The dogs worked the cover, but the hours were draining away. It wasn't looking likely
I can still remember my first pheasant when I was 13 years old. From then to now, it's been an unbroken line of at least one successful hunt a year.
21 years completed, the 22nd year was hanging in the balance.
Normally streaks and records are for the birds and only serve to measure the ego but for some reason, it meant a lot for me. My first pheasant was my first big outdoor accomplishment, I loved pheasant hunting more than anything before steelhead came along.
The only other day this season was a fruitless endeavor with nary a shot fired. Birds scattered into the air as we pulled up to our spots, wild as wild can get. This does nothing to also mention the bird numbers were low after a brutal summer drought.
But the streak was given a last shot reprieve on the last day of the season.
Working through the last bit of cover on the last piece of ground we had access to, the dogs snapped into gear. The scent drove them to a new speed, nose to the ground....checking every piece of dirt because a pheasant was near. Their noses said so, so it must be.
Both dogs dove into a particular clump of grass and the bird thundered away.
The first shot was a complete wiff. It's amazing how time slows and you can adjust between shots.
The second shot hit the mark.
The streak continues.
Very nicely done. I've never been hunting, but can imagine how being in that moment and losing sense of time can feel. Some beautiful feathers, and windshield art.
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