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Remember how pheasant hunting used to be? Remember quail so thick that the ground seemed to move? Remember when sage hens were a nuisance? Well, I don’t either. But I’ve listened to enough old-timers’ laments to know that things used to be different in Oregon.
Drive through farming country today. Wonder why there aren’t as many upland birds as there used to be?
Today’s corporate farming techniques use every bit of land, leaving precious little cover for birds and other animals, maximizing profits. Furrows run to the road and tiny strips of grass are left where the combine can’t reach under the barbed wire. Birds, rabbits, coyotes and deer have to eke out a living on marginal lands far from water.
Fortunately there are still landowners that care for wildlife, leaving borders along ditches, standing grain near fences, and native grasses and trees along the streambeds.
With my eleven year-old daughter, I had the opportunity to hunt Highland Hills Ranch (www.highlandhillsranch.com), north of Condon. We found a place where wildlife is more important than cattle or crops.
As we drove onto the ranch, I was impressed with the habitat. Corn and barley stood unharvested. Milo and sunflowers grew along the creek. Native grasses stood thick and tall. Best sign of all: pheasants ran out of the grass and up the road in front of us. A covey of quail flushed as we drew near.
We arrived too late to hunt so spent the evening eating dinner and talking with the owners, Sandy and Dennis Macnab, about their operation and their vision for the ranch operation. We stayed in the main lodge, a 10,000 square foot log cabin decorated with antlers, leather, and Indian art.
The Macnabs harvest very little of the crops on their property. Corn stands seven feet high and barley reaches to your shoulder. Instead of planting in rows, the corn and milo is sewn by broadcast. Alfalfa is growing volunteer beneath the standing grains, creating tangled understory.
Wild pheasants, chukar, Hungarian partridge, and valley quail live along the creek bottoms, and up on the flats and high benches. Mule deer filter down out of the draws and onto the fields, nipping the heads of the standing grain.
Morning light washed the hillsides and we could hear chukar in the silver sage. We climbed out of the truck and pushed shells in the steel tubes of our shotguns. We walked into the sunlight, into a field of waving native grasses mixed with golden standing grain. Penny and JJ, the Macnabs’ German wirehair pointers, cut back and forth through the cover. We watched the moving grass to keep track of their progress.
Penny stopped on point, and Dennis called us forward, Tiffany on one side and me on the other. “Rooster,” Dennis said, and the bird streaked away, rising straight into the sun. I waited for Tiffany to shoot, then covered the bird with my own gun, squeezing the trigger, feeling the recoil, seeing the bird drop.
Tiffany couldn’t see the bird against the bright sun, she said. I was pleased because muzzle control, safe shooting directions, and knowing when not to shoot were far more important to me than whether or not she bagged a bird.
When next Penny pointed, Tiffany was in position. Up came the bird and up came Tiffany’s 4 10 shotgun. She squeezed the trigger and missed. Away went the bird and Tiffany opened her gun and dropped in another round, resetting the safety.
Turning our backs to the sun, we caught a glimpse of Penny, on point again. A rooster rose, cackling, straining to gain elevation. Our guns spoke again and Tiffany claimed her first pheasant. Before the morning was over, she also added a chukar to her bag.
These were not pen-raised roosters released that morning. They were wild, wore iridescent feathers, had long spurs, and sported luxuriant tailfeathers. They held tight in the thick cover and flew strong and hard when we walked up. The Ranch’s preserve license allows them to offer unlimited bird hunting from August until March 3 1, extending opportunities for upland bird hunters.
The sun painted the valley in rosy tones. Raptors flashed, dipped, and plunged over the creek bed, on the lookout for prey. Habitat is the key to bird hunting like it must have been in “the good old days.”
