NEBRASKAland Magazine is dedicated to outstanding photography and informative writing with an engaging mix of articles and photos highlighting Nebraska’s outdoor activities, parklands, wildlife, history and people.
Issue link: http://mag.outdoornebraska.gov/i/1422281
November 2021 • Nebraskaland 47 through the beautiful Wildcat Hills. Not too long after, we stopped at the fi rst Conservation Reserve Program fi eld, which was situated directly across from a fi eld of wheat stubble that year. Having never seen grouse habitat before, I was delighted when I realized that I wasn't going to have to fi ght through any head-tall stands of kochia or hip-breaking cattails, land characteristics so typical of pheasant hunting. Instead, the ground looked relatively sparse with mostly short vegetation. Ross, Megan, Rick and I spread out to begin walking abreast. I licked my lips in anticipation and shifted my gun to a more comfortable position in my hands. My heart was pounding — I always get nervous stepping into the fi eld for the fi rst time every season. It's a combination of emotions: the fright from the fi rst explosion of feathers — it's startling after being off for so long; and the nervousness of making the fi rst kill of the season — that one always weighs heavily on me. A few paces in, and we didn't have to wait long for a fl ush. I didn't see from where the bird came, but it made this distinctive sound: a combination of clucking and gobbling, almost like a rapid laugh. Ross shouted at Megan and me to look up, and before we could get our guns up, the grouse had fl own beyond what both our skills could hit. It sailed across the road where we couldn't hunt. "So, that's what a sharptail looks and sounds like when it's in the air," I made a mental note. Rick, who was working the fi eld edge, also missed a bird; he hadn't picked up his shotgun in over a year, and after fl ubbing his fi rst-ever opportunity at a grouse, he looked over at us crestfallen, heavily wagging his head. It was Ross who would bag the fi rst bird that weekend. His English springer spaniel, Beaufort — who was 14 years old at the time — happily made the retrieve. We worked toward the far fence line and saw several more birds fl ush out of gun's reach. When we reached the end of that fi eld, Ross stopped to give Beaufort water. After a breather, we swung around to head back out toward the pickup, and nearing the end, a bird fl ushed ahead of me. I heard it before I saw it, fl apping its wings above the mullein. Quickly, I shouldered my over-under, squeezed the trigger — and missed. But there was no time to lament. Rapidly remembering what I had learned from a handful of shooting lessons, I pulled the gun tighter against my cheek, gave myself time to zero-in on my target and made a second attempt. To my amazement, I hit the bird square in the back, dropping it immediately. My companions whooped in excitement. I jumped for joy. This was my fi rst sharp-tailed grouse. "That was a long shot!" Ross said, Rick Wheatley smiling with a sharp-tailed grouse.