Well, pheasant season is almost upon us here in California (the season opens this Saturday), so once again I'll find myself slogging through muddy alfalfa fields chasing the cursed blue-headed chickens this weekend.
It's sort of an annual trip for our group, trudging mile after mile in wet boots, made twice as heavy by the clay clinging to them, as we hope to get a shot or two at the wily creatures. And we'll have to explain to our dogs -- for the umpteenth time -- why we don't shoot at the hens they work so hard to flush.
Ah, but we'll have some extra entertainment along on this trip. One of my buddies is bringing a couple of "pheasant rookies" along. We'll spend Friday night around the campfire trying to explain it all to them. Then the next morning we'll laugh like fools when the exploding racket and the blur of a red and blue and brown rocket turns them to jello. There is just no way to describe to a man how unnerving it is to have a pheasant flush from beneath his feet. Good times, for sure.
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