Tail End

- Phil Bourjaily

ALWAYS GO ON the last day. It’s one of my rules, and it goes double when the last day of the season is as cold as this one. Nothing puts the brakes on running pheasants like hard weather.

The only problem is that for the first 20 minutes of a late-season hunt, my fingers are too weak and numb to push off a safety. They throb for a few endless minutes as the blood starts pumping. It’s excruciating, but a small price to pay for the best hunting of the year.

Once my hands return to normal, we start looking for birds in earnest. My German short hair, Jed, is unfazed by cold. Constant motion keeps him warm. Except now he’s frozen—but in the right way, on point in front of a snow-covered deadfall. Kicking the branches, I hear rustling inside, and Jed breaks to dive under the brush. It’s not classic dog work, but it’s effective. A rooster bursts out the far side. It gets out to 20 yards before I decide it’s far enough to shoot without tearing it up.