Hunt report: POAS for supper

This past weekend we had a nice hunt for pheasants on a string up at Keith's preserve in Phelps, NY. Along for the hunt were Ernie and Mike O, fresh from cutting wood all day in the Tidball bottomlands. Our dogge of choice for the outing was Cabin Boy's GSP bitch Mistress.

We arrived at the preserve at the appointed hour of 2:30 pm and filled out the requisite paperwork for newbies to the preserve scene. I haven't hunted pheasants on a preserve since Pete Kleinman was a graduate student . . . that's how long it's been for me. Mike O had hunted the preserve with Keith previously, but Ernie and I were new to the game.

Keith had them put out four birds for us, but we were hunting an area where there had been a large release the day before but very little killing (something on the order of 3 birds had been taken out of 20 released). So we were primed for action.

After parking the Tidballmobile our host led the way. Conditions were chilly, 29 deg. F, strong winds, with a gray overcast sky. Perfect for POAS.

We hunted our way downhill through some gnarlies and along some ATV trails. We heard a cackle at one point, and Keith went in and busted up a pair--missing shots at a hen and at a cock that soared far overhead--Mike O also took a crack at that one, and we marked well its descent for future reference.

Just uphill from that spot Missy went on point again in the gnarlies, and we heard BANG. . . . BANG . . . . then a few seconds later, BANG. . . BANG.

As we figured Keith had just killed all four of our planted birds for the day, one of us (can't remember which one) yelled out, "Hey, Cabin Boy . . . how about saving some for us?" But he had only slain one (whew!), so we followed the original hen's flight downhill toward some railroad tracks.

After twenty or so minutes of poking around along the RR right of way, Missy again went on point, and as Mike and I converged on the bird from opposite directions, the hen pheasant flushed out toward Mike and met her fate. This is this.

We continued along the right of way back toward the direction where the high overhead cock had flown. We reached a large open field and crossed it, the dog working into the wind at this point. We re-entered some woods, where Ernie found himself outside on the edge staring down at a lone cock pheasant walking in the grass. He pursued the POAS (is POAS singular or plural?), wherein said bird reentered the woods. Ernie picked up the pace, the bird ran, and down at the corner of the field where the field touched the RR tracks, the bird flushed. Mike O was in the right place at the right time and took the shot that Ernie passed up. This is this.

We again worked out way out of the woods toward the road, then recrossed the big field to reenter the woods where the birds had been released. Here we found the birds of the day. Within minutes of reentering the release area, Ernie had killed a hen pheasant with his borrowed L.C. Smith Marlin Pheasant Killing Gun, which turns out to be just the ticket for administering the coup de grace for treed birds. Moments later a cock pheasant met its doom at the hands of at least three of our group--the community bird.

At this point I had no clear kill to my credit, and so Keith said, "You the man." I followed little Mistress along a short ridge and then down into the gnarlies where she stood staunch on point in the middle of an ATV trail. I walked in boldly behind her, and as I passed her she relocated about ten yards ahead of me. Again I walked in boldly beside her, and she relocated one more time about another five feet. Absolutely textbook! I murmured to myself. As I walked in this final time, a cock pheasant cackled and flushed off to my left, and I dispatched the bird with my street sweeping SWAT gun, as Keith had earlier monikered my machine. (no Parkers for POAS for this Purist, no sirree). This is this.

The Street Sweeper--perfect for POAS

Our intrepid gang of four continued, looping around through a patch of hardwoods that held a turkey that Ernie spared when it flushed. As we made a lower sweep through the release area, Keith and I spotted a lone cock walking the trail some eighty yards in front of us. Putting the Mistress at heal, Keith walked up on the bird, released the dogge, and within another minute or so Keith had added another cock pheasant to his game pouch--although I in a moment of weakness killed his cock extra good as it was falling from the sky. "Tantillo, what are you doing ruining my supper!" cried out the astonished, chagrined, nay, crestfallen Cabin Boy, but graciously our host accepted my humble apologies for being so quick on the trigger.

Moments later, Missy was on point again, and I was designated the Gun of the Moment. Walking in boldly, I saw the bird on the ground in front of Missy's staunch point. All I could think was that the bird was crippled, it sat there as motionless as a woodcock. I walked in to kick it out, the dogge started moving, and the bird struggled to get up and out. "A cripple," says I aloud, pausing to see whether the dogge would catch it or not. The dogge did not catch it, as the bird arose in short order, and I began counting off very carefully to myself, "One mississippi, two mississippi, three mississippi," etc. etc.

At the count of at least four mississippi . . . give or take 1-2 mississippis . . . I let off the safety of my SWAT gun. Slowly bringing the gun to my shoulder, I carefully let the bird get out an additional several yards before pulling the trigger.

BANG.

All that was seen of said bird was an EXPLOSION of feathers no more than 18 yards away.

All that I heard behind me from the Peanut Gallery was "HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO MY GOOODDDD!" and "HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

And in an instant I knew I had essentially field dressed that bird in mid-flight.

I hung my head and turned away amidst the catcalls and hooting and hollering from the gallery. The POAS pundits were providing instant play-by-play analysis, and somewhere along the way (my mind is a bit fuzzy on the details) Cabin Boy described what had just happened:

"You put that bird through a frickin' BLENDER!"

And indeed, when Cabin Boy dutifully retrieved the bird for me--I in a state of shock, temporarily unable to function--he confirmed the diagnosis. "There's no bird here anymore JT. It's just feathers."

And suddenly, there was much mirth and joy as Our Boys realized that they had a new moniker to tag on Mr. Jim:

THE BLENDER

Needless to say that's not quite the nom de swatte I would have preferred for myself, but if the blender fits . . . .

Anyhew, I believe that that was the eighth and final bird of the day. After briefly examining the still smoldering remains of the recently departed aerially eviscerated hen, we decided to leave the carcass out in the open for hawks, foxes, or coyotes to finish off.

As it was near the end of the day, we beat a hasty retreat to the truck where Ernie provided suitable libation for us all, and there was much rejoicing. The scorecard for the day had been eight birds harvested, seven of which were suitable for bringing home and putting on the supper table.

well, that's all the hunt news that fits to print. signing off,

The Blendinator