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Kurt Johnson
With opening day of pheasant season fast approaching, memories of my first day in the field decades ago came flooding back this week. It was a memorable day, for sure, but not for the reasons I had so anticipated.
Like any young boy growing up in Nebraska, getting a chance to carry a gun myself and take that first shot was a very big deal. I had completed the required hunter safety course and shot at a few targets with my hand-me-down 20 gauge, but before that crisp November morning I had never felt the adrenaline rush of shooting at live game.
My dad and older brother Randy accompanied me on that opening day when I was 12 years old.
I was up before the alarm clock went off that Saturday morning. In fact, I remember clearly that I could barely sleep that night, just thinking about hearing the whoosh of birds flushing from their cover. I’d heard that sound before as an observer, but never as “a hunter.” That’s a game changer for any kid who’s been there, but hasn’t quite done that.
And so when the big day finally came I was eager with anticipation, knowing that I was finally old enough to pull the trigger. We hadn’t walked too many fields when I finally heard what I was listening for, and I was ready. Bird up. Gun up. Aim. Fire. Bird down. Just like I had imagined.
Reality began to sink in when I realized there was no bright white ring around that bird’s neck. I felt terrible.
Everything happened so fast that I didn’t have time to process it all, I remember telling my dad and brother. I was excited to have actually hit my target, if not a bit surprised, but at the same time I had failed Hunting 101 in terms of what is legal prey. I wouldn’t go to jail or pay a fine I was told, since it was an honest mistake, but still …
Lesson learned, the hard way.
I have lots of great memories from hunting outings with friends and family in my younger years, though truth be told I was not the avid hunter my brother was and still is. I thoroughly enjoyed the camaraderie, walking the fields and sharing stories that were usually exaggerated a bit as time went on, but the taste of game birds and the kill shot itself weren’t my thing.
Years later my family and I moved to Huron, South Dakota, where I quickly learned that pheasant hunting was more than just part of the local culture, it was a $2 billion industry. I recall writing stories for the local newspaper about Chicago Bulls superstar Scottie Pippin and tennis great Martina Navratilova, among other famous folks, coming to Huron to hunt the ring-necks. Those birds were everywhere, which seemed anticlimactic to me in that good hunters usually bagged their limit within an hour or two after a noon start.
“The world’s largest pheasant” sat proudly on the edge of town, a point of pride for locals. That 28 foot, 22 ton pheasant made of fiberglass and steel affirmed Huron as a premier pheasant hunting location since 1959. Bird dogs were welcome at the nicest hotel in town, I recall, which makes sense when you realize how much money their owners spent for the experience.
I was invited to try my aim with a shotgun while in Huron, but long before then my target of choice had become a hole in the ground about four inches wide. That, and I haven’t owned a shotgun since golf became my favorite pass time, which is probably a good thing, given my instincts at the moment of truth so many years ago.
“Good shot, Kurt, but that was a hen.”
KURT JOHNSON can be reached at kjohnson@ hamilton.net
