Somehow October was nearing its end and due to a variety of reasons – a Minnesota ruffed grouse trip, whipping winds, motherhood, and a missed shot or two – I had yet to shoot a pheasant. While I knew there was plenty of season left, and arguably the much better part of the season, I just didn’t want to swallow October without Fins running back to me with that look in his eyes, and the dark orange flashing as he weaved through the grass that would soon be covered in snow.
Scott and Fins love a good cattail death march in December. They walk places on days nobody would dare, and they’re frequently rewarded for it, and I applaud them. But me? I’m a little more partial to the prairie, where I can see the dogs and more than one foot in front of my face. And October is the time to do it.
I checked the forecast, arranged commitments and planned my solo day. These on-my-own outings seem to be fewer and farther between these days, making me cherish them even more.
I scoured onX the day before. Do I go here? Do I go there? I need a lot of bird contacts to even stand a chance at shooting one, but I’d like to save that spot for when there’s at least two of us. What a luxurious dilemma to be in.
I landed on a tall-grass PLOTS piece where we hunted sharptails back in the day but had grown too thick for the native birds. It’s not what I would call a “money spot” but it made a good first stop to let the dogs get their crazy out, and it sure was a pretty walk.
The temperature started at 28 degrees. A cool, crisp, beautiful October morning. Yet, it still didn’t take long to strip my gloves, beanie and even sweatshirt.
With both dogs in tow, Rhett the rookie and Fins, the veteran, we pushed a nice whitetail buck out of cover that seemingly couldn’t hide a deer. Before flashing his white tail and disappearing over a hill, the buck stopped and looked back at what bumped him from his hiding spot.
Not long after that, in the same low spot, the trusty OG locked in on a nice point. Flush. Shot. Drop. I’m fairly certain I said “F yeah … I needed that” out loud. Fins took a few detours on the retrieve to avoid Rhett, but he eventually made it to me. Exactly what I had yearned for.
We wandered our way through the rest of the PLOTS, enjoying the morning and thankfully ran into a wet spot for the dogs to cool off and get a drink. Even 40 degrees is too hot for Fins.
Our second stop was a PLOTS tract new to me. I had debated whether trying somewhere new was the best decision on my solo day, but you can’t add to the hunting spot repository if you never try.
The road to the corner was pretty muddy and already rutted. Because I tend to play on the side of caution and I don’t mind the steps, I parked on the corner and decided to hike to the spot, which made the decision to leave Fins easier because he didn’t need the extra miles. We had a half mile walk just to get to the PLOTS and another three-quarters of a mile to the start of the drainage.
So, the rookie and I set off. It did feel like a lot of walking to get where we wanted, I just hoped it was worth it, and others might feel the same doubt I was feeling and pass it over.
After crossing two harvested fields and a creek, we had a food plot to cross where, almost to the edge, Rhett slowed to a point. While it kills me to admit that his point is prettier than Fins, there is no argument. Not something I put much weight in either way but it’s a bonus. I kicked my way through his point and I whiffed two shots when the rooster flushed. There’s the Cayla I remember, I grumbled under my breath … my performance earlier in the morning must have been a fluke.
When we finally got to the corner where I hoped to start, a rooster flushed out the other side of a buffaloberry bush. Bang. Dead bird. The perfect opportunity to work on Rhett’s retrieving. He found the bird quickly, picked it up, but it did take some coaxing to get him to come near me with it. Nevertheless, good boy.
We continued on and I heard his collar beep in a small patch of cattails. It’s wet in there, I said out loud, and I’m not doing the stuff dad does. But I did it anyway. A hen flushed.
Not 20 more yards and Rhett went on point again. A rooster flushed. Bang. Dead. I made a hard mark and beelined it to where the bird went down in the cattails, knowing that I didn’t have my trusty Fins with me. I felt pretty good on my mark, and it took about a minute of Rhett romping around to find it.
I was literally in shock. A limit of birds? We hadn’t even walked one tenth of the draw. And it was only noon.
While I could have switched my mindset and struck out to cover favored by sharptails, I liked the idea of a lunch break at the truck and not feeling rushed about cleaning birds and putting my gear away at home before daycare pickup.
I texted Scott on the way back. “The unthinkable happened.”
“What happened? Are you okay?”
“I got my three lol.”
