Pheasant hunting is more than just shooting guns
Last weekend marked my first encounter with the ritual of hunting.
As a girl from rural North Dakota, you’d think that I would have been hunting all my life. However, I haven’t once donned blaze orange or shot a gun.
Despite my inexperience, I hesitantly agreed to go pheasant hunting in western North Dakota to experience what my fiancé and his family do every year.
I was surprised to find that there was much more to hunting than waking up at 5 a.m. and walking in the bitter cold for hours.
Of course, being the first “outsider” and first-time hunter ever to attend the annual family hunting trip, I was subject to a lot of jokes — all at my expense.
My fiancé’s two younger brothers tried to scare me, saying pheasants would be hiding on the ground and I would step on them, or that I would have to wring a pheasant’s neck to keep it from getting away—neither of which I had to do during the trip.
We drove to a tiny, isolated town about two hours west of Bismarck, N.D., and I soon realized that we were nowhere near civilization, so I could have skipped wearing makeup or even matching clothes.
More fitting would have been a blaze orange hunting vest, a shirt with a pheasant on it and camouflage pants.
We arrived in New Leipzig, N.D., in the afternoon, and the hunters decided to go out for a few hours to see if there were any birds to be had.
My first experience with hunting was about to begin.
Being completely clueless about hunting, I had no idea what to expect.
It was cold and snowy and much of the terrain was rough and hilly, with the ever-present herd of cows and occasional horse watching our every move.
Within the confines of the town, the wind was hardly noticeable. But once we made our way out to the vast prairie that is North Dakota, I realized it was very cold and very windy. Thank goodness I was wearing so many layers that I could hardly move.
Bundled up in our winter gear, we walked across fields of tall grass in search of the elusive pheasants—which I know now are very crafty and sneaky birds.
The scenery was beautiful—hills and buttes rose in the distance and quaint farmhouses dotted the countryside, punctuated by tumbleweeds rolling along.
Since the females on the trip were very few — there were only three of us — I spent most of my time with them.
The younger guys in the group became obsessed with the song “Maneater,” mostly calling me a maneater for “stealing” a member of their posse and saying it brought them luck to sing while hunting.
Although we had a lot of fun during our down time, the hunting portion of the trip was not very successful.
The hunters didn’t find more than 10 birds, and I was told that it was the worst hunt in the history of the family’s annual trip.
Still, their spirits remained high, and we spent a lot of time sitting around talking, eating and generally having a great time.
In general, shenanigans ensued, including a very gassy and excited dog that relieved himself on the floor several times at 4 a.m, followed by an hour-long argument over who would clean up the dirty deed.
To the dog’s credit, he was very good at seeking out pheasants and retrieving them.
Birthdays and Christmas were also celebrated, because some of the family members live far away.
My fiancé and I received champagne glasses and a massive bottle of champagne to celebrate our engagement, as well as a cake to shove into each other’s faces as practice for the big day.
As a finale to my first hunting trip, we cooked all the pheasant and had a big dinner with everyone.
I realize now why they keep going back to this little town every year.
Even if the pheasants are few and the cold is unbearable, the laughter and the memories make the whole thing worthwhile.
Columnists' opinions do not necessarily reflect the views of The Spectrum