Ten-Second Pheasants

by Gene Hill

It was only a small stream with an edging of marsh, no more than 8 to 10 feet across. But it was spongy and we poked around for a dry crossing while the Labs thrashed through the creek washing off the prairie dust and ignoring any attempt to bring them under control. We finally just waded over, wet only to the knees, and in a minute the water was forgotten.

I saw a covered wagon, dangling with chicken coops, buckets, coils of rope, and what have you. A small family, probably from Pennsylvania, taking their mare, a handful of hogs, and a headful of dreams--going west. I saw them on one side of this nothing creek unloading the wagon, crossing, loading it all up again, and wondering if this was the last fording before nightfall.

The prairie is forever buffalo and Indian country to me. I don't see the stubborn little farm houses, I ignore the two-story combines and the giant grain bins and lean into the wind and the thick-stem grass--my hunting blood at pioneer level...my imagination searching for Sioux braves as I crest the rise in the prairie.

What I did see as I topped the rise was a handful of wild-eyed Labs flushing two dozen birds about three gunshots away; a sight only too familiar to the long-time Lab owner. But it's a glorious sight anyway, and one you won't often see unless you're a prairie pheasant hunter.

Iowa has a lot of famous crops, and although I can't speak for most of them, I can say that the pheasants are hard work. Iowa, as you may or may not know, has no downhill, and somehow the wind is always in your face, snatching away what little breath you have left from climbing and wading through what they call "grass."

I stop to rest a minute and watch some other hunters straggling across the fields of another farm. Now and then, far, far in front a bird flushes for no reason I can imagine--except that this is wild bird country, there's a restlessness in the November air, a need to move, and it touches me as well.

I trudge on a little more slowly and see that the dogs have slowed down as well. No need to hurry, there will almost certainly be birds as we come to the end of the field; it shouldn't be a surprise but somehow it always is.

I hear a close shot and see that my partner has tumbled a rooster. I quit looking for arrowheads and pay more attention to the quartering dogs. I'm ready to practice my early morning shooting lesson.

I'd missed a rather easy bird and felt I had to discuss it; why, I don't know since no one really cares or listens, but somehow in this nonsense I asked my farmer partner what chokes he likes for pheasants and he told me full and full. I said I thought modified would be enough and he told me why he disagreed. "Watch," he said, "when the nest bird gets up it'll go like a rocket--but only for 8 or 10 seconds. He stops flying then and just glides, maybe adds a wingbeat or two if he needs it but that's all. Now you wait--don't shoot--until he stops flying and levels off and he's a lot easier even if he's a little farther out. Full and full will fetch him."

I did just that but it wasn't easy--watching a bird climb out like a fury and doing nothing for a few seconds. But I waited, took time to get my feet, get my cheek firmly planted on the stock and the butt where it ought to be on my shoulder. I leisurely--in comparison to my usual haste--swung through and had the great satisfaction of a clean head-shot.

As they say, "Easy when you know how." I thought of all the pheasant hunting I'd done and no one had ever pointed out that 8 to 10 seconds of flight. Of course, it would have never occurred to me either, but it's as good a shooting tip as I've ever had; one of the few that make sense and really work.

Later that day I saw my "coach" miss a bird--both barrels. I smiled and said, "Those who can't do, teach."

He blushed and said, in his nice humble, almost shy, way, "That's about the first bird I've missed in two years."

"Maybe you were imitating me," I said, "just to make me feel better."

"No," he said, "I just honestly left the safety on."

I said that maybe that's why I'd missed a couple of birds earlier; he smiled right back and said, "Maybe..."

We went back to the farm for lunch and I wandered around poking my nose into the equipment sheds, dwarfed by tractors the size of small locomotives. I remembered my grandfather behind his team of dappled grays, the reins thrown across his broad shoulders so he had both hands free to steer the heavy plow. I remembered the neighbors helping with the hay, turning the rows with long-handled wooden rakes and laughing about who knew how to build a good haycock and who didn't. Different country and different times, but the worries and the hours have stayed about the same.

We ate our sandwiches and talked dogs and guns and birds. Most of us liked heavy loads and big shot sizes; 5s were the favorite, with a vote or two for 4s, and the pointing dog men liking 6s. Typical small talk, the arguments were always the same and we all enjoyed every minute of it; the small talk of friends, the stuff that bridged who else you might have been, and yet we were all the same--bird hunters.

I had two birds left for a limit and felt high and mighty about my 8-to-10-second lesson. I was wondering what it would be like to never miss another pheasant--how I'd handle greatness--when I stepped on a rooster. By the time I had fired the second barrel he quit flying and started to glide. I heard a familiar voice call out, "That was a mighty short 10 seconds!" Being smart for once I said nothing. Wait until the next bird, I thought to myself and wondered why in the name of Kimble and Bogardus I couldn't retain anything for a couple of hours. One of the Labs looked birdy and I watched him, saying 10 seconds to myself. And it worked perfectly. I swore I'd never let another cock bird boss me around or frighten me into forgetting.

I was all done and had discovered both downhill and down wind. I headed for the truck, gleaning the ground for arrowheads again, with no success. Maybe the Sioux picked them all up, like saving the empties; maybe they weren't as careless as I am, maybe they were just great shots.

I liked walking through the standing corn, I liked the rustling sound and the way it arched over my head, almost protectively, and I understood why the pheasant felt safe from the hawks--so did I.

Almost at the end of a row I saw a big rooster running toward the open field and, the instant he was there, throw himself into the graying sky and cackle good-bye to me. I watched and counted to 10 when he began to glide. He turned and settled into a willow thicket, safe at home with the doors shut and locked and he crowed one more time to say so.

There was less than an eyebrow of sun left; a handful of minutes until dark. From not too far off I heard a coyote, a rolling bark borne to me by the wind. Then I heard another, an answer surely. The small boy who loved the "penny dreadful" books about cowboys and Indians remembered that once the Sioux called like coyotes on these prairies. I smiled to myself for questioning what was real, knowing that it's always real when the coyote calls in the dark...something is always listening fearfully in the dreadful silence that follows.


Copyright (c) 1995 Countrysport, Inc. All Rights Reserved. This article originally appeared in Pheasant Tales: Original Stories About America's Favorite Game Bird, available from Countrysport Press.

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