For hunters, the crisp mornings of October signal something more than just a change in season—they herald one of life's great traditions. Fifty-five years ago, my father Lonnie first introduced me to the magic of pheasant hunting, patiently teaching me the ways of the field and instilling values that would shape my entire life. As I embarked on my first of two annual trips to South Dakota this past fall, I carried his wisdom with me—a pheasant hunting expedition I'd been eagerly anticipating for months.
The opening weekend for out-of-state hunters is always special, but the Fall of 2024 brought unique conditions that made it truly memorable. Standing in those fields, I could almost hear Dad's voice explaining how to read the land and how to anticipate where the birds might be. The harvest season had arrived earlier than anyone could remember. By the time I reached my hunting grounds, the fields were almost entirely cleared—soybeans combined and nearly all of the corn harvested. Dad taught me early on that these conditions create prime pheasant territory. My attention centered on a freshly combined cornfield that bordered a large river, a spot I'd hunted before with the landowner's blessing. Between the river and cornfield lay a strip of overgrown grasses and cockleburs, a natural sanctuary for pheasants.
Kaila, my Brittany, and I began working the far side of the field. We moved deliberately toward the river, every muscle poised for action. At the riverbank, I paused to assess the water, just as Dad had taught me decades ago. The river stretched sixty yards across, its current moving at a steady pace. Safety always comes first, especially with my dogs—another lesson from my father that has never left me. Though Kaila is a strong swimmer, and I trusted her instincts, I took time to study the river before deciding it was safe for water retrieves.
The edge of the cornfield soon erupted with pheasants. Roosters began flushing, their wings thundering in the crisp air. The first bird sailed straight over the river. My shot found its mark, bringing it down midstream, at least forty yards out. At my command, Kaila plunged into the river without hesitation. Watching her cut through the water with such determination filled me with pride. The return trip took longer as she battled the current with the rooster in her jaws, but she never faltered. She emerged from the water, soaked but triumphant, the rooster's vibrant feathers stark against her wet coat—a moment that perfectly captured the bond between hunter and dog.
A month later, during Thanksgiving week, I returned to South Dakota, this time with my son, who flew in from Nashville to join the hunt. Picking him up at the Sioux Falls airport stirred memories not only of his younger days but of my own youth—of those precious mornings when Dad would wake me before dawn, his excitement for the hunt as contagious then as it remains in my memory today. Now, as I share these same traditions with my own son, I feel the weight and beauty of this legacy. Three generations connected through the love of this sport, through the lessons taught and learned in these fields.
We returned to the riverside cornfield, but winter had transformed the landscape. The river lay mostly frozen, with only scattered patches of open water breaking the icy surface. The cold bit through our layers—the kind of weather that demands respect and careful judgment.
Before hunting along the river, my son and I conferred at the water's edge, agreeing that no shots would be taken at birds flying over the river. The risk to Kaila and my other Brittanys was too great—icy water and treacherous conditions could turn a routine retrieve deadly. We'd come for the thrill of the hunt but not at the expense of safety.
The cold had driven pheasants into the dense grass between the field and river, creating fast-paced action. Birds flushed continuously, some flying back toward the cornfield, others heading riverward. Five times, we passed up clear shots at roosters crossing the ice-laden water. Fighting the instinct to raise my gun wasn't easy, but I'd made my decision with a clear head and stuck to it. When the hunt concluded, we had two beautiful roosters to show for the effort—birds that had flown back toward the field, taken safely for my dogs.
These two hunts reinforced an essential lesson about preparation and discipline. Evaluating conditions for safety—both human and canine—must happen before the hunt begins. The excitement of a flushing bird is not the time to assess risk. That judgment requires a clear mind, well before the first rooster takes wing. The safety of my Brittanys will always outweigh the temptation of adding another bird to my bag.
These South Dakota trips transcended the simple goal of filling a game bag. They created moments that endure long after the season's end. Watching Kaila, Piper, and Tika work the field, feeling the quiet presence of my son beside me, and knowing I made the right choices even when temptation pulled strong—these are the memories that define a hunt.
This sport goes beyond mere pursuit. It's about respect: for the land, for the wildlife, and for our hunting companions. Reflecting on those two weeks reminds me why I continue this tradition—not just for the excitement but for the connections it nurtures. To the land. To my son. To my dogs. And to the heritage that began with my father, Lonnie, whose teachings echo in every choice I make in the field. His legacy lives on in every crisp October morning, in every safety check, in every moment I spend teaching others the ways of the hunt. Through this tradition, Dad's influence continues to shape not just my life, but the lives of those who follow.
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