My last hunting trip of the 2012-2013 pheasant season started out like any other journey to Eastern, Colorado; up at 4:00 am, out the door by 4:50 am and adjacent to my favorite field by 7:45 am. The temperature was sixteen degrees, and there was a subtle ten mph wind easing its way in from the northwest. The conditions were great, but I felt I was about forty five minutes behind schedule. My gut told me that the birds had already made their way into the corn fields where they could not be pursued. Pride and I quickly worked our way through the shin high CRP. I knew that if there were birds to be had, they would be holding tight in the deeper cover along the draw at the end of the field. Pride has often sought our quarry in this field, and he knows when to turn on his afterburners. Not dissimilar to our last trip, we moved quickly through the one hundred and fifty yards of brush but never encountered a bird. It was the second trip in a row that my honey hole failed to produce results.

The night before the trip, I phoned a rancher friend who had allowed Pride and me to hunt his land on three occasions during the season. For over two seasons, I never received a positive answer to my question “would it be possible to walk your land with my dog”. Honestly, I developed a complex as landowners repeatedly denied my requests to access their property. Unfortunately, my appeal to make a final tour of his prime real estate was denied. He emphasized the need to end the season early in order to give the birds a “break”. Nevertheless, I stopped by the house to drop off a case of bud light, and a personal thank you card addressed to the family.

Pride and I headed one half mile east then unloaded next to a large grass field that abutted corn. The snow that blanketed this field three weeks before was almost gone, and had unfortunately matted down the already sparse cover. We employed a zigzag pattern in order to cover ground, and perhaps confuse a running rooster. Pride did get hot as we marched towards the end of the field. When he slowed down and began to sniff in circles, I prepared myself for action. It took about thirty seconds, but a hen jumped up thirty yards in front of me. A few “no bird” calls had Pride ready to continue our walk west. Thirty minutes later we loaded up, and maneuvered to another favorite area about four miles southeast of our position. When I arrived at the field, there were already three trucks surrounding the area so I moved on. Pride and I spent the next hour covering an enormous field that did not show any signs of life. Disappointed but undeterred, we headed to town to fill up the Dodge Ram 1500, and get some food.

With a Monster Rehab energy drink and some jerky in hand, I stared at the map to determine our next move. Another hunter pulled into the market so I asked him how his day was going. He described an all too familiar story; working two dogs, he was able to get some birds in the air, but not close enough to attempt a shot. I asked him if he would like to hunt together to see if we could improve our odds. He responded with enthusiastic “yes”, so we began to collaborate on an afternoon strategy.

With a renewed focus, we drove further east towards some pivots that we hoped had not been mowed down. About five miles into the drive, Tom slowed and waived me up. He had noticed a one hundred yard row of evergreens in a walk in area just off the adjacent road. The plan was simple; I would drive to the east and work Pride west, and he would counter that with his two Brittany spaniels. I quickly made my way west, weaving between the fifteen foot evergreens. As Pride neared Gunner and Major, all dogs simultaneously turned quickly in the direction of the road. A rooster busted from the tree line, and flew straight back to the east. The tip of one tree prohibited me from executing an immediate shot, so I jumped forward and reset my position. My first shot from my Beretta A400 XPLR Light 12 gauge missed high, but the next shot knocked the bird down immediately. Pride ran furiously at the mortally wounded pheasant, and brought him to my hand. We thanked the dogs for their efforts, exchanged congratulations, and then continued on our way. The excitement level had suddenly intensified for all participants.

The next four pivots we hunted appeared amazing, but produced nothing. We hunted every inch of the dense CRP, hoping to move birds into the surrounding corn fields. Unfortunately, two miles of stalking produced only one startled hen. We continued our drive north towards Nebraska with the hope that the extra miles of driving would eventually pay off. We came across a unique walk in area that had knee-high grass surrounding a dense and long plum thicket. Tom, Gunner and Major took the right side of the trees, while Pride and I moved left. About half way through the walk south, Pride became birdy. Nose down and tail vigorously moving, he began to demonstrate signs of a pheasant in our presence. I readied for a shot but nothing happened. Tom and his dogs turned the corner around the plum thicket, and marched southeast. We both acknowledged that our dogs were in pursuit of moving prey, and the pace suddenly quickened. Pride moved to my right, and ran hard to the edge of the field. Tom was positioned about fifty yards to my right, and we expected the dogs were on a crafty cock bird. When Pride started to forcefully dig his nose in a clump of grass, a rooster jumped just inches from his head. As the bird took flight, all three dogs started their chase. The bird flew low which caused me to delay a shot as Major was in my field of vision. Tom, however, had a clear shot and knocked the bird out of the sky with his Winchester SX3 20 gauge.

It was now 4 pm, and we needed to quickly make our way to our last field of the day. The land that I had in mind always has birds moving from corn to cover as night approaches. As we drove up to the edge of the CRP, birds were already taking flight. We quickly piled out of the trucks, and jumped into the tall grass. The dogs were moving with determination as they obviously knew pheasants were sprinting away from us. After five hundred yards we turned back toward the west with the hope that some of the birds that we passed would hold tight. Unfortunately, these late season pheasants have been conditioned to outwit their pursuers. As the sun set, we watched the running birds take flight against the red sky. While we were disappointed that a shot never presented itself, the scene that unfolded in front of us was pretty awesome.

My 2012-2013 pheasant season appeared bleak at the outset. The drought that has savaged Colorado over the last 12 months was clearly visible to the not so discerning eye. Farmers, ranchers and landowners were all suffering, and so were the birds that depend on the habitat to survive. Hopefully, significant precipitation hits the region soon, and solves what is becoming an ever worsening problem. While the number of birds I harvested was far less than last year, I still had an amazing time. November cannot come soon enough.

Equipment Used in the Field

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