I’d decided to miss the pheasant opener for the first time in 40 years. Last season had been an absolute bust, and prospects for this year seemed only a little better; besides, nobody was available to go with me.
“I’m somebody,” Beau, my Brittany growled, “and we’re going.”
Then Jake Reimer, long-time designated gunner and chief medical officer to the sick parade that has hunted pheasants with us over the years, signed himself off the injured reserve list for a short, sharp one-day pheasant hunt on the opener.
Jake and others frequently accompanied me and my two Brittany’s for three and a half days of intensive, dawn to dusk pheasant hunting from Wednesday to noon Saturday, by which time dogs and men were fit only for intensive care.
But Jake had never accompanied me on our occasional one-day, seven hours of driving and seven of hunting, Red Deer to Brooks and return trips: participants I can recall were Lloyd Graff, Vern Caddy and Roger Fink, all hunting now in the pastures of heaven.
En route, Jake and I reminisced about the time Vern delivered me to Emergency in Red Deer where Dr. Reimer was on duty. The return trip had been slowed by frequent stops to let me throw up from the intense pain of my left knee. I had been running after my Brittany, Quince, who was chasing a running rooster, when the leg dropped to the knee down a badger hole and refused to bend forward. That year I tracked and shot my mule deer buck from crutches. I marvel at such youthful shenanigans, now that severe leg problems reduce my pheasant hunting to being designated ditch-blocker.
On arrival in prime pheasant country in the Patricia area, we found Mike Shaffner of Calgary chatting with our mutual rancher friend. Mike and his young female Brittany, Mijo, were beaming, having seen — but not shot — far more pheasants than last year. The sweet clover jungles are so high and thick this year that the rancher allowed it is hard enough to find cows in there, let alone pheasants.
First, a favourite ditch: Jake, Mike, and the dogs would hunt from the top toward me, blocking, at the lower end. Beau is another of my one-man Brittany’s: within seconds of Jake releasing him, the dog was hunting for, and quickly found . . . me. No matter, there were no birds in the ditch, and it was time for the traditional lunch at the Patricia Hotel.
As usual on opening day, the joint was jumping and, as in the past two or three seasons, more truths were being traded than lies swapped: nary a word of anyone actually getting a bird, but most hunters were seeing more pheasants that last year. There seemed to be nobody present who had joined the opening day zoo and fray at the nearby Designated Pheasant Release Sites, or “killing fields”, as I prefer.
Back at the ranch, dogs and men waded into a sweet clover patch that, three or four years ago, produced a frightening flush of at least two dozen pheasants from one of Beau’s points. This time, nothing, although, lower down near the creek, two pheasants flushed, wild and out of range, one probably a rooster, the other a UFO.
Then it occurred to me that, for the first time, Beau had happily hoovered great cover in my absence. He did it again, downstream along the creek. Perhaps it is the presence of that cute little Mijo, or maybe he has decided to adopt old friend, Jake, as a surrogate Dad. I was suspecting the latter, until my dog snapped at both Jake and me as we tried to shut off the beeper on his collar.
The prospect of a 300-km drive with constant beeping inspired us to get the collar off, and then shut off the beeper. Beau explains that there was a burr under his collar and nobody lightly approaches a burr anywhere on this Brit.
While driving into the second last place we just have to check, we flushed a lone sharp-tail grouse. Bordering this land is probably the world’s second best road-hunting road, so good that, coming in, we were slowed by five road-hunting vehicles crawling ahead of us. Heading out the other way, Jake spotted two magnificent roosters in his ditch, and, opening day dozy, they stayed when I stopped. Although it is perfectly legal there, we are not much into road hunting for many good reasons, so Jake shot them both . . . with my camera.
For our last act, I drove around and blocked the end while Jake and Beau hunted a brushy lakeshore toward us. Beau did not run hunting for Dad. The place had been too heavily grazed and there were no birds, but Beau happily rolled in a fresh cow flop, something he has never done for me. One long-time designated gunner may just also have become designated dog handler.
Bob Scammell is an award-winning outdoors writer living in Red Deer.