As a kid, I lived for fall and winter pheasant hunting outings with my grandfather and my uncles.
I was too young at the time to man a shotgun, so I, my brothers and my cousins became de facto retrievers. My grandfather grew up along the Nebraska border with Colorado, and he knew every grain and cornfield, and he knew the farmers who owned them. On warmer days during hunting season, we’d ride in the back of Granddad’s old Chevy pickup and slowly cruise the back roads gazing hopefully into borrow pits in hopes of spotting a ringneck.
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