Don’t count your birds until the pictures are done

By Michael Frantz

Finn, my seven-year-old English setter, and I returned to our smalltown home in northwestern Iowa with three roosters in the bed of my truck: our first limit of the season.

But only two of those birds made it to the dinner table.

Finn is a pretty good but not great hunter, mostly due to me being kind of lazy. I am overweight, out of shape, and not a good shot.

With shoulder surgery scheduled in three days, this was going to be our last hunt of the season. So we ventured out, expecting little. A five-inch snow had fallen four days prior. We had unsuccessfully tried the last two days to find any birds, and were now perplexed as to where they had gone.

Our destination was a piece of property I’ve nicknamed The Fingers because it consists of three draws that intersect at the base of an old, rusted windmill. The cover is okay and the walk not too difficult. We hadn’t been there for over two weeks because no birds were seen the last two hunts.

The first draw, leading from the truck to the windmill, was beaten down by Old Man Winter, and seeing no feathers was not a surprise.

We turned north, away from the windmill, when Finn suddenly held steady a moment or two before a rooster bolted up from the better cover. One shot had him on the ground just 20 yards away. The bird made the mistake of flying in the direction I was pointing the gun. Finn was on him in a flash of slobbering non-retrieval, resulting in a face full of feathers.

Bagging the bird, we marched on, jumping seven hens, the majority of which busted at my feet. Finn pointed some of them. Our adrenaline was pumping, as we’d seen more birds than the last two weeks combined, all in a matter of 10 minutes.

We reversed course, returning to the windmill, and turned east, away from the truck, into another draw.

This adjacent draw is skinny for cover on good days, and anorexic after snowfalls. Finn, as he and his breed are apt to do, raced ahead signaling the “all clear of birds” sign as he ran. I plodded well behind, hoping he’d get to the end and come back, saving me steps.

I was sweating and my glasses were fogging even though I’d turned my fluorescent orange hat backwards.

He got to the end but didn’t turn around. The receiver I carry for his GPS collar beeped, indicating he’d stopped.

I say stopped instead of pointed because he stop-points a lot. Sometimes he’s right. Often he’s not. Yet, I’ve learned that the moment I quit trusting him the bird wins, so on I trudged through the soggy snow — he was 256 yards ahead of me.

True to normal form as I approached, he broke, leapt ten yards ahead and turned into a dog statue. I looked to my right and saw pheasant tracks. Walking slowly, I saw the tracks disappear into the meagerest of cover.

One deep breath to ready myself before the bird sailed out. I rushed the first shot, missed, re-grouped, and dropped him.

He bounced on the ground and started running for the next county. Finn was in hot pursuit. I watched the two fighter jets mirror the other’s moves for three minutes before another slobber bath was administered as punishment.

I retrieved our collective prize and we made our way back to the truck, one of us done walking for the day. We took a picture, figuring this was a good way to end the day.

As is our custom, we took the gravel roads back to town. Having traveled but a half mile, I spotted a rooster hiding under a little pine tree in a ditch. Irritating Finn, I got out alone and walked behind the truck to grab my gun and load it.

A rooster busted out of the ditch to my right, but the rooster I’d seen was to my left and sitting tight. I moved toward the tree and, following Iowa’s roadside rules, completed my limit as the bird unsuccessfully attempted escape.

It landed across the fence in a cut bean field. I heard Finn whine his eagerness to participate. I laid down the gun, crossed the fence and found the bird sitting with its head up and beak dripping blood. I twisted until his legs hung limp.

Three birds, four shells, fifty minutes. We’d never done better. I placed the bird next to the others and drove off.

We did our version of high fives as I began arranging the next picture in my head. We’d take one of the birds and dog, of course. And another of the last bird’s long spurs next to a shotgun shell for size context.

I was exuberant. Finn wondered why the hunt was over already, because he thought he was just getting started.

Leaving Finn in the cab of the truck when we arrived home, I got out to arrange the birds for the picture. Opening the tailgate, I saw two dead pheasants and blood everywhere. There were drops and puddles and gun cases stained forever.

That last bird, a big-spurred adult, was running around the bed. I rolled back the top and grabbed the thing. But all I got was every butt and tail feather to his name.

He jumped from the truck, landed with a splash of flying feathers, screamed down the driveway, hooked left, and was gone. I tried to follow but soon lost him. Finn, once leashed, couldn’t pick up the trail again. We were left with a pile of feathers on the driveway marking his landing spot.

When my wife came home from work, she saw that pile and announced to me, “Looks like you had success.” I started laughing and told her I had a story to tell.

If you’re ever in Storm Lake, Iowa and see a big, proud rooster without tail feathers running around, just let him be. He’s earned his freedom.

This story originally appeared in the Winter 2024-25 issue of Pheasants Forever Journal

Michael Frantz is a longtime Pheasants Forever member from Storm Lake, Iowa. He and Finn take it one step, one hunt and one year at a time chasing wily roosters.