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   Pheasant season opened this past weekend. Where I was raised in northern Iowa, this was the most important day of the year, more important than deer season. Where I live now in southern Iowa, things are reversed. We have too many predators and not enough of the proper cover for a healthy pheasant population. Thirty miles to our north, there are more row crops and fewer coyotes, raccoons, and bob cats allowing pheasants to flourish.

   Growing up, near Storm Lake, Iowa, conditions were perfect for ring necked pheasants. Corn fields are planted with rows a half mile to a mile long. Enough grass and weeds grew between the rows and at the ends of the fields to provide protection from both the weather and predators. On opening day, everyone with a shotgun was out hunting for the wily ringneck. Pheasant was on the menu for Sunday lunch and dinner and for many days to follow. 

   During the week, most people brought their shotguns to school so we could go hunting directly from school rather than wasting precious time going home in the short amount of time we had between when school got out and shooting hours closed. On any given weekday in November, the average school parking lot contained enough guns and ammunition to hold off a foreign invasion if the need arose. We would generally form small groups and race out to our favorite smaller fields to get in a couple of hunts while we could.

   One of our friend’s family owned several hundred acres with mile long rows of corn. We did not have time to hunt this large field during the week. We knew nobody else had been there, so we made plans at school with several other people to hunt there on Saturday morning. At the time, I had a German shorthair pointer. In standing corn, there is no real advantage to having a pointing dog. Most of the time, nobody can see him if he does go on point. His ability to retrieve was marginal. Sometimes he would look at a downed bird and ignore it. Other times, he would grab the pheasant like a good dog and bring it back to me. On our first trip through the field, my trusty dog retrieved a rooster I shot and one other person’s bird while ignoring several others. After collecting the downed birds the dog chose to ignore, we spread out across the end and in unison, started the mile long trip. I was near the outside edge and my dog was off somewhere in the field hunting, hopefully not stuck on point where nobody could see him. A pheasant jumped up at the far edge of the group and was flying toward me gaining elevation as he went. It is traditional to yell hen if a hen pheasant flies up, so nobody makes the mistake of shooting it. It is not necessary to announce a rooster because the nearest individuals are already shooting at it. A strong breeze was rustling the dry corn stalks, so I did not hear if anybody yelled “hen!” I was wondering why nobody was shooting or yelling hen but thought perhaps it was behind the row of hunters and nobody saw it. The bird was quite high by the time it got to my shooting zone. It certainly looked like a rooster, so I pulled up, hoping to get lucky at such a long shot. It dropped like a rock. Instantly someone yelled “who shot the hen?” Realizing my mistake, I kept quiet, hoping everyone would forget by the time we got to the end. Everyone was gathered by the vehicles when my trusty dog, who I had not seen the entire round, showed up with my hen pheasant in his mouth. This is one time I wished he had not retrieved. I had to admit to my mistake.

   By Monday morning, everyone at school knew what I had done. After a few years, most people forgot the incident, but I will always remember to be very sure of my target.

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