doublegunshop.com - home Forums General Discussion DoubleGun BBS @ doublegunshop.com Your very best day afield

Probably my most memorable hunt was my first Pheasant. My Father was not a hunter but I had older cousins that were. We had heard hunting stories from them both and got to taste some game at family dinners. I knew next to nothing but made a pain of myself asking questions and spent every weekend exploring the local woods. An old retired feller who was a close family friend told my older brother and I tales about duck hunting and shooting some little birds that he cooked on a wood fire by packing them in mud feathers and all and cracking them open and picking out the meat. Any way he loaned my brother and I a 10 ga Winchester 1901 lever action we of course told him that it was ok with our parents who I think never knew. It was heavy and we bought shells for it one at a time at the local hardware store and shared it .My Older brother turned 16 bought a car from afternoon and weekend jobs. I borrowed a 12 ga model B savage Fox. So at 15 borrowed gun and a brand new hunting license pinned to the back of my jacket My Brother Tom and I went out to a place where it was rumored to hold some Pheasants. To tell the truth it was pretty crowded and I started walking around a large field edge just inside the tree line.
I climbed a large hill looking down into the field and saw a Cock Pheasant fly out into the field way below me into an island of trees and woods far below. Several other hunters saw the bird too and went running into the island from different angles and from my vantage point I was high enough to see the entire island from above. After some time the hunters left the small island of woods and nobody got shot including the pheasant and I was sure he did not come out either. I decided to go down and have a look. After about 20 minutes of tromping around the quarter acre patch of woods I looked up and there he was. He got nervous as me and began to take off . I threw up the 12 bore and fired my first shot ever from that gun I had pulled the rear trigger (full choke ) barrel and center-punched that poor bird at maybe 5 yards . My older brother had seen me going in to the trees and came in at the sound of the shot He looked at the bird and saw the mess so he reached down and pulled the tail feathers out of the mess I made of the bird for me. Funny after all these years Im 65 now I still remember that bird and that shot.

Another vote for that gorgeous Springer...it reminded me of my Springer, Tigger, who died a couple of years ago...brought a tear to my eyeAgain.
Fox, are you seriously with this drivel?

Quote...."proof of what my Grandfather always said: "Wimmen have no damn business out hunting- nor meddlin' in politics, or shootin' pool or playin' stud poker. Nothing can Fubar a day out duck (or other birds as well)huntin' like a large PITA woman- or women, if she has an uglier twin sister. You did the right think in givin' her the old "heave-Ho" RWTF"

God bless your Grand Pappy for passing along & fostering such sexist bullshit to you...he must of been a real man indeed.
May I go fishing with my wife? , you ASS ****
franc

Where I grew up in the red-clay hills of NE Georgia, I was never privileged to have the opportunity to chase after any of the "exotic" game birds such as pheasant, grouse, multiple species of wild quail excreta, etc. that I read about here daily; nor was I privileged to travel to parts of the country where such birds could be hunted, but I still enjoyed some great days afield with the small game opportunities presented (dove, bobwhite quail, and cottontails mostly). I'll always remember my 10yr. old (at the time) son's first buck (an 8-pt), or that Thanksgiving morning when he, my B-I-L, and I bagged 7 deer in less than and hour and let at least that many more walk. And I'll always remember the rabbit hunt where our pack of beagles flushed two grey fox from a thicket, and I scored a left and right with my old Belgium 16-gauge Prize Machine Gun. But my favorite times afield centered around my most favorite past-time, dove shooting; the most memorable of which occurred on a mid-September Wednesday afternoon in 1977, and in the end had nothing to do with the fact that I bagged my limit.

Seems my wife was working that day, and somehow I'd a day off and was in charge of looking after our 1 and 4 year old sons. But I had this over-powering urge to go dove shooting, something all hunters understand well; and I simply had to scratch that itch. So I began to formulate a plan of action and called my Aunt Peggy and offered her a "deal"; one limit of doves in exchange for 3 hours baby-sitting to which she graciously agreed. So I hurriedly cobbled together my stuff, loaded up my sons and their stuff; and went to see Aunt Peggy. With the kids safely secured, I hastily formulated the balance of my plan which was 1) I had to get the kids and be back home, innocently dressed, before 5:30 as my wife could not know I'd gone hunting as opposed to whatever the heck it was I was supposed to be doing
(she'd have raised immortal Cain!); and 2)I had to be very discrete, as I had not taken the time to ask for permission from the landowner (he knew me and probably wouldn't mind, but it's just not my nature not to ask beforehand). So when I turned onto the dirt road that bordered this tract of land, I made sure to pull my little car far enough into the pines opposite the field so that it could not be seen from the road. I then grabbed my dove bucket, shells, and my Borno ZP49 12-bore; then headed to my "spot". There was nothing planted in this large tract, it had simply been cleared and what had been standing timber was wind-rowed and awaiting burning. But around the edge of these wind-rows were large stands of poke-berry, rag-weed, and other natural plants that attract doves; and since I couldn't cover 50 acres by myself, the challenge was to find a "flyway". Setting up at the end of a wind-row, it quickly became obvious that I'd gotten lucky and in no time was knocking down birds. It was one of those days when it seems that every shot I took connected; and I'd limited out in just over an hour. I was ecstatic at this point because I knew I'd have plenty of time to retrieve my sons and be home well in advance of my bride; so I quickly gathered up my stuff and started up the long hill to my car, making sure all the while that I stayed low and out of sight of any vehicle that might be passing. There was a strip of planted corn maybe 75' wide that separated the road from the field I'd hunted, so as I neared the dirt road I made sure to walk thru the standing stalks; being virtually invisible in my camos. When about 20-25' from the road, I suddenly heard a vehicle; I froze. The vehicle was moving slowly and I saw its red-dust tail long before it topped the little hill to my right. As the vehicle moved toward me it began to slow even more; causing me to immediately conclude that my plan had been foiled, and I was screwed. As the vehicle got closer, Il could make out the clear image of a red 1967 Plymouth Fury 2dr. hardtop thru the corn stalks. This was certainly not the land owners pick-up; but it was a danged fine looking vehicle nonetheless! Then it stopped directly in front of where I stood frozen only a few feet away; and when it stopped I could see that a guy was driving, and on the passenger side sat a young woman. The driver looked carefully around(and also right at me!); then turned and said something to his companion who then jumped out of Plymouth. She hurried to the rear bumper, looked around anxiously one more time; then dropped her drawers and proceeded to irrigate that red-clay road. To that point I'd been virtually petrified with fear; but when I realized what was actually happening, my emotions went from one extreme to the other so that I suddenly burst out laughing (couldn't hold it back!). This gal instantly knew she was being watched! Her britches were up in a flash, and she dove back into that Plymouth; covering her face as she slid out of sight. Her companion then found where I stood amid the cornstalks, gave me a big sheepish smile and slowly pulled away.

There have been other unusual happenstances I've stumbled into over the years, like coming upon a murder scene for instance; but this comical experience always stands out. Any by the way, I bribed the kids for their silence; and to this day my bride (of 48 years now) remains clueless.

Great story, topgun!

SRH

Man enough that when a town drunk type neighbor, in a stupor, made a pass at my Sainted Irish grandmother Rose- he put the SOB into the hospital for a good long spell. He and my father taught me respect for women, even prostitutes that littered Canal St. in his era- post WW1. But he also believe in the Germanic code: Kinder, Kuchen und Kirch-- and that women were to stay home and tend their children and the husbands supported their family and shouldered willing their duty to same- no exceptions. Our Country went to hell in a basket in 1920- the women who foolishly thought that banning the sale of alcohol (VolsteadAct) and the suffragettes and Margaret Sanger and Lydia Pinkham were the future for the fems- women don't belong in politics (including Billary) and on the Courts, their judgement is affected by "hormonal issues". The few female Officers I saw, Stateside or in "Nam, we saluted them and that was that- they never served in any combat units that I knew of.

Fox, I really only meant to call you an ass, the hole kinda wrote itself.Sorry about that.
But come on man, your talking 1920,close to a hundred years ago...times have changed.
If you have kids or grand kids, I hope you haven't taught them that a woman's only place is in the kitchen, bare foot n pregnant .
But I have a feeling that you have...
I am sorry I called you an A Hole, that wasn't a good thing to say, as I don't know you
Just that chauvinistic stuff gets me fired up
Best Franc

My most memorable was the day I went hunting in upstate NYS with a couple of friends on some little cornfields and brushy gullies near the Mohawk River. I had just retired in 2006 and my older brother had given me a Ruger Gold Label SxS with pistol grip stock, knowing that I don't do well with "English" stocks.

I had only fired this gun in a couple of rounds of informal trap, never at a bird. My friend was taking his new Choco Lab pup out for a first hunt after a summer of field training. Dog had literally never retrieved a wild bird.

Took about 25 steps out of the truck down a corn row and a phez cock towered up out of the corn and tried to top an oak tree growing out of the bottom of the deep gully along the corn. I reacted before anybody else could and dropped him at the top of his trajectory with a high-base 6.

By the time I had got ready to climb down the 8' near vertical bank of the gully and start searching among the blackberries, here comes my friend's Lab pup with the big old rooster in his mouth. And he even lets me have it--no tug-of-war or coy "keep-away game," either! Couldn't believe it.

Rest of the day was fun, but a little anti-climactic for me. Missed another rooster, an easier shot, too. But nailed a ruffy in the deep jungle of a woodlot edge, and the pup retrieved that one perfectly too.

Good day: no injuries, everybody scored on a bird or so, and we were all very proud of my friend's Lab, who served for many years after and is just now gone to his long home.

Needless to say, I still have and shoot the Gold Label.

Some great stories here! Mike (Wingshooter), liked the non-hunting part of yours.

Looking back through 40+ years of hunting notes, it seems that one particular date stands out for especially good days: November 11. That was my mother's birthday. She turned 10 when the guns went silent in Europe. And it was also opening day of pheasant season when I was a kid, too young for my Dad to write an excuse from school and let me play hookie. (My older brother did get to benefit from those notes.)

But ever since I've been carrying a shotgun, Mother's birthday has seemed to bring me good luck. The one that really stands out was in 1995, several years after Mother had passed away. I was guiding hunters that year, but we had a heavy snow and my guys called to say their arrival would be delayed a day. So I rounded up my teenage son and my long-time hunting partner to hunt the place I had lined up.

A creek runs the length of the section, from north to south. We started at the south end, temperature somewhere around 20 and with a strong north wind. We were following Heidi, my 10 year old shorthair.

The first quarter hour or so produced nothing. My son suggested there must not be any birds around because we weren't seeing any tracks. About that time, Heidi went on point. "No tracks, Dad!" I told him to start kicking snow, right in front of Heidi's nose. Sure enough, a hen popped out. He looked at me, surprised. "Tucked in under the grass. Snow fell on top overnight. Like a pheasant igloo," I told him. From then on, we did not have to walk far between birds. And we wouldn't have found any without Heidi, because not only were there no tracks, but they were really hunkered down. Although Matt and Mike were not shooting well (I was mostly backing them up), we had 6 by the time we reached the north end of the farm. Heidi locked up, pointing into the fence, and Matt shot at something in the grass. "Did you shoot a rabbit?" I yelled. "No Dad, it was a pheasant. I saw its head!" But he aimed too low, almost cutting it in half. Followed by a stern lecture on shooting them in the air.

We got our last birds out of a patch of heavy grass in the bottom of a draw where the snow hadn't drifted as much. I borrowed a shell from Mike to load the left barrel of my old Hunter Fulton 16 (I was lucky he was also shooting a 16!) and made a particularly long shot on our 9th bird. A very basic scattergun, but one of the best "reach out and touch 'em" pheasant guns I've owned.

We dropped off the birds next to an old barn before making the mile long walk back to the truck. I'd lost count of the number of times Heidi pointed, but she stuck at least 25 birds that day.
When we cleaned them, all their crops were empty. They'd overnighted under the grass and snow. It was shortly after 10 when we finished, and they hadn't yet moved out to feed.

I still hunt the same farm, but there's not nearly as much CRP on it these days, and not nearly as many birds. But I'll never forget that particular November 11: cold morning after the season's first heavy snow with my son and long-time friend, shooting pheasants over the best dog I've ever owned.

My son is pretty busy with college, competitive sports, etc. so he doesn't get to hunt with me nearly as much as I'd like. But, any day he and I are out together is my best day afield, regardless of whether we even pull a trigger.

It was the late 70's and I had a brand new mortgage, a new Toyota 4x4 PU, a young family and a 2 year old GSP Amy (named by my daughter after her best friend). I got up at 5:00 AM on a Saturday and drove about 90 miles into far North Eastern Oklahoma to quail hunt. It was frosty, in the 20's with some sparse snow cover. The Sun was up but cloudy. I let Amy out and we skirted some fence cover around a long ago harvested bean field. I turned Amy back toward the truck through a shallow dry creek and the largest covey I've even seen flushed and sailed a 100 yards or so directly toward the truck. Three deer had jumped ahead of Amy and in turn flushed the quail. I can still remember the rushing sound of that flush on that cold still morning. I called Amy to heel and then sent her ahead. Within moments she went on point. I flushed and made the kill. She retrieved and the scene was repeated a point, flush, kill and retrieve. This continued until I reached my limit of ten. I then realized I had moved a total of about 5 yards. Amy continued to point and I would flush and allow the bird to fly.
I have no idea have many birds were in that covey but would estimate it had to be near 50. A great day that ended way too soon!