PHEASANT HUNTING

My earliest recollection of pheasant hunting was when our bird dog, Lucky, was still alive. As I have mentioned previously, Lucky was a great bird dog. He was a brown and white English Setter and he loved to hunt more than anything else. I’m not sure how old he was in the early 60s but I suppose he was over ten years old. Lucky had been bred to a female setter and my dad was given the pick of the litter in return. The puppy was black and white and my grandmother gave it the name “Pup” (a classic of understatement). At that time my Uncle Wid and Grandma lived next door to us. Uncle Wid took a liking to Pup and Dad was glad to give him the dog. While Pup never became the hunter that his father was he was a more loving pet. At that time in my uncle’s life he really needed a dog, and especially one like Pup. Wid had never been married and didn’t have any close friends to my knowledge. He took care of Grandma and was close with our family but I never knew him to interact with anyone else. He had been injured on a construction job and was permanently disabled. I am sure he suffered from depression but nobody talked about such things in those days. My uncle enjoyed getting out in the woods with the dog and we hunted together occasionally but he was by no means an avid hunter. He would accompany me on after-school hunting trips when I was too young to hunt by myself. He would let me use his old Fox 16 gage double-barrel before I was big enough to handle Dad’s 12 gage. Uncle Wid was good to me and I have fond memories of him. Whenever you saw Wid, Pup would be close at hand.

The common, Chinese or ring-necked pheasant is not native to Pennsylvania. I am not sure when it was introduced there but I’m glad someone had the idea. The cold winters and snow of the area are certainly not ideal for the species and in severe winters the bids cannot survive. The Pennsylvania Game Commission raised pheasants at several facilities around the state and conducted a stocking program each fall. Next to deer season the pheasant season was the most anticipated in my youth. There were always rumors circulating as to where and when birds would be stocked. The best places to get this “skinny” (as they used to say in the Navy) were Bill Matthew’s barber shop, Fred Meyers’ hardware store, Isaly’s, the gas station, or my dad’s car dealership. Beginning about a month before the season these rumors would start to circulate. These days I believe that the stocking schedule is actually published on the Commission’s website. Obviously these were the days before computers or, for that matter, government’s desire to share much information with the taxpayers.

One Friday night Dad came home from the dealership with a gleam in his eye. He had heard from his friend, Joe Ligo (the local undertaker whom Dad had nicknamed “Digger”), that the Game Commission had just stocked some pheasants on the Culhane farm (not their real name). I’m sure that Ligo hadn’t provided this intel out of the goodness of his heart. If he could have hunted the next morning he would have been out there, not us. He probably had a funeral to attend to and figured he owed my dad a favor. In a small town with two funeral parlors there was great competition for dead bodies. Both funeral directors bought cars from Dad. They must have figured he was going to die before the Ford dealer did. They were wrong as the Ford dealer died before he was 60.

Now I had never met any of the Culhanes but I was aware of their reputation as one of those families that seemed a blight on the community. A rough clan that could turn a nice clean homestead into a junkyard seemingly overnight. I am not sure whether the piles of junk that surrounded their house were self-generated or not. I can’t imagine that any one family, no matter how large, could come by the wrecked cars, rusting appliances, and piles of non-descript garbage that populated their farm. Surely they must have had a network of other loathsome hillbillies that brought in garbage by the truckload. There were also various farm animals that wondered around in the garbage – goats, chickens, pigs, and an occasional donkey. The Culhanes moved around often - each time after a mysterious fire. In those days it was common for the neighbors to get together and “burn-out” families like the Culhanes who were bringing down the community. Strangely the authorities never suspected nor investigated arson in the wake of such fires.

At any rate, early on Saturday Dad, Johnny, Uncle Wid and I loaded Lucky and Pup into the trunk of our green and white Eighty Eight Olds and headed for the Culhane place. I should note that in those days very few landowners posted their land to keep hunters out. It was a common practice to either ask the landowner’s permission to hunt beforehand or to stop by and share the kill with them afterwards. I was guessing when hunting the Culhane farm we wouldn’t be soliciting permission in advance.

I was more excited than normal this day. We all had a good feeling there would be birds in the vicinity after the leaked stocking reports. The hunting day began at seven AM and it was just about that time when we approached a pull-off along side of the county road on the Culhane farm. As Dad eased the Olds off the road a ring-neck rooster walked across the road and into the brush in front of the car. This was going to be a good day! Johnny and I got all excited and both began to jump out of the car at the same time. Dad cautioned to take it easy. The bird would not go far once it got into the cover. Besides the dogs would track it down wherever it went. We all climbed out and got our vests on and loaded our shotguns. Dad called the order of the hunt with himself on the left and Uncle Wid on the right. As usual Johnny and I would be in the middle. We wanted to be all set before Dad opened the trunk. Once he did both dogs bolted out like it was a prison break. Both noses hit the ground on the fresh scent and they were off. Within 20 yards Lucky froze solid. Not on point but in a crouch that meant the bird was close at hand. Unfortunately, Pup had not yet learned this technique. He clamored ahead and must have run right over the bird. The ringneck rose straight into the air cackling that pheasant rooster call that was music to our ears – “coc, coc, coc, coc.” (Since only roosters and not hens could be taken one always listened for the male bird’s distinctive crow.) Johnny and I both trained our guns toward the rising bird and he beat me to the punch. I was just about to pull the trigger when I heard the report of his gun and saw the ring-neck plummet to earth. Johnny whooped and hollered as he ran toward the downed bird. We both got there about the same time as the dogs. Lucky sniffed the carcass while Pup tried to grab it. I don’t think he would have eaten it but we didn’t take any chances. Johnny scooped it up, holding it upside down by the legs with wings fanned out to each side. When Dad and Wid arrived they congratulated Johnny and we all examined the kill. Dad pointed out that it was a stocked, not native bird, based on the short tail feathers and short claw on the back of the legs. Still it was a nice sized bird and Johnny was rightfully proud. This was the first ring-neck I had seen up close and I admired the beautiful iridescent green head, red patches around the eyes, and distinctive namesake white neck band. I helped him get it into his game pouch. I told him he better let the rest of us shoot at the next one or he’d be weighed down with two in there.

It was such a good feeling for members of the family to score so early. It was only 7:15 and we already had a kill. I just knew it was going to be a great day. Dad outlined the direction we would take from there, moving through the damp bottoms we were in and toward the cornfields in the distance. I loved to watch the dogs work as we moved deliberately out of the bottoms. It was easy to see the difference between the well-trained father and the untrained pup. Lucky wasted no motion as he worked the scent back and forth. When it cooled he immediately sped up to find it again. I could see that Pup enjoyed sticking close to Wid. He would range out a ways with Lucky but then quickly get back within sight of his master.

Before long Lucky began to slow down not far in front of Johnny and me. I called out to Dad that I thought there must be a bird close by. Before he could answer Lucky froze into a point that you could have taken a picture of for a hunting calendar. Pup was over with Wid and wasn’t about to spoil Lucky’s work this time. I spoke softly to him as I had heard Dad do – “OK, Lucky, hold him,” I whispered as I moved carefully behind him. Johnny was close enough to see what was going on and he was drawn to the action. I was afraid his movement was going to flush the bird before I released Lucky so I raised my voice a little and said, “Go ahead, boy.” Lucky took two more careful steps and the bird exploded from the dense wetland cover with a buzzing sound coming from its wings. As I pulled my gun to my shoulder I noticed there was no cackle from this bird. Also there were no noticeable tail feathers. A hen, I thought, just as I heard Johnny shoot and saw a puff of feathers in the air. Was he nuts, shooting a hen? It turns out that he was caught up in the moment, squeezing the trigger before thinking about the gender of the pheasant. His second off-hand shot was just as true as the first had been. As Dad approached to see what had transpired Johnny began to shout incessantly, “Bury it quick, bury it quick!” Now I don’t ever recall an encounter with a game warden in all my hunting days but as youth we were scared to death that one would show up immediately if we violated any game law. Johnny was eager to cover up the evidence of his transgression by giving the female bird a proper (and immediate) burial.

In Dad’s typical manner he said, “Now calm down and let’s see what he have here.” (Johnny was still muttering, “Bury it quick,” under his breath.) As Dad approached the dead bird in the weeds he said, “It’s OK, it’s a woodcock.” “Can you shoot them, I mean legally?” Johnny asked. “I think they’re in season now”, Dad answered, “but let’s check the book to be sure.” He always carried the small hunting rules and regulations guide inside his license holder. He had Johnny pull it out from the back of his vest and look up the answer. “Yep,” Johnny noted with a sigh of relief, “woodcock season runs concurrently with pheasant season.” “Looks like you’re two for two”, Dad said, pulling Johnny’s cap down over his face. “Now let’s see if anybody else can kill something.”

I know now but didn’t at the time that we were hunting very typical woodcock habitat. Their preferred diet of earthworms makes them gravitate toward wetlands and poorly-drained upland soils. While we never went hunting specifically for woodcock, we encountered them on the rare future occasion while hunting for pheasant or grouse. From that day forward in our family the woodcock would be known as the “buryitquick”.

We worked our way up to the medium height grasslands that surrounded the cornfields without additional fanfare. I was anxious to get close to the corn because I knew that the pheasants would be feeding on the corn and using the adjacent fields for cover. As always, Dad had a plan of the best way to work the cornfield boundaries. He would be on the very edge of the standing corn. Johnny and I would fan out in the tall grass, and Uncle Wid would take the far edge, adjacent to the woods. The plan seemed perfect. If the birds were in the corn the dogs would bring them out. If they were in the tall grass they should hold tight. If they were in the woods, once again the dogs would find them. Dad cautioned us to be extra careful as we approached the end of the field. If a bird was running ahead of us it would stop there and flush when we got close. Sure enough, when we reached the first corner Johnny kicked out a rooster that angled toward Dad. It was a privilege to watch my dad wield a shotgun (whether in the field or on a trap range). The bird wasn’t airborne long before he was on it and dropped it with an efficient shot. There was no puff of feathers. Dad always strove to hit the bird in the head with a few BBs to keep from spoiling any of the meat. No doubt a throwback to his childhood of subsistence hunting. As always everyone gathered around the dead bird to examine it (including the two dogs). This rooster was different than Johnny’s. Its tail and the barbs on the back of its legs were twice as long. It also seemed like the green head feathers were brighter in the sunlight. A wild bird to be sure, not one from the current stocking. I began to wonder how this rooster had survived last year’s harsh winter. To me it looked like the kind of bird one would have mounted if you did that sort of thing. My dad was not one to “waste” money having an animal mounted. I think he figured that kind of money would be better spent on a new shotgun or pistol.

This day was turning out even better than I had hoped for. We had three birds and it wasn’t 9 o’clock yet. I just knew my turn was coming. We turned the corner of the cornfield and began to work the same pattern down the other side. This time the shots came unexpectedly from my right. Pup had put up a grouse in the edge of the woods and Uncle Wid had brought it down with a couple rounds of his 16-gage. “What would be next”, I thought, “a rabbit.” I could never remember a hunting trip where such varied game species were taken. I must admit though that it was starting to bother me that I had yet to get in a shot. I would have shot at the buryitquick if I had known it was legal. I was determined to participate in this hunt by hook or by crook.

We continued working the edge of the cornfield toward the Culhane farmhouse. Most times I was a little uncomfortable hunting close to a residence but I had a hard time putting the Culhane place into that category. I imagined that any careless shot in that direction would be absorbed by the junk piles in the yard. As we approached the end of the field I remembered what Dad had said and about that wild rooster he had taken at the last corner. I put my thumb on the safety and began to ready myself for a possible shot. No rooster was going to take me unawares at this point. Lucky was working in front of Johnny and Pup was bouncing wildly back and forth between Uncle Wid and I. I wished it had been the opposite. I had much more faith in Lucky’s nose than I did in Pup’s. The end of the cornfield was within 15 yards or so and I was getting anxious. I just knew there had to be a bird holding up ahead and I picked up my pace in anticipation. I was right. A rooster was holding tight right at the very end of the field. I don’t even think Pup smelled it, he just ran over it. It bolted into the air right in front of me and for once the gun was to my shoulder before it got ten feet off the ground. I was on the bird and fired before I realized that Pup had made a leap for the bird as it startled him more than it did me. I heard Pup yelp and saw him bolt for the woods on a dead run. The ring-neck kept on going but nobody made a follow-up shot at it. “Oh no,” I thought, “I’ve shot the dog.” “How could I have been so stupid?” “Why did I shoot so quickly?” Uncle Wid ran after Pup as fast as he could through heavy cover calling for the dog to come back. We all gathered where the bird had gone up to see if we could see any signs of blood. I started to sob and told Dad I was sorry for shooting Pup. Dad put his arms around me and said, “We don’t know what’s happened to Pup yet. He’s running pretty fast for a dog that’s wounded. Maybe he’s just scared. Let’s try to track him down.”

We all took off in the direction Pup went, following Wid’s voice as he called to the dog. We caught up with Wid before too long. He was winded from running through the heavy brush and taking a little breather under a large oak. It looked like he had been crying but I wasn’t sure. I told him I was sorry for the errant shot. Dad asked if he thought the dog was injured or just scared. Wid said he didn’t know but he hadn’t seen any blood in the dog’s tracks. However he wasn’t even sure which way the dog had gone from this point. Dad planned a search pattern for us so we could fan out and find Pup. He kept me close to himself as I think he knew I’d need some serious consoling if we found Pup’s dead body in the woods. We must have spent the next couple hours combing the woods and surrounding fields for the dog – calling and listening for his bark. All to no avail. We tried to get Lucky involved in the search but all he wanted to do was sniff bird trails. It was now about two o’clock and we were all hot and tired. Dad suggested we return to the car and maybe go home and get a bite to eat. Maybe Pup would be out walking the road looking for us. We could come back out later on. Wid said, “You guys go ahead, I’m going to hang out around here for awhile. I’ll be here when you get back.”

I was one forlorn boy when we reached the car with one dog less than we’d started the day with. Dad suggested we drive slowly along the road and watch and listen for signs of the dog. When we passed the driveway to the Culhane’s dad pulled in. “What are you doing?” Johnny and I both asked in unison. “I’m going to see if anyone is home and see if they’d like a couple of these birds,” Dad answered. As Dad weaved the Oldsmobile up the lane around the junk piles Johnny and I resolved to shrink down in the backseat so nobody could see us. When we reached the house he said, “Come on, let’s see if anyone’s home.” It was said in that tone of voice Dad used when there would be no negotiation. As Dad approached the front door with his game vest in hand we toddled behind him like a couple of grade schoolers. Before he could knock on the door a woman emerged from the house. I have no idea how old she was but in my young mind she was a really old woman. She probably looked much older than her years due the hard life a Culhane matriarch must have lived. She had a worn house dress on with a soiled apron covering it. I expected she would be mean and demand to know just who it was that had the nerve to approach her house (almost as though Hansel and Gretel were eating it). To my surprise her voice was pleasant. “Hello, can I help you men,” she said. My father replied, “Ma’am my name is Wayne Fleeger and these are my two boys. We’ve been hunting over there (motioning to the adjacent fields) and shot a few birds. We wondered if you’d like a couple for supper tonight.” “How thoughtful,” she replied, “we love pheasant, I’d be delighted.” Somehow it seemed odd hearing such proper grammar coming from someone named Mrs. Culhane.

As Dad reached into his and Johnny’s game pouch for the two pheasants, Mrs. Culhane asked, “You didn’t have a black and white dog with you did you?” “Yes and he’s missing, have you seen him,” Dad replied. “He’s in the back yard with our dogs. He showed up here about three hours ago and looked scared to death. I thought maybe he had a run-in with a coon or something. I put him inside the fence until I could figure what to do about him. Come on around back and we’ll get him,” she said as she lead us around the side of the house past old cars and appliances. I was overjoyed. I could have kissed this lady who I had always considered lowlife in the past (even though we had never met). I was first to make my way to the backyard where Pup met me nose to nose as he jumped up on the wire fence. I immediately looked for any signs that he’d been shot but he seemed lively enough. I could feel tears running down my cheeks.

“Tommy, you put Pup in the trunk while I say goodbye to Mrs. Culhane,” said Dad as he motioned me toward the car. “Johnny, go get your Uncle Wid. He should be in that stand of trees over there. We’ll pick you up where we parked this morning.” As I opened the driver’s door of the Olds to get the keys Pup jumped in and sat behind the wheel. I guess he figured he wasn’t taking any chances of getting left behind. When Dad saw him he laughed and said he could ride up front as long as he already had his dirty paws on the seats. Pup sat between us as we rode back down the lane. “I guess the Pup was just scared by your shot at that bird over his head. I can’t see any sign he’s been shot,” Dad reasoned. “Being inside the Culhane’s fence explains why he wouldn’t come back. Guess we’ve all learned some lessons today.”

We pulled off the road in the same spot we began the day and waited for Johnny and Wid. When they first came into sight Pup jumped right over me and out the open window of the car (car windows were much larger in those days). Pup ran to greet Wid and I could tell it was a happy reunion for both. Pup joined Lucky in the trunk and we headed for home. Nobody said too much on the way. It was obvious that all were pretty relieved. As we unloaded the car back home I said to my father, “You know, Dad, Mrs. Culhane seems like a pretty nice person, I mean for a Culhane and all.” His answer was classic Wayne Fleeger – “Tommy, most people are nice if you give them half a chance. I suppose that’s all Mrs. Culhane needed was half a chance.” “I guess you’re right, Dad,” I answered as he pulled me close to his side while we walked up the driveway.