(EDITOR’S NOTE: This column by PDN outdoors writer Darrick Meneken, which first appeared Thursday, Oct. 23, appears on this Web site today in conjunction with a photo feature on Page C1 of the Sunday edition.)
An overcast day.
A shotgun.
And a dog.
My first-ever hunting experience fell on Wednesday of last week.
Lyman Moores and Soeren Poulsen took me out at the Dungeness Recreation Area.
If you’re going to go hunting for the first time, you couldn’t pick two better people.
Each makes — or made — his living carrying a firearm.
In the field, something about that makes you feel safe.
Moores, 46, is a deputy sheriff in Clallam County.
Poulsen retired as a police sergeant in Long Beach, Calif., before losing a bid for the position of Clallam County sheriff last year.
I met Poulsen for the first time a week before our trip.
He introduced me to Moores right before our hunt, as we waited outside the recreation area’s large yellow gate.
When the gate slid open at 8 a.m., we’d be clear to find — and shoot — pheasant, of the farm-raised variety.
As it turned out, Moores’ friend Buddy, who I also met that morning, did most of the finding.
The shooting was up to Moores, Poulsen and me.
Not only was I hunting for the first time, I had never before fired a shotgun.
Meet Buddy
Buddy is a 3-year-old golden retriever.
Moores trained him in the field and must have done a good job, because when the gate opened at 8 o’clock, Buddy was one of the first dogs on a bird.
The male pheasant — or rooster — flew up on our left from behind a hedge; and in one swift move, Poulsen shouldered his gun, swung left and shot it down.
Less than 10 minutes into the hunt and our first pheasant was in the bag.
Poulsen casually slipped the bird into a large pocket on the back of his bright orange hunting vest and we continued into the recreation area.
About 20 other hunters made their way with us, and for those first 10 minutes after the gate slid open — before there was a chance to fan out — the hunting was mostly shoulder-to-shoulder.
Unexpected sight
It’s an odd feeling for a novice to be surrounded by 20 armed men. And I have no problem admitting to ducking my head a couple times as loud shots went off around me, birds falling from the sky.
When hit, some of the pheasant seemingly exploded from within as their feathers contorted in unnatural ways, an unexpected sight for naive eyes.
Visually more violent than a fish dying at the end of a hook, I reminded myself that these were farm-raised birds, bred to provide hunting opportunity.
I also thought about how every chicken I’ve ever eaten was killed. Not to mention the venison steak and elk sausage I’ve had provided by family hunting friends over the years.
The recreation area
Once on the ground, pheasant were retrieved by the dogs which flushed them from their hiding places, usually a large wild rose bush or dense hedge.
The 216-acre Dungeness Recreation Area is southwest of Dungeness Spit on the Strait of Juan de Fuca and includes 100 acres open to hunting.
The open area is marshy at times, but defined by open fields of grain with thick hedge rows between and a few hills interspersed.
The area is the only place I know of where pheasant can be found, yet alone hunted on the North Olympic Peninsula.
The recreation area is adjacent to the Dungeness National Wildlife Refuge, where hunting is prohibited.
‘Now it’s your turn’
Poulsen said pheasant will come out from the bushes to warm themselves in the sun, of which there was little on this day.
Besides, with a couple of dozen hunters and their dogs now scouring the grounds, these birds would be crazy to do anything but hunker down as deeply and quietly as possible.
Should a dog’s nose find them, they’ll run for as long as they can before taking to the air with a distinct whoosh that turns a hunter’s head and fills his plate.
One such whoosh-ing sound was heard about five minutes after Poulsen’s first bird.
This time, Moores fired.
The pheasant fell and Buddy retrieved.
We quickly took a couple of pictures and began to move again.
“Now it’s your turn,” my companions said.
They’d offered to give me the first shot of the day, though I opted to let them show me how it was done.
Now they had.
At the recreation area, the hunting is good for about the first 45 minutes, then doesn’t heat up again until about 11 a.m., when the birds start to feel secure and begin to move from their hiding spots.
My partners wanted me to get a shot before it slowed down.
Winging it
With Buddy leading the way up the trail, following fresh scent, Moores directed me to chase close behind.
“If he runs, you run,” he said.
With a Remington .870 loaned to me by Poulsen in my hands, I obeyed, keeping the gun on safety and pointed to the sky.
Suddenly, Buddy flushed a bird from a hedge up ahead.
“Heads up. Heads up. Fire.”
The calls of Poulsen and Moores rung in my ears and my stomach flipped.
My heart beat faster.
I shouldered the gun, pushing the safety button and pulling the trigger while aiming in the direction of the pheasant’s distinct silhouette, some 25 to 30 yards away.
Incredibly, the shot quite literally winged the bird.
I only know this because Moores said he saw the feathers twitch after I fired.
Not familiar enough with the gun, I was unable to pump and shoot again.
Poulsen fired instead, though later said he missed.
The bird fell behind the hedge and Buddy gave chase.
In an instant, the pheasant was flying toward us down the trail, a few feet off the ground, injured with Buddy in hot pursuit.
The two went past us in a flash.
“Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot,” Moores yelled out.
My first pheasant
Thirty seconds later, the golden retriever reappeared with the dead rooster in his mouth.
He delivered it to Moores, who gave it to me.
My very first pheasant, with a lot of help from Buddy.
This time we took our time with the photos.
Little more than a half-hour into the day and all three of us had birds.
“This is how it should be all the time,” Moores later said. “To me, this is a perfect day for the dog.”
Overcast with moisture in the air, it added up to a great day for picking up scent, and an ideal first hunt for me.
Poulsen got one more bird before we went home.
I took another shot at a pheasant some 50 yards away but missed.
Two days later I ate baked pheasant for dinner.
It tasted a little like chicken.
Darrick Meneken is a sports and outdoors columnist and writer for the Peninsula Daily News. He can be reached at 360-417-3526, or e-mail darrick.meneken@peninsuladailynews.com. His columns appear Thursdays and Fridays.