The 2015 upland bird season in southeast Washington provided a better bird year than 2014 and I found my Llewellyn setters hunted better than ever. My pup, Laurel Mountain’s Yuba was in her first season afield. She was born with severe hip dysplasia; hence, we don’t work her very hard or long, but she has a bird drive and desire to hunt second to none. She nearly out-hunted her three year old cousin, “Lynn Hill’s Finnigan”, pointing double digit pheasant early in the season when the birds were less wary. Yuba pointed many hens, held steady to wing about forty percent of the time, and instinctively backed Finn with style and as much grace as she could muster. As the season wore on, the pheasant became scarce with survivors growing ever educated, but our final day was one to remember….
Heading home after a cold, fruitless morning, I spot some pheasant feeding in wheat stubble along a brushy ditch. Steering my old Ford onto the shoulder, I bail out with Finn and Yuba in tow hoping to get Yuba her first rooster. Turning Yuba loose in the brush, she discovers a pheasant super highway laden with tracks in the fresh snow and the pursuit ensues. Knowing the birds are in cover, a couple blasts on the whistle directs the girls toward the ditch to our right where they brilliantly search every tuft. They generally cover ground full tilt, but the scent here is overwhelming and they adjust pace to methodically canvas the area. My mind momentarily drifts, but I soon realize I have lost track of Yuba. I last noticed her on the ditch edge to my right where she dropped in several minutes prior. Finn is momentarily still out front, and I struggle to hear any footfall from my stocky little tri-color. She must be on point.
Easing toward the ditch, I grip my old 16-gauge double, searching, yearning to see my future rock star pup locked up. Finn disappears into the ditch bottom twenty yards out and the world once again falls silent. Light snow swirls in the air and tips me off to Finn being downwind of me. My desire for this moment is embracing and time slows to a crawl. Yuba has proven a formidable hunter, but has yet to be rewarded a bird in hand despite her many accomplished points. Leaning over the ditch I peek past a large tuft of reed canary grass only to find Yuba locked up with aplomb and Finn backing. My chest swells with pride as I delicately drop into the ditch bottom only yards from Yuba.
My approach is deliberate and I work the thick mats of grass thoroughly to kick out a pheasant, any pheasant. Now mere feet from Yuba, her intense gaze into the grass telegraphs the bird’s refuge. The safety on my old double clicks forward as I kick into the grass and simultaneously glimpse Yuba nearly come out of her skin in anticipation. A stunning, young, wild rooster explodes from the grass underfoot. He was deeply buried, even below my footing on the frozen grass, and his long ascent provides more than ample time to put a steady bead on him. His flight path leads straight away down the ditch, directly over Yuba and Finn, Yuba nearly flipping backward as the rooster clears her forehead. The rooster clears a safe shooting height as I weld the bead to the rooster’s belly. My old double recoils against my shoulder, but the sound and jolt are lost in the moment.
The young rooster folds and my autopilot engages the gun’s safety as I holler dead bird, sending the girls clambering to the prize. Yuba is ecstatic, to put it mildly. I have taken birds over Finn all season while Yuba backs, but this one is hers. I have not trained the girls to retrieve, so I race to the bird and lavish the girls with praise as they nuzzle and huff the fresh, warm feathers. What bird dog daddy could ask for more than a solidly held point from his pup on her first rooster with her cousin instinctually honoring?
While carefully sliding the rooster into my vest pouch, Yuba sits at my feet, trembling and crying. Her eyes wide and dark, yet glowing like that of a child on Christmas morning. She yearns for more, and I release the girls to find one more bird.