The Pheasant Trail

 

“Responsibility is the possibility of opportunity culminating in inevitable fulfillment.” ~ Sri Chinmoy

Rowdy and the Rooster

 

Gentle Readers and Loved Ones,

This is a story of tracking down and bagging a wounded Pheasant.  To me it is a story of having fun hunting with Rowdy.  But I can see as how someone more sensitive might get all tangled up in emotion over this.  If wounded animal stories offend you, would you please just stop reading now?

Every year, some of Kate’s oldest friends invite us down to NW Iowa to hunt for the wily Pheasant.  I look forward to these trips with enthusiasm. 

We got to Le Mars, IA, Friday night for two days of hunting.  Mike briefed me up on what he had planned at dinner that night.

He had permission from a nicely set up farmhouse owner to hunt his “grove.” “Grove” is a mildly fascinating example of how names for things change regionally.  My family roots in Oklahoma called the trees perimetering a farmhouse a “Windbreak”.  In Iowa, the term is “Grove” – the trees planted around the farmstead for privacy and wind protection.  You can see a small portion of the grove in the picture above. 

This is a story in two parts.  First there is a generically bland story of the slog around stirring the birds up.  Then there is the long trail to bag the wounded bird. 

We were going to go first thing Saturday morning to Gary’s farm.  I’d walk the perimeter of the grove out in the corn stubble looking for leaker roosters while Mike busted through the grove trying to drive out the birds.  Which is what we did, slogging through the ankle-deep snow for the roughly half mile it took to walk around the stead.  We popped up one Rooster which cantankerously flew back over the farm house preventing a shot.

Mike saw some birds run out on the other side of the farmhouse into this nice little drainage ditch.  The ditch ran up this hill off to the right up to the property line up on the top an adjoining hill.

We agreed Mike would load up in the truck, drive up the hill and cut off the ditch.  I was plodding slow enough he’d have time to drive up and block. 

So, I stood at the edge of Gary’s grove, watched Mike drive his truck up to the top of the hill and then Rowdy and I began beating through the ankle deep snow along the right side of the ditch.  Wild Pheasants are wily and it wasn’t long until I started seeing numerous hens and Roosters flying out ahead of me around 50 yards away.  Most were flying up the ditch towards where Mike would soon be blocking and then settling down again in the ditch.  So far, our plan is working.

As I slogged on, some of the birds began flying left and right and leaked away with no chance for a shot.  Blessedly, one Rooster got up and flew directly away from me but close enough to Mike that he had a shot and he "winged" the bird.

The wily Rooster struggled over the boundary fence, landing hard on the next farm over and began running hard, dragging its broken wing back down the hill.

This is when the tracking fun started. 

Mike ran back to his truck and came down to pick up my tired old carcass. 

We are now presented with a problem.  The bird has run onto George’s property.  Luckily, Mike knows him, so he calls.  We get permission to come on over and see what we can do. 

We drive up and around the road onto a really nice little family farm.  It’s surrounded by a really lush grove that probably has a perimeter of over a half mile or so.  We drive to the back, unload, gear up and start walking towards where we think the bird landed and ran.

Mike stays in the grove and beats around, while I walk out into the cornfield on the far side looking for tracks.  Quickly, I find the wounded birds tracks in the snow.  It was running hard; the claw marks are about 3’ apart as it ran into the grove.   

The bird entered the grove roughly in the middle of the back strip.  That strip of grove is really wide, big and complex.  It contains lots of farm stuff.  Melting snow has fallen from the tree cover and has churned up the snow making tracking hard.  Rowdy beats around in there, acting all birdy, but isn’t much help.  Mike is over to my right on the other side of a woodpile when he yells: “Here’s the tracks.” 

I plow over to him and sure enough, you can see that the Rooster has slowed, the tread is much shorter and you can see the wounded wing dragging in the snow.  The tracks lead over to where the grove has made a 90 degree turn to our left again, leading out toward the road.  Again, I go through the grove and out into the field, while Mike busts through the Farmstead yard and grove.  This portion of the grove is much narrower.   I do not see any tracks out in the field.

Turning left, we continue to walk to end of grove, hoping we are driving the runaway out of the cover.  I see no sign of the Rooster and I’m beginning to feel disappointment that this last leg has been a waste.

I’m about 15 yards from the end when Mike yells.  Rowdy comes out in big looping arc around to my right chasing the wounded bird.  Feathers and snow are flying as both of them run for the bird's life. 

A lot starts happening at once.  I begin to raise my gun but realize that Rowdy is much too close to the bird for that.  At the same time, I hear Mike warning me off of that act of buffoonery.  As Rowdy narrows the gap, the Rooster tries to fly which results in a half roll and Rowdy knocks it down out of the air.  He narrowly misses grabbing the bird.  Feathers are flying everywhere.  There is a final, short ten yard heave and Rowdy finally catches the bird. This is when the Rooster begins whaling his face with the good wing.  The Rooster might have also attempted some spurring violence but Rowdy hangs on valiantly and delivers the bird to me. 

I give the bird to Mike since it’s his.  He wrings its’ neck and we hike back through the farm complex to the truck.  

Mike, Rowdy and the Rooster

  

I would guess that from the point of the shot up over and down the hill and through the grove, we trailed that bird 3/4s of a mile so.  Working with Rowdy to catch it was right up there in the top 5 fun things I’ve ever done with him.

On that note, I remain,

Dad/Geoff