Tracking The Pheasant

By T. Henry Camp | Monday, October 22, 2001

I awake early on a gray Sunday morning and peer out my window to see the thick, palpable, low-hanging clouds. After slipping into several earth tone layers, I walk outside into a chilled drizzle. Instead of returning to the warmth of my bed, I exclaim to myself, 'Some Sundays are for church, but the Lord made this day for pheasant hunting!'

My trusty Tahoe awaits me. I merge onto I-91 South and begin a two-hour trip to Temple, New Hampshire. To pass the time, I consider the benefits of the conditions. The scent of the birds will linger in the mist, allowing the dogs to better track game. Also, the wet grass will encourage the birds to hold longer than they normally would.

Pheasant are not native to New Hampshire. Nor can they be found in my home state of Georgia. Pheasant were originally brought to the United States from China. They flourish in the Midwest, but there are only a few management areas in New Hampshire that successfully maintain a pheasant population. I consider myself very fortunate to visit one of them. My opportunity to join the hunt is courtesy of a friend from home who has come up to hunt at this spot for decades with another Georgia native who attended Dartmouth and now lives in Temple, New Hampshire.

Because of logistical complications, I had forgone the morning hunt and arrive at the Temple green at noon. My directions, which had been simply to look for the house in Temple, bring me to a stately Colonial home. It is certainly not the only home in Temple, but its size and dominating position make it easily discernible as the house in town. A knock on the door reveals Anjou, the cook. She ushers me into a very open rear den. I feel as if I have stepped into the interlude of an Old English hunt. Four distinguished, graying men recline separately around the room wearing their full hunting attire and sipping their pre-luncheon cocktails. They instantly include me in the banter from their earlier exploits.

The owner of the house turns to me and says, 'Now, Harry, these gentleman will try to convince you of my abysmal accuracy with a shotgun. But I shot two pheasant and three Chukars this morning, better than any of them, I might add. I ask you, 'Is that shooting really that poor?'' The chuckle that follows joins the canon of many that have resonated back and forth between the eighteenth century walls.

We move to the dining room. My host is the epitome of an old Southern bachelor: a delightful conversationalist, a bit eccentric, and very classy. He attended Dartmouth in the forties. He is an antique collector, philanthropist, and playwright. We enjoy a delicious meal, pleasantly served to each of us by Anjou. The only brief hitch comes when the host insists that Anjou has used the wrong silver serving utensil for the spinach. When our wine nears the bottom of its glass, our host grins and rings a crystal bell for Anjou who instantly appears with the bottle.

Now properly prepared, we move to the hunt. Bird hunting can always be distilled to men, guns, and dogs. My companions are experienced. One, who is a former New Hampshire ski champion, uses a special twenty-eight gauge shotgun as a self-imposed handicap (for non-hunters: a higher guage translates into fewer pellets projected over a lesser distance). My firearm is an over-and-under Charles Daly twelve gauge. It is a beautifully crafted shotgun that instantly and naturally fits my frame. Our dogs are two English pointers, Legs and Tinker, and two black Labrador retrievers, Beamer and Murphy. The pointers sniff out the birds and 'point' them. The labs flush and retrieve the birds.

Our hunt takes us down an old field road, which winds down through hollows and rises up through dozens of small fields bordered by hand built rock walls. Pheasant and Chukar partridge prefer the edges of the fields where brush grows wildly between the grasses and the trees. When released the dogs immediately begin to canvas the area anxious to begin their work. Soon they disappear into the thick briars, hedge, and flaming red Sumac bushes.

'She's looking birdy,' one of the hunters remarks. Bird dogs begin to wag their tails when they are onto a scent. Shortly, we can no longer hear the ringing of the bell around Tinker's neck. The silence means that the dog is on point. The hunters position themselves for a good shot near the thicket. As the junior hunter, I enter the thicket to help flush the bird. Pheasant like to run about as much as they like to fly, so they will not hold like other game birds. I lumber through the briars and catch a glimpse of the regal bird's red-banded head bobbing through the underbrush. The stiff white tail of Tinker pursues closely. I join the chase. The cool and cleansing moisture from the underbrush creeps higher up my body as I quicken my pace. I burst into open forest under a canopy of water glazed leaves at the peak of their color. The chase finally ends when Tinker pins down a beautiful pheasant behind a small granite outcropping.
I ease in behind the point with the butt of my shotgun already snug against my shoulder. One can rarely see the bird that is being pointed. They generally hide under thick cover. The important things to remember are to move in from behind the bird dog and to try to avoid placing oneself behind obstactles that might obstuct the shot before it reaches the bird in the air. This task is made much more difficult in the forest. There is nothing more disappointing than to have a well tracked bird fly away because the hunter has such poor field position that he cannot get off a shot.

I try to keep all of this in mind as I move in, but the bird has the power of surprise, for it must initiate the process. The bird takes flight like a flash of lightning, and I let my instincts take over. The next two seconds are a series of slides in which I raise my gun, sweep across the scene, pull the trigger, and watch the bird fall to the ground. It must all be one fluid movement, yet it is always as if I am watching it take place in frames. The exhiliration of flushing a bird, hearing the whir of its wings and watching it project itself gracefully into the air, remains a source of wonder each time I see it. The image of a pulsing pheasant suspended beyond the barrel of my shotgun remains paused in my mind. Warm dog's breath and the feel of feathers in my hand jolt me back to the present. Beamer has brought me my prize.

I stuff the bird into my vest and return to the party. We continue down our path and find much more success, bagging about a dozen birds altogether. I must endure much joking for the rest of the afternoon after I neglect to fire at a pheasant that flies right in front of me because I forget switch off the safety on my gun.

'Harry, were you waiting for that bird to land at your feet?' they laugh. One continues, 'I could have shot it twice while we waited for you, but it was your bird.' This second remark references the etiquite of bird hunting in groups. The hunting party always yields the first shot to the hunter who is the closest to the bird when it takes flight.

After my early success and later faux pas we end up killing several more pheasant in addition to some Chukar partridge, a slightly smaller bird native to Hungary. Finally, the field road brings us back to the hunting lodge. The dogs are obviously tired. They are wet from a combination of sweat and rain, yet they wag their now blood-tipped tails yearning to continue. We compliment them and offer treats.

We stop by the hunting lodge, where I am introduced to General, the club's red-tailed hawk in-training. Hunting with hawks is one of the highest forms of sport.

'Next time, Harry, we'll bring out General to show how to really hunt,' his owner says. Inside the hunting lodge proud pictures from past hunts decorate the walls. Every kind of game in New Hampshire is represented. We all retire to the house in Temple. We dry out, tell tales, and of course drink cocktails around the blazing master fireplace. 'Next time' is an uncertaintly, for it is revealed to me that one of the band of hunters, of which I now feel a part, has just found out that he is in the advanced stages of prostate cancer. Honored to have been invited to join the memories, I thank all of the gentlemen and return to Hanover with six pheasant for my freezer.

Tracking The Pheasant

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