My wife and I went to see The Grey Saturday night (1/28/12).  Unfortunately, I had a bad case of the chills during the movie, and quickly realized I was getting sick.  Sunday would be my final day in the field, and I began to worry that I would not be able to make it.

The alarm did not need to go off at 3:50 am because I was already awake.  The nasty chest cold had set in, but the motivation of the final day of upland hunting had me energized.  Pride and I picked up my friend Greg at 4:45 and we headed 200 miles East in my Ram 1500.  This was Greg’s second time hunting wild roosters, and he was visibly hooked after our initial walk in the very first field two weeks before.

The weather was not promising for bird hunting.   An online search illustrated a morning temperature in the upper twenties, with a high in the mid sixties.  We could not control the weather, but we could set a strategy that made the best use of our time given the unseasonably warm conditions.

Upon arriving in bird country at about 7:30 am, we found a large CRP field where we would start our day.  The wind was blowing at about 10 mph from the West as we moved North at a determined pace.  The field was lush with great cover but it was huge.  Two guns, one dog does not seem overly threatening to the wily cock bird that runs for long distances before taking flight.  As we lumbered through the grass, the cold air hit my congested lungs causing me to start to cough.  Due to a lack of sleep, my mind was a bit hazy and the eyes could not focus well.  To that point, I mounted and remounted my Beretta A400 XPLOR Light three or four times in an attempt to get my head and body aligned.

As we approached a lone tree in the field we turned back toward the road.  The wind was quartering from the West so we decided to walk East in order to move the dog back into the stiffing breeze.  Pride was running well and he started to range to my right.  As he circled behind me, I saw him make a quick cut away from my position; nose down and tail up.  The rooster jumped at about 25 yards and started to fly low, fast and towards the North.  I spun around quickly but did not set my feet properly.  Three rounds later, I watched the unscathed bird disappear over the adjacent hill.  When you hunt public land you may only get one shot a day so you have to be ready and precise.  I reloaded with a bit of anger and disappointment.  Pride did his job but I did not deliver on our intended results.  As we continued the walk towards the road, Pride ran hard to my right again and started to zigzag.  I readied myself and the pheasant jumped.  Unfortunately, it was a hen.  Eight trucks with a crew of hunters and dogs pulled up to the field.  They surveyed the land for 15 minutes as we walked East.  The hunters were going to deploy a blocking technique so they went to the North end of the field to drop 1/2 the party off.  As Greg and I continued to move through the thick CRP, we heard shots intermediately from a distance, and we knew the other hunters were finding birds.

It was 9:30 am and the day was starting to warm.  Greg, Pride and I loaded up and moved Northeast to a field that had produced all season for me.  This walk would start Pride right into the wind and move through a long and deep draw.  At the end of the field there was cut corn and a massive amount of tumble weeds.  The 1,000 yard stroll produced no action, but the deep cover was still ahead.  I told Greg to position himself above Pride as he worked the deeper cover.  As Pride entered the end of the draw, he suddenly darted in my direction and a hen flushed inches from my feet.  I was excited as we had not yet hit the seemingly great stretch of land in front of us.  Pride ran ahead with purpose and I shouted to Greg to quicken his pace.  One hen with a large rooster flew out of the straw at about 100 yards, then two hens and a rooster jumped about 25 yards to my right.  I fired and missed then fired again but the bird kept flying.  Greg fired but did not connect.  So I fired my last round and hit the mark.  Pride executed a perfect retrieve and we continued to push forward.  There were additional hens found but no roosters.

Two weeks before, Greg and I had found a small stretch of land that produced a plethora of hens.  We decided to get to that spot and see if that field would once again hold birds.  Luckily the wind was blowing into our faces at about a 20 mph clip.  There was no doubt that pheasants were present as Pride moved quickly toward the edge of the CRP where mounds of straw abutted cut corn.  We jogged behind him as he would eventually locate the quarry.  As Greg and I approached the mounds of straw, four hens jumped and flew left while almost simultaneously, four other hens flew right.  Eight birds all within 15 feet and not one rooster to be had.  After a half a dozen “no bird” cries, Pride started to dive into the deep, dry grass and more birds started to fly.  The hens flew close but the roosters were moving just out of gun range.  As we moved North paralleling the edge of the field, we finally got to raise our shotguns and fire at color.  Unfortunately, the shots never connected.  Despite seeing 30+ birds, we never delivered the proper shot.  While we were disappointed in the lack of results, seeing all of those pheasants in a small vicinity was really exciting.

Greg and I drove on throughout the early afternoon, stopping at different types of fields along the way.  We saw more birds, but once again the roosters stayed out of range.  Realizing that time was of the essence we tried to locate smaller patches of land that could be hunted quickly.  The windows were down in my truck, and we drove at a slow pace in order to not spook birds moving from feed to cover.  We closed in on a small tract of land that distinguished itself by its bright color and height versus the surrounding area.  Greg asked if we should pull over and I replied without real conviction.  I stopped the truck in order to make a decision, and suddenly heard a cackle from within the grass.  Greg, Pride and I slowly and quietly exited the vehicle.  We surrounded the patch of cover and sent Pride in.  The slow, short walk did not excite Pride, and I wondered if the rooster had run quickly away from us.  Then the sound of a pheasant taking flight caused my head, body and shotgun to turn to the right.  I knocked the bird down at 17 yards with one round of Prairie Storm FS Steel (#4).

As we made our way back to the truck my focus turned to Greg, and how we would produce one more opportunity for him to get his first wild bird.  We did see more roosters but the right shot alluded us.

As the sun set over the Eastern Plains toward the Rocky Mountains, we made our way back to I-76.  Pride and I took seven trips during the 2011-2012 upland game season.  We walked many miles together on public land and shot 13 roosters.  The amazing experiences of my first year in the field are forever etched in my mind.  Next fall cannot come soon enough.

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I enjoy spending time alone. You have time to think clearly about the goings on in your life. You’re allowed to make spontaneous, unilateral decisions and suffer only the recourse of your conscience. On December 28, 2011, I decided to take the day off from work and travel to Burlington, Colorado in order to hunt pheasant. Burlington opens up private land to hunters for a fee ($50 to $125).

I had talked to a few locals the night before in order to get an understanding of my options. The unanimous opinions were to head northeast of the town, and walk the CRP fields that abut the cut corn.

On every other trip this year, the early morning had birds moving from one type of habitat to the other. As I drove to my first CRP field, I was on the lookout for any type of pheasant activity that would allow me to set a strategy for the day. Unfortunately, I never saw a single bird.

My confidence was still high as I entered the first field. We walked about 3/4 of a mile into the wind and Pride never got birdy. After four fields and three hours of uneventful meandering, I decided to glass for cover instead of just blindly entering the field. After pulling up to the fifth CRP, I noticed a large grass draw next to corn about 1,000 yards from my truck. Pride and I took a direct line to the draw. The temperature was around 40 degrees; up from the low 20s earlier in the day. Pride does not react well to warmer temperatures, so I had to set a pace that would allow him to comfortably hunt the day. When we were 100 yards from the start of the draw, I told Pride to heal as I did not want to draw attention from unsuspecting roosters. Pride was starting to show signs that this piece of land might have the requisite quarry. He darted from right to left with his olfactory glands working feverishly. A quick final move to our left brought up a hen that was holding tight to the dense cover. After repeating the “no bird” call a few times, we continued our walk through the draw. As we neared a row of young spruces, Pride started to quickly move his tail from side to side. When his head got low, I mounted my Beretta as I anticipated an immediate flush. Sure enough another hen sprung up and flew high to my left. While I was disappointed, I was comforted to know that members of the species were present.

Pride and I hunted a few more fields but we were only able to find one additional hen. Realizing that I only had another 90 minutes of hunting, I started to make my way southwest towards I-70. I identified one last CRP field that was only 15 miles from the highway. The sun had started to set in the west as I pulled up to the eastern portion of the land. There were many access points to the property, but no habitat distinguished itself from another. I let Pride out of the kennel and we marched forward for our final stalk of the day. About 100 yards from the road, Pride got excited and darted ahead. I followed him staying within 20 yards of his rapidly moving tail. Without warning, three roosters took flight. One moved low and left, the other flew straight and the third banked to the right. I slowly mounted the Beretta and started to swing the barrel toward the bird that was heading north. Shot one ended up behind the bird. I composed myself and, with both eyes open, fired again. The pheasant tumbled then hit the ground about 30 yards from where I stood. I turned to my left hoping that one of the two other roosters was close. Unfortunately, I watched them both head over a hill about 150 yards from my position. After retrieving the bird for me, I watered Pride and we continued the march towards our daily limit. Pride got birdy one more time, but we could not locate the pheasant.

Pride, exhausted from the day in the field, collapsed next to the truck. After a nice meal he loaded up and we made our way back to the highway. What an amazing finish to a day of frustration. The adage of walking the extra mile for late season pheasants played itself out on December 28, 2011.

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Imagine a seemingly perfect day to bird hunt in Eastern Colorado: four dogs, three guns, no visible competition, and miles upon miles of pristine CRP fields.  This ideal scenario should produce a limit of birds for each hunter before the coffee cools at the local 7-Eleven.  Unfortunately for us, eight hours of aggressive hunting in thirty degree weather produced a plethora of flushing hens, but not one colorful rooster.    

The initial strategy involved hunting specific pivots in the early morning.  After passing the only hunter we saw during the entire day (in the adjacent pivot), we stopped at the next available pivot to begin our first stalk.  Upon exiting my truck, I heard the sudden crack of gun shots (three to be exact) while simultaneously watching the rooster fly quickly away from the other hunter.  Fantasies of limiting out on this first tract of land suddenly filled my mind.  One hunter, one dog, one rooster within fifteen minutes of exiting his vehicle.  My quick math had our four dogs finding a proportional number of birds in 3.75 minutes.  Unfortunately the dogs never got birdy, and we left the first few spots before 8 am.  As we drove North to hunt larger CRP fields, an enormous swarm of pheasants started to fly over the road between the cut corn and a large grass field.  Unfortunately, the birds flew from one private section of land to another, so the dogs and guns remained in the trucks.   

Our group made a collective and calculated decision to approach a landowner or three and ask if we could hunt their property.  One gentlemen said that he was having guests that day so we could not hunt his land.  He warned us that another farmer we wanted to contact would not allow us to hunt his ground either.  We approached a final landowner, who turned out to be the caretaker, and who rudely stated that the land could not be hunted (a complete bummer as we saw many birds flying onto the property).  We did have cash on hand and would gladly have paid or worked for one hour of access.

The rest of the afternoon produced little results.  The dogs found their share of hens but we could not find the ever elusive rooster.    

As I drove down the back roads leading to Interstate 76, hoards of pheasants started to make their way from the corn fields back to the protective grass.  I quickly pulled over with a strong desire to not go home empty handed.  As I jogged into a field and shouldered my Beretta I hesitated.  To my dismay, there were just too many hens flanking my rooster thereby inhibiting an ethical shot.  That rooster actually landed on a hay bale about 100 yards from where I stood.   He turned his head in my direction then abruptly flew off. 

Getting up at 3 am, driving 450 miles and never firing your shotgun is not fun.  That said, there is something intrinsically satisfying about a day of pursuit.

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That alarm was set to go off at 3 a.m.  However, at 1:45 a.m. my eyes rocketed open in anticipation of the day ahead.  It was Saturday November 12^th, and it was opening day of pheasant season in Colorado.  It was the first opening day of my life and I was fired up.  I had packed the truck the night before so a cup of coffee was the only thing I needed to grab as I headed out the door.  Pride, my eight year old lab, made his way back to his bed, obviously unaware of the adventure about to unfold.

I pulled into my buddy Jim’s house at about 4 a.m.  His engine was running and the truck’s headlights were pointing down the driveway.  I loaded up and were off to the selected Conservation Reserve Program (CRP) land in the northeast corner of the state.  Discussions during our two and one half hour drive focused on crafting the elements of our morning strategy.  Jim had selected a field that had proven to be productive for him in years past.   If no other hunters were present, we would start in the eastern end of a grass field that bumped up against a cut corn field.  The dogs would work the deep cover and we would walk the left and right seam hoping that escaping birds would flush to the edges of the draw.

The last ten miles of the drive slowed dramatically as a plethora of hunters in their own trucks lined the single lane road all heading to upland heaven.  The sun had started to rise and we could hear the faint crack of gunshots as we past large stretches of prime land.  I moved to the edge of the passenger seat as we took the final right to our field.  We passed a group of hunters stalking the land adjacent to our spot.  I stared enviously at them as they had already started their stalk.

Jim pulled off the dirt road and parked at the eastern end of the field.  The wind was blowing at about fifteen miles per hour directly into our faces.  We both jumped out of the car and started to get ready for action.  Amazingly, I could actually hear the roosters cackling in the field.  My breathing  and actions quickened, so I had to consciously control myself in fear I would miss something essential to my intended success.

When I let Pride out of the car he started to twirl with anticipation.  He smelled pheasant and was obviously ready to aggressively hit the field.  With my Beretta A400 Xplor Light in hand, I looked at Pride and muttered the command, “hunt it up”.  We all entered the field together, Jim and his dog Ella walking about fifty yards to my left.  Without warning, pheasants started to suddenly appear about 60 yards in front of me.  They flew right, left and of course away from the muzzle of my gun.  I carefully watched Pride as he tried to corner roosters running in every different direction in the deep grass.  It seemed that only hens got up next to me while the roosters took flight just outside of my range.  As feelings of desperation overcame me, Pride abruptly stopped on point about 40 yards to my left.  I made certain that Jim acknowledged my position and moved quickly to the spot.  Unfortunately the bird started to move and Pride flushed him.  I should have knocked him down with the first shell but my mount and swing were less than stellar.  Shot number two exploded two feet behind the bird and then I made a mistake; as the pheasant moved from three o’clock to five o’clock I attempted a “Hail Mary” shot.  With no shells remaining in the chamber of my Beretta, I uncoordinatedly reached into my vest for more Prairie Storm ammunition.  As I tried to reload, Pride went on point again.  Safety being my primary concern, I worked slowly to arm my weapon.  Too late!  The beautiful rooster took flight ten feet in front of me as I gripped an empty shotgun.

The field provided more action; Jim took down a fine bird on a long and effective shot.  Thanks to Pride’s diligence, I had my opportunities, but was definitely suffering from pheasant fever (I was choking).  We hunted that field for three hours then moved to other plots of public land.  The dogs raised plenty of hens as we walked through miles dense cover, but the action slowed as we approached midday.  Before we broke for lunch, we noticed a farmer on his John Deere combine cutting corn adjacent to the field that we were hunting.  Each pass he made toward our field forced multiple pheasants into the air.  We made the calculated decision to let the farmer finish his work so we could end the day on the bordering field.

I became increasingly anxious during lunch (I think I asked for the check as soon as we sat down).  There were opportunities to execute and I was failing myself and my dog.  After leaving the restaurant, Jim and I made our way down another dirt road, when suddenly two roosters flew over our truck moving from private to public land.  We stopped and quickly got ready to roll.  The temperature was now in the sixties and the wind was negligible.  We walked hundreds of yards through dense cover with minimal action.   Then, without warning, Pride made a hard stop and point about twenty yards to my left.  The bushes were so think that I could not see what he was looking at.  I moved slowly toward the dog.  He jumped left as the bird was obviously running in that direction.  Pride pushed the flush and the rooster took flight.  My first shot was solid, but I felt it necessary to fire again in order to ensure the bird went down.  Pride fetched my first Colorado wild rooster and brought him to my hand.  There are certain things in life that provide profound emotions.  At forty three, I have gained a new passion for wing hunting, and this moment was the culmination of almost three years of preparation.

To conclude opening day, Jim and I made our way back to the field where we had seen the farmer cutting his stalks of corn.  I was relaxed as the pressure of shooting my first bird was behind me.  The tactics we would utilize were obvious; walk toward the downed corn and force the birds into the open area.  It did not take long for us to see an abundance of hens and roosters taking flight in all different directions.  Two finely placed shots brought me to my pheasant limit (3).

The two and one half hour drive back to Parker had Jim and me reflecting on the day that had been.  The experience touched my soul and I was thankful for the opportunity to fulfill a dream.

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