The first grey light of pheasant season slowly seeped into
existence.
The inky blackness gradually melted away to reveal a sodden and
dripping world. Last night’s steady rain never slackened as the
blackness grudgingly washed away yesterday’s bright fall colors,
now muted and dull, the steady almost hypnotic patter of the rain
ever varying, ever the same.
It was a great day to stay in bed, but we pheasant hunters were
up, had wolfed down a quick breakfast, donned our hunting clothes
and piled into the truck, the dogs in the back whining in
anticipation of the day’s hunt, oblivious to the steady
rainfall.
We turned at Port Allegany and soon pulled over and parked near
a large field where Jim had seen some pheasants a couple of days
earlier. We peered out the steamy windows at the sky hoping for a
break in the clouds, but all we saw through the rain-streaked glass
was fog and low gloomy clouds scrapping the hilltops, pressing down
on them, heavy with their weight of rain.
“Well,” Scott said, with resignation in his voice, “can’t shoot
any pheasants sitting in this truck!”
We climbed out, pulled up our hoods, let the dogs go and stuffed
some shells in our shotguns. Once we were out in the rain, it
didn’t seem too bad. Maybe it was the hope we might soon have a
little action that made the day brighten up a little.
Working up a creek bottom between two fields proved fruitless so
we cut uphill and began working a strip of cover stretching the
length of the field. We reached the end and started back with
Lucky, the English Setter, getting out in front of us. Suddenly two
pheasants flushed far out of range. The pheasants they stock these
days are as wary and spooky as wild birds and we watched as closely
as we could, trying to see where the birds flew, simultaneously
cursing them for not giving us a shot.
We cut up the hill to the next strip of cover when Lucky almost
immediately went on point. We hurried forward to a single thick
pine about 20 feet high when five pheasants suddenly burst into the
air in a flurry of beating wings. The blasted things were directly
behind that pine tree so I didn’t get a shot until one crossed in
front of me. I missed him the first shot, lengthened my lead, and
hit him the second. Jim skillfully dropped two birds and Scott was
not in position to even get a decent look at any of the birds.
We stopped for a second to admire the pheasants, took a picture
or two, then dropped down in the valley. We hadn’t worked down the
brushy creek far before Lucky pointed, then worked forward, pointed
again, then began carefully moving faster down the field edge. Talk
about runners! These birds had track shoes on! I began to run
myself but it didn’t do any good. After about 500 yards, six
pheasants burst out of the brush about 50 yards in front of us,
giving Scott a long, desperate crossing shot, but little else. Dang
those pheasants! They weren’t even giving us a chance.
When the field ended, we followed the dogs into the briars and
brush bordering the creek in hope of finding one or two of the
birds we flushed earlier. As I cut back toward the field, I
suddenly saw what I thought was small deer. With a start I realized
what I saw sneaking back between us was a very large bobcat! He
melted away into the underbrush as quickly as he had appeared.
We flushed six or seven more pheasants in the next hour, but not
one of them gave us a decent shot. By 10:30 we were soaked, the
dogs were tired and the only thing that appeared undeterred was the
rain. It still fell with a steady, single-minded purpose.
On the way back we observed a large, fat, cock pheasant sitting
under a Safety Zone sign. We cursed him and his ancestors back for
six or seven generations, then drove on. When we finally arrived
back at camp the wood fire never felt so good! Soon we had stripped
off our sopping clothes, put on dry ones and eaten a hearty
lunch.
We thought about going back out hunting in the afternoon, but
the roof sprung a leak. I have little doubt a wild flushing
pheasant was somehow behind it!
