Sparkle fades for pheasant season opener

Skunked on opening day of pheasant season?

Could that happen to four experienced and at least modestly skilled hunters accompanied by three excellent dogs in a land that little more than a decade ago was known as the pheasant hunting capital of the world?

It has not happened yet, but with the astonishingly rapid disappearance of the popular game bird from Iowa's increasingly habitat-free landscape, this could be the year.

With Iowa's August roadside pheasant index at a record low seven birds per 30-mile route, home fields no longer hold any advantage for us. It helps little to know all the pheasants' preferred haunts and escape routes when the haunts have been converted to row crops and there are few pheasants left to escape.

During the past three seasons, our first forays into the familiar fields surrounding Quasqueton have yielded nine roosters for hunting parties that have ranged from four to seven people. Birds per hour of hunter effort becomes a depressing if not meaningless stat when the key number is preceded by a decimal and a zero.

On Wednesday evening, while rounding up my gear for Saturday's 2011 pheasant opener, I noticed that I had only 14 rounds of suitable ammunition. Ten years ago that discovery would have launched me in a panic to the nearest store to reload. But in these straitened times, I felt confident that such a meager pocketful of powder and shot would last me not only through the opening weekend, but also through the season, with some likely left over to bequeath as a curiosity to my grandson.

Still, if I know my hunting buddies - Arthur Clark, Terry Franck and Tyler Franck, all of Quasqueton - we will not be merely going through the motions, paying homage to a faded tradition, on opening day.

After a sleep-disturbed night featuring visions of gaudy roosters clamoring for altitude over golden fields of grass, we will shove off at 8 a.m. with shotguns at port arms, our own enthusiasm ratcheted up to a level almost matching that of the eager dogs.

How long that optimism lasts remains to be seen.

Arthur's wife Shirley, a realist and a firm believer in productive activity, has long maintained that our regular hunting party wastes more time than Congress.

Whereas she once thought we were merely foolish, our persistence in the face of diminishing returns has prompted her to reclassify us as stupid.

We plead nolo contendere, but like most recidivists, we will reoffend.