I have been waiting

The sun had yet to crest the Larb Hills when I let Ace out of the truck. He hit the ground running , and like he always does, raced 50 yards down the road before turning back to join me for the hunt.

It takes him some time to settle down and he leapt and barked for a couple minutes until he got all the nonsense out of system and went to work, nose glued to the ground.

Walking through the snowberries bordering the creek, I saw his tail become a blur of anticipation. A second later the morning stillness was broken by the raucous cackle of an immature rooster pheasant taking flight.

I started to bring the shotgun up, but with pheasant season still being more than a month away, simply watched as the bird rose and flew across the creek.

There seemed to be only pheasants in the snowberries so we turned away from the creek and headed out into the short grass.

I’d found sharptail there before. Last fall a dozen grouse had risen from the scant cover and I’d dropped two. On this morning, however, only grasshoppers took flight.

I always expect to find birds in the exact spot where I found them before. Now, after years of hunting the same country, it’s become so familiar I expect to find them nearly everywhere. Of course I don’t, and the anticipation begins to wane after a bit, my mind wanders, and I’m usually caught by surprise when a patch of empty prairie explodes with grouse.

On this opening morning, however, I was still paying close attention when Ace picked up scent, and within seconds, flushed a single sharptail. I swung on the bird and dropped it neatly, relieved to hit the first shot of the season. No doubt the misses will come, but it was a good way to start.

By now the sun had crested the Larb Hills and the day was warming fast. We hunted another hour, watched some birds flush out of range and cross the creek, before we headed to the truck.

Back at the house we feasted on chicken-fried sharptail, mashed potatoes and gravy, succotash and fresh tomatoes, just like we had the year before, and just like we had countless years before that.

It’s what I expect.

It’s what I remember.

It’s what I’d been waiting eight months for.

Parker Heinlein is at [email protected].