Pheasant-Hunt

4

First pheasant! HELL YEAH!! Feather is officially on the menu :)

I had a ton of fun hawking in Arizona this week where Kai took doubles two days in a row, but I decided to stop by Bakersfield on my way home for one last travel flight. It was a great choice! I didn’t expect to find pheasants, but I saw a few of them creeping ahead of us, pinned the spot where they made in, and managed to flush one out about 15 feet away. Kai reacted perfectly and connected about 30 feet up in the air. So cool! This is the first feathered quarry he’s taken besides a sparrow so I’m on cloud 9 tonight! Proud of my boy <3 

Monsters Pt. 2

Originally posted by summercomewinterfades


“What are you girls doing up?” Tommy asked stunned as he walked in late from a tiring night at work, finding all three of you sat around the table. Lillian and Madeline sat in their seats trying to look innocent, which seemed to be working, their little eyes glued to their dangling feet and their little, delicate lips turned downwards.

“Why don’t you ask them?” You said, shaking your head as you looked at them. It pained you to do this but when you found them earlier in the night the pain had been worse, coursing through your body and making your heart stop. After kissing you on the head he pulled a chair out and sat next to you, trying to get the girls to look at him.

“Lillian…Madeline,” he started in a stern voice that made them cower back in fear just a little, “what’s Mama talking about?”

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Creepypasta #1122: My Bird Dog And I Went Hunting In The Desert Of Eastern Oregon - A Desert That Doesn't Like Intruders

Length: Super long

About six weeks ago, I went into the wilderness of Eastern Oregon with my 2 year old hunting dog (a golden retriever named Reggie) to hunt for pheasant, partridge, quail, and flyfish for steelhead. I was camping along the John Day River, which is in the high desert and carves a deep valley through the sage brush coated hills and black-rock cliffs. Something happened in that canyon that has changed everything I know (or thought I knew) about the world we live in. I’ll start with a bit of backstory before I get into the events.

I did this same camping trip with two buddies last November during my dog’s first bird season, and we were all psyched to have round two. Unfortunately, one of the dudes bailed because of work pressure, and the other because he needed time to prep for an interview.

So I decided to go alone. I’ve done plenty of solo camping and hunting before, and this time I had my bird dog so I felt even better going alone. There’s obviously no cell service out there, so I gave my girlfriend and some buddies my route and camping locations, and set out before sunrise on a Friday with plans to return late on Sunday. It’s about a three hour drive to the stretch of the John Day River basin where I was heading, and got there around 9:30. 

It was around 40 degrees when I got out at the BLM parking area to stretch and started to get ready to set out. My dog was really stoked (he knows we’re hunting when I put on my bird pouch and bust out the shotgun), and I was as happy as a pig in the mud. Sun was shining, and it had snowed a few days earlier so the red, tan, black, and green sagebrush-coated valley we started hiking down into was shimmering.

I had my big backpacking pack loaded to the brim with camping gear, winter gear, hunting and fishing gear, and dog stuff. I had my shotgun in hand (a double barrel 12g side-by-side), a field knife, and my Ruger .357 on my belt. I don’t always carry a sidearm, but with three days and two nights alone in an area infested with packs of coyotes (who don’t scare me but would love a golden retriever snack) and mountain lions (which definitely scare me), I figured why the hell not.

We (my dog and I) rucked about 6 miles into a more open part of the valley where I wanted to spend the first night. It was around 50 degrees at this point and absolutely beautiful, although quite muddy with the snow melting. I set up the tent on a little grassy plateau above the old trail, and put the dog in the tent with some water to chill for a bit to get his paws warmed up. 

I ate lunch and dumped most of my gear to set out with just my camelback, bird pouch, gun, and dog down further into the valley to start hunting (about as happy as a dude can be). It was slow hunting at first but eventually we flushed some quails and a few hen pheasants. After about 4 hours it was starting to get dark. We had bagged 3 quails and were working our way back to camp. This is when things got somewhat strange.

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Another Brownells Employee Sunday Gunday! This time Dave B talks about his Mossberg 500. “My father purchased the gun in 1960 at the local Western Auto store when he turned 16. He then handed it over to me when I turned 16. I passed it down to my son at 16. We have all enjoyed many pheasant and deer hunts with our trusted Mossberg 500. Someday, I hope it passes down to my grandson when he turns 16.  Currently the Mossberg 500 is outfitted for home defense with a short barrel and a Blackhawk recoil reducing buttstock.”

BROWN DOG

You may be the most cynical, born and bred, citified lefty like me — instinctively skeptical of big concepts like “patriotism”, relatively foreign to hunting culture, unused to wide open spaces, but spend any length of time traveling around Montana and you will understand what all that “purple mountains majesty” is all about, you’ll soon be wrapping yourself in the flag and yelling, “America, fuck yeah!” with an absolute and non-ironic sincerity that will take you by surprise. You will understand why and what people fought and died for — or at least perceived themselves to be fighting and dying for when, either defending Native American hunting grounds against Custer, or “defending America” against foreign aggressors — and you will be stunned, stunned and silenced by the breathtaking, magnificent beauty of Montana’s wide open spaces.

Even in Butte, a place as scarred, poisoned and denuded by rapacious capitalist excesses as a place could be, you will see things, beautiful, noble even — a testament to generations of hard work, innovation and the aspirations of generations of people from all over the world who traveled to Montana to tunnel deep into the earth in search of gold and then copper, a better life for themselves and their families. Even the hard men, the copper barons who sent them down into the ground, you will find yourself begrudgingly admiring their determination, their outsized dreams, their unwavering belief in themselves and the earths ability to provide limitless wealth.

And when you look up at the night skies over Montana, it’s hard not to think that we can’t be alone on this rock, that there isn’t something else out there or up there, in charge of this whole crazy ass enterprise.

Or at least, that’s what I was thinking, after a long day of pheasant hunting, perhaps a bit too much bourbon, and Joe Rogan demonstrating an Imanari choke from omoplata (he damn near cranked my head off). I flopped onto my back, stared up at the universe and thought, as I always do in Montana, “damn! I had no idea the sky was so big!”

We show you a lot of beautiful spaces and very nice people in this episode, but its beating heart, and the principal reason I’ve always come to Montana is Jim Harrison, the poet, author and great American-a hero of mine — and millions of others around the world.

Shortly after the filming of this episode, Jim passed away, only a few months after the death of his beloved wife of many years, Linda.

It is very likely that this is the last footage taken of him.

To the very end, ate like a champion, smoked like a chimney, lusted (at least in his heart) after nearly every woman he saw, drank wine in quantities that would be considered injudicious in a man half his age, and most importantly, got up and wrote each and every day — brilliant, incisive, thrilling sentences and verses that will live forever. He died, I am told, with pen in hand.

There were none like him while he lived. There will be none like him now that he’s gone. He was a hero to me, an inspiration, a man I was honored and grateful to have known and spent time with. And I am proud that we were able to capture his voice, his words, for you.

I leave you with a poem Jim wrote. We use it in the episode, but I want to reprint it here. It seems kind of perfect now that Jim’s finally slipped his chain.

BARKING
The moon comes up.
The moon goes down.
This is to inform you
that I didn’t die young.
Age swept past me
but I caught up.
Spring has begun here and each day
brings new birds up from Mexico.
Yesterday I got a call from the outside
world but I said no in thunder.
I was a dog on a short chain
and now there’s no chain.

“Tediore was founded on the principle that no family should be without the protection that an affordable, lightweight firearm provides. Whether you’re planning on taking little Billy out to the fields for his first pheasant hunt or you need to chase some trouble off your front porch, Tediore will be there for you. Over the years, Tediore has built a reputation among the working class men and women of this land for providing fast-reloading weapons that anyone, on any budget, can afford. So the next time you’re headed down to the Save-N-Save, why not put a little piece (sic) of mind in the cart and grab yourself a Tediore? Tediore’s pistols, shotguns, sub-machine guns and rifles can be found at major retailers nationwide.”

Mr and Mrs Andrews by Thomas Gainsborough 1750

This was a conversational piece that was produced for a newly wed couple, the Andrews. It’s unusual as portraiture due to the amount of landscape. Gainsborough certainly preferred to paint landscapes but the money was in painting portraits. The marriage was between the 22 years old Robert Andrews and the 16 year old Frances Mary Carter. It was an arranged marriage to extend the family estates. In fact the church in which they were married is supposedly within the painting. They are dressed very informally for people of their position. He seems relaxed, but she seems on edge. There are many things that can be said about this painting but I want to talk about my favourite thing. Look closely at Mrs Andrews’ lap. There is an empty space that has not been painted. A gap has been purposely left. But no one seems to know exactly why this gap was left. Some say it’s for a pheasant due to the hunting gun and dog that Mr Andrews’ has. Or for a book. Or a dog. Or a fan. Or an embroidery bag. Or for a child that they had not had yet.