Great bird destination

Arkansans set sights on pheasant, quail in Kansas

A good side-byside shotgun is ideal for pheasant hunting on the Great Plains.
A good side-byside shotgun is ideal for pheasant hunting on the Great Plains.

— Roger Demanette shook his head in mock disgust as a convoy of pickups stopped Saturday in front of our impromptu field kitchen.

Six trucks, all bearing Arkansas license plates.

“There can’t be enough people left in that state to fill that football stadium of yours tonight,” Demanette grumbled. “They’re all up here.”

It sure seemed that way. I arrived Friday evening with Scott Hunter of Little Rock to hunt the opening weekend of the Kansas pheasant season with Demanette and several other people, including Gary Watts of Fort Smith and Greg Kassaw of Russellville. Our first stop was the Concordia Wal-Mart to buy hunting licenses. Eight people stood in line, and six were from Morrilton. They were in good spirits as they loaded up with several hundred dollars worth of shotgun shells and otherhunting items. More vehicles with Arkansas plates were in front of restaurants and convenience stores.

It was raining when we arrived, and the temperature, which started the day in the 70s, was plummeting into the 30s. By midnight, snow flurries mixed with the rain. This was bad news.

“Those pheasants get awfully skittish the morning after a front like this,” Demanette said.

The bigger problem was mud. Roads in rural Kansas are little more than bare lines in the deep prairie dirt. The roads contain a surface of mixed sand and gravel only to the last settlement. When it rains, an unsurfaced road is like quicksand that can strand the beefiest four-wheel drive vehicle, and impassable roads were going to prevent us from reaching most of our prime hunting spots.

We were, however, able to reach several other prime spots off blacktop roads, which made us the envy of several convoys from Arkansas, Oklahoma and Tennessee.

Demanette, an ardent Kansas State Wildcats fan, is also an ardent Minnesota Vikings fan by way of his son-in-law, Ben Leber, a Vikings linebacker. During our Sunday hunt, Jane Demanette constantly texted Roger with news of Leber’s performance.

Demanette always has an opinion, and always a strong one. He’s blunt and honest.There’s never a question about what he thinks about anything or anyone, and it’s quickly evident that he’s the live wire that powers the entire group. A pheasant hunt is always fun, but with Demanette, it’s an event.

Our first stop that Saturday was at a large field bisected by a narrow creek flanked by high grass, small cottonwoods and gnarly Osage orange trees. I went to the far side with Watts and Kassaw. Galen Labarge, Demanette’s main hunting partner, unleashed two English pointers, Cooper and Rico. The dogs coursed back and forth, but at least one dog was always on one side of the creek, or “crik,” as they call it in Kansas.Rico didn’t take long to go on point over one big clump of grass. I kicked it hard twice, and a cock pheasant blasted out of the grass amid a flurry of cackles and wingbeats. I swung my 16-gauge CZ Ringneck side-by-side and folded the rooster with 1 ounce of No. 6 lead, and we were on the board. I filled my two-bird daily limit with a beautiful 2-year-old rooster with a long, pointed tail and long, sharp spurs.

For lunch, we pulled off the road in front of a remote cemetery and circled the trucks to break the bitter north wind. Labarge unloaded a gas grill from the bed of his dilapidated old Dodge pickup and cooked up a big mess of burgers and bratwursts. Later, he had to make an emergency repair to his heater hose to cure an overheating issue. The Arkansas convoy arrived during this operation. Demanette sawthem coming and ordered Labarge to back his truck against the fence to hide the big pile of pheasants in the back. Among that group wasTerry Flippin of Conway, who enjoyed a long chat with Watts, a former two-time president of the Arkansas chapter of the National Wild Turkey Federation.

They left, and a convoy of Okies showed up.

“Done any good?” asked the lead Okie.

“Oh, it’s kind of tough today,” Demanette said. He then launched into a poor-mouth rap designed to beguile one into believing there wasn’t a single pheasant anywhere in Cloud County. He leaned forward so that his entire head was in the Okie’s truck, and then he administered the coup de grace. He extracted a handkerchief and theatrically blew his nose right in front of that poor driver. All four people in the truck recoiled and tried to hold their breath while Demanette rambled.

“That oughtta get rid of ‘em,” Leon said.

And it did.

After lunch, we split up to hunt the milo field. We expected birds to be feeding in the milo in the afternoon, but we found none. Then, we wheeled around and flanked a small wooded draw that snaked up the hill. The draw was full of pheasants. Several singles and pairs flew at the lower end, but when we hit a wide spot, pheasants burst out of the trees and grass like a Roman candle. It was splendid sight to behold.

That night, we went to a restaurant in downtown Concordia. All the televisions were tuned to college football games, but the sound was up only on the one showing the Kansas-Nebraska game. Regardless, there were as many customers wearing Arkansas Razorbacks sweatshirts and caps as you would see in any restaurant in Fayetteville. They outnumbered thosewearing Kansas and Kansas State apparel by about 3-1. While waiting for a table, I talked with a group from Yellville - all avid readers of this newspaper - about smallmouth bass fishing on Crooked Creek.

The next day was a repeat of Day One. We hit the same fields, and again I got my limit, including another beautiful 2-year-old rooster. That bird would not hold for the dogs, and it ran just a few feet ahead of them. I was closest to it, and LaBarge yelled for me to close. I saw it run from a tangle of brush and grass with the dogs close behind. When it saw me, it flushed between two big trees and made it over the creek. I set my feet and fired twice, folding the bird cleanly with the second. The dogs were on it instantly and brought the bird back to me virtually undamaged.

Shortly after, Cooper locked down alone on a hard point. Again, I was nearest to it, about 75 yards away. Demanette, Labarge and Leon yelled for me to close before the bird flushed. I was running full speed when I stepped in a gopher hole. I hit the ground and slid about 5 feet on my left shoulder before I knew what hit me.

“That gopher made a perfect open field tackle!” Demanette shouted.

“Yeah, but I still got the first down!” I retorted amid hoots of laughter. Watts helped me to my feet and gave me a high-five.

Cooper was still on point. I finally got there, but there was no bird.

Of all the bird hunts I’ve had over the years, this one was superlative, and I was glad to have made the trip. Evidently, a lot of other Arkies feel the same way.

Sports, Pages 31 on 11/21/2010

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