meeting of the Shrewsbury Men's Club of Massachusetts, I was packing up my show-and-tell aids after giving a presentation.
WAWAWAI
I don't chase chukars anymore, but from the time I was 16, chukar hunting had been my favorite bird hunting endeavor.
A FAIR EXCHANGE
Among the concerns faced by many small community gun clubs here in the Northeast is our inability to attract and maintain new and younger shooters.
Coming to Heel
I'n the world of gun dogs, it's not unusual that retrievers are taught to heel.
Bird Dogs - Health Matters
Avoiding Medical Mishaps on the Road
MATT HART
Matt Hart, owner, designer and artist of Hartist Metals, is a highly skilled metal sculptor based in the picturesque Catskill Mountains of New York.
Luigi Franchi Imperial Monte Carlo Extra: One of Italy's "Best" SxS Doubles
As on London’s gun-maker’s row, Italians had skilled craftsmen who made “Best” guns of superb quality