Nebraskaland Magazine
I am a bird hunter. Shaped by my experiences. A product of my surroundings. As I was growing up the opening of bird season was a grand celebration that rivaled any holiday gathering or football game. Family reunited, old friends came back and you even had a chance of running into an orange-vested celebrity or two. In fact, as a hunter you kinda felt like a celebrity with all the welcome signs and hunter breakfasts.
Read a couple (or more) of my past pre-bird season Blogs (Let the Bird Season Begin; A Sucker for Rings) and you will quickly see my passion for what is about to unfold. I measure my years by the start of each pheasant/quail opener – and a new year begins early tomorrow morning.
Come sunrise I will be found excitedly following the wagging end of a spaniel through roosting cover, anticipating the first flush of the season. However, when it happens there is still a good chance I will be caught off-guard. Perhaps it will take my brother shouting out “Rooster – Rooster!” to break me from my dream – this is the real.
Even with 28 openers already behind me I will have trouble falling asleep tonight. Especially with what I have read about increased bird numbers and what I have seen firsthand. But to be honest, I would be out there regardless of the predictions – lean year or banner year – I am bird hunter.
hershy
