"Hell-Hole Roosters" - Kansas & Nebraska Double Limit of Pheasants

MY DOG HUNTS - Upland Birds
The personal and online chronicle of your bird dog's hunting career.

I was fortunate to have hunted Kansas and Nebraska when both states had a lot of pheasants. At that time, and for decades to come, I believed this hunt was the epitome of pheasant hunting. I only surpassed this day one time, on a hunt most of you have listened to in an earlier episode. 

Back in 1981, with two young dogs, Critter, a female, liver & white springer, and Woogie a female yellow lab, we took the four rooster limit in Kansas and the three rooster limit in Nebraska, seven roosters, in the same day! The three of us were fortunate to be together at a time when all species of birds in the mid-west, and private access, were plentiful. Back then, a guy could hunt anywhere from Iowa to Minnesota, and North Dakota to Kansas and find a lot, of any of the upland birds, those states allowed. 

You still can in certain years, and for short periods of time, find hunting like I experienced. If you're smart, you'll make the sacrifices I made to enjoy it to the fullest. As many of you already realize, the very best, goes away, very fast. 

Transcript

Hell-Hole Roosters - Pheasant & Pheasant Kansas & Nebraska

(I mentioned this hunt on a previous episode but didn’t tell the story.)

I had moved to Nebraska from Minneapolis Minnesota to embark on an epic journey. I planned to hunt the Nebraska/Kansas border for a year to shoot various combination limits of pheasants, bobwhite quail, prairie chickens and turkey. At the conclusion of that effort, or by the end of the bird season, I was to move to central North Dakota to take combos of pheasants, gray partridge, sharptails and sandhill cranes. Then near the Idaho/Oregon border for more of the same with chukar, huns, valley and mountain quail, sage grouse, mountain grouse, pheasants and bandtailed pigeon. The last leg of my four year journey, was to be on the border of Arizona and New Mexico, for the desert quails.   
Finally I would return to Minneapolis and begin a new career writing and speaking about upland bird hunting. The crux of my writing and talks was to emphasize the belief that the best upland bird hunting in the history of our country was still available to the everyday hunter. That if I could take these various dual limits while subsisting on the income of a construction worker, nearly all bird hunters could expect to, at the very least, take an occasional state daily bag limit of birds, near their home. 
It was 1981 and I was simply sick and tired of the commercialization of everything to do with bird hunting. I know that issue was true of all hunting, but I was a bird hunter. Outdoor magazines had become nothing but infomercials and vanity press. What few articles that weren’t blatant advertisements, were authored by guys simply rehashing the same advice and recommendations that they’d been pedaling for decades. Or accepted pennies for revealing their home covers for the opportunity to see their name in print and a picture of their dog in a mag. It seemed that there weren’t any real bird hunters left. 
I was going to be different. 
Well, if you’ve been listening to my podcasts you know that after my year on the Nebraska/Kansas border, I sold out in a way as well. I sold out to a 30 year job that at least offered me more than a few weeks a year to bird hunt. In my defense, I did shoot a lot of those dual limits over the years, but not as expeditiously as I had expected. And not as far ranging. I pretty well lit up the mid-west but not so much the intermountain or desert southwest. Well, I’m retired now and am convinced that even after several decades, and being near 70, I still have time. 

I may have made a big mistake choosing to hunt alone that opening day. My friend Larry was a “member” of a group of pheasant hunters who shared, no fee, private land access. Most of the members were land owning farmers who opened their land to the invitees. The group always hunted together on opening weekend. After opening weekend, each member was allowed to hunt any of the land held among the group, throughout the season. And if you were deemed worthy, the invitation was ongoing into following seasons.
They all met the night before at the bowling alley to discuss the hunt plans for the weekend. I had hunted with a few in the group, in previous seasons, but certainly wasn’t a “member”. Well, Larry called me in the evening before opening day to tell me that I had been invited into the fold. I was to hunt with them on Saturday and Sunday and if I behaved myself would not only have all their private land opened to me through the season, but continue to be included as a member from thereafter. It wasn’t an easy decision for me, but I declined the offer. I’ve mentioned earlier that my dual limit goal was to hunt land available to everyone and this offer wouldn’t fit. 
Larry tried hard to convince me that this was a rare opportunity as they seldom invited outsiders into the group, and it wouldn’t be open to me again. I see now that it was probably a slap in their face, but I was determined to hunt under my strict code.

I’d given up on hunting Kansas that morning. My two wheel drive pickup couldn’t plow through the 13” of snow on the roads leading to the area I intended to hunt. I hadn’t made any personal contacts with landowners, but even back then, most had family and friends hunting and wouldn’t have allowed access to a stranger till after Thanksgiving. When I was driving back from Kirwin Reservoir, I passed a large group of hunters working a milo stubble field.  It was Larry’s group. Several of the hunters waved me to stop, but I waved back and kept driving. It was tempting to join them and salvage my opening day in Kansas, but I felt like I had to live with the choice I’d made.

I think I mentioned in an earlier podcast that I stopped to talk to a Kansas farmer working on the door to his Quonset hut. After completing a birdless “initiation” walk, where he was certain I would be lucky to find even one pheasant, he welcomed me to hunt his good ground. 
I parked near the old homestead he described. The buildings were falling down with no remnants of a house. I loaded my Superposed, scooped Critter in the crook of my opposite arm, and had Woogs heel on lead. I didn’t trust the pups that near the blacktop road. 
My distrust didn’t last long. Just as we were swallowed by the brush, a covey of quail flushed alongside the lane. All of the birds flew deeper into the cover, and like it or not Critter had already squirmed out of my arm and Woogs was dragging her leash alongside.  At least the deep snow would slow them from getting too far ahead. 
This was their second season at less than two year olds. They had had a pretty good upbringing. Each of them had taken limits of birds in six states from ruffed grouse and woodcock to huns and bobwhite quail.
I cut through the overgrown homestead and opened up a rolling pasture with lots of weeds and what appeared to be a brushy creek winding through the middle. There were pheasant tracks everywhere.
It was sunny and in the mid-30s. At least the snow had softened enough to compress under foot so I wasn’t slogging as deep as earlier. Neither were the pheasants. I could see their hunched over forms skirting through a plum thicket in a crease between hills and more along the creek bank. I needn’t have been concerned that his son’s had driven all the birds out of the pasture when they shot their 12 bird limit earlier in the morning. 
Soon Critter and Woogs were trailing different birds, probably different groups of birds. When I rounded the first small hill a half dozen pheasants flushed from in front of Woogs and I picked out an easy crossing rooster. At my shot pheasants started popping out of the snow all around me. I couldn’t believe how lucky my morning had become. I could tell there was no need to be in a hurry to kill birds. It seemed it would be impossible to not shoot four roosters here, even though the cover was only about 60 acres. 
Critter was determined to help Woogs with her rooster and she did manage to lighten the rooster by pulling out its tail feathers. Once in hand, I decided the next rooster would be one that Critter flushed. I directed the pups up the hill and away from the creek bottom. I had watched many birds just skirt the top of the hill as if they weren’t going far. I didn’t see a need to run all the birds off the creek. 
We ran out of bird tracks near the crest and I was beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t have stayed low, when Critter flushed a group of hens and a tailing rooster from a clump of wheat on the wind-blown hilltop. I rocked him with the lower barrel and anchored him with my second shot. Short-legged Critter got beat to the retrieve in spite of our protests directed toward the selfish Lab. Punching through snow was damn hard work for my short-legged Springer. 
Woogs soon tired of evading Critter’s weak attempts to grab the bird and leaned against my leg to catch her breath. I took advantage of her poor judgement and snatched the rooster from her maw. 
I gathered my girls close insisting that they rest a bit before looking for our last two birds. The pups were both hot from exertion and let me rub snow on their bellies while they squirmed on their backs. I haven’t mentioned that I was tired myself. Post holing uphill in soaked pants clogged with snow wasn’t exactly a picnic. 
Just a couple of hours ago, I had all but given up on even hunting in Kansas let alone taking the 4 bird limit. I felt like 4 birds was now likely, even before noon, which meant me and the dogs would be starting this process all over again this afternoon, in Nebraska.  My incentive was in the fact that we were working our way back to the road and there should be more than a few roosters between here and there. But the only cover I could see was a heavy fence line along the blacktop a few hundred yards ahead. If something didn’t materialize before then, I would have to turn back to the creek bottom, because I wasn’t about to work my dogs that close to the road. 
The pups were running in tandem ahead, when they both disappeared. Woah, we were on the brink of a deep sinkhole. As I stepped up, my thought was the dogs must have tumbled to the bottom. The sides were very steep and the bottom a near solid plum thicket. But there was a yellow Lab and liver & white Springer tearing it up down there. With all the snow, I felt like there couldn’t be any birds, or I’d see them. The dogs must be on rabbits. Well that thought didn’t last long. Soon there was a bunch of pheasants vertical flushing from the bottom. Hens and roosters mixed with a yapping Springer trying to climb the walls while Woogs kept flushing more. 
This sinkhole was really deep. I’m guessing those birds had to fly 20 feet straight up to reach my eye level. If their pee brains could think, they had to be questioning their judgement going down there in the first place. But then I guess if the farmer’s boys didn’t have dogs, this was a pretty good hide. I was in my early 30’s and in good shape, but I doubt I could have crawled out of there. Fortunately, I wouldn’t have to but I was sure the dogs would require some assistance.
There were somewhere between 20 and 30 birds boiling up and it wasn’t hard to pick shots. I took one colorful adult bird when he stalled at the top and watched him plummet all the way to the bottom. Realizing that it wasn’t fair to the dogs having them drag birds back up, I singled out another rooster that had cleared the edge and headed toward the road. He disappeared in the snow where he fell.   
It was a real treat watching still more pheasants clamoring past, with a limit on the ground.
Woogs was finally satisfied that the brush was clear, grabbed the dead bird, and began picking a route up. I was surprised that she appeared able to make it, but not little Critter. She’d been trying to scramble up with those birds for most of the flush and by now was trying to hold her own halfway up. I noticed a narrow cut eroded in the wall on the far side and slid part way down myself. Just another 10 pounds of snow packed into my pant cuffs. Critter was able to hobble along the bank and picked up the pace when she saw Woogs with her rooster sliding down to meet me. 
Many adjectives could describe our climb back to high ground, but they wouldn’t be very polite. Picture a lamb sloth on snow shoes, dragging a bag of bowling balls, up the side of a mountain. Yeah, laugh if you please, but we were just a short walk from a wisp of rooster tail feathers, sticking out of the snow.  Our Kansas limit rooster. 
I circled my pickup back to the permission farm to say thanks. He looked up from his work and called out to see how I’d done. I told him we got four and thanks a bunch. He just said, “I knew you would!”

An hour later I was tossing luncheon meat and hot dogs to the pups while I warmed up some soup for myself. I had time to change into dry clothes, especially socks, and load the pups back up for a short drive. It was the second Saturday of the Nebraska season and there were several groups of hunters at the downtown café. I was going to hunt public land, bordering town, but wasn’t concerned about anyone having already worked it. It was the snarliest river bottom jungle that you could imagine, surrounded by acres of head-high brush and rag weed. My co-workers knew I’d been hunting in the bottom and couldn’t believe that a guy could ever find a rooster in there if you were able to knock it down. But the weeds, brush, and 13” of snow, weren’t the worst of it. Under the canopy was a treacherous jumble of flood scattered tree trunks and channels cut into the soft mud. If anyone but me was stupid enough to venture into the weeds, his first encounter with the shin cracking trunks and ankle twisting cuts would send him whimpering back to his rig.
My friend from Kansas called it “The Hell-Hole”. I took him into the morass for about a half hour one morning. Apparently Larry didn’t want to kill pheasants as badly as I did. He shouted that he was heading back to his truck if I’d just tell him where it was. We were only 50 yards away. I had to leave with him to hunt more traditional pheasant cover. He said the only reason I liked to hunt down there was because it reminded me of ruffed grouse cover at home. It did, but the real reason was that I could walk out my back door and be shooting pheasants in a half hour, on a few thousand acres of public, with no competition.  

I sat in my rig for a while because I didn’t want the cafe mob to see where I was hunting. They would be driving past on their way out for the afternoon. The only public access was to walk in from a boat ramp in the city park. Once I crossed a grassy flat, it would be nearly impossible to see me in the cover. 
I’d been working my dogs on these lake bottom pheasants for a few weeks before season. I knew which dried up bays held birds and about how many were in each. A couple dozen over there, and 30 to 40 a quarter mile deeper in. I had a dozen pockets, with a few hundred pheasants, scoped out, well before season opened.  The cover I was heading to, had about 30-40 birds. 
These reservoir roosters were very vocal. Nearly every rooster cackled when it flushed. I think it was because of the coyotes running the bottoms. If I wasn’t close to my dogs, many of the pheasants would simply fly up to a tree branch and watch the dogs. Like ruffed grouse might be prone to do. 
Waiting in the truck wasn’t too hard on me. I wasn’t certain that I’d knock down and find three roosters in this corner, but I was certain that I’d have my chances. 
Finally, when I couldn’t see any more bridge traffic, I headed out with both dogs. They’d had almost two hours rest from Kansas so I was hopeful that they’d have a few hours of hunting left in them. We worked about a half mile of edges before seeing birds. Even yellow Woogs was tough to keep track of as there was snow clinging to all the stalks and branches. The easiest way to track both of them was by the falling snow they dislodged as they ran. They were both good at stepping out of the heavy growth to see where I was. I didn’t feel like I had to be too concerned about their range as this was really tough going for all of us. 
I could hear birds flushing up ahead and see a few pheasants busting out of from the mature trees edging the normal water mark. Those mutts must have found a deer trail to run on. Three roosters landed in a copse of trees, all peering down at I presumed the dogs. One of the roosters was half cackling from his perch. Yeah, they must believe the dogs were coyotes.
The birds weren’t exactly attentive to approaching danger but two did fly down 100 yards out in the grass. One lingered. I did get within range before he realized I was there and I hit him well when he sailed off his perch. 
Again, it was Woogs that got to him first, but it still took a while for her to come up with the bird. I did feel bad for Critter, but figured it was better for her to be out running than sitting in the truck crying at every gunshot. 
At least with the warmer afternoon temperature the snow was compacting under their feet so they weren’t plowing with their chests, like earlier in the day. I insisted the pups take a break every hundred yards or so. I was as concerned that they have energy for our Sunday hunt as well as finishing up today.  I worked 11 to 12 hour days during the week so they would get plenty of rest between weekends. 
With five birds in the bag, we had already tied our best pheasant hunting day, a double limit of 3 pheasants in Iowa and two in Minnesota, when they were still pups. 
I decided to move away from the mature tree line and try to find a couple of stragglers out in the head high stuff. It wasn’t a continuous jungle, there were open spots where I could see more than 50 yards at a time. I made a point of working from one opening to the next. With the exception that every once in a while I could see the girls were birdy and would have to follow them on a tangent that normally ended with a hen flush.  
We were nearing where I had marked down the pair of tree flushers and the dogs were churning around a clump of cattails along an eroded channel. I wish I could sound like a rooster here. Critter rooted one out of a tangle and he was crossing in front of me at 20 yards, cackling up a storm. I didn’t normally choose to shoot pheasants that close but a guy had to put them down hard in here. I tried to catch his head with the tight pattern. I must have been close because he cartwheeled down spinning like a pinwheel. He was an easy find for Critter especially without any pressure from Woogs. This wasn’t a polite gesture on Woogs part, she had a bird of her own in the air that in more open terrain I would have at least shot at. But not here. 
Fortunately, Woogs followed under her flush for a while and Critter was able to complete an unmolested retrieve. 
It was time for me to relax a little. I had hoped, as I usually do, that today would be an epic day. Of course those hopes were dashed at my first stop in Kansas. If I hadn’t passed the farmer working on his Quonset (what a strange word) just looked it up. Quonset is capitalized because it’s from the town of Quonset Point, Rhode Island, where the fabricator was located. They were designed and manufactured for the military in preparation for World War II. Well we settled the Quonset issue…..working on his Quonset door, I wouldn’t have even hunted Kansas this opening day. 
With number two in my coat this double limit seemed assured. I figured we still had a couple shooting hours left, with lots of cover and a respectable number of birds. I only needed one more bird and had a couple of hours to find it. 
I decided to move out into more open grass nearer the river bank, where there were fewer drifted logs and little brush. By this time I had as much snow packed into my coat sleeves as cuffs. It would be embarrassing to relay every time I tripped and saved my face with one extended arm or the other. Old Miss Superposed would need a good rust proofing once the birds were cleaned. 
I might add here that I always keep a can of WD-40, a rag and gun oil in the door pocket of my truck. I was more assured of preventing rust by wiping down my gun at the truck before stowing it than remembering in the evening after feeding the dogs, cleaning birds, taking a shower, drying clothes and eating.  
I was now within a hundred yards of the highway bridge, but at this point I didn’t care if all the hunters in Nebraska saw me. Future competition be damned, this day would make my entire season. 
I think the pups were happy to be out in more traditional pheasant cover and I was at ease being able to keep in constant contact with them. Before we’d made it 100 yards, the pups were both birdy, colliding into each other trying to sort out the runner. I checked the bridge for traffic in case the bird flushed to my left. There was a car slowing on the bridge and pulling to my side. There were several guys inside and with windows down someone waved. I kept one eye on the car and waved back, still anticipating a flush. They had a rooster in the air at about 25 yards, cackling like these lake bottom roosters did. I hit him well with the old Superposed and Federal Premium 6’s.
The guys in the car had stopped to watch and gave me a long honk, waves and “Yeahs”! If they only knew the whole story. 
The pups gave me my 7th rooster of the day. I broke my gun over my shoulder and we took the easiest route back to the truck, just a couple hundred yards away. 
I usually try to preplan a background for pictures. I knew the exact windmill and water tank I wanted to take a picture of a combo limit of quail and roosters. It was in the middle of a weedy fenceline with an overgrown pasture on one side and standing corn on the other. But I hadn’t given a thought to a double limit of roosters. I drove outside of town and parked, trying to think of a decent backdrop. I came up empty. I knew of an old homestead on the Kansas side and another 15 miles further east on the border, but nothing I could get set up in before dark. 
I decided that on the ground, in front of the truck headlights, was going to have to do. No dogs, no gun, just dead birds on the ground. I didn’t want to explain to fellow hunters or the warden that what I did was perfectly legal. The birds weren’t particularly photogenic anyway. Being lugged around in the back of a soaking wet Filson hunting coat. On so many other hunts, I thought I could just save a few nice looking birds, pick out the best backdrop and retake the photo of a dual limit. I don’t know that I’ve ever followed through. AS I’ve mentioned before, none of my friends still bird hunted and I didn’t know of a non-hunter who would care about my goals, I had the memory, and that was good enough for me.
Kansas Larry called me that evening to ask why I didn’t stop when I passed them in the milo field.  to hunt with them. I explained as best I could that I wasn’t going to change my mind just because I couldn’t get to where I wanted to go. He thought I was nuts, and proceeded to tell me what a great day I could have had. 

I ”managed” these lake bottom pheasants for the entire season. By that I mean, I made it a point to not hunt through their population center. I would hunt the outside edge for peripheral birds that scattered during feeding. I enjoy 50 bird flushes as much as the next guy, but it was up to me to not educate them about dogs, guns and dead brood mates. I did everything I could to slip in and out unnoticed. Much of the old lake bed was lined with houses so I tried to only take sure kill shots and get out without making any more noise than necessary. I must have done a pretty good job, because I shot about 50 roosters down there by the end of the season and never saw or heard another hunter.   
I’ve mentioned in other podcasts about my interaction with the Nebraska game warden. One of the first jobs I worked on was remodeling a cabin for the game warden’s retirement. The contractor mentioned to the warden that I had moved there to bird hunt for a year, and was then moving on. The Warden had two Brittanys out back, making it evident that he was a bird hunter as well. 

I thought it would be a good time to tell the warden of my intent to hunt both Kansas and Nebraska in the same day so he’d be aware if he saw me in the field. He proceeded to tell me that he would ticket me if I brought birds into Nebraska from Kansas. I asked what his rationale was and it wasn’t rational at all. I could bring an elk from Colorado but not a pheasant from Kansas. He said an elk was ok because they don’t have elk in Nebraska. I reminded him that there were indeed elk and an elk season, in Nebraska. He didn’t take kindly to the correction and I could tell by the expression on the contractor’s face I needed to end the conversation. 
The following day the Warden said he talked to headquarters in Lincoln and they advised him that if I was properly licensed and he didn’t witness me committing an offense, to leave me be. He finished with I had better tag every bird that I shot with the location and have physical proof that I had been in Kansas. Even in the print photo days, it was easy enough to just snap a picture of a landmark in either state with the birds. While I met him on the road many times during the season, he never pulled me over.
A few weeks later, I became friends and hunted with a Sargent in the Sherriff’s office. He was friends with the Warden and explained that his buddy thought of himself as the best pheasant hunter in the county. And was simply miffed that a guy like me would show up for a season, thinking he was going to shoot so many pheasants that he would have to hunt two states to stay legal.  
After a hunt with a couple of co-workers and the deputy, my friend told me he had talked to the warden about the hunt and explained that I had unloaded my gun and refused to shoot birds toward a party limit. He said I had two pretty good dogs and worked to continue getting everyone into birds. Party limits were illegal in Nebraska and something I never participated in anyway. Apparently the warden changed his mind about me and I became an ok guy. 

I had several lofty goals for my year in Nebraska. I had a couple turkey tags in my pocket throughout bird season. I was certain that I’d paste one onto a turkey with a limit of pheasants and the other on a turkey with a limit of quail. I only saw one turkey, flitting through the brush, while hunting the lake bottom. Oddly, I also saw only one covey of quail. There were quail in many of the ravines and creeks feeding the reservoir, but I walked a lot of miles of shoreline and only moved the one small covey.
I also believed a limit of only 6 bobwhites and three roosters would be a gimme without even trying, but that hunt turned out be an effort. 
I may have previously talked of the day I was introduced to the deputy, he suggested that I head over to the river feeding the reservoir if I wanted to shoot a few mallards. He said when the wind was up like it had been, it pushed the ducks off the lake and onto the wooded river. He said just drive down the river road with your window down, and you’ll hear them. He was right, there were a lot of mallards working the river and even more loafing on the sandbars. Have you ever stepped up to a high bank looking down at a hundred or more mallards just feet away? The ducks were so surprised, and packed in, that they just milled around before deciding to jump. There were so many that I couldn’t even think of shooting. Anyone who thinks that a covey flush of quail is the greatest rush, hasn’t felt the wingbeats of a hundred mallards flushing at their feet.  
I just stood on the bank knowing that they would start drifting back in. The daily bag was three drakes and it came quickly. The most difficult part was keeping the pups from chasing every hen that swooped down to give us a look see. It’s funny how they’ll stare at the bird and quickly glance over their shoulder to see if I’m ever going to shoot. I whipped them back into shape killing a limit of reservoir roosters after ducks. But it had been raining all day, the pheasants looked like they’d been in the washing machine but not the drier. I wasn’t going to take a picture like that. 
The following morning the wind had let up some but apparently a few of the mallards thought the river was still a good place to loaf. I chased them off, waited till they returned and shot my tree drakes again. Just as arrived at a dry reservoir bay it started raining again. Three roosters and three mallards and again no picture. 
This wasn’t an unusual situation for me. I once shot a limit of two drake wood ducks in Iowa without taking a pic. 

Thanks for listening, this is Randy Shepard with “My Dog Hunts” Podcast.