Bing Crosby was obviously not a bird hunter. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for a couple inches of good tracking snow. In fact, hunting on the day of the year's first snowfall is my favorite pheasant hunt of the year. However, this year's Christmas snow dump was ridiculous.

I spent Christmas weekend back home at my folk's place on Michigan's Upper Peninsula. I grew up as a "Yooper" in the land of big snow, so I'm no stranger to bird hunting in the deep snow of December. However there is considerable difference between hunting ruffed grouse in "woods snow" versus hunting roosters in "prairie snow." The difference is called DRIFTING.

I remember my first pheasant hunt in deep snow after moving to Minnesota. Knowing all about drifting, that day's group of hunters walked around an area that I headed straight for . . . 20 minutes later, they literally pulled me out of that snow drift after I'd buried myself in three feet of the heavy wet stuff. Sure, we have drifting in the northwoods, but it's not the same as what happens on the prairie when the wind blows. And, my 5'7" frame is not designed for a snow drift sculpted terrain.

Anyway, after a successful weekend of ruffed grouse hunting in eight inches of fresh U.P. woods snow without the need for snowshoes, I returned to Minnesota for a Waseca area pheasant hunt last Wednesday. This time with snow shoes on, my hunting partner, two pups and I departed the truck for our end of the year honey hole.

While the snow shoes ultimately helped save my life, I can only muster the following statistics to describe the hunt:
o Two hours in the field
o Two missed shots by me
o One trapped rooster by my buddy's dog
o Three removals of my snowshoes to see if the walking would be easier - it never was!
o Six forward falls into the snow
o One fall backwards into the snow
o One awkward sideways fall into the snow
o Zero snow angels
o Two incidents covering my shotgun in snow
o Three Gatorades consumed
o Two granola bars consumed
o Eight rest breaks
o 1,457 swear words spoken
o Three hours spent napping upon return home

Those two hours spent afield were enough to convince me that my 2009 Minnesota pheasant season had come to an end . . . with a whimper and a few swear words.