Jack’s First Hunt

Ashley, North Dakota. My old man, Harry, who is scheduled to enter his 87th year on this earth in a few days, and his buddy Bruce, have been coming to the Dakotas to duck and pheasant hunt for at least twenty-five years. Over time, they made the tiny hamlet of Ashley, the county seat of McIntosh County, their home base. A few years’ back, Dad asked if my eldest son Matt and I would like to go. We went, had a great time, and the next year, Chris, my third son, came along. We’ve been coming back to Ashley, renting small houses in town and hunting the wide open prairie landscape, ever since. This year, Jack, my sixteen year old son, came with. It was his first bird hunt of any significance beyond poking around the woods surrounding our home on the Cloquet River in hopes of surprising a grouse.

Saturday and Sunday of the non-resident opener were dismal. We saw few birds. I took four shots at big roosters that flushed forty yards out and that was the only shooting I experienced during the first two days of hunting. The sky spit rain and snow. The wind howled. Sandhill cranes, their cranky voices audible even though they were flying a thousand feet above the land, formed and reformed above us like buzzing bees, their dance constituting the beginning act in the month-long play of cranes, swans, geese, and ducks from the potholes of Saskatchewan and Manitoba seeking warmer climes. The lack of rooster pheasants for us to shoot didn’t deter our little group from scouring the sparse, flat landscape for birds. We knew, before making the seven hour drive west from Duluth, that the pheasant population on the Plains had taken a big hit during the wet, cold, snowy spring. But we were optimistic that diligence and hard work, along with the noses of Windsor, a borrowed spaniel, Lexi, Matt’s Labrador, and Kena, Jack’s four month old Labrador pup, would produce some shooting. We were wrong.

It must be said here that the Munger clan, particularly the males of the family, are loud, opinionated, politically correct (in our own minds), and somewhat disagreeable. These traits require anyone who accompanies us on a fishing or hunting trip to be of thick skin and sound debating skills. Matt’s friend, Reid Amborn, fit that bill. He drove out with Matt and Chris in Matt’s Suburban and the banter, bickering, teasing, and derisive humor that is the hallmark of a Munger gathering didn’t bother him in the least. He gave as good as he got. In a word, he fit right in. Even when we buried Harry’s Tahoe, the bald tires of the rig unable to follow Matt’s Suburban through a muddy mess, Reid took our grousing and complaining in stride.

After trying to rock the rig onto wooden timbers, I sent Matt to town in search of a tow strap. We were in a treeless field, mired to the doors in muck, and our efforts to move the Tahoe had been completely unsuccessful. All Dad and I could do was sit in the idling Tahoe and wait for the boys to return. Far sooner than expected, the Suburban was back, plowing down the muddy two lane track followed by another Tahoe. Turns out, the owner of the other Tahoe was prepared. He had a tow strap along just in case. Using the borrowed strap, Matt’s Suburban pulled Harry’s Tahoe sideways until it was on firm ground. We thanked the boys from Indiana. What could have been several hours or more of an ordeal was remedied in short order. More importantly, we heard a similar tale of woe from our new Hoosier pals: They’d seen three birds in two days of hunting. The news didn’t put roosters in our game pouches but made us feel less inept.

 

Monday, the weather cleared a bit. The sun came out. The dogs, including Kena, who had very little understanding of her role but who began working patterns in the grasses and cut corn and soybeans and sunflowers in mimicry of the older dogs, her nose snuffling, her tail wagging, didn’t stop their efforts to flush pheasants. But despite the hard work of men and dogs, we’d only had two or three quality shots at fleeing birds and we’d missed them all. My old man spent Monday back at the little house in Ashley, preparing turkey dinner; the feast we’d consume watching the hapless Vikings on Monday Night Football.

 

“Look at the ducks,” Matt said as we worked the edges of one of our favorite spots.

The water of the adjacent lake was dotted with the black forms of mallards and teal and other migrating ducks bobbing on the wind rippled surface of the prairie pothole.

Time and time again, as we stalked roosters along the margins of the high grass and brush surrounding the lake, corn fed pot roasts on wings would slash across the open sky, offering themselves as easy targets against the stillness of a bright Dakota sun. But we weren’t duck hunting and the birds passed our gauntlet safely, put on the brakes, and landed with slight splashes out in open water.

“Great, Matt,” Chris replied. “But we’re not here to shoot ducks.”

Most days in the field, Dad drove his Tahoe with Jack and I riding shotgun. As we looked for huntable land, I spent a lot of time thinking about my old man, mostly because Dad’s buddy Bruce didn’t make the trip. Harry without Bruce in the field is sort of like Abbot without Costello, Bogart without Bacall, Batman without Robin. It’s unsettling. But there’s not much one can do about the progression of time and the changes that life brings other than to accept the end result with grace and supplication. Still, every time I cast a casual glance in Harry’s direction while he was driving, I knew his heart. I knew that he’d trade one more day on young legs scanning the land through clarion eyes with his beloved Labrador Cleo by his side for a year of earthly existence.

 

The less that’s said about the Vikings game, the better. Suffice it to say, the turkey, stuffing, potatoes, and biscuits were superb and that, after cleaning the kitchen, doing the dishes, and having the turkey kick in,  I was asleep by nine.

During our Monday hunt, Chris likely had the one and only truly easy shot, a rooster rising from a slough that took wing just in front of him. Normally our most reliable gun, Chris fired three times, nicking the tail of the rooster, loosening a feather or two, but didn’t drop the bird. I knocked one down during the same drive but, because I was using steel and the shot was about thirty-five yards out, the bird was able to run and the dogs weren’t able to find it. By Tuesday, our last day, we were five pheasant hunters who’d bagged no game. In fact, Reid and Jack hadn’t even fired their shotguns. Matt had taken a single shot. I’d thrown up five or six “Hail Marys” at long distance birds, including the one I’d hit. Chris had about the same success. To say we were collectively despondent isn’t quite accurate. But there were rumblings, mostly from Matt, that maybe South Dakota was a better option for next year. Seeing as how Ashley is but a mile or two north of the North Dakota/South Dakota border and that the birds we were chasing didn’t likely know the difference, I wasn’t convinced that a change in jurisdictions (to use a legal term) would bring success.

Tuesday blew in cold. There was snow on the ground when we tromped across a cut soybean field towards a marsh surrounded by empty land. The dogs worked the thick swamp and sedge grass, snuffling here and there, finding old roosts left by departed birds.

“Jack, move to the outside. You’ll likely have a better shot there.”

My youngest son shifted to the extreme right wing of our line as we moved. To the east, on gravel road, Harry drove the Tahoe back and forth, impatience, a trait my father has gifted me, apparent in his actions.

“Watch Windsor,” Chris yelled out as the spaniel stopped on a dead point.

“Get the bird,” I said.

Windsor moved forward. A bird erupted from a clump of weeds between Jack and me.

“Hen,” I yelled.

We watched the bird set its wings and fly off.

“There’s likely more in here,” I said.

Less than five minutes later, Windsor was again locked on a bird. This time, there was no need to coax the dog into action. A brilliantly hued rooster, resplendent in red and green and all manner of color, exploded from bulrushes at Jack’s feet.

I watched Jack hesitate. The bird flew low and to the east, with the wind.

“That’s your bird, Jack. Take him.”

The borrowed twelve gauge rose. The gun barked. Once. The rooster fell, hit but not dead.

“Get the bird, ” I yelled.

Windsor sprinted through the marsh and caught the rooster on open ground. In less than a minute, Jack had a nice young male pheasant snug and secure in the game pouch of his hunting vest.

I couldn’t stop smiling.

“I can’t believe it,” Chris said. “His first trip. His first shot. His first bird.”

“And I didn’t really aim,” Jack replied.

“Don’t tell me that,” Chris admonished. “I don’t want to hear that again.”

It was a beautiful shot. Thirty-five to forty yards out. A great beginning to a long pheasant hunting career.

In the end, we ran into a few areas that were holding birds. But our shooting didn’t improve much, though Chris did manage to take two roosters, one of which I missed, one of which Jack missed, in a single drive.

Near sundown, in an open grassy field that rolled out like a golden, waving ocean for thousands of acres, as the wind was settling and the sun disappearing on our last day of hunting, we ran into more pheasants than we’d seen all week. Roosters and hens started popping up and flying away from us, the dogs madly chasing the scent trails of dozens and dozens of birds in a confused frenzy of smells. Reid finally fired and winged a rooster but it ran and couldn’t be found. Matt fired and missed. In fact, Matt ran out of shells and had to retrieve more ammunition for Grandpa’s Tahoe. In the end, Reid finally hit a big rooster and dropped it in the tawny prairie grass. That bird was dead. It didn’t get away. Windsor brought it to Reid and our hunt was over.

Many thanks to my son, Matthew Leonedes Munger, for planning and organizing the trip! You rock, son!

Peace.

Mark