I’ve been hunting this area since I was 10 years old. Some of my earliest hunting memories were made here, chasing my dad and our bird dogs, Jo and Duke, through the sloughs and stubble in search of wily late-season roosters.

Jo (no, not Joe) was a female yellow Lab my parents picked out of a cardboard box at a truck stop in Pocatello, Idaho during our Christmas travels when I was four years old.

I can’t say Jo was particularly well-trained. Neither was Duke, the tri-color English Setter (my dad was, and still is, a lifelong John Wayne fan), who was a couple years her junior. At times, Jo ranged too far for a flusher, and Duke rarely held a point long enough for us to catch up.

I learned a lot from those hunts. Certainly a few swear words from my Dad when Duke would blow up all the birds before he even had a chance to load his 20-gauge H&K over-under. But, I also learned to watch the dogs work.

Their fieldwork would have sent any field trial trainer into a rage. To me, though, it became something like poetry. I learned to read the dogs. More importantly, I learned to trust them.

Jo’s tail would kick into overdrive, and her movements would become quick and erratic. Duke’s quartering would slow, his nose would drop, and his ears would perk up. Then there was the unmistakable locking of brakes before the beautiful sight of a Setter's feathered tail flowing in the breeze.

They weren't national champions - far from it in fact. They were instinctive hunting dogs and the rolling prairies was where they got to work.

Trust the dog.

That lesson, learned 22 seasons ago, has never failed me since.

Today, I’m hunting those same spots. Though my life has changed immeasurably with the addition of my beautiful wife, two bird dogs, and two (soon to be three) boys of our own, not much has changed in Eastern Montana.

It was a Friday afternoon when I pulled into the pasture adjacent to our land and little one-room hunting cabin. The neighboring section is an Open Fields Access property, and being the second week of pheasant season, I figured it had already seen its fair share of hunters. A truck was leaving the area just as I drove by.

But I'd spotted a covey of Huns flushing from our two-track farm road on the way in, so I decided to give it a shot.

The habitat on this section is pretty straightforward. Surrounded by cut wheat stubble, a seasonal creek winds east to west across the property, with an old reservoir, built sometime in the '50s, sitting near the middle. The public access point is on the west side, but because our land borders the section, I have the luxury of hunting it in reverse, coming from the east.

The creek-bottom cover ranges from 15 to 100 yards wide, a mix of wheatgrass and wildrye, with patches of cattails and bulrushes around the wetland. Beyond it, miles of rolling prairie and cut wheat fields.

A classic Eastern Montana prairie hunt.

I put out my dog Peach, a seven-year-old, field-bred red Golden Retriever. Her dark coat shines in the afternoon sun, often leading people to mistake her for a Red Setter.

At seven, she's likely entering the third quarter of her hunting career. But good nutrition and a summer of conditioning has her in peak shape.

She's ready to hunt.

We crossed a slight rise on our way into the creek bottom and immediately flushed that covey of Huns. Seven birds got up, flying away and to the right.

A swing and two misses for me.

Guess I should've shot a few clays with my new 20-gauge side-by-side before the hunt.

Onward.

Having seen the truck leaving, I wasn't expecting much bird activity beyond that first covey. But I wanted to stretch my legs and give Peach a good run anyway.

A few hundred yards up the creek, Peach's tail started waving. Her pace quickened and her quartering tightened.

She was on one.

I've learned over the years that if you want to be successful at killing wild birds in thin cover with flushing dogs, you must keep up.

This isn't a leisurely gentleman's hunt, dawdling through the field, loading your Krieghoff and kicking up the bird yourself. It's an adventure. Some might call it an escapade.

Sometimes all that's required is a brisk walk. Other times, it's an awkward-looking sprint, bird vest flopping around and all, trying not to break your leg in a badger hole.

Peach changed directions.

Instead of following the creek-bottom cover west, she headed straight south, leaving the "prime" habitat for open wheat stubble.

Trust the dog...

My initial reaction was to call her back. But I'd learned that lesson before.

I put my butt in gear and got to following.

The flat stubble climbed gradually toward a low rise. Peach beat me to the top, but I wasn't far behind.

Was that bird running, or had it already flushed out of sight?

Now nearly 150 yards from the main creek-bottom cover, I began to doubt her again. Should I blow the whistle and head back to where the birds ought to be?

Trust the dog...

We continued.

Over another slight rise we marched. Just as I crested the top, Peach 20 yards ahead, I saw it.

A little 10-by-10-foot patch of brushy cover. Nothing more than a tangle of tumbleweeds, thistle, and uncut wheat, sitting alone in the stubble.

Peach dove into the clump just as I planted my feet, anticipating what was about to happen.

I saw the brush move before I ever saw the bird.

Then came the unmistakable cackle of a rooster pheasant, followed by that snow-white ring emerging above the grass.

Knowing Peach was likely right behind him, I waited until I had blue sky between the bird and the dog before mounting my gun.

By then, the rooster had gained some elevation and was crossing left to right. Not the easiest shot for a right-handed shooter, but one I'd knocked down hundreds of times before.

Miss.

Try to catch up.

Miss again.

It's a new gun. Mounts differently. Swings differently.

That's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.

Never the archer, always the arrow, right?

I stood there watching the rooster sail out across the prairie. Maybe I'd catch up with him later. For now, he lives on.

Peach's response?

Probably not surprised. Just back to business.

She doesn't seem to hold a grudge.

I'll follow these dogs anywhere.