It’s hard to describe the feeling: sang-froid, with a touch of windburn.

We were hunting pheasant on the rolling agricultural prairie lands near Remington, Indiana, with my buddy Scott.  Actually, it was Scott’s hunt, dogs, vehicle, hunting ground and plan- I was just along for the ride.

Fortunately, it turned out to be a great ride Memory Lane.

About ten or fifteen years ago, I was a major pheasant hunting fiend.  I had the necessary gear, read all the books and even dreamed about cackling roosters flying up from my feet as a German shorthair pointer froze in unnatural positions on a frosty morning.

Unfortunately, that was the past; friends, dogs and property had all gone elsewhere as life and time moved forward.

I had given up dreams of pandemonium flushes, miles-long vistas and dogs crashing in a windshield-wiper pattern through the overthrown tall-grass prairie.  I gave it up but I never forgot.

On Tuesday, I remembered.

My friend Scott has just gotten bitten by the pheasant hunting bug in the last two years.  He’s bought some good dogs, trained them well and learned the tricks of the trade.  Most importantly, however, he’s got ground; the ultimate factor in the equation of upland game hunting.

While the pheasant is native to the northern half of Indiana, it really only flourishes in the northwestern quadrant centered on Benton, Newton and White counties.  There are pheasants in other places but these counties are the only place where you can consistently connect with birds.  Somehow, through luck and pluck, Scott had connected with a major landowner in this prime area and I found myself stepping from the truck into this pheasant playground on a windy, gray, drizzly day.

Our first hunting area was a grassy buffer strip along one of the innumerable ditches that keep the area from reverting back to wet prarire as it was in the 1800′s.  The dogs were excite and crashed through the chest-high weeds like a wrecking crew.  Several times they acted ‘birdy’ but continued forward, nose to the ground and cropped tail riding high.

We reached the end of the grass strip and one of the dogs locked up in a picturesque point worthy of a magazine cover.  Scott, farther way, nodded in my direction and I moved forward to flush the bird.

One step, two steps, a pause and…..WHIRRRRRRR as a pheasant erupted from the knee-high grass.  Fortunately, prior experience doesn’t leave the brain entirely and I yelled “Hen!” as the brown bird flew away.

I lowered my gun, panting at the excitement of my first flush in a few years.  Scott seemed disappointed; obviously, he didn’t see the grin from ear-to-ear on his guest.

One of the most unsettling, yet fascinating, parts of the whole day were the windmills.  As we have written previously, the landscape in this area is littered with hundreds of the tall, growling, unworldly giants (see here).

The entire day we hunted in the shadow of the giant electrical generators.  Somehow, in their ubiquitousness and defining presence, they seemed both out-of-place and yet reminded that I hadn’t slipped back a decade previous.

On this day, we hunted ground that would have made me cry with joy during that previous lifetime when I was a confirmed upland hunter.  We bounced between grassy strips, ten-acre grass fields next to State Gamebird Habitat land and tiny field swales that were less than 50 yards long but held birds like a magnet.

During the day I often reflected on my friends during our previous adventures in this area.  One of them has gone to the happy hunting grounds while others have moved onto other things as we lost touch over the years.  Occasionally on the windy prairie, it seemed like I was hunting with ghosts.

Unfortunately, even with the possible help from beyond, we were skunked.

We flushed one rooster out of range and that was it for five hours of hard walking.  Scott was at turns apologetic and philosophical while I simply enjoyed the day, the recreation, the companionship, the dogs and the unique landscape.

I’ve often stated that the success of the hunt isn’t measured in the weight of the game bag but in the number of memories captured for the future.

In this case, the hunt will always hold a special place as the next chapter in a long-held love affair with that outlandish, cackling bird of the prairie.  It was great yet gloomy, a memorable but mundane day but I wouldn’t trade a minute.

Of course, I’d better bag a damnable rooster on the next trip.

Pheasant hunting area

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