Every year when pheasant hunting season rolls around, I have a flashback memory of my one and only pheasant hunting experience.
I was about nine years old when my dad, John Forbes, decided the family would return to South Dakota to pheasant hunt with his brother Bob. Mom and dad both grew up on farms in Jerauld and Sanborn Counties, so pheasant hunting was old hat to them. But because they had moved from South Dakota to Southern California when my brothers, sisters and I ranged in ages from one to six, I didn’t even know what a pheasant was.
Uncle Bob had arranged for he and dad to hunt in a friend’s field in the Woonsocket area, so mom and dad decided to take us out of school for a week and head northeast. They loaded six kids, school homework, pillows, blankets, suitcases and all the other road trip paraphernalia into the van Friday evening after dad got home from work. After driving what seemed like forever, (it was only two days), we finally arrived at grandma and grandpa’s house in Huron. We made our rounds and visited with grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins, until it was time to go hunt some pheasants.
We met Uncle Bob at the designated field and piled out of the van excited for our new experience. Dad lined up each kid along a row in the field and then instructed us to walk forward when we heard his command to scare the birds so they would fly up. Well, that sounded like a lot of fun to a nine-year-old city girl! Before we embarked on the hunt, dad gave us one final instruction: “Oh, and when you hear the gunshot, duck.”
Thingsweren’tsounding so great anymore, but we proceeded forward as instructed. Before long, someone down the line scared a bird and we heard a gunshot, so we all ducked. I watched as this beautiful bird flew high in the sky, then heard another gunshot and watched it fall to the ground. After one of the other kids retrieved the fallen bird, we were told to keep going.
In the meantime, there seemed to be a collection of stickers and burrs and other prickly stuff collecting on my jacket, pants and socks. Coming from Southern California we didn’t own boots or coveralls which would have been very helpful in these circumstances, but nonetheless, we trudged on. After a bit I saw a hen sitting in a nest ahead of me. I whispered to my younger sister on my left to stop and told my brother on my right to stop too so we didn’t scare it into the air. They both stopped and we were frozen in place trying to save the life of this one pheasant. A gunshot, followed by us ducking in unison, jarred us from our reverie but our bird was watching us the whole time. She seemed to be spellbound by our movements and stayed put.
At this point, we were so covered in pricklies, every step hurt with the spines of the burrs poking into our skin. We begged (maybe cried a little) our way out of the field and back to the car. Dad and the others continued hunting until they were satisfied with the bounty of birds they had shot. My brothers, sisters and I spent the rest of the day trying to unstick all the stuff we had collected in our clothes. I was not impressed with the whole experience so far and wanted nothing to do with cleaning the pheasants.
My younger sister and I entertained ourselves in the basement back at our grandparents’ house while everyone else took care of all the pheasants they had shot. That night for dinner, I refused to eat any pheasant even though dad raved about how great it was. I have never tasted pheasant to this day, so I don’t know if it really was great. Perhaps he was just so proud of still being a good shot, his pheasant dinner seemed like the best thing he had ever tasted.
ThatChristmas, grandma and grandpa sent a package with presents. They had taken all the pheasant feathers and turned them into beautiful, feathercovered headbands for us girls, along with a purse for mom. All our friends back home in Southern California were amazed at the gorgeous headbands we wore to church on Sunday. For me, that was the best thing about our pheasant hunting trip.
Years later after moving to South Dakota from Arizona, as a grandma I attended the HuntSafe class the South Dakota Game, Fish & Parks hosts every year for anyone over age 12. Never once during that class did the instructors say to take your young children into the field to walk ahead of you and flush the pheasants out. I’m beginning to think dad could have really benefited from taking that course.