I don't know if it's true for all of us, but the last bird of the season often holds special memories for me. It happened again this year. K-Lee and I were exploring a riverbank area that typically gets birds pushed into it by other hunters. It's one of our "end of season" destinations.
After we had walked about a quarter of a mile through the mixed hardwood and brush, K-Lee started tracking something and went over a rise. In disappointment, I heard her "game bark" (more of a "yip" really). I suspected that she had either "bumped" the bird or it took flight before she could point it. Still, she kept at the hunt, aggressively working the sparse, late-fall cover. Beyond another small knoll, she went out of sight again.
Quickly walking about 200 feet, I rounded a bunch of tag alders and saw K-Lee on point. She had a bird pinned in a brush pile! Anticipation swelled as I circled around them and walked in from her left front. Exploding upwards, a rooster made a raucous departure. The bird cackled angrily as its wings frantically grabbed air. It rose high above K-Lee and careened sharply to the right. K-Lee did a "spin in-place".
In all the commotion, my first shot was a miss. I took a breath, settled myself down, and let the Benelli speak again. The rooster crashed into a tall maple and fell about 25 feet into the alders. I marked the spot and sent K-Lee to fetch. Unfortunately, she thought that the bird had gone off in a straight line and was determinedly looking for "a retrieve" in the wrong place! After a few moments, I was able to call her into the alders to start a search.
I don't know if "air washed" (of scent) is a true thing, but there seemed to be no discernible scent in the area of the fall...at least none that was a clear indicator for the dog--so I took her in another direction to settle her down. My hope was that the bird would either have time to give off scent from it's "hide", or K-Lee would be settled down enough to pick up the faint scent of its track. A few minutes later, we re-entered the alders and she quickly found that the pheasant had burrowed itself under a pile of detritus. The rest was shall we say, "history". Satisfied with one good point and a bird in the bag, we made our way back to the truck.
On the morrow--at the bird's expense--K-Lee and I shared "the meal of victory".
