tall tales
It’s also opening day of the pheasant
season so that’s going to be the focus of
the morning hunt. The seasons for sharp-
tails and gray partridge – we still call them
Hungarians – have been open for a couple of
weeks, but there is very little hunting pressure
on them in the area, except by us, of course.
However we don’t think we put much of a
dent into the populations, even during those
years when we do well. As such, they’re never
far from mind and we don’t turn our nose up
at them. All three species are, on occasion, on
or near the pivot, although we’re far and away
more likely to enc ounter ringnecks there. And
the ringnecks here are all wild birds, as the
closest areas stocked with pen-raised birds
are more than 30 miles distant. We like this.
The fog has lifted, leaving behind a bit of
a chill and dampness. The winds are light –
there’s always a wind – and the skies remain
overcast. It almost feels like rain, which would
be unusual. In all the years we’ve hunted
here, it’s seldom rained, and then never hard
enough to keep us from being afield.
As we are getting out of the trucks we hear
two cock birds crowing near the banks of the
river, in a place where the willows are so thick
that often the only way through them, even
for the dogs, is to follow the cattle and deer
trails. Glenn goes to block where the river,
the willows and the edge of the irrigated field
meet, while Brian and his Lab Daffy, Rob,
Brill and I head into a strip of cover to try to
flush some of the birds we know are there,
because they always are.
Brill is a Wachtelhund, a German breed I
have as a result of my friendship with Gerhard
(Gary) Gehrmann. Gary is originally from
Germany, having settled in Northwestern
Ontario, where he owns a hunting lodge
catering mainly to European hunters. Like
many of the versatile German hunting dog
breeds, the Wachtelhund can be used to help
with hunting almost any game species, no
matter the size. While only about 60 pounds,
they can be fearless, and aren’t afraid to hold
wounded wild boars, black bears or even
timber wolves at bay.
I haven’t used Brill much on big game. My
first Wachtel, Heidi, loved moose hunting,
but these days there are few moose where
I live, and as such, Brill hasn’t had many
moose hunting opportunities. Based on her
demeanor, I doubt she would show much
interest. She is a great waterfowl retriever, but
it’s upland birds that bring out the best in her.
The Wachtelhund’s, like Daff the Labrador,
are flushing dogs, but with one very unique,
and lovely trait. They bay – actually, it’s more
of a bark - when on hot bird and small game
like hare, scent (they don’t bark for waterfowl,
which I find really amazing). The hotter the
scent, the louder and more frequent the
barking. In thick upland bird cover, this is a
Godsend, as you don’t need to interpret body
language as to whether the dog is acting
‘birdy’. You don’t even have to see the dog.
So, here we are on the first drive of the first
day of our week-long hunt. Within a minute
or so of release, Brill disappears into the
cover of dense grasses, berry-laden buffalo
berries and thorny shrubs like hawthorns and
currants that border the edge of the pivot
field and lead to a stand of mature poplars.
It’s not long before I hear her bark, and then
spot her – mostly just her tail, beating briar
bushes - about 80 feet from me.
About 10 seconds after her first bark, she
lets out another, then another. She’s now
into ‘Shrill Brill’ mode, and within moments,
Daff, Robbie and I are bounding over to join
in the hunt. A few years earlier, on Brill’s first
hunt with us, both humans and dogs quickly
caught on that a barking Brill means action,
and if you want to participate, you’d best get
over to Brill ASAP. It’s obvious those lessons
haven’t been forgotten as I watch and
participate in the pile-on that takes place on
the small plot of cover Brill is working.
Facing a stampede of two and four legged
hunters, two cock birds simultaneously hurtle
from shelter and frantically claw skyward
and toward the safety of the river. I get the 12
gauge Ruger Red Label OU up and start my
swing, but before I can get a bead on a bird
I hear Robbie touch off a shot. He’s always
first off the mark. Always. Unfortunately, it’s a
clean miss, as is my shot. There are two more
shots with the same result.
Brill continues to run around barking her
face off - this usually lasts a minute or so after
birds have flushed - while Daff ambles over
and gives all of us that “What? You missed?”
look he excels at. I call Brill off by repeating
‘Gone Away!’ several times. Finally, she gives
up and comes to me, panting heavily, eager
to check out the next piece of cover.
We make our way down to the willows
that grow on the sandy shoreline of the river,
when Brill starts barking again. Then all
heck breaks loose. I hear at least a couple
of birds flush, someone yells “Hen!”, then
there’s shooting, more barking, more beating
of wings, some indecipherable yelling and
another couple of shots. Stuck in a miserable
patch of ‘slaplings’, all I’ve seen through my
vegetative curtain is a flash of brown. At last
I break out into the open, just in time to see a
bird sail into the muddy brown waters of the
river, a few feathers still aloft, floating along
on the soft breeze. Daff jumps into the strong,
swirling current of the river off a steep bank
edge and does an admiral job catching up
to the floating pheasant. When he brings the
now soggy rooster back to Brian, I see both
have huge grins on their faces. It’s the only
bird we have in hand.
It seems we flushed three roosters and two
hens. At least we are on the scoreboard.
For the next couple of hours, we work
our way around the perimeter of the pivot
with similar results. That is, we flush quite
a few pheasants, touch off a fair number of
shots, and occasionally connect. Just as the
sun begins to break through the clouds, we
find ourselves where the pivot and coulees
converge. Maybe there will be a flock of Huns
there, or some sharp-tails. Maybe both. One
can only hope.
Brill goes over to inspect a towering thatch
of grass beside a patch of stunted poplar
trees only marginally taller. I can’t see her,
but hear her bark. I’m some distance away
so I pick up the pace in concert with Brill’s
escalating vocalizations.
A brown bird bursts from the edge of the
poplars clucking, and I immediately recognize
it as a sharp-tail. I manage to squeeze off a
round before the sharpie has gone 10 feet
and am rewarded with a crumpled bird.
Another sharpie does the same thing with
identical results. A double? Close enough,
and I’m elated. Brill retrieves both of the
plump prairie birds and I stuff them into my
vest alongside my one pheasant. The extra
weight feels good.
Wild Guide
. Winter 2018 60