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
“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?”
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
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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.
These pheasants are an anachronism, pheasants are non-native to the United States and were first introduced as a game bird to Oregon, I think, in the 1880s, this being 1865, there would be no pheasants to hunt!
Watching “What The Health”. There’s so much stupidity and fear mongering.
Yet I’m so easily swayed and can see both sides of most arguments.
Ive spent multiple years of my life eating low carb and loving it. Ive spent multiple years of my life aiming for a high carb plant based diet and I loved that too. But I also cant look at meat and dairy the same way anymore after watching most of the vegan documentaries on netflix and reading books like The China Study and others.
Based on everything that I’ve read and watched, I actually do believe that a plant based diet is the healthiest. I can’t figure out why I choose not to eat that way. I do believe that junk food is addictive and so hard to quit. Or more so hard to eat sparingly but still eat it because of social pressures.
I grew up on a farm that was for years the largest privately owned cattle feedlot in Utah. My father runs a pheasant hunting club. My brother studies agriculture economics and works as a beef market analyst. My parents keep freezers stocked with beef and pork and my mom raises chickens for the eggs. When I lived in the city it was easy to go vegan. I was removed from that lifestyle and had stores like Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods near by where as now that I’m back in my home town, they are almost 100 miles away. Thankfully other smaller stores have opened up in nearby towns.
I’m such a flip-flopper. One week its keto. Next its vegan. And the next its whole30. Who knows? I just know the way I’m eating now isnt bringing me happiness.
Finished flying pheasant on cedar. Fun fact: the ruffed grouse are native to NY and pheasant are not. Even though the grouse are native pheasants receive a lot more money and attention in the state because the depart of environmental conservation is incentivized by the popularity of pheasant hunting.