My First Pheasant
It all started when I got ripped off on a Browning Auto 5…
Years ago I was gifted a large amount of odds and ends from my great-uncle, including some firearms, such as, my .270win Steyr-Mannlicher and a Ruger M77 in .416 Rigby, just in case we ever get invaded by water buffalo or African elephants. Among the other odds and ends were a few cases of 3 1/2 inch 12 gauge buckshot. Originally they had been used for goose hunting, but due to regulation changes, lead shot had been banned making them nearly useless, especially in that volume. Buckshot it great for deer or bear defense, but I have rifles more suited to the task.
One day I got tired of looking at these boxes of buckshot and decided to try something. I posted one of them online for trade. Within a few hours I had someone saying they had a vintage Browning Auto-5 in 12 gauge, in pieces, they’d happily trade, but would need $100 cash on top. Being a sucker for the new A5, I went for it. Later that day I was met in my apartment parking lot and did the exchange. I didn’t get a chance to look closely at the shotgun before taking it in, its generally bad form to wave a shotgun around downtown.
Once inside I realized I may have been swindled. It appeared to be all there, technically. The wood stock appeared to be for a current A5 and perhaps chewed down to fit? or poorly chiseled? There was welding spatter on the side of the receiver and the magazine tube had been welded. There was also some chicken wire to replace a bolt on the side. I didnt love it, but I had to admit, it had character. With a heavy sigh, I stripped it down and did an inventory. It was missing a few retaining screws on the side and some friction rings (split rings that go over the tube and compress when fired to create drag as the barrel comes back). For another $100 I ordered these parts and put the gun back together. I was now looking at it like a rescue dog, it deserved to live again despite the horrible past that had been thrust upon it. Once assembled, thoroughly cleaned, and inspected, I felt comfortable-ish test firing it.
I crossed myself, got a witness nearby, in an area with cell service and….. click. My mind drew a blank, it was all there, what had I missed? For a few years after, it sat in a closet in my gunroom taking up slightly less space than a case of buckshot. During this time I considered converting it into a lamp, but that just didn’t feel right. Finally, this summer, in a fit of ambition, I decided it had to be something in the firing pin, either it wasn’t getting hit hard enough, or as I had seen in other shotguns, it was too short. After getting the firing pin out, I was able to cross reference it with some pictures online and determine it had been trimmed down by about 1/2 of an inch. So someone intentionally deactivated this gun, and the clean cut and bevel of the firing pin and returning it into the bolt was the only decent craftsmanship the Browning had seen since leaving the factory. It didn’t make sense, but logic and the firearms world dont always coincide, ask any collector or handloader. Luckily a friend of mine in Saskatchewan who does some work as a gunsmith had a spare kicking around, so for another $75, I had another part for a gun I was already too deep into.
I got the part into the gun, got another witness with first aid training, and took aim. Recoil never felt so good. Nothing broke, nothing flew off, the gun and I were both intact. Now I had another old, lead-shot-only, shotgun to add to the growing pile…
Come to October and I found I had a day off work and an idea. Being the romantic old fool that I am, I’m a sucker for old hunting posters, adverts, and magazine covers… and one thing that’s bored itself into my brain, is pheasants. An introduced game species that sure do look fun and nostalgic. They call to mind a time when hand drawn art was more common than photographs in magazines and posters, when a wool suit was hunting attire, and the family station wagon doubled as a hunting rig. I had decided that my old browning, manufactured in 1967, according to the serial number, was appropriate for this task for no reason other than it felt right.
The energy people put into pheasants with clubs like Pheasants Forever, or even just training flushing dogs told me there had to be something there. For years I had been aware of pheasant release sites operated by Alberta Conservation Association, but didn’t know much about how to actually use them. Turns out it really is as simple as getting a license and showing up (some areas require additional permits available online as they are owned by companies kind enough to allow hunters onto the property). I got up early and drove to the Daysland Pheasant Release Site. I drove to the far south west corner far away from the two vehicles I had seen on the east side. My fear was bumping into other hunters and causing them grief. I got out of the truck, crossed the fence and loaded my shotgun.
My little bit of research told me to walk slow and keep an eye out for the edges of fields and in brush, its unlikely they’ll be out in the open. I wandered to and fro, pushed bush, jumped creeks, and bumped into friendly fellow hunters, none were having luck but claimed to have had luck the week before. To me it looked like they were just taking their dogs for exercise, I checked my map and decided to do a big counter-clockwise loop and then call it a day. There were other people here and I was starting to question if pheasants were even real. Towards the most northerly part of my loop, in the distance, in an open field, was a pheasant. I dropped low and pulled up my binos, I could see a green head and ring around the neck, confirming it was a male, its illegal to shoot females, they look a lot like a grouse. In an awkward low crouch I closed the distance as my quarry walked perpendicular to me. Eventually I was spotted and as he trotted and gained flight, I raised my old A5 and fired. The bird tumbled and flopped onto the ground, success always feels good, and it was extra sweet with a shotgun I had brought back from the dead. Much like my old scattergun, the bird must have had a hard life… aside from being shot at the end of it. His beautiful long tail feathers that pheasants are known for, were missing. He’d had a close call with someone or something before I came across him. After the few obligatory photos, I tied him to my belt with paracord, and immediately decided that for the next hunt I would bring a backpack. Shockingly, walking with a bird on your hip results in a bird bouncing off your leg as you walk, which feels undignified for both parties. I opted to carry the bird in one hand and the shotgun in the other. A few hundred yards later I bumped into another hunter and had a quick chat about what all I had seen that day, in this case, one bird, which I would prefer he didn’t shoot as I was currently holding it and planning on eating it later. He told me he had some luck the week before, as is tradition it would seem. The walk back to the truck was nice, but uneventful.
Once at the truck I realized I wasn’t sure how to clean a pheasant, so I just did my best leaving evidence of sex and species attached and put it in a cooler. My day had run a little late and I had to go directly to my brothers house for a dinner I had been invited to. As an appetizer I grilled pheasant breast, coated with a bit of olive oil and spiced with paprika and some cayenne pepper. My fellow guests weren’t as excited as I was, I found it like a lean chicken, though I must admit a man would grow quite thin on a diet of pheasant as they seem to have less meat on them than a grouse.
The following week, work was still slow, so I went out again. This time to the Capital Power Pheasant Release site. I didn’t have any luck, but did run into another hunter who I reassured by letting them know I had some luck the week before…
Its nice to know these kinds of sites exist thanks to dedicated volunteers. For the last few months anytime someone asks me about getting into hunting, I tell them this is the place to start, all you need is a shotgun, license, and comfortable shoes, and the biggest hurdle is already handled because you know exactly where to hunt, no need to scout around or get permissions. Just show up, show respect, and maybe donate a little to the clubs that make it possible, if so inclined.
Posted in Hunting and tagged Alberta, alberta hunting, hunting, Outdoors, pheasant, pheasant huntingwith 1 comment.
Dumb Luck Buck
Luck, good or bad, will override just about any plan.
Last year I had put the finishing touches on a Lee Enfield No1 Mk3 restoration. Its an old British/commonwealth military rifle. They saw most of their useage during the first world war but were in production until the early 50’s (as best I can find online). I carried it with me a lot, hoping to get a deer. I got one shot at the biggest buck I have ever seen, he was heavy antlered with a split main beam, and staring at me about 15 yards away. The second I raised the rifle, he bolted. I fired two misses at him and never saw him again. I sat that same field every evening the rest of that season and the entirety of this season in hopes he would come back, he didn’t. It was bad hunting, but I am calling it bad luck so I can get some sleep at night. I had also hoped for a little redemption with my old 303 at some point this year.
This deer season started with a simple mistake. I got greedy and put in for too many draws, I had just got home from Nepal and Thailand and was in a bit of a daze and accidentally put in my mule deer buck and doe draws instead of building priority for one or the other. As a result I had 5 tags I could fill, a whitetail buck, mule deer buck, two whitetail does, and a mule doe. In my experience, loading up on tags usually results in bad luck and not seeing anything.
To add to the peculiar luck of the season, it was warm, very warm. By the time November hunting season 2023 had ended there was still almost no snow on the ground and positive temperatures during the day. That time of year I’ve seen negative 20 and nearly a foot of snow. At any rate, I was going hunting, and it was not going well. I had seen very few deer, usually going the other way. The best opportunity I had so far was a small basket-rack whitetail broadside, about 50m, he was standing almost exactly where I shot my last buck… I decided to pass as he was quite small, I then somewhat regretted it. It almost feels disrespectful to pass on an opportunity that good and some small part of me would like to get a deer of each size on the wall to show how their growth progression works… but that feels oddly devious.
On the Saturday of my last weekend it was windy, very windy. I decided still hunting through the bush was probably my best bet. I got my mother to drop me off on the far end of the property on her way to work (working a Saturday during hunting season is just crazy to me). I brought with me my restored Lee Enfield that I had carried the previous season. I hoped the iron sights would be better suited to close range shots in the bush and the heavier projectile would cut through shrubs and trees easier than on my little 243, my usual go-to rifle for deer.
I started my day in an area we call Sand’s, I’m told its named for the previous owners, and I have seen many nice mule deer in the area over the years. It was my belief the deer would remain in the bush, between the heat and the wind they likely had little need or desire to go into fields. I worked my way around a large stand of trees and managed to spot a doe standing in a small clearing sheltered from the wind. She was glaring at me through the willows. I froze and we watched each other. My hope was that she wasn’t alone. Eventually she got tired of my spectating and slowly walked off, followed by a small buck. I lined up my sights and considered a shot through a narrow shooting lane, but he didn’t stop when I whistled. Then I heard what sounded like him making a U-turn in the trees out of my sight. Across that little shooting lane came an even smaller mule buck and another doe. Something about his antlers looked off to me. They both stepped out into the field 70 yards from me and stood broadside, I got a good look at his antlers with my binoculars to discover it was shadows from his ears I was seeing making things look off. They both ran away and I thought to myself “what a neat interaction… wait… I have a doe tag… darn it”
I worked my way farther west seeing little more than squirrels. After just shy of a mile of walking I got to my favorite spot, Dejorties. Its a few acres on the north end of the family farm where I have had a lot of luck with deer. I walked passed the little swamp and made my way to a clearing in the woods and saw nothing of interest. I took a seat, pulled a cheese bun from my pocket and enjoyed my lunch. I wiped the crumbs, pocketed the bag, and walked the long way around to leave. As I passed a thicket, no more than 50 yards from where I had lunch, a large mule buck sprang up, bolted up the bank where he was nicely sky-lined and stopped just long enough for me to get a look, and ran down the other side of the hill. I sprinted up the bank hoping he would stop and look back. I got to the top just in time to see him jump the fence into the neighbors and disappear into some spruce trees. I headed back to my evening hunting spot, hoping to see that big whitetail from the year before. I saw nothing.
I decided the Sunday, my last day, I would just do exactly what I did Saturday. I also had to laugh at the reality that I was more patterned than the deer I was hunting. There was still wind, but far less, meaning the noise of my boots crunching the frozen leaves was more of a problem. Where I had seen the smaller mule deer, there were only cattle. They were, unfortunately, rather interested in what I was doing. I made my way west again. This time, in the trees I came across a whitetail buck. He was far away and his body was far too obscured by brush to even think about shooting at. His antlers were short, but thick. I watched him for what felt like a long time. I tried taking a step every time he looked away, in hopes of closing the distance. That plan did not work. He wandered off and I could hear him huffing as he left. I am told, the noise alerts other deer of danger and clears their sinus so they can get a better smell.
I was somewhat disheartened and felt part of my issue was loud walking from the frozen leaves. I felt the best strategy was to hurry to a good sitting spot and hope something came to me. Continuing west, I walked along a path about 50 meters wide with large patches of trees in the middle which essentially created two parallel paths that intersected every 50 to 100 meters. As I crested the last hill before the gate to where I had seen the mule deer the day before… I just about bumped into him. He was walking east on the trail and we didn’t hear each other, and apparently hadn’t seen each other either because I was already on my way down the hill when we reacted. He turned around and ran behind a patch of trees, counter clockwise, so I ran around my side clockwise. When he realized what I was doing, he changed directions and so did I. For about 15 seconds, it was very much like siblings chasing each other around the kitchen table. We both stopped moving to asses the situation. Lucky for me, and unlucky for him, I could see him through the trees and had a shooting line. It was narrow, and I could only see his body, but I was close enough I could see his ribs, I took aim and fired. He jumped straight up and curled inward, in my experience that is a good sign. He hit the ground and ran. I ejected the spent case and my second round wouldn’t feed. I guess I hadn’t quite tuned this magazine right. As I finessed the next round in, I could hear him running and blowing his nose. The blowing of the nose struck me as a bad sign. I flipped my safety on and walked to where he was when hit. There was frothy pink blood on the ground, another good sign. The snow was best measured in millimeters so I tracked him as best I could in the dirt. The blood trail was minimal, but he seemed to run west to the gate and turned north into the field. I panicked thinking he must have run into the bush with a poorly placed bullet. I tried calling the house to get a search party going, but my step dad was in town running errands, I was on my own.
I mentally prepped for a hard day ahead. I lined up the last of the blood trail and assumed he kept his trajectory, and I started walking. 50 meters later, he was laid out stone dead 10 yards from the treeline. I guess I had gotten worried over nothing. He didn’t go far, the hills, paths, and bush just hid him a little.
I approached slowly and poked him in the eye to ensure he was dead, I unloaded my rifle, closing the bolt on an empty chamber but leaving the loaded magazine in. I then started taking the obligatory pictures and texted everyone who would be interested. Then, the work started. I tagged him and walked home, just in time for Darrell to be pulling into the yard. We grabbed a ramp and went to get him, loaded him in the truck, hung him in the garage and I got to skinning. During skinning and gutting, I found I had hit both lungs, far back. I had to work the following day so I cut the tenderloins out for supper Monday and put the head in my car to take to a taxidermist friend to be cleaned… it stayed in my car until Thursday, I wonder if anyone in my parkade noticed.
Closing Thoughts
I like to review, in my head, what I did right and what I did wrong in hopes of more active learning for future hunts, seeing as I am hoping to do this for a few more decades. In the positive, I feel I chose the appropriate rifle for the style of hunting, I never gave up (lots of great deer are taken at the last light of the last day), and I changed hunting tactics as conditions changed. The bad, I panicked after the shot, I should have tracked as far as I could before assuming something was wrong. I also found this season, I was a little too obsessed with antler size, I passed on a perfectly respectable whitetail buck in ideal conditions because I was holding out for a deer I had seen once the previous season. I need to remember I am feeding the freezer, not the tape measure.
Technical Details
Someone had also asked in a previous post for firearm details, so… in this particular instance I was using a 1942 Lee Enfield No1 MK3* in 303 British. These rifles were made all over the commonwealth but mine was made in Birmingham, and it is stamped with a B, which means it is a “dispersal rifle” made in the area after the BSA (Birmingham Small Arms factory) had been destroyed. When I got it, the wood had been cut down to resemble a more familiar hunting rifle, this is called “sporterizing” and was very common as the rifles were plentiful and cheap. The process was done to make them lighter and more suited to hunting. I rounded up a variety of new and used parts to take it back to factory original… ish. Like any restoration of something that was made for 50 plus years, parts will change a little bit over time, and I went with whichever parts I liked rather than what would have been more accurate to that date. Only a keen eyed collector would ever notice, and I built it to use and enjoy, so I did it the way I like it. It was a slow process that required a lot of hand fitting, and it would have been cheaper to just buy an original, but every time I look at it or show someone I am proud of myself.
Posted in Hunting and tagged alberta hunting, deer, hunting, lee enfield, military surplus, mule deerwith no comments yet.