Tag Archives: Pheasant

Hunting

Flying Solo

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.

http://youtu.be/jGjqZHAgY3A

http://youtu.be/sv4vu2b6gn0

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Hunting

When Roosters Don’t Fly

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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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Hunting

11/12/11 – My Opening Day of Colorado Pheasant Season

Ross and Pride Opening Day 2011
Ross and Pride Opening Day 2011

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 12th, 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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Hunting

Pride

Last Wednesday, legendary gun dog trainer, Gary Ruppel, introduced Pride into our home. Pride is a handsome, seven year old, Grand River Labrador retriever who recently lost his owner. We had been considering a bird dog for months, but we could not decide on a puppy or a started dog. My wife and I were on edge as we did not know how our dog Bo would react to another male lab on his turf. After two hours of working the dogs through their paces, and with Gary’s professional recommendation, we decided to bring Pride into our home. As Gary left our house, Pride followed, looking distraught when the door closed and the truck pulled away. As Thursday unfolded, it became obvious that Pride was incredibly stressed by his new environment. We made a concerted effort to stay close to him, trying to provide comfort during this difficult transition. Pride was now a member of the Freedman family, and we quickly felt a real devotion to his wellbeing.

A few enjoyable bumper throwing sessions on Thursday, along with a ton of tail-wagging, lead us to believe that Pride might coming out of his funk. As 4 pm rolled around on Friday, I decided to cut out of work and take Pride on a short hunt. The conditions were perfect, 20 degrees, slight wind and no one in the field. Admittedly, I was pretty excited to watch Pride execute his craft. As we journeyed into the wind, I told Pride to “hunt-it-up”. He hesitated as we moved slowly down an old creek bed toward tall bulrushes that line the north part of the land. When I slowed, Pride actually sat by my side almost telling me that he was not ready to hunt. We walked the countryside for about 60 minutes with old Pride angling at my car the entire time. Eventually his eyes told me that he wanted to leave.

As we drove home, Gary and I talked about the experience, and Pride’s perceived resistance to hunt. He told me to take him out again and say nothing in the field. I must allow Pride to follow his instincts and do what he was trained to do. Gary critiqued my demeanor, attitude and intensity, emphasizing that patience and calmness would work best for the dog and for me.

We had a great Saturday throwing the bumper and playing in the yard. Pride was settling into his new family, and was acting like a different dog. At times he actually pranced around the house with his tail pointing up towards the sky. He seemed to appreciate the attention my 6 and 4 year old boys paid to him, taking every opportunity to nuzzle into them while gently licking them on the face.

On Sunday morning, my oldest son and I headed 30 miles east towards the property that we hunt. I was not overly anxious as I felt that this trip was just another day for Pride to further acclimate into his new situation. After opening the hatch on my car, Pride enthusiastically jumped out, but seemed hesitant to move into the field. Following Gary’s direction, I said nothing to him, hoping his instincts would eventually take over. Without any commands, Pride abruptly turned and moved eagerly into the open land. He began to trot toward a large brush pile about 150 yards from the car. He moved right then left with his nose guiding us in the right direction. As he approached the mound of sticks, he slowed to a determined crawl then stopped suddenly; shoulders low and tail erect. I had been in a steady jog but stopped to set up about ten feet behind him with my gun mounted. Maintaining complete focus, Pride moved into the cover flushing the bird who quickly flew low and to my right. Given the proximity to the dog, I could not take a safe shot at the chucker. When I could not see black, I fired once missing my mark then quickly regained my composure and fired again. The bird fell about 40 yards away, and Pride was there to retrieve it for me. It was our first bird together and we celebrated. Pride, Ty and I hunted for another 90 minutes. Pride pointed to and flushed six more birds. He walked the land with confidence and purpose. It was an amazing experience to watch the dog flawlessly execute the job he was tasked to do.

For 7 years, Pride was trained, raised and cherished by the Webber family and Gary Ruppel. We look forward to continuing to love and care for Pride.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6xEyeH2IlZ4

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Family, Hunting

My Introduction to Upland Game Bird Hunting

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Moving to Colorado in January of 2009 has allowed me to experience the outdoors Western style.  Early on, I quickly replaced my bait casting/spinning gear with a fly rod and reel.  Initial frustrations with technique and execution has slowly evolved to now being able to meander through tail waters and catch fish.  I thank Mr. Joe Butler (and his son Chad) for having the patience to teach me how to fly fish. 

The excitement of hunting rabbit with beagles a handful of times in my life, along with watching a variety of programming on Versus and The Outdoor Channel, prompted me to investigate upland game bird hunting.  After acquiring my first shotgun (Lanber 2097 Sporting Lux – 12 gauge) in the fall of 2009, I ventured out to a sporting clays range to test my admittedly limited skills.  My four year old son (now six) volunteered to pull clays, and joined me on my initial foray into the sport.  Like my first day with a fly rod, my obvious lack of skills produced little results.  Clays went out, and only came down when the law of gravity took over. People watching me shoot must have felt badly for my kid, as they quickly came over to offer me technical advice.  Five or six trips to the range prompted me to try my first pheasant hunt in December of 2009.   Our lab is not a hunting dog, so we (four year old alongside) decided to try to kick up some birds during a windy snowy winter day.  Ninety minutes of not seeing a bird lead to a lot of complaining and criticism from the boy.  Two gentlemen and a lady watched our lack of success from afar, and graciously offered to run their dogs for us.   I missed the first four birds the dogs raised.  Even with the weather, they were all makeable shots that should have met their mark.   My wife and I had dinner plans, and I knew the hunt would have to end soon.  As we walked to the car, the Brittney Spaniel (Spicy) suddenly darted left down the edge of some tall grasses.  Seven or eight determined and vigorous steps put Spicy on point.  As I approached the cover, a loud noise followed by a rising rooster startled me.  With my gun already mounted, and I started my swing as the bird flew high and quickly to the right.  My first shot missed, and I consciously realized that I needed to make the next count.  Soon after my second shot, the pheasant tumbled in mid-flight, and hit the ground about one hundred yards from where we were standing.  The golden (Jasper) fetched the bird and brought it to me.  My son had never been so excited.  He insisted on eating the entire bird that evening. 

Fourteen months later, we have been fortunate to have been on over a dozen hunts.  People have been kind, allowing us the unique experience of hunting over their dogs.  My entire family (wife and other son, now four), walk the fields together, appreciating the outdoors like we have never done before.  We are now strongly considering adopting a seven year old lab who recently lost his owner.  Next year, we plan on traveling to Kansas and Montana to continue the adventure. 

http://youtu.be/f9LEp8-j53w

Emmy Flushes a Chucker Final

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