By Hank Collins

When an event occurs,
under less than perfect conditions,
whose outcome is uncertain,
but through a group effort,
a favorable outcome is produced,
the foundation is laid for camaraderie.

The clear blue sky was marked only by the silver white contrails of an airliner streaking toward its destination. The bright sun made the twenty-five degree temperature in Mitchell, South Dakota feel comfortable as we waited for the walkers to push the close holding pheasants from the cornfield. Mitchell is in the southeastern part of the state and is home to what is called the “pheasant triangle,” (Winner, to Mitchell, to Vivian-Kennebec). This area has long been known to have the best habitat with the highest bird count in the state with a pheasant population of six to thirteen per mile.

Our group of four was combined with another group of sixteen to hunt this large field using the walkers and blockers tactics. Doug, Tony, John and I were veterans of last year’s hunt, so we knew what to expect-- wild birds, flying high, with the wind at their backs, quick here and quicker gone. Now we waited for the first wave of birds that would be leaving the field at a speed and rate of climb that would make the pilot of the airliner jealous. And, soon the screams from the walkers of “COCK, COCK,” would change these lawyers, bankers, and presidents of companies, both large and small, who had come to hunt pheasants, into the wild eyed, excited, boys they had once been.

Now standing as blockers in the last field of the day, I watched as Doug shifted from one leg to the other, trying to stay warm and Tony was unzipping the top part of his jacket. Doug has had a problem with the cold since his surgery, but Tony who had the same surgery, has no problem at all, and in fact, seems to thrive on cold weather. Age has made us welcome the blocking positions. We’ve spent our days of walking nine to thirteen miles a day in hopes of kicking up roosters. Doug, Tony, and I are all over sixty, over weight, and have over loved grand children. John is in his late forties, in great shape, has two teenagers, and as such, is a walker. We like John.

It’s the third week of November when mid season is giving way to the late season. Snow and ice are now part of the landscape, and the birds that are here, are here because in the earlier season, they spooked easier, ran faster, and flew higher. The difference in the changing seasons is in the shots that are presented. Now most of the shots are passing, or overhead, somewhere in the forty yard range. Put up your twenty-eight gauge, this is a time for the twelve, and number four or five shot. And, in a twenty to thirty knot wind, a modified or full choke is about the only way to hold your pattern together to deliver enough shot to effectively bring down one of these veterans of earlier seasons.

“COCK! COCK!” from the other blockers sent our eyes immediately to the sky. It was hard to see the roosters as the birds were leaving the field with the sun at their back. The eerie whistling noise from the beating wings of the hens as they funneled out over us, added to the drama as we silently watched and waited for the emergence of the roosters. Then, as if it had just appeared in the sky—the long tail feathers, bright colors of iridescence browns, gold, red, greens and blues, glistening in the sunlight, and the infamous white ring around his neck— That Magnificent Bird-- streaking across the sky and gaining altitude like a homesick angel.

My eyes locked on the white ring as I pulled the twelve gauge to my shoulder. And, keeping the thirty-two inch barrels moving well ahead of the highflying bird, I pulled the trigger, and watched as the big bird folded, and came falling to earth like a feathered meteorite about thirty yards behind me. Reloading, I quickly re-checked the sky, and saw a big bird flying directly toward Doug. What is he waiting on?

Finally, he mounted his shotgun at almost vertical, and leaning back past vertical, fired.( Later I found out that Doug was waiting for the hunter on his right to shoot, and when Doug felt he had waited long enough , he took the shot.) The bird started coming down in a spiral. Doug had winged him. The bird crashed about forty yards behind him. Tony fired, and his bird was coming down much closer to him than ours did. The birds were still coming. COCK! COCK! It seemed as if everyone was calling a sighting.

strained not to shout back, Where? Where?, as the birds continued to come, wave after wave. Shooting was now on automatic, and it was fast and furious. Out of shells, I shouted to Doug to throw me some of his. He walked a few steps and threw me two shells. With a field that had flushed well over two-hundred pheasants, he gives me two shells. When it was over, and the walkers were in full view, we started picking up our quarry, and stacked them for the limit count. John laid two birds on the pile. There were smiles all around.

Our guide, Mike Kuchera, who is famous for his safety talks (you’ll never forget one), and his wife Debra, whose delicate features make her look more at home at a beauty pageant than in pheasant field, had accompanied the walkers in the field. Deb was responsible for the two black Labradors that did our retrieving, and Mike controlled the movement of the hunters in the field. They added more birds to the pile that had been shot by the walkers.

“Deb, I’ve got one down about thirty-yards behind me, could you send a dog to get him?” I asked.

“Is he dead?” Deb asked.

“Should be, if the shot didn’t kill him the fall surely did.”

“I’m still trying to get some in the field that may be running on us; let me get yours last, okay?”

“No problem.” I answered as I started back to get the bird myself. Nothing personal, it’s just that these birds have a way of disappearing when left alone too long.

As I was coming back with my bird, I saw Doug looking over a small creek near where his bird should have fallen.

“You see him?” I asked.

“Yeah, but I don’t think we can get him, the creek is frozen.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

A crowd had already gathered at the sight around Doug’s fallen pheasant that had come to rest on the nub of a log protruding through the ice. Deb’s black Lab was straining at the leash to retrieve the stranded bird.

“Why doesn’t she send him?” I asked.

“The water is frozen, and the ice is thinner at the center than it is along the edge. She is afraid that if the ice breaks from the weight of the dog, it will be in the center, and the dog will not be able to get back through the ice.” Doug answered.

“Deb, have the guys shoot a line in the ice to the bird, and make a lane for the dog to fetch it.” Mike commanded.

“There has got to be an easier way to get pheasants.” Tony said, loud enough for Doug to hear him.

“You’d think.” I answered.

“Yeah, but we wouldn’t get to spend this quality time with Doug, and that has to be worth something—I don’t know what, but at least something.” Tony said smiling.

“If Doug waits as long to shoot the ice, as he did the bird, spring will be here, and the ice won’t be a problem.” I said, loud enough for all to hear.

“At least I hit it.” Doug countered to the laughter, as he stepped up to go first.

We all followed suit, firing the same high brass five’s that had downed the bird, to make lane for the dog through the ice. When the lane was open through the broken ice, Deb looked it over one more time, and then sent the eager Lab for the retrieve. The group was silent, and all eyes were on the dog when he boldly leaped into the freezing water, and swam through the chards of broken ice toward his prey. As he reached the bird, he put his right paw on the log supporting the dead bird, secured the bird in its mouth, and then pushed back with the same paw for his return trip. Applause erupted for the swimming dog.

“Look at his face. He knows he’s done good. He’s gotta be a Marine!” Tony said as he unzipped his jacket.

“That’s pride. He knows that applause was for him. It was one heck of a retrieve.” John added.

“Come on boy!” Deb said as she knelt by the waters edge to welcome the returning hero, who delivered the bird to hand. This bird, the sixtieth, was the day’s limit bird, and the hunt was over. What a way to end!

The twenty-man hunt party had dinner together that evening. With each glass of wine, the birds were flying higher, and faster, and the shots were much longer and much more spectacular. And, it was deemed entirely possible for a bird that was solidly hit to land across the state line, if the wind was right. The twenty-five yard retrieve through the ice, was increased to about one- hundred yards by one person—I think it was me—and the pheasant weighed at least ten pounds.

“I haven’t had this much fun in I don’t know when.” Tony admitted after dinner.

“I’ve never seen that many birds in one place in my life.” John added.

“It is something to remember. I’ll always remember that first shot I took on that high flying pheasant. The bird’s brilliant colors were magnified even more by the background of the clear blue sky. It’s burned into my memory.” I said pushing back from the table.

“That is what life is, is memories. The best times I can remember in life have been on excursions such as this—and this one is one of the best. To lay down the everyday responsibilities of life, if only for a short while, and get out and away from everything, and see God’s handy work in nature as it was supposed to be, is incredible. Those wild birds, the Labs doing exactly what they have been made for, and we had the good fortune of seeing, and being part of it today. It was enlivening.” Doug ended in an uncustomary expression of some of his deeper thoughts.

“Hell, after what you and I have been through, we’re glad to be anywhere.” Tony said breaking the mood and getting up from the table amid laughter.

I would like to say that I had the best shot, but I probably didn’t. I don’t know who killed the most birds, and I don’t really care. What I do know is that it was wing shooting at its finest, with That Magnificent Bird giving us all the challenges that we wanted or could handle. It is difficult to describe that almost magical experience that comes with a rush of adrenaline, seeing the high flying bird coming to you, concentrating on the bird, the feel of the stock when it comes to your cheek and shoulder, pulling the trigger, and seeing the big bird fall to earth. I’ve done it many times, but it never gets old. I hope it never does.

It was a special time shared with special people that will be relived, talked about, and even possibly exaggerated, for some time to come. And, when it is, it will be seasoned with an ample amount of its own undeniable boyish enthusiasm and excitement. And to commemorate the hunt, I have Doug’s Christmas present. Gift wrapped, with a bright red bow on top…two spent shotgun shells!

Mike Kuchera can be contacted at: Mike Kuchera’s South Dakota Guide Service
P.O. Box 10 • Mitchell, South Dakota 57301
Phone 605-996-1120
Or www.sdpheasants.com