Tail Feathers
The biting cold of the late season smacked us in the face when we opened the car doors. Snow covered the ground and a tormenting wind knifed its way between my shoulder blades. Ours was the only car in the parking area of the public hunting area. We were the only ones desperate enough to stray from a warm home this day.
Opening day with its warm fall afternoons was a distant memory, but no matter. We both dislike the crowds and foolishness that sometimes accompanies opening day, and duty schedules didn't allow hunting earlier most years anyway. Even when I was living at home it seemed that Christmas was our cue to hunt.
So ice and snow were our lot, but we never had to share the fields. Birds were hard won, but we seemed to always scratch one or two. I never recall shooting a limit, but that never was our goal anyway. One pheasant for dinner was a princely reward; more seemed excessive. Our best luck through the years had come on family land, but this year those deeds bore new names, so we chose to hunt closer to home on public land. Actually "chose" isn't quite accurate. It was the only option available to us.
I grew up hunting small game; deer hunting was about as plausible in those years as an African safari. Iowa at that time had deer, but nothing like the numbers and quality found there today. Back then farms were smaller, and farming practices allowed brushy fence rows, which provided food and cover for small game. Our main quarry was the ring tailed pheasant, but if a covey of quail or a cottontail showed themselves they were gladly added to our bag. Purists we were not.
We didn't have a bird dog (other than me), so our hunting demanded a lot of brush-busting through shoulder high thickets. We zigzagged, pausing every few steps (to make the birds nervous and flush dad said). We had to carefully mark downed birds as we couldn't depend on a dog's nose to find them. Losing a shot bird was a major sin, one I do not recall having to often repent of, due to dad's sharp eyes.
On that particular day, I was home on leave from the Air Force, and prospects for birds were slim. I don't actually recall much about the hunt itself, but suffice it to say neither of us had to clean any game. It was cold and miserable, and we hunted until we could no longer feel our faces. Somehow I think we suspected this might be our last chance for pheasants, and neither of us wanted to be the first to suggest quitting. Our suspicions proved correct, and we soon both moved back to the south, away from cornfields and cackles. Dad and I hunted a few more times for turkeys in Tennessee, but never again would we walk fence rows all day to be startled by a rooster flushing in an explosion of snow, color and sound.
I think of those hunts during the holiday season each year. I don't remember any of the presents under the tree from that era, but I annually unwrap the memories of each hunt we enjoyed together, looking for tailfeathers.
Opening day with its warm fall afternoons was a distant memory, but no matter. We both dislike the crowds and foolishness that sometimes accompanies opening day, and duty schedules didn't allow hunting earlier most years anyway. Even when I was living at home it seemed that Christmas was our cue to hunt.
So ice and snow were our lot, but we never had to share the fields. Birds were hard won, but we seemed to always scratch one or two. I never recall shooting a limit, but that never was our goal anyway. One pheasant for dinner was a princely reward; more seemed excessive. Our best luck through the years had come on family land, but this year those deeds bore new names, so we chose to hunt closer to home on public land. Actually "chose" isn't quite accurate. It was the only option available to us.
I grew up hunting small game; deer hunting was about as plausible in those years as an African safari. Iowa at that time had deer, but nothing like the numbers and quality found there today. Back then farms were smaller, and farming practices allowed brushy fence rows, which provided food and cover for small game. Our main quarry was the ring tailed pheasant, but if a covey of quail or a cottontail showed themselves they were gladly added to our bag. Purists we were not.
We didn't have a bird dog (other than me), so our hunting demanded a lot of brush-busting through shoulder high thickets. We zigzagged, pausing every few steps (to make the birds nervous and flush dad said). We had to carefully mark downed birds as we couldn't depend on a dog's nose to find them. Losing a shot bird was a major sin, one I do not recall having to often repent of, due to dad's sharp eyes.
On that particular day, I was home on leave from the Air Force, and prospects for birds were slim. I don't actually recall much about the hunt itself, but suffice it to say neither of us had to clean any game. It was cold and miserable, and we hunted until we could no longer feel our faces. Somehow I think we suspected this might be our last chance for pheasants, and neither of us wanted to be the first to suggest quitting. Our suspicions proved correct, and we soon both moved back to the south, away from cornfields and cackles. Dad and I hunted a few more times for turkeys in Tennessee, but never again would we walk fence rows all day to be startled by a rooster flushing in an explosion of snow, color and sound.
I think of those hunts during the holiday season each year. I don't remember any of the presents under the tree from that era, but I annually unwrap the memories of each hunt we enjoyed together, looking for tailfeathers.
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Jim