Rooster, Art! Rooster!

Never mind we had just driven twenty-five hours in two days from east Tennessee to Parshall, North Dakota – a town of less than a thousand near the Canadian border just west, southwest of Minot. It was about 3pm, we had bought our licenses on-line, and there was daylight enough to get in a couple of hours of hunting before sunset.

This was my second pheasant hunting trip to Parshall. The first one several years ago was not successful measured by the number of birds we took. That year had been extraordinarily dry and came on the heels of a particularly bad winter that drove the brood numbers way down. It was too hot to wear long sleeves at that latitude in October! While the company was great and our hosts, Wade and Cindy Williamson, were grand, the hunting wasn’t especially pleasant.

That trip, I was assured afterwards, was the exception rather than the rule. I know Art Swann. I’ve nicknamed him “Killer” - a monicer well-earned over the years. The gang from east Tennessee comprising the usual hunting party is a group of savvy upland game hunters. They simply would not routinely make the 1600 mile trip twice a year if poor hunting were the rule. So my invitation to make the October 2009 trek was quickly accepted.



Suzy the spaniel was wired upon our arrival. She, after all, had spent most of those twenty-five hours in her kennel. It wasn’t her first rodeo. I’m certain her anticipation was based on her recollection or at least her association of the long ride with more birds than a good dog can sniff.

Around the hills of Tennessee, coveys of quail have become even rarer than the old ruffed grouse. A good hunt at home might result in two or three scent trails over the course of a half day hunt. But Dakota is different - very different. Compare shooting a pack of Black Cat firecrackers with the Fourth of July fireworks on the mall in Washington, D.C.

Not taking the time to unpack, we suited up, loaded up, and hit the field nearest Chuck Alexander’s farm house about four sections east of town. Skies were partly cloudy. There was the usual high plains wind. Temperature was about 40 degrees.

No more than a hundred yards into the field, Suzy became birdie. Like a champion, she did not flush the bird wild – too far away from the hunters to shoot. Up the rooster came with a mighty roar and down he dropped as Art leveled his little 410 gauge double-barrel. Suzy fetched, got that taste in her mouth, and shifted her motor into a higher gear.

Occasionally getting out of our sight, we had to hustle to catch up to some of Suzy’s points. Again and again, the birds would fly. And, again and again, I yelled my favorite battle cry, “Rooster, Art! Rooster!”

Over the next hour, Suzy covered probably twenty times the ground Art and I did. With a three bird per day limit, the three of us bagged five pheasants that afternoon. Taking a few shots to find our range, our marksmanship could have been better but the hunting couldn’t have been better. Our first night included sweet dreams with "Rooster, Art! Rooster!" playing in our heads!