PLATTE, S.D. -- The first truck showed up around 10:15, and as noon approached, the trickle of vehicles had became almost parade-like. Every driver and passenger wore orange, and nearly every pickup bed carried a dog crate or two.

 My nephew Todd Block and I sat on the tailgate of my F-150 as our three canine companions stretched their legs. A cold wind blew, and we'd have been warmer in the cab, but with possession being nine-tenths of the law, we wanted to stake out our territory in a visible way. After driving nearly 400 miles to experience our first South Dakota pheasant opener, we hoped to have at least a small piece of land to ourselves.

Our expectations were sky-high. I'd been looking forward to this hunt ever since I knocked down my first rooster, lost it, and then had my 2-year-old yellow Lab, Penny, find it 30 minutes later.

That was 10 years ago. Since then I've watched countless hunting videos that were filmed in South Dakota, including one in which an estimated 5,000 birds flushed in a minutes-long cascade from a single field. I've heard first-hand accounts of three-bird limits that were filled in less time than it takes to walk the length of a football field. But somehow I never found my way out west.

So, with Penny now in her 13th season, I decided there was no time to waste.

Todd and I considered booking a hunt with one of those all-inclusive guide services, but after a little research into the prices and our personal finances, we found that neither of us had $1,000 lying around for a three-day hunt. Instead, we opted to roll the dice on public land near Chamberlain.

It was a gamble, especially this year. As we drove through eastern South Dakota on Saturday, we saw nothing but unharvested crops and standing water. Great conditions for duck hunters, but the newspaper we picked up in Mitchell -- the pheasant-hunting capital of America -- declared "Pheasants may have edge as season opens."

Undeterred, we stuck with our plan. After just one wrong turn, we reached a fairly nondescript Game Production Area, 420 acres of sloughs, small ponds and a few chunks of chest-high grass. We had no idea if it contained a single pheasant, but at least there was no one else in sight. This was where our hunt would begin -- two hours later.

It turned out that dozens of other hunters had the same idea, but most saw our truck and moved on. One group pulled into a parking area a half-mile distant, but as Todd and I snapped shut our double-barrels and entered the grass, we were the kings of all we surveyed.

A fast start

The first 15 minutes felt awfully familiar to this hunter from pheasant-poor southeast Minnesota. Todd's English pointer, Gambel, loped through the tall grass while Penny and Gracie, Todd's black Lab, had to battle their way through it like bulldozers. They seemed as excited as we were, but the field was empty. We crested a hill and discovered there was less public land than we'd thought -- and, to make matters worse, some other hunters had come in by a back road, effectively cutting our territory in half.

Things weren't looking good.

Then we reached a large pond that was surrounded by swamp grass. I turned my head to follow Penny, then heard the crack of Todd's 20-gauge. The cover was too thick for me to see Gracie make the retrieve, but seconds later Todd stuffed a rooster into his vest.

As I walked over to see the bird, Penny flushed a hen and a rooster, which offered an easy 20-yard shot. After Penny found the bird, I looked at my watch. It was 12:18, and we had two pheasants in the bag.

Things were looking up.

The next hour was a blur of activity. Penny, apparently revitalized by having feathers in her mouth, ranged out a bit too far and flushed five roosters that cackled their displeasure as I offered a useless two-shot salute. We followed them, and Todd dropped one with a solid 40-yard shot.

Then came the highlight of the day, as Gambel, a first-time pheasant hunter, locked up on a bird deep in a slough. She held the point as Todd walked in, and I had a perfect view as the rooster flushed, then fell to Todd's second barrel. Gracie dashed in for the retrieve, and Todd, with three birds in his vest, declared himself satisfied.

"I'm done," he said. "I want to take pictures now."

We worked our way around the largest swamp we could find, and this time Gracie and Penny combined to roust a rooster that had sought refuge in some fallen timber. I knocked it down, and we were one bird from our limit.

Minutes later, I heard Todd shout, "Dang it!"

I looked over and started laughing. Gracie had found a rooster in the swamp, and rather than flushing, it had tried to burrow its way to safety. Not a good move. Our sixth bird would have no pellets in it, and our first day's hunt had lasted 90 minutes. It was almost too easy.

Hunting the breaks

On Sunday, we made it harder on ourselves. We'd read that the rugged Missouri River breaks near Chamberlain were home to sharptails and partridge, and we could hunt those birds before noon. It seemed like a brilliant plan, and a little scouting revealed that there was plenty of tall grass nearby when it came time to chase roosters.

We didn't see any sharptails or partridge that day, but we couldn't have cared less. The terrain was demanding, the views were stunning, and we had thousands of acres of public land to ourselves. When Gambel did go on point, a half-dozen roosters exploded from a grove of junipers, but all we could do was admire them and mutter. Shooting time for pheasants was nearly an hour away.

We worked our way down to the Missouri itself, and the dogs sought refuge in it against the 70-degree day. Deer tracks abounded, and we bumped a doe as we began the long climb toward higher ground.

Finally, shortly after noon, Gambel and Gracie found another rooster under a juniper, and Todd made an amazing shot as it flew down a steep ravine.

"That's the fastest flush I've ever seen!" he declared as Gracie delivered the bird.

That was the only rooster we took from the river valley, but we still had some daylight left. With legs aching from the hills we'd climbed, we made the 30-minute drive to the scene of the previous day's success. Much to our surprise, there were no hunters in sight.

"Must be home watching the Vikings," I said as we released the dogs. "That, or they just worked this land and every bird is back in the corn."

That wasn't the case. Twice Gambel pointed, twice I shot, and twice Gracie retrieved. Then Todd stepped into a slough that was smaller than a football field, and total chaos ensued.

"Hen. Hen. Hen. Hen. Hen. Hen. ... Rooster!"

I have no idea how many birds flushed. I do know that I emptied both barrels, hitting nothing but air, then watched as Todd dropped a long-tailed beauty.

It was enough. We were hot, and the dogs were hotter. My feet hurt, and we had a long drive ahead of us.

South Dakota had been everything we could have hoped for. We hadn't paid a king's ransom, yet we'd made a lifetime memory.

And yes, we're counting the days until we can go back.

Eric Atherton is the Post-Bulletin's outdoors editor. Contact him at eatherton@postbulletin.com.

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