“Want to shoot some pheasant Tuesday? My treat.”
Bill said this to me as we were shooting skeet. I was at station number two and dropped the incomer as I considered the question. “My Treat.” Hmmm. Then I called for the true pair, smoked both the clays and answered, “Yes. Where and what time?”
In between stations and shooters I got more details. New England Upland Shooting Preserve in Hillsborough, New Hampshire. Bill was a recent member. “ I joined to work my dogs. During the summer I put them on birds there to keep them sharp. In September I have some pheasant released in the thickets and fields and shoot over points. It’s a wonderful way to get ready for October bird season. The dogs and I have a lot of fun. It’s good cover and fast shooting. You’ll see on Tuesday. I’ll have ten birds put out. We’ll bring our girlies. We’ll shoot five over your English cocker and five over my German weimaraner. That’ll be fun – five using your flushing dog and five in front of my pointer.”
On Tuesday I drove into the south central hills of New Hampshire. Views of the ridges met my eyes as I drove the winding roads. Finally, near the end of a dirt road I topped a rise and found Farview Farm, the spacious headquarters of New England Upland – a large farmhouse, barns and sheds, kennels and a warm greeting.
“You made it,” Bill said. “I was beginning to worry.”
“Good directions backed up by a GPS,” I replied. “Birdy looking country.”
Bill smiled. “Wait ‘til you see.”
Bill introduced me to Scott Rouleau, half of the husband/wife team who own and manage the operation. A welcoming face and a firm handshake made me feel at home. While we waited for the pheasants to settle into the cover a quarter mile away, Scott and Bill walked me around the farmhouse and I saw the reason for the farm’s name – valleys, fields and wooded ridges marched in lines into the distance. This was a far view, indeed. And the opportunities Bill mentioned: pheasant, chukar or Hungarian partridge, dog training both with an instructor or on your own, trout fishing, spring gobbler, fall woodcock flights with a chance at ruffed grouse, European style high pheasant shoots monthly in the fall/winter with a bonus of a fine meal prepared by Scott and Kim, shooting instruction or practice on the clays course. It was quite a list; I saw why Bill was so happy here.
Finally, Bill said, “It’s time. Let’s get the dogs and go.” We drove the cars a few hundred yards to the edge of a pond and parked. I watched Bill uncase his AYA 16 gauge double and pulled out my own 16, a Model 12 pump. “Guests first. Let’s work your Mocha. I’ve been eager to see her in action.”
I smiled and released 35 pounds of muscle, energy and intensity into the field. She was ready; her tail and eager look said: “Come on, Dad. Let’s go.”
“The first field we’ll hunt is about 150 yards down this tractor trail. There’s brush, pine, thorn thickets and good cover on both sides of the trail to it. An apple tree or two. Put Mocha in there and see if she’ll find a stray.”
“Our pleasure,” I said, and released Mocha into the right hand thicket. I walked left and Bill right. Mocha worked the brush quickly and with enthusiasm on both sides of the trail for 75 yards; she stayed in range and came back to check on us often. Suddenly at the end of a right hand swing, Mocha pushed a long tailed cock out of a bunch of saplings. Both of us heard the cackle and the flap of wings before seeing the bird. Bill picked the cock up as it was accelerating through the thin trees. A single shot from the side-by- side, some splinters flying from the trees and the bird came pinwheeling down, wingtipped and running, with Mocha breaking through the brush after it. We lost sight of events, but a minute later Mocha came out into the trail with a very indignant, beautifully colored pheasant, which she immediately and proudly delivered to me.
“Good girl,” I said to Mocha. “ Nice shot, Bill.” I smoothed the feathers and handed him the bird.
“Great dog work, Bob. A pleasure to see a cocker in action.”
We walked a few yards and I heeled Mocha as we came to the edge of “Field of Dreams”, a large four-football-field open clearing of knee-high grass and a few low birches. A dirt trail ran along its edges and separated the field from the surrounding mix of high brush, saplings, pines – couple of apple trees too. What a spot –a birdy-looking pheasant area surrounded by an escape cover.
I released Mocha into the field. Bill and I worked it for more than an hour. Birds flushed, shots fired, grins exchanged, feathers in the air and feathers in Mocha’s mouth — happy dog and happy hunters. Fast birds, startling flushes, laughs and more shots. Four more retrieves. Very happy dog, but time to rest her. Us too. Back to the car for water, ammo, a dog change and a rest.
I watered Mocha and gave her some treats and then put her in my Jeep. Bill brought LC, his female weimaraner, out of his truck. We ate snacks, drank water, rested, admired our bag of pheasants and talked about dogs and retrieves. Finally, I looked at LC and said to Bill, “I’m ready and LC looks more than ready.”
Bill smiled. “ Five more pheasant to go. There’re on the cover we call ‘No Pine’. It’s a short walk. Down here.”
We walked some distance with LC at heel and got to a brushy field, one without a pine in it – ‘No Pine’. Two hundred and fifty yards long by three hundred wide. Tall grass, light, low brush and five pheasant. “ Looks good.” Bill released his young, silver-gray girl into the field. She covered territory quickly — longer legs than my Mocha but just as thorough. Ten minutes in, the lean, muscular dog skidded to a halt and turned her face and neck right. “ Point.” Bill said. “ Your bird. You walk left and I’ll go right. I’ll try to put the bird up.”
I moved to LC’s left and marched in with my Model 12 at port arms. Bill moved right and then walked into the area in front of his dog’s nose. One step, two steps – I had halted and was in position, watching – three steps and then with a panicked cackle a rooster flew into the air directly at my head. I jumped about two feet in the air, but when I landed I was facing the rapidly departing bird with my gun at my shoulder. A twenty-five yard shot and down he came. Bill released LC to find the bird and I watched her bring the long tailed cock back to him. Bill smoothed the feathers and gave the bird to me.
“That was fun,” I said. “ I haven’t shot over a pointer in years. It’s a bit of a different game, isn’t it? Mocha would not have let us get that close. Bird would’ve been in the air long ago. I stopped ten feet away and you were right on top of LC and the bird. Nice staunch point. Fast shooting.”
“Yes,” said Bill, “I’m proud of that point. There’re four more birds out there. Let’s go.”