Take Cover. With standing crop and other cover in abundance after a recent snowfall, pheasants have plenty of places to hide. For them, it’s usually not the huntable acres that hunters have available. Simonson Photo.
By Nick Simonson
On Saturday afternoon, once the world’s largest cocktail party had become far out of reach for my Florida Gators and the click of the power button on the remote seemed like the only option to stave off starting my own, I glanced out the window. The freshly plowed streets cleared of the eight inches of snow that had fallen in an early season October trick had left a slight berm at the end of the driveway, and any thoughts of heading out to chip away at the speedbump accumulated along the gutter in front of my house quickly vanished after spending the previous day digging out.
Nope, what made total sense was hunting. The dog was antsy, I was far too warm, and I knew a little slough north of town on some public access land that had always held birds, even in December when the snow was thick and late season required some in-depth exploration of its inner edges. While I likely wouldn’t be able to go deep into the cattails as I wanted to, it still beat terrible football and more manual labor. Suiting up in upland pants and doubling my turtleneck with a light jacket, my lab, Ole and I loaded up and were on scene as the sun began its late afternoon trek toward the western horizon. Winds from the northwest of 15 miles and hour added a late winter chill to the final weekend of the month and we set out into the snow which in most places buried the field grasses so that only their tips were showing. Each lift of my leg dropped my boot down again with a puff of white, and in some places put the snow line above my knee. Overhead in what sounded like emergency mode with the sudden shift in conditions, vees of Canada and snow geese zipped along in the azure post-frontal skies calling out their ephemeral presence as they rode the gales southward out of the region.
There were no tracks in the white blanket, save for what looked like the occasional mouse, as we wandered up toward the north side of the walk-in land. Here and there pockets of darkened snow revealed the refill of the small water body by late fall rains ahead of the recent weather event, and it wasn’t long before a crust of slushy ice covered my boot laces, and the slop-slop-slop of my dog’s investigatory steps on the inside of the cattails became the rhythm of the walk. Two large redtailed hawks swooped overhead as we made the turn and headed south with the winds at our back.
Only the field to our right was clean of crop, a harvested stand of wheat likely cut in August or early September. Everywhere else, amidst the trim of white spread a sea of gold corn. South, east and northern fields bounded our walk and the small drain of cattails just across the road which the kindly landowner often lets me hunt after firearms deer season concludes. That factor and not having any tell-tale three-toed tracks predicted the remaining walk, which with the gusts coming from behind us suddenly felt a bit more pleasant.
We curled our way out of the area at the highest point of the ditch drain, where the slough rose to meet the field edge, and I found the slimmest area of black, water-logged snow to cross in. The murky slush covered my boot to just below the bow in my laces as I made the ascent to the road, and we headed back in the wind toward the truck. Ole checked the roadside reeds here and there, but save for a couple sets of deer tracks, there were no signs of anything wild on our return trip. Back at the vehicle we loaded up, a bit dejected, but figuring it was better than an hour or so in front of the TV. Staring out over the vast fields of gold, I figured there must be some pheasants in the area, shrugged it off headed toward the small town a couple of miles away and the blacktop that led back south.
On the edge of the small cemetery on its northeast corner, bounded by silver chain link fence and some volunteer shrubs now bare of their leaves, I caught the beige movement of a hen among the corn stalks along the road. Then a rainbow blur of a running rooster, and another and another and another. Hurrying around the fence, darting through the shrubs, and sprinting out of the ditch grass into the tall golden stalks, my count entered the upper twenties as the pheasants made their hasty exists and I slowed down and surveyed the space about 15 yards wide, happy to have at least confirmed their presence in the area in the corner pocket of the man-made and nature-assisted windbreak, with plenty of cover and food to get them through this unseasonable cold stretch. Sometimes such a sighting is all that’s required to justify a chilly walk, soaked boots, and nearly numb legs as the best alternative to doing anything else…in our outdoors.