Hunting season. Growing up in a family of big game hunters, I have always been passionate about big game hunting. The nine out of all nine days of eastern Washington’s abysmally short deer season that I actually got to spend stalking mule deer and whitetails were a blessing that I missed out on for a couple of years in a more stressful profession, and I was grateful to get that back. I saw so many young bucks that I had to pass on, and one trophy mule deer who managed to slip out of my sights while I messed with my gun’s safety, and I don’t regret a moment of it because I spent that time outside. The tag was well worth the experiences I had out there, the whitetail sheds I found, the chukars exploding from under my feet… It was all worth it.
And then something strange happened-- I discovered bird hunting.
I’ve chased grouse around the hills plenty of times, and even managed to put five of them in the freezer this year, but never before have I realized just how abundant the Palouse can be with game birds. It all started fairly innocently enough; my landlord showed me around his property and some adjoining properties and told me that I may find some pheasants in there. So as soon as dear season was over, I walked a grassy half-mile of creek bottom as it meandered through a freshly-plowed wheatfield. I reached the end of the property line and turned back, having already gotten my money’s worth from the squawking blue heron I flushed at close range. On my way back, still taking it slow but not expecting anything in particular, an explosion of wing beats that I can only liken to a Technicolor grouse on steroids erupted ten feet in front of me, and a breathtaking pheasant rooster flew across the creek. At 25 yards, I fired an ounce of shot out of my 20 gauge Wingmaster, and with my heart beating furiously in my eardrums, my first pheasant dropped to the ground and out of sight.
As I excitedly looked around for a place to cross the creek, I looked up to find a rooster-- my rooster-- running into the grass toward me, back into the only cover within 300 yards of wheatfield. I fired again, and he slumped to the ground.
But when I crossed the creek and reached the bird, I was still naive to the artistry with which a cornered pheasant can plot an escape. As I reached down for this beautiful bird, he had just the wherewithal to lunge into the creek, sending me after him.
Looking back on it, with literally dozens of rooster flushes and only four that I managed to bring home, I can’t help but realize how lucky I was to not only flush a rooster on my first-ever attempt at pheasant hunting, but to actually knock down and retrieve such a beautiful (and delicious) bird without the aid of a dog. Something inside of me changed at that moment, and it was for the better. Every chance I got from that point until today, I have been chasing birds and loving every minute of it. Every bird that I flush, whether it is a rooster out of range, a flock of geese flying overhead, or even the hen that a friend ended up stepping on (more on that later), each one has been a true pleasure and a unique memory that is why I was out there at daylight in the first place. In discovering bird hunting, I have discovered a great deal about a side of nature that I hadn’t been able to fully understand or appreciate up to this point, and that is why this has been hands-down the best hunting season of my life… and that is why I will approach the two remaining weekends of waterfowl season with the vigor and enthusiasm of a two-year old lab pup.
