Pheasant hunters in S.D., don't forget your hip boots

NORTHEASTERN SOUTH DAKOTA - To a duck, this fraction of the state is paradise. There is standing water everywhere.

If you are a pheasant hunter plying this section of the state, you might want to opt for hip boots rather than your typical upland hunting footwear.

Flooded fields greeted us and other hunters who chose this part of South Dakota for the Oct. 17 pheasant hunting opener.

"A lightweight pair of hip boots would be the ticket," I said to my hunting partners -- Mike Spielmann and his son-in-law Wes Klaus, both of Omaha -- as I looked down at my hunting pants wet up to my knees. "I stepped into water over my boots 10 minutes into the hunt."

This occurred on opening day, when after a few hours of hunting we gathered for lunch and to compare notes. South Dakota fish and game officials had predicted hunters would find fewer birds following a relatively tough winter and an unusually wet and cold spring and summer. But despite the soggy fields and obvious lack of pheasants, we already had six roosters in the bag.

Two hours earlier each of us, accompanied by our canines, had left a parking lot at a public hunting area and headed in opposite directions. Mike and Coal, his black Lab, went south, while Wes and Griz, his chocolate Lab, hunted to the west. I walked north behind Axel, my 9 year-old Deutsch Drahthaar.

Only minutes into the hunt, Axel went on point along a shelterbelt of ash and cedar trees. As I approached -- Axel was frozen, with that stare that told me a bird was close -- a brilliantly colored long-tailed rooster leaped from the cover and headed skyward. I sidestepped to clear a cedar tree, leveled my shotgun on the retreating bird and touched the trigger. Axel made the retrieve.

Minutes later I heard two shots from the direction Mike had taken, and when I glanced that way I immediately saw Coal racing through the prairie grass as if on the way to make a retrieve.

I continued hunting down the shelterbelt, walking mostly in ankle deep water. Eventually I turned west and hunted a grassy strip along the edge of a soybean field. Hundreds of ducks rose from the partially flooded bean field -- gadwalls, wigeons, green-winged teal, shovelers, mallards. Axel pointed along one muddy portion of the flooded field, and I figured he simply had a snout full of duck scent. Instead a snipe took off low and fast, emitting the characteristic "zeep" call as it retreated.

Another hundred yards or so down the edge of the bean field, Axel pointed again. This time when I approached, a hen pheasant took flight. Then several more pheasants were airborne, including a young rooster. When I pulled the trigger, the bird folded and splashed into the water. Axel brought the immature rooster to me, and when I took the grouse-sized bird from his mouth, I noted its spurs were simply small bumps on its legs.

Next I turned north toward a bit of higher ground, then heard Axel's beeper collar sounding, indicating a point. Just ahead was the dog, ridged, head level with his back, staring. I circled to approach Axel from the front. I literally had to kick into a tangle of grass to root out the pheasant. It was an easy shot. Like the first rooster, it was a mature bird sporting a long tail and sharp dagger-like spurs.

Following three days of hunting, Mike, Wes and I agreed pheasant numbers were definitely down in the areas we normally hunt, although we found enough roosters to keep us happy. Roughly three-fourths of the pheasants we shot were mature birds, which indicates poor reproduction. Hunter numbers were down.

Despite the wet fields, hunting conditions were near perfect. The flooded grasslands kept the dogs cool and fresh, and our constantly wet feet were just an inconvenience because of the relatively mild weather.

Few, if any, farm crops had been harvested. Many croplands are so wet it could take a hard freeze before farmers are able to access their fields. The delayed harvest should provide late-season hunters with a chance at the roosters that have been using the standing crops as a refuge.

Bill Marchel, an outdoors columnist and photographer, lives near Brainerd.