That Special Spot
by Barry Biegert
I was hiking up a brushy hillside next to a small gully, which
had just a trickle of water in it. We’d had plenty of rain
earlier in the year as it had been a wet spring. The grass and cattails
along the creek were thick and tall providing good cover for any
pheasants that wanted to hide there. The dogs were working in and out
of the cover and I was hurrying trying to stay up with them. I knew
that just up ahead the hillside turned into a stubble field with a
fence separating the two near a large seep. A nice spring that provided
enough moisture for an abundance of vegetation to grow in a bowl at the
head of this gully. On a hot afternoon like this one I could expect to
find some pheasants amongst the Nettles and Hemlock. I’d been
here many times before and the trick was to arrive about the same time
as the dogs did, because the birds seemed to be more panic stricken
when they were bunched up. On the right hand side of the gully there
was a small bluff of rock and next to it were a couple of trees and ten
yards above that is where the pheasant oasis was located.
Luckily I was in shape and as I came around the trees I
could see my dogs acting birdy and just starting to plunge into the
thick cover. Immediately birds started coming out of both sides. I saw
a nice rooster going to the left and pulled up and shot. It appeared to
be a clean miss. I was aware of birds going low up the gully where it
widened into the stubble field but the tall Hemlock hid them from view.
A couple hens went out the right side and then another big rooster came
out low following the same flight path as the rooster I missed. I
figured I had shot in front of the first bird so I held closer on this
second one and as I pulled the trigger he folded like I hit him hard.
It all happened within a few seconds and was over. I had already been
breathing hard and now with the surge of adrenaline I was really pumped
up. I had noticed that the second bird was much larger than the first
and was what we called a real tail wagger. I was hoping that he would
go 23 inches when I measured his tail feathers. I had measured many
tail feathers over the years and 23 ½ was the longest I’d
measured. I’d shot three different roosters with feathers
that long and I figured taking a big rooster like that was similar to
shooting a seven-point bull elk.
Shilo soon appeared and I could see the bird’s tail
feathers dragging on the ground as she held him firmly by his breast.
He was huge, much bigger than I thought. I had just taken my largest
rooster ever, his tail feathers would measure out at 24 ¼
inches. He was a true trophy, an eight point bull of a rooster.
I sat down on the hillside to rest and soak up the moment
for awhile. The dogs were panting hard and needed a break as well. From
my vantage point I could look down over Sweetwater Creek valley and
reflect on all of the great hunts I’d had here. My father had
first brought me here to hunt when I was just eight years old. I
accompanied him and our Weimeraner Gretchen as they hunted the flats
near the creek. Sweetwater creek was lined with tall trees and brush
and the flats had lots of weedy cover to hold birds that had come down
from the farm fields for a drink. There were a few houses scattered
along the creek. Most of them belonged to the NezPerce Indians and
there were sweathouses in the brush alongside the creek in a couple
places. My father sold cars and he had gotten permission to hunt from
one of his customers who co-owned this parcel of land with her brother.
They owned less than two hundred acres all together but it was prime
pheasant habitat. The flats on both sides of the creek and the hill
side up to the fence line three hundred yards or more on the North East
side of the creek all had good cover. They would lease this land out to
a farmer who ran his cattle in there and later when I would ask
permission to hunt they would always say “yes, but stay away from
the cattle”. The farmer fed his cows down near the creek so I
would hunt the three draws that cut into the hillside and extended up
into the wheat fields above. This place had everything it needed, to be
a great hunting spot. Lots of water, all the cover and wheat fields
that offered an abundance of food.
On my first hunts with my father I carried my Daisy BB gun
and would slow his hunts down by wanting to pause and shoot sparrows in
the trees along the creek. It didn’t take him long to realize
that I was old enough to carry the old .410 bolt action single shot, of
course it was empty. But I was learning good safety habits, how to hold
the gun and carry it with the muzzle pointed in the right direction.
The following year he told me I could put a couple shells in my pocket
and if the dog went on point he may let me load one and attempt a shot.
So off we went to the special place along Sweetwater
Creek. We took the hidden road that looked like a driveway. It actually
went between a couple houses and crossed an old wooden single lane
bridge before it headed up the hill to a distant farmhouse. We parked
in a pullout just across the bridge and after crossing the fence, made
our way up the creek along the flat. We hadn’t gone far and
Gretchen started getting birdy as she worked the thick cover at the
base of the hill. Dad had me load a shell into the chamber but not
close the bolt so the gun wasn’t capable of firing. We had gone
just a short distance farther and Gretchen locked on point. As dad got
behind me I closed the bolt and worked in behind the dog to flush the
bird. It flushed directly in front of me and flew straight away, it was
a hen and without thinking I threw the little gun up and fired.
Unbelievably I knocked the bird down, I don’t know who was more
surprised, my dad or me. The dog and I converged on the spot where the
bird went down just about the same time. To my dismay there was no bird
there, I looked and looked, but the dog was off following the scent
trail of the winged bird. I yelled at her to come back and help me look
but she kept heading towards the creek. I lost my temper with her and
was on the verge of throwing a fit as she kept going into the water.
Finally dad had heard enough, he had been watching the dog work and
said “ son I think your bird crossed the creek” There was
just no way my bird crossed that creek, pheasants don’t like
water and I knew it was still hiding here in this brushy flat. But dad
took Gretchen and got across the creek and miraculously that dog found
my first pheasant in the thick brush on the other side. Without her, my
first pheasant would have been lost forever.
I had lucked out and had taken a pheasant on the fly when
I was nine years old. There would be a three-year drought before I
would be lucky enough to kill another one. There were a couple of
incidents that convinced my dad that I was still a bit too young for
hunting. And maybe trying to get me some experience before I was
actually old enough to be licensed was a little risky.
There was the time I had an accidental discharge with the
Winchester 30-30 and almost took his leg off while we were deer
hunting. And the time I shot the great horned owl in self-defense as it
flew straight at me.
I smiled as I looked up the canyon a mile or so to the big
draw that the owl came out of. My dad had explained why we don’t
shoot owls, but he had cut one of the large feet off and I had dried it
and kept it as a keepsake. My buddy thought it was a bobcat claw.
As I sat there on the hillside I thought about how lucky I was
to have a father that shared his hunting heritage with me. He had died
a few years earlier and it was times like this that I missed him the
most.
I didn’t have any kids of my own, but had brought my
nephew Zach up here on this same hillside for his first hunt. Like my
dad so long ago I had let him bring his BB gun and he too tried to bag
the elusive sparrows along the creek. But I had persuaded him to hike
up one of the draws towards the fields. I had picked the one with the
most trees so he could shoot at the tweetie birds. We were moving slow
and the dogs had worked ahead. We reached the fence line and Sako had
already crawled underneath it and was on up the draw somewhere. I knew
I was pushing Zach too hard and we paused to take a break before
attempting to cross the fence. It was late afternoon and when we
crossed into the field we would be hunting right into the sun. For now
we were in the shade and enjoying the cool air it provided.
Suddenly I could hear cackling up the draw ahead; Sako had
flushed a rooster. I held the gun at the ready position and hoped it
would come down hill like they so often do. Zach stood behind me and as
we watched I could see the shadow of the bird cast upon the hillside
across the gully. It looked huge as it bore down upon us. And almost
instantly he was there, flying straight down the gully just above the
tree line. My first shot was well behind him as he had reached maximum
velocity and was really moving. I swung through and increased my lead
and quickly shot again and the bird folded and crashed into the trees!
He hit in a fork of the tallest branches and stuck in the three
branches like someone catching a ping pong ball by holding their three
middle fingers up. I couldn’t believe it. I’d never seen
anything like this happen before. It was Zach’s first hunt and as
he looked at me I’m sure he was wondering if this happened all of
the time. We walked down the hill so were eye level with the bird. I
could seem him stuck solid just fifteen feet away, blinking his eyes.
Now it was Zach’s turn, I told him to ready his BB gun and take
aim. I was sure when he shot the bird that it would react and come out
of the tree. He was connecting on his first few shots but nothing was
happening. I instructed him to aim at the eye and try to finish the
bird off and I’m not sure if he was successful or not but the
bird soon expired.
The problem was that he was still in the tree. The dogs were
going nuts with all the BB gun action and were running around the base
of the tree like a pack of hounds.
I came up with a new plan; I would shoot the branches and
knock Mr. Rooster out of his death perch. So I took aim and severed the
branch and the bird fell into the dog pack below. Sadie brought him up
the hill to us and we claimed our prize. The heritage continued as Zach
and I had teamed up on his first rooster.
I rose from my resting spot and headed
back down the hill to the truck. I knew I had a huge rooster in my vest
and was anxious to measure it. Some how taking a limit that day
wasn’t important anymore. I had taken a truly great rooster and
had limited out on memories of this special place I’d hunted for
so many years.