After the woodcock have left, the trailside pot holes have frozen and the November's leaden skies threaten snow we leave our native Wisconsin woods to renew our aquaitance with Gentleman Bob in southern Kansas' prairries. It is country as gently rolling and diverse as the farm families we've come to know. The terrain allows our dogs to stretch thier legs and one should not miss the sight of happy Brittanies criss-crossing between plum thickets and grass in search of a covey. It should be easy, right? Blue sky from horizon to horizon, no trees to interupt your smooth swing, cover no higher than the top of your boots, meadow larks and butterflies flitting across the field and yet, BOOM! BIRDS UP! and tranquility becomes chaos in all directions. While Mr. Bob is indeed an explosive gentleman, holding tight in covies of 12-20 birds for our dogs, and providing exciting singles hunting after the covey flush, he does share the neighborhood with that guady ruffian the pheasant. If you have ever tried to untangle a back lash from fishing line, then you will be able to trace the foot steps of a pointing dog on the trail of a pheasant. He is not our primary goal when we hunt these fields, but certainly abundant enough to justify carrying a handful of heavier loads in you coat pockets.
