Each fall, the governor of the great
state of South Dakota host his Invitational Pheasant Hunt. This is meant
to be a way to show off South Dakota's state bird, their pride and joy,
the wily pheasant. It's also a means of attracting some special guests
from out-of-state to look into the possibilities of investing money and
business into the state. Well, it worked. High-rollers from as far away
as New York to celebrate and join the hunt.
Now,
lots of these fellers were good hunters, but a lot (like yours truly)
couldn't hit a slow-moving freight train with a bucket of Pratt &
Lambert.
They split us into teams.
Mine was called Custer's Last Chance and Bugle Corps. They hauled us out
into the beautiful, rollin' grain fields in Tripp County halfway
between Dog Ear and Old Lodge Creek.
Very
quickly we formed into a cohesive family unit. If you've ever seen a
troop of baboons high on bus fumes, you'll be able to picture it. We
lined up in a company front at the end of a milo field. It was as
straight as a cracked windshield. At the signal from Wes, our team
leader, we invaded the field with the precision and practiced skill of
the Houston Oilers backfield coming ashore at the Bay of Pigs!
When
we reached the end of the field I caught up with Russ. Russ is a big
big feller. He had on camouflage pants, a fluorescent hunting jacket,
rubber boots and a yellow cap. He looked like a whitewater raft. He was
pointing out a Cadillac Limousine parked out in the field. One of the
South Dakota hosts had brought a load of celebrity hunters down in it.
We had been told that each team had a Fish & Game guide, a paramedic
and a radio dispatched helicopter pilot standing by at our immediate
service, so I didn't think it unusual for a funeral director to be on
call either.
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