Pheasants & Family

From our March/April 2026 Issue

With eyes trained on the endless miles of snow-covered cropfields and CRP grasses that adorned the landscape, I caressed my young Labrador’s soft ears from the passenger seat of our Suburban. The combination of a cold November morning in Nebraska and Shadow’s breath periodically clouded my view out the window. Behind the wheel, my father proudly sang every phrase of the lively polka music that played over the radio while the aroma of burnt gas-station coffee wafted through the cabin. I nibbled the last few bites of my glazed donut as we approached our destination, where an old red pickup was awaiting our arrival.

As soon as we parked, my father jumped out and greeted his brother with a loud, “Jac se más” (“Hello, how are you?”), to which uncle Tom responded in one of the many Czech phrases the brothers enjoyed saying. They embraced and broke into a hymn from their upbringing—a tradition of music shared among my father and his many siblings. Tom called me over to see his big yellow Lab, Chisum, which, like all of his Labs, had been named after a John Wayne character. While I was pleased to see that the experienced Lab would be joining us that day, I also was excited to bring out my own Lab pup to retrieve downed birds. When a few roosters crowed nearby, our focus shifted toward the purpose of the day.

We started at the south end of the property and worked north into the wind. There was snow on the ground, but earlier in the fall the landowner had cut thin walking paths, knowing that I, at 13, would be carrying a heavy side-by-side 12-gauge. My father and uncle flanked me, working the cover with intensity as Chisum bounded from place to place while Shadow seemed only interested in chasing the big Lab. Without warning, the first rooster of the day flushed, and Tom folded it cleanly. Chisum had poked his head through the grass and watched the bird fall; then he waited for Tom to send him for the retrieve. Tom looked at me, smiled and said, “Next time, just raise your gun and shoot.” Like he did throughout my life, Tom, my godfather, always knew how to ease my fears. He was the closest to my dad in age among the eight siblings, and he seemed to connect with us best through hunting and sports.

A bit farther along my father shot the next bird that flew. He, too, looked at me and said, “Douglas, the next one is yours.” Shadow was still running around with her puppy gait, but she was becoming more focused on the sound of the gun than on Chisum. As we reached the end of the first draw, Chisum began moving quickly back and forth, and Tom signaled that the Lab was getting birdy. I aimed my gun toward the horizon just as a rooster flushed from the cover. I missed with the first shot but connected with the second as the bird flew straight in front of Shadow and me. Tom held Chisum back while Shadow ran toward the downed pheasant. I was struggling to crack open the old gun, so my father rushed over to help while Tom exclaimed, “I knew you could do it!” Shadow tried picking up the bird and bringing it ot me, but she struggled with all the feathers and dropped it. Chisum finished the retrieve.

As the emotions of the ordeal began to fade, the cold set in and the wind began to howl. My dad directed us to work back toward the vehicles, as he and Tom shared a tale of a vision quest by a young Native American warrior. They were proud of Shadow and me and our accomplishments that day.

We cleaned our birds and headed to a nearby bar to watch the Husker football game—red beers for the brothers and Dr.Pepper for me. As we custom, after a few quick phone calls, aunts, uncles and cousins soon joined us for the festivities and to hear the details of the hunt. My memory of that day fades with a chorus of brothers singing Frankie Laine’s “Rawhide” while cheering on a Husker win . . . .

Although life has gotten busy with my law career, marriage, and my wife and me welcoming our first child, I always find time each season to hunt pheasants with my dad. Sadly, the years have taken Tom from us along with a string of beloved Labradors and my father’s health, but still last fall my dad and I found ourselves traveling a dirt road in Nebraska. This time it was me in the driver’s seat, switching between focusing on the road and the entertainment screen to locate the ideal public parcel while my dad sang his favorite polka songs and reminisced about the past. We sipped coffee as the comforts of a luxury truck kept the windows clear. There was no family awaiting our arrival as we rumbled toward our destination with our hunting dogs in kennels in the truck bed. My pair of English setters and my trusted Lab would be enough dog power for the day.

With manicured pheasant fields a vestige of the past, public lands are now our primary hunting grounds. Many of the farms we once walked have changed hands, been converted to other ag uses or no longer provide suitable habitat for upland birds. Now when we work a field, my dad prefers to block, in part because of his limited mobility but also because he enjoys finding a vantage point from which to watch the dogs move through the cover. Our tactics have changed, too, since adding the pointing dogs. These days we rely more on the setters to find birds while the Lab and I take the easiest walking path.

The property we chose this day was bordered on by the north by a shallow, brushy tributary and on the east by a river with large cottonwoods on each bank. Between the road and a large patch of CRP grass was a harvested cornfield—a perfect setup for pheasants. The wind was blowing from the southeast, so I decided to work into it.

When I collared the dogs and readied my gun, my dad shouted, “Turn them loose!” and the setters charged down the nearest field edge. My Lab stayed at heel, knowing her role was to flush and retrieve.

Typically, once the dogs began working, my father would hop in the truck and take off to block, but this morning he’d brought his binoculars, wanting to see if the setters could score an early find. I followed the dogs down the field edge holding the old Browning A-5 humpback my uncle had shot all those years ago. A cold-but-calm wind moved across my face as the frozen foliage crunched beneath my feet. It was chilly but hardly winter weather that early November morning.

For a short time I could see the setters running down an old two-track—their tails cracking left and right before they moved out of sight. Minutes later the GPS chimed, indicating that Sta, the older of the two, was on point. As I topped a small rise, I spotted the setter locked up next to some tall willows, her tail pointed toward the heavens. The sun was still rising and colored the landscape in the prettiest shades of yellow and orange I could recall. I snapped a quick photo before turning to see my dad looking through his binoculars with a big smile.

My heart began beating faster as I clinched my shotgun and prepared to walk in. I heeled my Lab, Kohtop, while clouds of vapor steamed from our moths and steam rolled off of Sta’s back. I could hear Sis, the younger setter, rustling through the grass in the distance, likely following other scent. Once I was in shooting range, I sent Kohtop for the flush, and pheasants erupted from the willows in every direction. The loud cackles on the quiet morning combined with the wingbeats to create a tremendous sound, while the fluttering moisture particles glistened in the sunlight. I pulled off a few shots, knocking down two roosters, as I heard my dad holler with excitement.

After Kohtop retrieved the birds, my dad called me with his cell phone and said he had seen enough for the day but that he would drive to the south end if I wanted to work the rest of the field. With my adrenaline pumping, I told him that I wanted to continue, so I turned the dogs south and marched forward. Both setters worked the cover with power and grace—white flashes appearing and disappearing, moving with the style I had known and enjoyed through the years with them. As we neared the end of the field, Sis went on point. I threw my hand in the air and watched my dad pick up his GPS to see where she was. I heeled Kohtop, and once we got within shooting range, I sent her for the flush. Out flew a hen, and I could hear my dad laugh in the distance as he waved me to the truck.

As I approached, I pulled the birds from my vest to show him, and he said, “I knew you could do it.” We talked about how the gun had performed, and he told me how Tom had purchased the A-5 while serving in Belgium. I cleaned the birds and loaded the dogs, and we headed down the road.

Almost anywhere we are in Nebraska, my dad knows where the nearest kolache bakery is, so we stopped for a few of the fruit-filled pastries to celebrate the day. We cheered to the hunt and to the companions who had left us. And with the Huskers on a bye week, we headed home shortly thereafter.

Life has taught me to appreciate each hunting experience to the fullest. As a boy, there were many days that I would be reluctant to wake up early or spend long hours in the car, and my dad would preach that “these opportunities won’t last forever.” Now it is mostly memories that my father and I can share, as many of our hunting companions have passed. While I am fortunate to travel the country each season chasing new birds and experiences with my dogs, I always look forward to the first pheasant hunt of the year with my father. In my heart I know that each season is one closer to the last, but my hope is that time will allow my father and me to share the field at least once with my son—three generations of pheasant hunters with old guns and good dogs on a November morning in Nebraska.