After opportunistically stalking a flock of snow geese on the final day of the hunt, we threw a single goose in the truck and noticed an unassuming little swale in the adjacent field.
“Want to hit that cover before we call it a day?” I asked Jared. “It’s pretty small, shouldn’t take long.”
Jared looked over. “Yup.”
We had been chasing wild roosters the Indian Hills Reservation near Garrison, North Dakota all week. The previous day had been a slog with winds gusting up to 30 miles per hour across the vast plains, which made each step in the freshly fallen snow that much more difficult. This final day gave way to little wind and a wide-open blue sky, inviting us to take full advantage of the few hours we had left.
We hopped off the tailgate and unlatched the kennel for Friday, Jared’s young English Cocker and Blaise, my veteran 8-year-old GSP. The two circled us in anticipation as we scoped out the small cover from a distance. It was tiny. No more than 150 yards from one end to the other. We spread out as we normally do, Jared working behind Friday on the inside while Blaise and I worked the edges, keeping any escape paths tightly buttoned up. Though many seasoned upland hunters would look askance at the unorthodox pointer-flusher tag team, we have always made it work for us.
A whitetail doe leapt out between us bounding in the opposite direction, her familiar white flag bobbing up over the switchgrass.
“Probably all that’s there,” I thought as she trotted off. It was about 3 in the afternoon. Only a couple of hours of daylight left and expectations were low. This was the last little bit of cover we had to hunt before we retired the exhausted dogs for the week. A good capstone to a memorable trip.
Bob and Joe had driven the other truck about a hundred yards down the road to block at the other end. They had just reached the top of the ditch when Blaise hammered on point in the last few feet of dense canary grass – and with a confidence that only hundreds of hours behind the same dog can convey. Still, I was only half-convinced.
“Seriously? Got a point! Heads up” I exclaimed as fumbled over my own feet trying to get into a decent position without screwing up the moment. Jared called Friday to heel.
“Whoa…Easy,” I said in a stern voice. I slowly crept past Blaise with my barrel toward heaven as a wall of color flushed up like a bottle rocket, cackling fiercely. I snap-shot and pummeled the bird directly over my head as it barreled and glided off like a 747 with engine failure.
Hail-Mary shots rang out all around me like a 21-gun salute as I stood helpless and dejected, feathers raining down all around me like gentle snow. We all just stood in silence.
As the disgust was setting in and the bird was nearly out of sight, we watched as it folded and dropped from the sky like a bowling ball. Blaise and I took off after it and picked it up about 200 yards from where he flushed. I snatched up the bird and jogged back to the truck where the other 3 guys stood waiting, slightly amused.
“You really pillowcased that bird,” Jared quipped.
“Pillowcased?”
“Yeah,” he responded, taking the training collar off Friday. “When you hit the bird and the feathers rain down around you.”
“That bird’s been living in that little strip forever, getting fat and happy,” he said as he ordered Friday back in the kennel.
“Isn’t that what we all want in life?” I thought to myself as I dropped the bird in the truck bed.
