It’s a cold day with clear blue skies following the winter’s first blizzard, which left six inches of snow as an early Christmas present. A group of buntings flits from the shoulder to the field edge as I turn my hard-starting pickup off of the highway. We rumble down the gravel road toward a splotch of yellow land on my map, that judging by the creek running through it, might be a good place to look for some pheasants and seize the advantage the recent cold weather has given us. The sloughs and slow-water areas are now frozen, enabling my yellow lab, Gunnar, and me to chase roosters where once the slog of the watershed would have stopped us.

I pull over next to the orange “Open to Public Hunting” sign peppered with the silver circles of disrespect from a small-caliber rifle. I shut the truck off and pocket the key to avoid the door-ajar ding that would alarm any nearby birds. I tuck all of my fingers into my mitts, save for my trigger finger, and open the door. Gunnar jumps from his post in the passenger seat before I set my second foot on the ground. He springs into the ditch and begins to survey the area around the approach. While he gets his bearings, I uncase my shotgun and quietly load the three shells into position, slowly working the action to minimize the noise.

I set the door back into place and gently lean against it until I hear the dull click. I give the quietist whistle I can, which sounds to me like a chirp from a chickadee or sparrow. But for all I know, it could sound like a hawk screech to these wily birds that have undoubtedly dodged both raptors and lead at some point this fall. Where earlier in the season I would have hollered, “hunt ‘em up,” to get Gunnar going, this signal is enough and he dives headlong into the grasses of the management area.

As it whips by, the wind grasps at the opening of my balaclava in an attempt to peel the mask from my face. While it isn’t a pleasant element, it does do us a favor by rustling the freeze-dried vegetation enough to hide the sounds Gunnar and I make as we follow a line of fresh four-toed tracks in the December snow. No orange-clad patrols of hunters in 1500s or SUVs circle the small piece of public land that we have to ourselves on this blustery morning. I’d say we’re alone, but judging by the growing superhighway of footprints running into the stand of cattails, there’s about a dozen pheasants somewhere ahead of us.

The evidence of the birds’ direction of travel is partially erased as Gunnar’s nose plows up the snow, absorbing the odoriferous flotsam and jetsam that are pieced together in his olfactory nerve and translated into a swirling tail wag that lets me know the trail is hot. He slithers through the growth while I rumble along behind, knocking fluff into the breeze as the cattails crackle and pop with each stride. We move in and out from grass to cattails, as the trail skirts the dense cover of the creek bank. We venture out onto the young ice and it pops beneath each of my footsteps but does not give way to the water below.

I can see the tracks forming a trail across the frozen creek, and Gunnar follows them. But I, weighing about three times more and focusing it all on two legs instead of four, think better of this area and walk back up to the road, across the wooden bridge and down the other side. Gunnar meets me a few yards in, hot on the trail of our quarry. Suddenly, I hear wingbeats and look out over the frozen marsh. Two long-tailed silhouettes peel to our right, well out of range. Gunnar continues, nose-down on their scent and hopefully that of others.
As we work the edge, a hen pops up and Gunnar bounds after her as she takes flight over the disked cornfield. I whistle him back, and as I do, a rooster breaks cover at the end of the finger of cattails jutting into the grass. I put the butt of my shotgun to my shoulder and fire behind him. My second effort scores a hit and feathers explode from the bird’s body, but he continues on his flight path. I have little time to be disgusted at myself or amazed by the rooster’s resiliency as he makes his way to a stand of small trees a hundred yards ahead.

A second bird rockets into the air with Gunnar’s teeth gnashing at his tail feathers. I fire and the rooster crumples to the ground. Gunnar gives it a quick inspection and moves on, circling wildly as hens flush all around us. With the blood flow returning to my fingers and my heart pounding in my ears, I stow the bird in my vest and follow my lab into the trees on the slough edge.

Twenty yards in, Gunnar goes on point and I give the “Go!” command. He pounces forward and a rooster flushes, but it falls back to the ground before I can shoulder my gun. Gunnar weaves around the small trees and into the cattails and after a brief struggle returns from the dense cover with the bird in his mouth. With the find, he remains perfect on the year for retrieving wounded birds and our day afield ends almost as soon as it had started.

I shoulder my unloaded gun and retrace our steps back to the truck. In a sort of instant replay, I find the spot where the birds had flushed and pick up three empty red shells. With stealth, snow and some good tracking on our side, this trip afield serves as a reminder that while December may produce some of the most difficult hunting conditions of the year, the final month of the season can also be one of the most rewarding…in our outdoors.

Nick Simonson is an avid hunter and multi-species angler who has been writing about the outdoors for over nine years. For more stories and tips, log on to www.nicksimonson.com or become a fan on Facebook by searching: “Our Outdoors by Nick Simonson.”

By Nick Simonson

This year’s pheasant opener was unique in a number of ways. It was the first time I had opened the season somewhere other than North Dakota, with kickoff usually held at my grandmother’s farm near Watford City, N.D. in the company of my dad, brother, uncle and cousins. The hunting report from out west that my brother relayed was one of an excellent experience, not due to a limit easily had under the nose of his maturing yellow lab, Jake, but because I wasn’t there to rally the troops at 6:00 a.m. each day and he could sleep off the night before in peace and quiet.

Instead, my season began near the small town of Tyler, Minn., hunting with a friend and his buddies in new environs, surrounded by standing corn and soybeans resulting from this spring’s late planting. Also new to my season-opening itinerary was the start time of 9 a.m. Designed to give birds a chance to make it from the roadside ditch and into huntable cover, and maybe to give people like my brother time to wake up, the late start allowed for coffee talk, breakfast and planning among new hunting buddies.

Second, it was my first opener in five years where I didn’t look up and see the gold and white coat of my yellow lab, Gunnar, blurring in front of me through the CRP grasses and cattails. But it’s not as bad as you’re thinking. While hunting ruffed grouse in northeastern Minnesota the week before, he managed to cut the skin behind one of his paw pads, and every time he ran after the injury, the cut would reopen and bleed. So upon the recommendation of the vet, and to preserve him for the remainder of the fall seasons, I benched him.

Attempting to sneak out for opener without his knowledge was impossible. As I cranked the doorknob to leave, I turned and met his “just-where-do-you-think-you’re-going!?!” gaze. The rustling of bags, the scent of my game vest, and the telltale sign of the cased shotgun were clues enough that something was amiss as he jumped to his feet and began an end-around to the door and toward the truck. It took all I had to hold him back, knowing that no explanation would suffice. As I drove off, I saw him standing on his back paws looking out the front window. He still hasn’t spoken to me since.

What made the opener the most unique is that something happened for the first time since I began my yearly pursuit of the ringneck. While working a finger of grass abutting a cornfield on our first walk of the day, my friend Tory’s dog, a grizzly-bear of a chocolate lab named Bernie, began the slash pattern that signaled birds were nearby. As we closed in to the tip of the grass leading into the cornfield, hens and roosters sprang up just inches out of Bernie’s reach.

Two roosters in the group beelined to the right, directly in front of me. Instinctively, I raised my trusty Wingmaster to my shoulder and fired, sending the first bird tumbling. I pumped and reloaded the second shell and drew a bead on the next bird. With a squeeze of the trigger, the shot rang out and the second rooster crash-landed into the grass.

It was my first pheasant double. In all five years of hunting, while I had opportunities for such a feat, I had never pulled it off before. It was exciting to say the least, but as the rush began to wane, I almost felt regret for filling my two-bird limit so soon. It was like getting the biggest scoop of ice cream on a cone from the local soda shop, only to walk out the door and have it fall and melt on the summer sidewalk after the first lick.

As I bagged the birds, I came to grips with my hunt being done for the day, just a few minutes into the outing, and smiled knowing that the unique experience of this opener was worth more than the two birds in the hand, and all of the others in the cornfields, beans and CRP…in our outdoors.

For those of us who like to spend as much time as possible on the outside of the window, October is a sort of early Christmas present. Hunting seasons for just about everything are open, and fall fishing can be just as hot as summer, but without humidity and mosquitoes.

While crunching across the prairie, working up a mild sweat in the heart of those great Indian summer days conjures a post-card kind of memory, turning the calendar from November to December doesn’t have to signal the end of great pheasant hunting.

Fact is, the opening weeks of pheasant season draw the heaviest hunting interest. As the weeks wear on, some rooster hunters call it a season. Others may view the close of deer season as the end of hunting and the beginning of ice fishing.

Which brings me to later-year rooster hunting. Some hunters who prefer less crowded fields, may in fact not hunt roosters at all until the close of deer season. Others view the close of deer season as a reason to get back out after pheasants, and still others keep going from beginning to end.

Working the odds on December pheasants

If you’ve never hunted roosters toward the end of the season, understand that these birds have been hunted for several weeks, and they’ll probably be a little jumpy compared to opening weekend. If CRP fields fill with snow, birds may take cover in slough bottoms or shelterbelts near a food source.

When choosing a shotgun, some veteran hunters who prefer a 20 gauge earlier in the season commonly switch to a 12 gauge and use shells with larger pellets because of the perception that late-season shot ranges are longer than those typically encountered in October.

Whether shot ranges change all that much from early to late is a good topic for coffee shop conversation. What is true, however, is that larger shot sizes are better for taking pheasants cleanly, and it doesn’t matter if it’s early or late.

Across the state, many national wildlife refuges are now open and available for limited upland game hunting including pheasants, grouse and partridge. They opened Nov. 26, which is usually after most migratory waterfowl have left the state.

Over the past decade U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service personnel have worked diligently to increase hunting opportunities after waterfowl migrations and seasons have passed. Each refuge has specific regulations, including open and closed areas. Don’t let the specific regulations deter you. Refuge staffs are more than happy to explain regulations and might even offer a tip or two along the way.

To learn more about late season NWR hunting opportunities, contact your local Fish and Wildlife Service office or logon to the Game and Fish Department website at gf.nd.gov.

And similar to a warm October hunt, you’d be well served to bring a cooler along, but this time of year you’ll want to keep the birds from freezing. If you’ll be field dressing the birds, be sure to leave proper identification as required by law.

Pheasant, grouse and partridge seasons are open through Jan. 6, 2008, so there’s still plenty of time to get out there and enjoy what the late season offers.

My dad said that last weekend was probably the coldest weather he had ever experienced in the field. Even with all the advancements in cold weather clothing, the Midwest winter chill can get you.. These days my dad owns warmer clothing and knows how to dress for the elements. The Friday was the warmest day of the hunt; it was a balmy 16 degrees. Although for those of us that live up north, that’s just another day as it was here in Brookings, South Dakota.

This was my first pheasant hunting trip to South Dakota. I have followed the migration for several consecutive seasons through South Dakota, and I’ve always wanted to go there in the fall. The plan was for our group to hunt public land the majority of the time. South Dakota has state funded Walk-In Areas, which are private lands, open for public hunting. The Walk-In program is similar to the P.L.O.T.S. (Private Lands Open to Sportsman), program found in North Dakota. With 13 hunters and 9 dogs we were planning on hunting big cover and using blockers to surround the birds.

Thursday, November 30th was the first day of our hunt. Because of the South Dakota pheasant season being open for several weeks, the birds were skittish and wary. Right away we found them in the thickest cover available, but the birds did not hold very well. A few times there were birds that took off flying while the group was still getting out of the trucks. You quickly remember the importance of silence for late season pheasant hunting. When approaching the late pheasant season, I encourage pheasant hunters to be especially aware of the noise they make (no slamming truck doors, yelling at bird dogs, etc.). Walking the cover into the wind helps to reduce noise, while also being the ideal way for dogs to pick up scents.. With extra thought and planning, late fall hunting can offer some of the best hunting of the season. This is of course assuming you don’t mind the cold weather.

South Dakota pheasant hunting may be taking a turn in the other direction as more and more CRP are being converted to cropland

South Dakota pheasant hunting is like Pizza. When it’s from your favorite restaurant it’s great, and when it is a cheap frozen brand it is still pretty good. We managed to have decent hunting, averaging 2 to 3 pheasants per walk. At 10 am sharp, the starting time in South Dakota, our group would be in position to push larger grasslands. Half the group would walk through the fields, and the other half would block the ends of the fields. This is the common way to work larger fields. In theory, pheasants should run through the field, holding near the edge and providing blocks and walkers good shooting opportunities. That is textbook pheasant hunting.

Early on in our trip, we found that the birds were flushing ahead of the walkers, flying out the sides of the fields, and avoiding the blockers. With birds flying out on the sides we had to rethink a few things and make adjustments. However, the majority of the roosters we bagged were ones that chose to hold tight rather than fly. In the afternoons we broke into smaller groups and hunted smaller cover. Pheasants are an edge bird; sometimes a small and thick piece cover can provide quick birds.

Pheasants basically have two defense mechanisms. Either they fly or they run and hide. The experts say that over time hunters have harvested a higher majority of the flyers making the pheasant more genetically prone to run. We must have been hunting in an area with a high concentration of flyers.

Each day our group saw a lot of birds, but the vast majority were hens. This is to be expected this late in the season because other hunters have trimmed the rooster population down. I read somewhere that up to 80% of rooster pheasants are shot during each hunting season. Don’t worry; there are still plenty of roosters that escaped our hunting party to provide more birds for next year.

As the sun was going down across the vast Dakota prairie, 6 of us followed 2 house dogs through the field for the last walk of the trip. On that walk the 6 of us flushed 3 roosters and harvested all 3 of them. It was bitter outside, but it was a sweet way to end my first South Dakota pheasant hunt.

Scott Terning examining a rooster from a previous pheasant season

The day is finally here – pheasant opener. Many sportsmen have been counting down since about mid-July. And with good reason, it is a time in the field unlike any other. It is a circus of the senses and the experience is remembered not only by birds put in the bag, but through the absorption of the trip by the mind and body.

My second-favorite smell of the hunting season is the smoke that slowly rises from the chamber of a shotgun after a clean shot. My favorite scent, of course, is the odor of pheasant meat in the oven or crock-pot slowly wafting out of the kitchen accompanied by the aroma of wild rice or acorn sqash. Like fallen leaves and the earthen dustiness of harvested fields, the scents of the hunt are the harbingers of fall. Certainly, with their noses, the trusted hounds of autumn experience all of these scents at a much greater magnitude. How they separate the game from everything else will always remain a mystery.

Usually, those outdoors scents are borne on the wings of a slight breeze or a stiff wind out of the north. As Canadian air takes hold of the region, the face and hands detect the transition to this favorite season. It may be that the weather stays cool and tiny snowflakes fall during a walk in the CRP. Eyelashes may fill with white flakes to match the slight layer of precipitation on cattails and corn stalks. Or it may be that the day heats up and the autumn sun requires hunters to layer-down into t-shirts and baseball caps, allowing for one last taste of warm weather on an afternoon walk.

It is on those walks that the cackle of a rooster – a high-pitched “catch-me-if-you-can” – breaks over the rustle of a dog in hot pursuit through the grasses. The resounding bang-bang of shotgun fire follows. The whisper of the wind through the reeds of a valley bottom and the commotion of a hen flushing underfoot keep hunters aware and their auditory senses on edge. The sounds add to the stimulations of the season.

The taste of fall is best experienced around the table with friends and family after the hunt, cold beverages and warm autumn foods from the garden like carrots, squash and potatoes complement the meat of the new season’s quarry. The pheasant is the walleye of wild game. The mild meat is easily seasoned and can be prepared in a number of delicious ways. Whether done traditionally with cream of mushroom soup in the slow cooker, or substituted in a spicy Tex-mex dish for chicken, pheasant provides a taste unlike any other time of year.

But of all the senses, sight is the one which truly reaps the bounty of pheasant season. Gold, orange, red and yellow leaves adorn the trees. Equally beautiful colors glimmer from the body of a rooster on the wing or in hand as the bright light of the autumn sun shines down. A dog on point is a beautiful sight, and the haphazard battalion or reconnaissance group you might be a part of while stomping through pheasant country is always fun to observe – out of step and out of perfect formation – as the party marches onward. The brown-red dust of gravel roads, the crisp blue of autumn skies, the pale white of faded cornstalks and the last few glints of green on a few trees range over the visible spectrum of color.

All of these sensations – from the first orange rays of sun coming over the horizon to the pink clouds in the sky that faintly light the way home – await you this pheasant season…in our outdoors

This perfectly sums up the success of youth pheasant hunting.

“I love it when a plan comes together,” is a cult classic phrase said countless times by actor George Peppard in his role as John “Hannibal” Smith on the 1980s action-adventure series, The A-Team.

And who doesn’t? When the pieces fall into place for that perfect hunting or fishing trip, the experience makes countless memories for everyone involved. I had the opportunity to be a part of such a coming together of various factors recently during North Dakota’s youth pheasant weekend. Enthusiastic and responsible hunters, a willing dog, a number of birds, incredible land, and great support were all part of the equation.

On Saturday and Sunday, Gunnar and I helped guide some up-and-coming outdoorsmen through the fields of Barnes County. In this age of XBox, text messaging and a million other distractions, it was great to find willing hunters aged 12 to 16 to give me an excuse to run my dog for roosters before the traditional opener. I was pleasantly surprised by these young men. They were courteous, respectful, good shots who were always safe with their firearms. This reflects not only their assimilation of hunter education knowledge, but also their ability to apply it in the field. One of the young hunters took his first pheasant ever on the trip, and a few shots down the road, filled his limit. Exciting no doubt for him, but also for Gunnar.

Last year, my dog was good. I was about as proud as I thought I could get when he began running circles around roosters, pointing and flushing with great frequency. But this weekend, he was great. I mean really great, ten times better than last year. I watched in amazement as he switch-backed on a wily rooster. He pointed birds in tumbleweeds, tail curling off to the right as his body stiffened. He flushed hens from cattail beds, and sprung after them like he was possessed by the ghost of our old springer spaniel. It was a weekend for him to remember too.

I don’t know when the “good ol’ days” were, but I think we’re living in them now. The number of birds just five miles south of of my hometown is staggering. Both days combined, the young hunters shot at two dozen roosters and took nine. I remember my dad explaining to me as a child that to see a pheasant in southeastern North Dakota meant ninety minute trip to Oakes. I’ll take these good new days over the good ol’ ones.

The weekend also showed that it has come together in terms of habitat, conservation and access to land that holds birds. Through programs like CRP and PLOTS, hunters are not only finding birds that have a better chance at survival, but also have access to the land where the birds are. Further, many landowners leave their parcels unposted or in PLOTS to allow hunter access, especially during youth seasons. My groups walked PLOTS most of the day, except for two small pieces of unposted land. To those farmers, I extend a hearty thanks for allowing access to young hunters and for enrolling in CRP and PLOTS. To the Game and Fish Department, thanks for providing programs like PLOTS which ensure access to all, especially developing hunters

Further, without the support of the Game and Fish Department, the weekend would not have been possible. The idea of a youth hunt may be a turn off to some, but to these young men, it could have possibly turned them on to a lifetime of hunting. There were no worries about letting the adults take a shot, there was no problem with missing a bird or having to keep up. If we want to hook more youth on things like hunting and fishing, it is imperative they have “their” time in the field.

The weekend gave me a chance to watch my dog develop and showcase his skills, but more importantly, gave me a chance to watch young hunters turn into outdoorsmen. And when a plan like that comes together, there’s no greater experience…in our outdoors.

I’ve never seen such wild roosters in my life. Between the games of family poker, the opening of stockings, and Christmas dinner there was holiday hunting, although it was more like a track meet with shotguns.

Closing the door on the pickup truck caused the end of the tree row, nearly one hundred yards away, to explode with gray and brown wings. The early morning crunch, or the late afternoon slop of a misplaced step on rapidly disappearing snow resulted in buckbrush exploding likeremote-triggered mines and feathers flying and alarm signals being crowed, alerting every other bird on the back forty.

It was tough, in fact the toughest hunting in my life. Thirty and forty yard shots were the norm as roosters streaked away in bronze blurs, rarely providing a chance at a crossing path.

I  ran steeple chase around the farm, hurdling fences, sprinting throughwheat stubble, and plowing through cattail sloughs. The seventy-foot railroad fill on the north end of the farm was the ultimate obstacle, as the pheasants would land at its base, run up over it, and down the other side. I only scaled it once. That was where I realized that THIS wasn’t hunting. THIS was the roosters’ revenge for all those easy seasons in the past few years.

Five of us put in anywhere from four to seven hours a day, every day including Christmas Eve and Christmas Day (roosters don’t take holidays). Day one, one bird. Day two, two birds. Day three, four birds. Day four, two birds. I don’t normally play the numbers game but to show you how hard we worked, I actually left the farm weighing less than when I came in. Day one, 194 pounds. Day five, 192 pounds.That includes prime rib, turkey dinner, grandma’s sweets and caramel rolls and all sorts of traditional Christmastime goodies.

When we were lucky enough to get a rooster to hold, it either flushed with a smokescreen of hens, or I was doubled over in exhaustion to the point where even my shotgun shells were firing in slow motion. I missed my share of reasonable shots, and more than my share of unreasonable shots, however, each bird I hit (four in all, including a grouse) was a little reminder of how rewarding a hard hunt can be.
The family farm, just outside of Watford City was the same place where in 2003, without a dog, a person couldn’t walk more than 30 feet without kicking up a bird. Now, if you walked thirty feet, you were lucky if the birds weren’t in Belfield by the end of the next thirty.

It was different, it was exciting, but most of the time just plain exhausting. The fifty degree days made it feel like October, but the disappearing act the birds were pulling definitely confirmed that it was the end of the season. Even the dogs got a workout, chasing wild scent and flushing the hens that held tight while the roosters bolted. Looking back now, it was a great experience, though the sweat on my brow and the battery acid in my legs after a half-mile sprint at the time suggested otherwise. (I’m sure you’re replaying me running down a sectionline right now and laughing.)

But at Christmas, there’s no place I would have rather been…in our outdoors.

PJ spends most of his time hunting pheasants in the winter

With the majority of the waterfowl south of North Dakota, all signs pointed towards a late season pheasant hunt in early winter. The corn was harvested and the sloughs were frozen, providing ideal conditions for late season birds. My good friends Lars and Jason Dyrdahl, had invited me to south eastern North Dakota all the way back in September, and after work on a Friday Jason and I were on the road.

We met Lars and a family friend Gordon at a small town bar and washed down dinner with a few cocktails. We discussed a few details of the morning hunt and did a little story telling. Jason says, “If you can’t have fun in North Dakota, there’s something wrong with ya!” I have been agreeing with him since my freshman year at UND six long years ago.

Our Saturday morning started with a free pancake breakfast provided at the local legion sponsored by the Shriners. Truthfully, I could not believe the breakfast was free and kept wondering were I was supposed to pay. The hospitality one receives in small town North Dakota is unmatched.

At 9 o’clock we arrived at Lars’s nephew’s farm to meet a few more hunters to join in our party. Lars removed his shotgun from its case and smiled at me, “Five dollars for the first pheasant?” he asked. I replied by taking out my over under, and Lars and I followed two little female black labs into a small slough behind Casy’s house.

We had walked almost to the end when Lars yelled, “Hey PJ, are you seeing any signs over there!”

“There’s a few tracks.” I replied, as a dozen pheasants took off within seconds of each other. I was scanning for roosters when I saw some color out of the corner of my eye. It flushed a little out of range for me, but was soon followed by a single report. I assumed Lars had fired at the rooster that was closer to him; when I saw Chewy, his black lab, deliver a different bird.

Lars was on the board, and that is pretty much how the rest of the day went. We walked mostly frozen “silver dollar” or smaller sloughs. We had the best success hunting ones that were surrounded by either corn or beans. Jason and Lars’s relatives farm for the birds, often leaving rows of standing corn and beans around cover.

Dogs played a major role in locating the birds. On Saturday it was raining and on Sunday it was snowing. If the birds were not flushing out of range, they were holding tight in hopes we would walk past them. We had met up with some more family members for a long walk through a CRP field, which contained slough bottoms. On this walk we followed six flushers; two male chocolate labs, two female black labs, one male yellow lab and a springer spaniel. The dogs hunted hard for birds that were running and holding tight.

Saturday afternoon I again found myself across a slough from Lars, each of us following our respective lab into the wind. We only flushed one pheasant on that walk, and it was a rooster. Cullie, my black lab, flushed it directly in front of me and I folded it with one shot. The bird seamed to explode out of the cattails in slow motion. I thought to myself, “now that right there was worth the price of admission.”

Beautiful views while pheasant hunting

We hunted almost until dark, taking a small break in the afternoon for a soda and homemade Tatter Tot hot dish. Our initial group of four hunters ended up one bird short of our daily limit with eleven. Great hunts do not always end in limits, we saw a ton of pheasants that day and the dogs needed rest. There would be plenty of fresh sloughs to hunt the following morning.

I awoke to a winter wonderland outside and eggs, toast and coffee on the kitchen table. A boot dryer had saved all of us hunters from having to place our dry feet into wet boats. I would highly recommend you invest in one if you spend a lot of time in the outdoors. Over breakfast Lars instructed, “When you hunt in the snow, if you don’t see any tracks, you’re wasting your time and that goes for all game. ” With snow on the ground you can tell if birds using the cover you are hunting; especially with fresh now. Just another plus of hunting pheasants in early winter.

Using blockers when hunting for late season pheasants is a must. Birds often will fly out the end of the sloughs if there is not a hunter there to block them. Blockers often get the closest shots, however they may be more difficult crossing shots. When hunting with Lars and Jason they usually have me block, because my Minnesota legs have a hard time in the deep cattails.

By twelve o’clock the four of us had nine roosters in the bag. Hunting in the snow was turning out to be more productive then in the rain, but with a drive back home we decided to call it a day. Early winter is my favorite time of the year to hunt pheasants, it provides one last chance to get out and hunt in a slough.

Hunting season doesn’t end with the close of deer gun season. In fact, for some hunters the fun is just beginning.

While traditional pheasant hunting images resonate strongly with a warm October sun and a crisp morning walk with dew-soaked boots, don’t think for a minute that December pheasant hunting is reserved exclusively for hard core hunters.

While most pheasant hunters probably prefer the conditions during October and early November, I know many hunters enjoy a solitary December walk across the frozen tundra.

If you prefer a more relaxed hunt with less pressure, late season pheasant hunting may be just the ticket. Weather and field conditions will hardly be similar—snow covered CRP and more concern over wind-chill than sun-burn. The end result can still be a rooster in the bag and a smile on the face.

Understanding late season rooster hunting

If you’ve never hunted roosters toward the end of the season, a few pointers need to be kept in mind.

Understand that the birds have been hunted for several months, and they’ll probably be a little jumpy compared to opening weekend. Snow-filled CRP may find the birds taking cover in thicker slough bottom cover or shelterbelts near a food source such as a corn field.

When choosing a shotgun, some veteran late-season hunters who prefer a 20 gauge earlier in the season commonly switch to a 12 gauge with larger pellets because of the perception that late-season shot ranges are longer than those typically encountered in October.

Whether shot ranges change all that much from early to late is a good topic for coffee shop conversation. What is true, however, is that larger shot sizes are better for taking pheasants cleanly, and it doesn’t matter if it’s early or late.

Several years ago the North Dakota Game and Fish Department helped fund research to determine the most effective steel shotshell load for pheasants. In that exhaustive test, No. 2 steel was clearly the best load for clean kills on pheasants – at all ranges – compared to No. 4 or No. 6 steel.

The study did not compare lead pellets to steel.

Information on non-toxic shot is important because it is required for upland game hunting on all federal waterfowl production areas and national wildlife refuges in North Dakota.
 
Across the state, many national wildlife refuges are now open and available for limited upland game hunting including pheasants, grouse and partridge. They opened Nov. 21, which is usually after most migratory waterfowl have left the state.

Over the past decade U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service personnel have worked diligently to increase hunting opportunities after waterfowl migrations and seasons have passed. Each refuge has specific regulations, including open and closed areas. Don’t let the specific regulations deter you. Refuge staffs are more than happy to explain regulations and might even offer a tip or two along the way.

To learn more about late season NWR hunting opportunities, contact your local Fish and Wildlife Service office or logon to the Game and Fish Department website: www.discovernd.com/gnf

One other point is the varying conditions. Cold weather can make dressing properly a trick. Staying warm during the first walk, and limiting perspiration as the day wears on, make layering important. If the pheasants are falling you’ll forget about the freezing cold weather, but across the wind whipped prairie, many a late-season pheasant hunter has spent precious field time in the truck, trying to thaw out, while those who dressed properly continued their hunt.

And similar to a warm October hunt, you’d be well served to bring a cooler along, but this time of year you’ll want to keep the birds from freezing. If you’ll be field dressing the birds, be sure to leave proper identification as required by law.

Pheasant, grouse and partridge seasons are open through Jan. 8, 2006, so there’s still plenty of time to get out there and enjoy what the late season offers

By Chris Hustad

“Chrissss…it’s time to wake up” were my mother’s calm words that awoke me from my casual slumber. After a couple long stretches and a few scratches on my head, I was rolling out of bed and onto my feet. It was around 5 in the morning on an early October morning, but not just any morning, it was the pheasant hunting opener. This wasn’t just any pheasant opener, it was my first and to be honest I wasn’t quite sure what I was getting myself into. As a youth, packing for such an occasion was easy, grab my 20-gauge and some shells that my dad laid out for me. Oh ya, I forgot, it’s supposed to be a bit on the chilly side, better grab another sweatshirt.

I  casually made my way down the steps and walked into the kitchen where my mother was offering a quick breakfast. I was a bit behind, a rookie, I didn’t know better. Dad and my brother Eric already had their gear packed into my dad’s old Dodge Ram Charger. They’ve been down this path before and knew what they were anticipating, and I could see the half smile on my brother’s face that didn’t seem to subside. After a few bites of toast, I realized eating wasn’t included in the itinerary that morning…we’ve got miles to put on and we wanted to get into the pheasants at daybreak. Minutes later, we met up with the rest of our group, Chuck and Lance Shambaugh; Stan and Josh Weins. Little did I know at that time how many fall mornings I would be spending with this crew, how many sunrises we’d share. This was the beginning of many openers to come.

We hopped onto Interstate 94 in Eastern North Dakota and headed due south. We were going to my late Grandpa Carl’s farm down in the Hankinson/Fairmount area (this was during the dry cycle when this area held good numbers of pheasants). Growing up in the city and spending occasional weekends down there, it was the only farm life I knew. Chasing around the chickens in the coop, playing hide and seek in the cornfield, picking apples from the orchard from the bucket of my grandpa’s John Deere. These were childhood memories that have stuck since, but at that time hunting wasn’t apart of this same tradition. Thinking about what could be, I found myself drifting off to sleep. Minutes later all the windows in the Dodge went down as the interior was rushed with the chilly October air waking my brother and myself up. “Shut the windows!” growled my brother as he huddled below an over sized hunting coat. My dad hated driving when everyone was asleep, too much anticipation and he wanted to talk about it. This was a lesson I learned early, and rarely found myself falling asleep in the years to follow (or maybe too scared to).

As soon as the first rays of light peaked over the eastern horizon, we were off the interstate and onto a back highway and soon gravel. It’s not long now, the farm is just minutes away. It’s hard to believe how many senses of smell became attached to the sport of hunting that morning. The ever-so-familiar smell of dust on the gravel roads, the smell of a skunk scurrying across the road, the crisp smell of fall with winter not far behind that’s almost impossible to describe. When I’m up to my elbows in paperwork in the office, I long for those smells.

I was deep into a daydream when suddenly the Dodge abruptly came to a halt, I looked up as a deer casually pranced across the road. That was a close one.

“It’s almost shooting time now” said my father as he looked towards the eastern sky, and then to the radio clock. I wasn’t sure what we were anticipating, but I could certainly tell by looking at my brother that something big was about to happen.
“Uncle Scott said this piece is full of ruddies” said my dad as he pulled into the east approach. “We’ll try this first.” This was about a section that was split almost down the middle by train tracks, with my family’s piece in CRP on the north side. There was a few small trees along the road, and a short tree row just off the train tracks. My brother opens the passenger door and gets out, only to flush a couple hens and a rooster. This should be interesting.

The group talks for a bit and decides on the best way to cover the 300-acre field. One end paralleled the edge of the road, the other end stretched all the way to the train tracks. As soon as the line started, the drive began and didn’t last long.

“ROOOOOOOOSTERRRRR!!!” screamed my father only moments into it, as a cock rooster quickly folds and becomes the first harvest of the day. I didn’t see it unfold, so I wasn’t sure what really happened. As soon as a few shots fired, more pheasants popped up from what seemed to be everywhere. Birds flushed, shots missed, shots connected…, it was controlled chaos. I wasn’t quick enough on the draw and found myself being only a witness. The rookie I was, I kept cruising ahead in search of my first pheasant like an untrained dog. “Slow down Chris! Wait for the rest of the group” I halted, stalled, and looked back to get a feel for the speed of the rest of the group. Just as soon as I think it’s time to continue forward, I turn around to find an anxious rooster holding what seemed to be inches away….and then it flushed in front of me. With my stomach in my throat, and the excitement taking hold…I didn’t even fire. It startled me so much that I froze like a wax museum exhibit. This is a rush!

A few minutes later, another rooster flushed. This time I was ready and I quickly drew my gun, followed the lead, and squeezed the trigger. I was a bit behind as I blew out the back end and the rooster glided off to the side into the brush next to the train tracks. Again, like an untrained puppy I was off running for the bird. I wasn’t about to lose my first pheasant. I kept my eyes pinned exactly where the bird went down, in hopes for a quick retrieve to continue with the rest of the group. I quickly learned that where the crippled pheasant goes down means nothing. I found a few feathers, turned around, turned around, turned around…nothing. It couldn’t have gone that far I thought?…I learned quickly that these were the true roadrunner’s of the north.

After an unsuccessful 10-minute search, I realized that I was too far behind to catch up to the rest of the group. I missed what looked to be a quick hunt, or so I thought. They reached the end of the field, turned around and came back to the east. This time they were covering a small strip that we couldn’t cover during the first push. “Chrissssss! Stay there and post!” I heard faintly, so I scurried down the train tracks toward the road. I ran so fast that I practically stepped on a pheasant, which slowly flushed up in front of me, just yards from the road. Even though the pheasant caught me off guard, I knew what had to be done, quickly. I drew my Remington to my shoulder and got off 1 shot quickly before it disappeared over the road. To my amazement, it actually folded! I sprinted over the road and came across the young rooster laying lifeless along the ditch.

I remember how long I stared at the bird, feeling all sorts of mixed emotions over what I had just accomplished. Until that morning, everything I knew about pheasant hunting was from stories my father and brother shared. You can’t really understand or relate to stories like that until you experience it for yourself. And it was at that time where it all kind of made sense. Why we got up that early in the morning, why we spent that much time preparing, why we pheasant hunt in the first place…it just all made sense. It’s amazing how some experiences stick with you, even decades later.

Every youth should get the chance at experiencing a flushing rooster.