I should’ve known better than to pile on him, however, because the next day, after I failed to see a decent buck in the morning, I duffed the easiest shot in South Dakota’s storied history of pheasant hunting. I was the postman of a pincher movement that would’ve prompted Rommel to take notes, and despite watching intently while holding my loaded shotgun, I wasn’t quite ready when the birds flew directly over my face. But I unloaded on them anyway. To the delight of all except the dog and I, not a pheasant fell. Nothing even flinched.
I wouldn’t be telling you this, of course, if Tater hadn’t broken the number one rule and brought a camera to a bachelor party. It was one of those professional-grade units where you can see every unscathed feather in high-def.
We put up rooster after rooster amid vast fields of corn, as Pheasant Mecca yielded limits to even my most devout Buckmaster buddies who think a shotgun handles better if it wears a sling. But by the last night when they bragged while stuffing their faces with fresh fried pheasant, they only mentioned the number of birds bagged, and not the number of shells fired per bird, which at least indicated that the rednecks were capable of learning proper etiquette. And judging by the way they stayed still for more than three minutes at a time without submitting to the overwhelming urge to kick a clump of grass, even the bird freaks enjoyed themselves.
And that’s another great thing about The Best Little Hunt In America; its style of deer hunting is gentlemanly. A hunter can sneak to the edge of a deep coulee then employ treestand-borne patience while glassing and rattling. But unlike in a treestand, a hunter can afford to stretch out and not fear falling out of a tree if he or she happens to fall asleep. Because of the vast amount of scrub-oak ravines surrounded by cornfields on the Rosebud reservation, you see a ton of deer, and you don’t have to fret much about your scent—or bathe regularly—because you are up so high. If you snore or simply must whisper a joke to your buddy, that’s fine too.
The deer herd is not micro-managed, but its quality is coming on. A 130-class buck is common if you shop around and a 160-class is not unheard of. If you go during the rut, expect to see a dozen bucks per day. The trick is judging it before it scoots into another thicket, then, when you determine it’s worthy of your lofty standards, you must make the shot—often 200 yards or better, in high wind. I’m talking some of the nation’s consistently stiffest wind, the type of wind on which excuses fly.
By the third day of deer hunting, I recalled the lesson from Joe, which is: Hold out for a trophy early, let your standards drop rapidly and never pass up a shot at a bird. Thus, I was ready to shoot just about any buck—and this was when the weather was pleasant. On the fourth morning, however, the wind became the fiercest with which I’ve ever dealt. Keep in mind I’m from Oklahoma where even the songs about the wind drive men insane. On this day it sliced straight from the north at 40 mph. I used my heavy coat’s hood to keep my hat from becoming a Frisbee. I can’t recall a time, nor would I admit to ever quitting a hunt early due to being cold, but brother, with the prospect of generating heat via walking up some pheasants by merely swapping guns, I was close to it.
Lucky for me, a couple minutes after first light, a buck walked from a shallow draw in front on me, not hundreds of yards down in the coulee, but 75 yards ahead. The sun illuminated its antlers and at once I noticed its rearward-sweeping, 12-inch droptine that forked off its left main beam. Hastily I made my mental field calculations: 4th day, foot-long droptine, I’m freezing, hot soup waiting, birds getting away …. Boom!
Was I a little surprised when I walked up to the dead buck and noticed that it was a youngish, basket-racked 8-point that had a now-flaccid piece of bailing twine drooping from its mainbeam where its droptine was supposed to be? Yes. But rest assured, dear reader, I was not upset at misjudging the deer, for my hunt was far from concluded—alas, quite the contrary. In one of the best days I can recall, I dropped the deer off at the processor’s, stopped by to ogle the work of the finest taxidermist in the world then I went back to the frat house to eat soup, make fun of my friends and take a nap before going back out to shoot at more birds.
And that, my friends, is all I will reveal about the Best Little Hunt In America. I strongly recommend that you check it out for yourself. If you are not convinced, you must be a sheep hunter. You guys are just plain weird. But I will tell you, if you’re still curious, what you call a freaky redneck who’s passionate about both bucks and birds: Single.
