Upland bird hunting was a big part of my late teen and early adult life. The Texas Panhandle of that time boasted an abundance of doves, quail, wild turkey and ring-necked pheasant. Of those choices, turkey and pheasant were the favorites of the Crandell boys, not due to any flavor preference, but because we didn’t have to harvest – and clean – a bucket load to make a meal.
Turkey tags were a bit more expensive and they were harder to find. The odds of successful hunting for the smaller fowl were greatly increased with bird dogs, which none of us had at the time. That was also the case for pheasant, if you hunted them in the field. Fortunately, one of the other things the Amarillo area is known for is grain crops.
After the late grain harvest, most farmers were happy to allow small groups to hunt the stubble fields. Occasionally, one would charge a minimal fee, but most were impressed with hunters who would walk up to the residence, knock on the door and ask politely. Respect went a long way in those days.
My oldest brother had a friend we’ll call “Bob.” That may or may not be his name. Bob had a shotgun and had hunted the smaller birds, but not pheasant. My brother had offered to show him the ropes.
“The ropes” for row hunting were pretty simple. Four hunters was the ideal number. One hunter walked the outside row and the others spaced out evenly, walking parallel from one end of the field to the other. Birds could be seen running back and forth between hunters and when the distance to the end of the field closed enough, they’d begin to flush.
At that point, the two most important rules were: 1: Don’t shoot hens and 2: Don’t shoot each other. Rule number 2 wasn’t really difficult to follow, since the birds would be moving well in front of the hunters, and tended to take flight one or two at a time. Rule 1 was dutifully enforced by all, with shouts of “Hen, hen, hen!” when a neighbor was swinging sights on a drab-colored target.
That enforcement was necessary, since shooting a female pheasant reduced the chances of sustaining the bird population, and would cost the hunter a stiff fine, their current license and quite possibly their hunting privileges for life. Still, tension would build as the group approached the end of the rows, and accidents could happen, especially among the first-time hunters.
Our foursome had been granted access to a beautiful stubble field on a beautiful day for this particular hunt. It was well separated from the highway, a dirt access road ran alongside the field on one side, and we had parked a reasonable walking distance away from the field. The late fall air was invigoratingly crisp and spirits were high.
That feeling continued as we discovered that the birds were plentiful and active, and we were all shooting well. No hens were downed and no one was over-swinging. We had a bag limit of 3 cocks each, and after our second pass, we all had our limit except Bob, who was one short.
We made 2 more passes with no one raising a gun except Bob, but we’d obviously flushed out the entire field, and they wouldn’t be back anytime soon. Bob decided he was okay with his 2 and suggested we call it a day. We still had to field dress the birds and get them home for skinning, so we agreed.
We left the rows of the field, cleared the chambers of our guns and set a leisurely pace along the side road back to the vehicle. It was still a very nice day and we were all feeling good. The conversation was lively and we covered the distance to the end of the field in no time. That’s when the surprise caught us off guard.
Before I explain what happened, I should explain that Texas bird hunting laws have always stated that it’s illegal for anyone other than the hunter claiming the bird to shoot the bird. Of course, that’s very hard to enforce, unless the hunters are being actively watched by a Fish and Game officer. (No, that doesn’t justify what happened next.)
Not long after we cleared the end of the field, not thinking about hunting, we were all caught off guard by the unmistakable “whir” of a pheasant in flight. A single cock had jumped from a tall stand of weeds, just as we’d come up beside it. It flew straight up.
Before the situation was fully realized, three shotgun shells were chambered, three barrels pointed skyward, and that pheasant bounced in the air 3 times as it was hit. It flew no further. There was an almost eerie silence as it fell to the ground.
It took the three of us that had fired a moment or two to realize that Bob’s was the gun that hadn’t been heard. He’d been lost in his dejected state and didn’t even try. He was standing behind us, agape, as if in shock. We instructed him to get his third bird ready to go and he quickly did so. We reached the car, loaded the birds on top of the ice in the chest and headed home.
We left the full plumage intact, although all that was required was the feathers on one wing for gender identification. We liked to retain the tail feathers for our hat bands and such. As it turned out, there was no one at the check station when we got back to the main road.
None of us were proud of taking those last shots. We’re still not proud of it today. If there’s anything positive to say about it, it would be that the bird didn’t go to waste. We knew that confiscated big game would go to charities for people that needed food. We had no idea whether that applied to upland birds.
I’m reasonably sure the statute of limitations on that particular act has run out. I’m positive that it was the only time any of us committed that kind of infraction. I’d be less than honest if I said it was the only time it crossed my mind in similar situations.
As of today, that’s the last pheasant hunt I’ve been on, with my brothers or otherwise. Honestly, that’s a shame, considering I’m still here in the middle of bird country and although the daily individual bag limit is still three, the possession limit has been raised to nine. The season is only about 4 months away. Maybe I should get one more hunt in before I leave.
My shotgun is only a few steps away, with 2 in the magazine and one resting in an open chamber. It could also be unplugged relatively easily if I decided to go hunting for migratory birds and there are still plenty of dove and quail in these parts.
Last, but far from least, A quick check shows that up to thirty-thousand pheasant are released into the hunt areas around Casper every year. Not natives? No worries, they’ll still be fun and great table fare. Looks like the shotgun will come in handy after the move, too!
