Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/528216
S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 1 4 4 "henned-up" gobblers. The only deer we did see during that period, other than a few yearlings, was a really, really nice buck. Unfortunately, he was already dead, the victim of coyotes. He'd been killed just a few hours before we caught a glimpse of an antler tine sticking up in the prairie grass. The back half of his body had been eaten, but his head, neck, and shoulders were unscathed. "I'm getting him mounted and naming him Carolina," Mike announced as we loaded the carcass into the Polaris. We spent our deer-less middays chasing birds and trying to keep up with Bob. Tuesday afternoon in the fields was without a doubt the coldest bird hunt Sam and I had ever experienced. The low had dropped to 7 degrees F, and by noon the temperature struggled to reach the predicted high of 19. But when you figure in the high winds—we're talking subzero—that will sting your cheeks. Thank goodness for the plentitude of birds and Bob's excellent nose. We found quail, Huns, and pheasants, all mixed in the dense cover, so we didn't always know what would flush. Of course, pheasants were the real prize, and we walked out of the field that day with eight, along with several quail and partridge. T he author and his son, Sam, found plenty of pheasants, despite the icy temperatures. Below: Bob softmouths a winged quail. "Bob's my star . . . a legend around here," says proud owner Mike Jacobsen.