Curiosity Killed the Pheasant
By Ryan Lynton
We really didn’t know which path to take. A rooster could have been in any direction. This was the last day of pheasant season in Indiana, at the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, and I was looking for a Hoosier home run. My dog, Creek, had already stuck a point on a healthy covey of bobwhites early that morning. I took a handsome male from it and relished finding them this far north. But pheasants were the centerpiece for this excursion. We were hunting a sizable wetland conservation area that supposedly held a few birds. My hunting partners and I stood at the edge of a small drainage, curious about which way to go. I wondered where an old, wily rooster could be camped out. Unsure, but needing to make a choice, we crossed the water and continued straight.
Life, in many ways, is fueled by curiosity. One of the joys of existence is unraveling the mysterious future with the decisions we make. I’ve heard this idea called the “dignity of causation.” It’s basically a $10 phrase that means we have a choice. This can be as underwhelming as whether to buy creamy or chunky peanut butter or as weighty as who we choose to marry. I’m not here to give you advice on major life decisions. What I’ve found, however, is that curiosity opens a lot of doors in life–even in the uplands.
Indiana Pheasant Hunting – History and Present
As hard as it is to fathom (especially to a Hoosier bird hunter), Indiana had an impressive annual pheasant harvest at one point. During the 1960s, abundant habitat paved the way for hunters to bag more than 100,000 roosters each season. Though a western pheasant hunter might chuckle at that figure, it’s massive compared to the meager amount we bring home now. My best estimates are just a few thousand birds annually.
Diminishing habitat, modern farming, and human development have all been fuel for the fire in this slow burn of habitat scarcity. Small farms adorned the Hoosier landscape in ages past, providing idle, weedy areas where birds could hide. Conversely, modern-day large farms are mostly void of these fringes and fencerows, making it tough for a pheasant (and many other species) to eke out a living.
The birds we have now are relics of their ancestors. Yes, there are huntable populations of pheasants in Indiana, to be clear. Some private landowners are doing tremendous habitat work and producing birds. Public places also provide some opportunities, if you’re in the right cover. But most public-land harvest comes from what are known as “Gamebird Areas.” Located in a handful of counties in northwest Indiana, these islands of habitat are hunted only by draw system. Hundreds of hunters apply for each offered date, and as you can imagine, the odds are low. But if you’re lucky enough to draw, it can be a high-quality hunt that rivals some states farther west.
Years ago I had a conversation with a middle-aged fellow from northern Indiana who said that it was commonplace to walk out his back door and shoot a limit of roosters when he was a kid. It bewilders my present-day bird hunting mind that my home state has a history of producing such a rich harvest. It’s equally astounding that the right cover can still produce hefty numbers of birds, even in Indiana. It simply comes back to one thing: quality habitat.
On The Track
Soon after crossing the drainage, my pup struck the scent of something she liked. I noticed her docked tail, or as I affectionately call it, her “nubby,” oscillating like a cuckoo clock. This told me she was tracking something. I did my best to stay with her, fingers crossed that my target bird was causing this behavior.
If you’ve hunted pheasants, you know they’re prone to run. These gallinaceous track stars know how to dissolve from a dog on point and be long gone before you ever show up for the flush—unless they run out of cover. That’s the exact situation in which we found ourselves. The tall grass was coming to an abrupt halt by a cut crop field. If this was a pheasant, it had nowhere to go. Anticipation plagued me as I awaited the first clamor of wingbeats, but nothing happened. My preconceived idea of events was not unraveling the way I’d planned. My rooster prophecy was perhaps a myth.
Then Creek turned straight to the east and continued on the track. It became apparent this scent-laden escape artist was trying to give us the slip, hugging the edge of the field now. Suddenly, my pup broke free and doubled back to where we had just come. I wondered what could be happening, but trusted she was working things out, sifting through scent molecules.
As I pondered the situation, I looked over my shoulder and saw something that aroused both delight and dismay. What had slinked and slithered in front of my dog’s nose these last several moments was now standing there plain as day: a plump, gaudy rooster sporting every color of the rainbow in the wide open on a walking path. I was delighted because it was a pheasant. I was dismayed because he had outwitted us.
As soon as my eyes told my brain “pheasant,” he was airborne and quickly sailing out of my life. My hunting partner took a couple of long-distance whacks at him, but the bird escaped unscathed. I sulked. I pouted. I was so close to one of the few opportunities we Hoosier hunters have on wild birds. With a glimmer of hope, my friend noted where the bird landed. Without hesitation, I hauled it over to his approximation. The chances were low I would get a crack at this bird, but I wondered if my plan was crazy enough to work.
Stay Curious
Upon arrival, Creek quickly went back to hot tracking. It was obvious that the bird had hit the ground running. Our view changed from prairie to timber as we followed our quarry into the woods. I was worried this would turn into a ruffed grouse hunt and I would only hear the bird flush with no shot opportunity. Luckily, however, we were back in the open soon. Nerves were electric; every step I took felt like a catapult that could launch this bird upward.
As we neared the eastern edge of the property, we came upon an irrigation ditch. Creek took a couple of purposeful sniffs toward it and then moved on. A moment later, my ears perked up to a rustling at the waterline. Like reuniting with an old friend, I knew it was him. I took one step, and the rooster exploded from his outpost, offering me a perfect going-away shot. In one fluid motion I raised the barrel of my 20-gauge, squeezed off a shot, and sent a generous helping of bismuth #5s his way. It did the trick. Upon recovery, I admired the sheer beauty and remarkable size of this bird. Curiosity had paid off.
The uplands are a treasure chest, teeming with endless experiences for those inquisitive enough to pry it open. Maybe you’ll slide a bird into your vest as a result. Maybe you won’t. But I can promise that you won’t regret it. Precious memories are forged that outlive the hunt itself by decades. Stay curious.
Ryan Lynton is a husband, minister, artist, and bird dog owner from the rolling hills of Southern Indiana. Not becoming a hunter until his adult years, he’s enjoyed chasing many things with fur, fins, and feathers. However, his favorite place in the outdoors is the intersection between himself, his dog, and a wild bird in a wild place.
This is Ryan’s first writing for Strung, and we are proud to introduce him to our pages. We hope to bring you more from him soon.
