Perfection Happens

Flicka went into the aspens searching for bird scent and a few minutes later went on point. I had to climb up a steep bank at the bottom of the hillside to get behind her, and a moment later, Flicka couldn’t stand it any longer. She lunged at the cone of scent and with a rush of wings the ruffed grouse took to the air.

I took a quick shot at the bird and missed, following with another shot, missing again. As the bird disappeared off into the forest I stood there pulling the trigger of my now empty gun, wishing that the shotgun was a repeater instead of a double barrel, and that I had one more chance at the grouse.

Though I could see I missed, Flicka went off to retrieve the bird. She reluctantly came back after I blew my whistle for her to return. Bless her little Labrador retriever heart, she had confidence in my shooting, even when I knew that my shots missed the mark.

Flicka wanted to get back out in search of the downed bird. “You shot the gun,” her body language seemed to say. “There must be a bird out there, right?” All I could do was apologize.

A little over a week earlier, we were hunting pheasants in North Dakota. Flicka and I were hunting alone that day. The skies were clear with a chilly wind, though a few minutes of walking warmed things up.

The lakeside cover is tough going, with tall weeds and brush. It would be a lot easier to walk in the prairie grasses a little higher up, but pheasants like the nasty cover, so that’s where we hunt. Suddenly a cock pheasant flushes. I swing on the bird and pull the trigger. The bird goes down and Flicka quickly finds it and brings it to me. I take time to smooth the feathers of the bird and admire its bright plumage before putting it in the back of my vest.

We continue our walk, meandering through the brush, tall grasses and other cover. On a hillside where the edge of the Wildlife Management Area borders croplands, we put up a number of hen pheasants plus a couple birds just out of range that might have been roosters. Sometimes it’s hard to pick out those colors when the light is wrong.

Our ramble across the prairie next goes to a thin line of trees. A few years ago a fire had swept across part of the area. After a couple wet years there’s little sign of that fire except for that line of blackened dead trees. Flicka locks up on point and when the pheasant flushes I get an easy shot and Flicka gets an easy retrieve.

Just a couple minutes later Flicka again goes on point next to a clump of brush, a tangle of weeds, tall grass, and fallen tree limbs. When she finally breaks point a cock pheasant takes to the air. While the bird’s flight takes twists and turns through the trees, I stay focused on the bird and when I pull the trigger the bird folds, and Flicka makes the retrieve.

Then it occurs to me that we’ve collected a three-bird limit of pheasants with just three shots. It has been some 55 years since I first ventured out into a field with a shotgun in search of pheasants. In terms of shooting success it has been a long progression since those early years when dropping any flying bird seemed akin to a miracle. Actually, it’s not that long a progression since early September when I went through 12 shells to produce two blue grouse on this season’s first day of hunting.

Over the years, especially the last few decades when one of several Labrador retrievers have been my partner, I’ve gotten limits of pheasants many times, but this was the first time I’ve limited out with firing just three shells.

Wingshooting involves luck, experience, good dog work, shooting skills, and above all, focus. As we remind ourselves in tennis, “Keep your eye on the ball.”

Still I wonder if I’ll ever again summarize a day’s hunt as “Three birds up. Three shots. Three retrieves.”