BCJ_SPRING 17 Digital Edition

tor close to the ditch, like he did every season, pulling a field rake a
little faster than usual to toss the chaff a bit farther. No one knows
why he was loading the pheasant factory with dry stubble. On his
last pass, the tractor veered towards the steep lip, rolled onto its
side and slid to the bottom of the ravine. He was crushed beneath
the rear wheel. My grandmother discovered his body when he did
not come up to the farmhouse for lunch. Was it a heart attack or
stroke, inattention or a surprise flush of young birds? All that we
will ever know is that he died in The Ditch he so loved to hunt.
But it was never hunted by our family again.
On a frosty October morning of the next year, following my
tenth birthday, I stood in a field of wheat stubble in Oregon’s
Yamhill County on the opening day of my first pheasant season. I
heard two gunshots sound off from across the river. Moments later,
a lone rooster emerged from a cottonwood stand on a straightline
path to me. I locked my body position until the bird seemed
destined to cross within range, and then, with a numb, frozen
thumb, struggled to pull the hammer back on my newly gifted
20 gauge single shot. Click. The gun came up. I tracked the bird
for a moment and clearly thought, I’ve never done this before.
Where do I point the gun? I moved the bead out in front of the
bird. I saw a lot of barrel. I squeezed the trigger. The recoil shoved
me hard. The rooster did not flinch. Dang! And then the bird
locked its wings and sailed, and sailed, and sailed. It tumbled into
the stubble, 50 yards from our parked truck at the edge of the
field. My father, holding the inherited Model 12, brought the
dead pheasant over to me and preened the feathers, looking for
a wound.
“I think you scared him to death.”
On closer examination, we found that one No. 6 pellet entered
the bird under the wing and penetrated its lungs. One pellet.
My father doesn’t hunt anymore. He’s only 76 years old, about
the age of my grandfather when he died. This confirms my early
suspicions that, when I was a boy, he hunted pheasants for two
reasons: My mother suggested, after she caught his eye, that going
hunting with her father was a good idea if he wanted to take her
to the movies; then, many years later, I relentlessly pestered him
to take me.
Today, I am so grateful for his effort. I’m deep into my second
bird dog, meaning by the math I’ve spent 25 seasons since
my college years chasing roosters. My love of pheasant hunting
is not going away any time soon. It is simply the time and often
the place – the season and the open spaces – of which I dream
in the off season. Involuntary or innate, I don’t care to define
or understand the reasons I love to hunt. This desire is simply a
manifestation of my earliest inspirations: a ditch, a dog, a man
and his gentle content smile, loving every minute of it. Oh, how
I know that feeling.
Between producing the Skagit Master DVD series, writing for various
outdoor magazines, photographing the hapless adventures of his
wandering alter ego (and its lowly friends) and tending the fire close
to home, Jeff stays pretty busy. He is a BHA member.
If You’re not first you’re last
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