The First Time
They say that you will never forget your first time; first kiss, first child, first dog, first horse.
For hunters such memories might involve your first bull elk, or trophy buck. Your first hunting truck, trusted shotgun, or rifle that refused to miss. I remember my first hunt out-of-state. Swallowing hard at the cost of that nonresident tag and feeling guilty about how many pairs of shoes I could have bought for my kids.
Turning down that first black bear in Montana because I had foolishly strapped my new daughter to my chest, never imagining that I would find one. I wanted to share the Flathead Valley with her on a first hunt as an infant. There was no way I was going to disturb her nap for a mangy old bear. Turning down my first trophy buck because I was hoping for a glimpse at a bigger one.
But this past weekend, at sixty-years-young, I experienced my first opening day of South Dakota pheasant season.
As a Rushmore State hunter, it is akin to missing one of the religious sacraments to skip opening day. It feels a little less awkward now that they have created three opening days, one for youth, the next for residents on public land, and finally, open for all, nonresidents, their dogs and entourages.
But for the last thirty years, I have missed each of the openers guiding other hunters and paying bills. There was always equipment to repair after two months of elk and archery deer hunters, horse hooves to trim, kids to parent in apology for the days I had spent away. I just never took the time to drive across the state for one of the shiny birds when we had grouse so close to home.
But this year was different, my wife noticed a hole in my calendar. Three days where we could zip back, hold a growing granddaughter, and check on her parents who have another little one on the way in January. My son suggested that I throw in a shotgun and buy a box of steel shot. We could slip away while Piper Jane was taking her nap and just maybe find a bird.
There was a crowd on the highway following us east. Many had crates in the back for one of the few weekends in America where a bird dog gets to experience its purpose. I was concerned about hordes of hunters and so many of the shenanigans that occur when large numbers of armed men compete for the same limited resource.
The press releases from the Game and Fish said not to worry, that there were enough birds this year to go around and that pockets of birds existed far away from the crowds.
Yankton is definitely one of those uncrowded pockets.
More familiar for its fishing and waterfowl, Yankton has miles of crop fields and prairie potholes that provide more than enough food and cover. The river is rimmed by miles of public hunting and many area farms have registered their lands as public access for those chasing pheasants.
After lots of giggles and grandpa hugs, we tucked Piper away for her nap under grandma’s watch. By avoiding the more popular destinations we were able to have public hunting areas entirely to ourselves. Any parcel that demanded a walk of any distance was free for the taking.
Our first walk was a bust. The fields had yet to be harvested and no birds were held in the fence lines or tree rows. The next site offered ponds and slews. Still no signs of any other hunters. The first hen rose beneath our feet and then a series of birds, all hens followed her. Other birds ran through the reeds and refused to flush. A dog of our own would have been nice.
Our last walk finally produced a rooster and the synchronization of our shots concealed responsibility. I congratulated my son on his fine shooting, and he returned the compliment with no evidence available for refutation.
My first opening day pheasant, with wonderful lodging and the company of my son and his growing family was a perfect hunting trip.
