We all hear a lot about global climate change, posted land, habitat encroachment, and other trends that threaten hunting.  In fact, it may be true - we may land fewer fish, bag fewer birds, or take trophy animals less often these days.  Despite all that, hunting, as I think of it, is alive and well, based on a trip I took last week.  It’s a lot more than what’s in the bag at the end of a trip that makes the trip one for the record books.  Do you agree?  Here’s what I think: 

You can almost always count on the weather throwing a curve ball – isn’t that fun!?

1. Shooting a limit is great, shooting some birds isn’t far behind, shooting one bird is better than getting skunked, seeing birds is better than not seeing birds, and just getting to go hunting is always just about enough,
2. Spending a couple of days with friends is priceless,
3. Food always tastes better when you are hunting, and finally,
4. Being indoors will never beat enjoying the gift of the great outdoors.

Just last week I locked in my hunting addiction for at least another few years.  Back in early August my friend Shane Hand invited me to the Panhandle for a two-day pheasant/duck/turkey/clay pigeon camp.  With a nod from my wife, I signed up without a second thought – or any regard for the logistics of getting to Amarillo in December. 

Thursday

This past Thursday morning I woke up in Austin; the cold front we had been watching plowed through during the night. Wednesday afternoon it was 82 degrees – now it was 32 and raining.  Unfortunately, it was sleeting in Dallas and flights were already stacking up across the southern part of the country.  Schools were closed across the Panhandle, Oklahoma, even up into Kansas.  I watched Southwest.com throughout the morning like a stock trader - cancelled, delayed, delayed, cancelled, four hour delay – flights dropped off the screen one by one.  Oh crud.  How can this be?  Maybe I’ll drive up.  No, that’s a stupid idea.  We sat in traffic for three hours at Thanksgiving just to get through Waco – and it was 55 and sunny. I decided my flight would be delayed or cancelled, so I procrastinated on packing. Dumb idea.  By the time I made my way to the ticket counter it was after 1pm.  The Southwest employee checked her watch twice before agreeing to check my bags.  Yikes.  I grabbed my carry-ons and was the last one on the plane.   Somehow, we made it through Love Field to Amarillo.  Most flights didn’t that day.  Our friend Barrett Bowman arrived four hours late at 10pm.  We waited for his bags for 15 minutes, then declared them MIA.  

Friday

The next morning, Barrett’s bags showed up, covered in snow, at 9:30am. Hallelujah. American Airlines failed to mention that Barrett’s gun case was found – but didn’t survive the flight.  Thankfully, his gun was still intact.  We loaded the truck and drove west from Amarillo to scout Shane’s pheasant hunting land and to look for some ducks. It was beautiful out – snow dotted the landscape where it got stuck in clumps of winter wheat.  Drifts between cut corn stalks were thick white and tall drifts had collected in hedgerows, drainage ditches, and uncut fields.  It was clear, cold, and unbelievable.  Allen Shannon is right – the Panhandle may just be God’s country.  Seeing groups of four and five roosters lounging in the sun along the road for much of the last 20 miles probably had something to do with feeling that way, I guess.  We had a good, long discussion about whether it was appropriate to start pheasant season today, since it was tomorrow in Japan by now.  We decided probably not.

After convincing ourselves that the pheasant hunting land hadn’t disappeared and there were probably some birds out there, we went to check the duck ponds.  Yikes.  Frozen.  Solid.  Jumping-up-and down-not-cracking solid.  Humm.  No ducks here.  There was nothing flying – except a few crows.  After 45 minutes or so, we finally found some ducks in a big hole in the middle of a pond.  Pretty cool – but they were in a hole we couldn’t reach with our shotguns.  Even if we did drop a few, it was unlikely we could retrieve them.  So, we watched for a while and got back on the road.  As we drove off a small group of 7 or 8 took off from the pond, so we watched them fly and followed them in the truck.  About 2 miles away, they went down behind a dairy operation. 

As we drove over the last rise on the country road behind the dairy, we saw several groups of ducks getting up and sitting back down in a hollow.  A 2 acre tailwater just below the wheatfield held drainage from the dairy – and about 15-20,000 waterfowl.  I had never seen so many birds in my life.  We were just out of identification by sight range for the ducks, but we heard canadas, snows, and specks as well as mallards, teals, pintails, and a number of other ducks.  We pulled up along the fenceline and saw a sherrif’s SUV sitting on the property access road watching the birds, too.  The land was posted No Hunting / No Trespassing, so we just watched for 20 minutes or so.  The pictures don’t do the scene justice.  We voted on whether the Sherriff was protecting the federal waterfowl population or scouting like we were.  I think scouting won. 

After a few close calls with snow-filled ditches, we got back on paved roads. We started to head back east, then met one of Shane’s customers at a stopsign (seriously).  He generously offered to take us over to his grazing land where he has several ponds that usually hold ducks.  Folks up in the Panhandle sure were nice.  We spent about two hours sneaking up on his ponds which ended up being empty (except for a lot of well-fed jackrabbits running wild).  With 90 minutes of daylight left, we were about to pack it in and call it a successful scouting day. We decided to give his last spot one chance. 

We pulled in and parked next to the barn and saw a nice pond with some open water and a hundred ducks or so.  Part of the hole was out of sight where it tucked in behind a thick border of uncut millet.  We walked, shin deep in snow, across the wheat field to the hedge up against the pond edge.  The snow had drifted in and piled up in the crop buffer, so we quietly tried to high step through – but found ourselves getting stuck along the way.  Shane, who is strong and 6’5” must have picked the short straw – he got high centered part way through and when the crashing stopped, all I could here was him laughing and whispering, “someone come get me out!”.  We had a great laugh about that later.  As you might expect, the birds started to check out – but for almost 30 minutes, they’d circle back in groups and lock up on the same water hole.  We shot from the snow drift and dropped ducks into our snow blind, into the field behind us, and into the waterhole in front of us.  It was an unbelievable experience.  Now I know how a retriever feels when you send him into a snowbank or a cold pond.  We were numb from toes to nose in no time.  Shane had a pair of trout waders (we didn’t bring waterfowl waders…) so I put them on and broke ice until I reached the duck hole to bring back a few birds.  None of us was sure how Cabela’s trout waders would do with ice breaking – but they were champs.  They worked wonderfully – until I forgot they are low cut on the sides, unlike my chest waders which are armpit high all the way around.  The rush of 32 degree water put a little spring in my step and we finished the retrieve and headed back to the truck as quickly as possible – with a short photo stop on the edge of the field.  Wading back through the drift with guns and birds held high over our heads was a funny sight. 

We made it back home in time for some dinner – Staci outdid herself with some great pot roast, potatoes, and carrots.  We cleaned birds, guns, and clothes, and sacked out for the night.  

Saturday

Rise and shine at 5am for eggs and toast (have you ever seen the egg poacher toaster machine – it rocks).  We gassed up, headed out to the field, and rolled out of the truck for a day of pheasant hunting. You can tell from the pictures in this journal that I got my cold fix well taken care of.  It was 12 degrees, clear, and breezy Saturday morning.  Perfect pheasant hunting weather.  We unloaded, put on the cold weather gear, and set Ranger out to dig up some roosters.  Ol’ Ranger backed us up on the pot roast Friday night, so he was in high gear and ready to go.  He got right to work and turned out a few hens on the first pass.  Two roosters got up at the end of the first pass, but were out of range to shoot.  We made a few passes through a large patch along one of the frozen ponds, then doubled back to re-check a large patch we passed on the way to the pond.  We dropped our first pheasant there.  With one in the bag, Ranger and we were fired up.  We had three passes left to go along the pond and expected that we had pushed some pheasant from the tall part of the patch to the shorter grasses along the pond.  As we made tighter passes along the pond, we really started to turn up the birds.  We dropped two in short succession, then Ranger turned one up a little far out to reach.  By the time we hit the edge of the pond, we had five roosters and had seen two or three others we didn’t shoot.  We decided to let that field rest for a while and headed on over to the other field.    

We parked, got Ranger back out, and started into the second field.  Shane went to the far corner to block, and Kevin, Barrett, Ranger, and I started walking the first pass.  We were headed toward “Barrett’s Tree”, a little grove of trees where Barrett has shot a pheasant each of the last few years.  About 20 yards short of the tree, the first pheasant got up and Barrett promptly added him to his vest bag.  Right when he shot, the grasses thundered and 20+ birds flushed out of the tree grove.  It made such a racket that even Ranger seemed a bit overwhelmed.  Hens and roosters were flying every which way at first, then quickly shot out of the tree grove, around behind the trees, and across the field.  Wow – heart thumping – my hands, feet, and head were all plenty warm now! 

We spent a couple hours walking out that field.  We shot two more pheasant and missed two that surprised us, despite having seen tracks in the snow and being “ready for one to fly”.  Isn’t it a great hunt when a bird can get up and get away before anyone can shoulder a gun and get a decent shot on the bird?  Yahoo!  “The one that got away” always makes a good story on the way home.   

By noon it was time for a break and a warm-up.  It was still sub 20 degrees, so we headed back into town for some warmed-up pot roast in the crock pot.  (I’m going to Wal-Mart this week to get a crock pot with lid latches on the side – it can’t be beat for hunting lunch.)  After a quick nap, we gave it a good hard effort for the rest of the day and added one more to the game bag.  It was an amazing, picture perfect day with great friends. 

Awe-inspiring cold weather (with snow), some great birds and some really great missed shots, a super time with friends, delicious camp food, and being outside all weekend – it just can’t be beat.  I’m so thankful there’s a lot more of that ahead.