All-In on a North Dakota Combo Bird Hunt

“Pack a mask,” my wife reminded me as I packed bags and double-checked gear.

Prepping for hunting trip in 2020 required more than masking-up in a blind. With an ongoing pandemic, my friend Tom and I had to shield our faces from the moment we arrived at Philadelphia International Airport on our way to North Dakota. We were heading to Rolling Plains Adventures at the Black Leg Ranch in McKenzie for four days of hunting ducks, geese and pheasants, connecting with Tom’s friend Brian from North Carolina.

Our transit proved to be remarkably smooth, with no security lines and largely empty planes. The flight approach into Bismarck revealed a tan and brown landscape, with shriveled patches of water on the famed potholes of the Upper Midwest. The rolling plains were struggling with a major rainfall deficit that was not helpful for farmers, ranchers or waterfowlers.

But waterfowl hunters tilt toward optimism. We looked forward to a forecast calling for temperature drops and persistent northwest winds to send down a push of fresh ducks from the Canadian prairie.

Remarkably, our flight landed early, and our bags arrived intact. We stood in the near-vacant arrivals area, with three hours to kill before Brian and other hunters would arrive for a collective pick-up by the ranch shuttle bus. Tom and I adapted to the situation. A short Uber ride delivered us a mile down the road to a local sports bar. There we found a welcoming crowd … of two people. Jennifer stood behind the bar serving Todd, her lone customer. We also spotted the first sign that our destination was close. Black Leg Creme Ale, brewed at the ranch, was on tap.

After a few drinks, a five-meat pizza and conversation with Larry, who replaced Todd in the customer rotation, our ride arrived for the 25-minute commute to the ranch. Brian was accompanied on the bus by two surgeons from Mississippi and Georgia and their sons. Everyone was excited at the prospects of chasing birds across the mile-long fields and fabled sloughs of North Dakota.

Pulling into the Rolling Plains Adventures facility was a welcoming sight, though it had changed a bit since my last visit five years ago. The log-cabin-style main lodge, with its large porch overlooking the ranch, was as inviting as ever. But the Doan family was diversifying from a hunting-only destination. Several wedding reception facilities and a brewery now graced the ranch.

Jeremy, the wise-cracking face of Rolling Plains Adventures, greeted us in the main lodge. He and his siblings Shanda, Jason and Jay, along with parents Jerry and Renee, have worked hard to turn Rolling Plains into a top-notch destination for small- and big-game hunters. Arrival day was spent completing paperwork, meeting other hunters, connecting with guides, finding the case of ammo we had shipped to the ranch, and familiarizing ourselves with the facilities.

Since we arrived on a Tuesday, which is not a high-turnover day like Wednesday or Saturday, rooms were in short supply. After dinner we shuttled 20 minutes away to South Ranch for the necessary inconvenience of one night in temporary quarters.

The night before our opening day was predictably marked by tossing, turning and a too-early wake-up. Tom was making coffee and eggs at 3am, stirring me from a sleep as unrestful as Christmas Eve for a six-year-old. Charlie, a hard-working greenhorn from Minnesota, was coming at 4:30am to deliver us back to the main lodge to hook up with our guide and head off to our first hunt.

Awaiting our arrival inside the main lodge were Emily and Zach, a honeymooning couple from upstate New York who would hunt with us for a few days. We grabbed some coffee, pulled on waders and rechecked our blind bags on the porch steps.

How much mud are we talking about?

“What’s the plan, Eel-an,” said Tom, kicking off his non-stop ribbing of our guide Alan, a 20-something from North Carolina who led Tom and Brian into the field two years ago. The morning’s plan was to head to a nearby slough where ducks were concentrating. On the drive to the pothole, Alan filled us in on an important detail that was omitted on the porch.

“We’re gonna’ have to walk through a little mud to get to the spot,” he said. With rainfall scarce, the water level had dropped too low for a boat. Tom’s face showed concern mixed with despair.

“Aw, come on,” he blurted out, eyes rolling and head tilting back. “How much mud are we talking about?”

Everyone in the truck laughed at Tom’s dismay. He followed up by reminding Alan of the mock “demerit system” that our young guide was operating under.

“Don’t forget, I have a tip in mind that you start with,” joked Tom. “Every mess-up is a demerit. You can only go down.”

In an attempt to cheer up — and distract — Tom, I proposed a series of bets to add more interest to the week. The daily bets included shooting a banded bird; making the longest and shortest shots; and the first to shoot a limit of pheasants. Downed birds would have to be clearly harvested by the shooter alone, and we would rely on the honor system as judge and jury.

Alan turned into a field at the northwest end of the slough, driving us as close as the softening ground would allow. We climbed out of the truck and geared up for a walk to a mark on his phone app. The last member of the group to join was Ace, Alan’s black lab.

The first 100 yards were an easy single-file walk over firm ground, our headlamps pointing the way through a game trail in the high marsh grasses. Then we hit the edge of the water. The depth ranged from six to 12 inches deep, with underlying mud that permitted slow but steady movement — at first. Heading further into the pothole, the softening mud became a boot-sucking slog.

In addition to blind bags and shotguns, each of us also carried marsh seats or knots of decoys. After fighting through 300 yards of mud, we reached our destination — almost. After consulting with the phone, Alan realized that we reached a small cove 130 yards short of our final spot. Everyone paused, sitting down at the edge of the impenetrable cattails to muster the energy needed to continue our mud march.

About 10 minutes later, Ace, Alan, Brian and I set foot on a small grass-covered island. Looking back, we could see two more headlamps as the honeymooners lagged about 30 yards back. Brian and I removed our coats to cool off in the chilly morning air as Alan dropped decoys into the shallow water. Emily and Zach trudged in. But looking back, none of us could see Tom’s light.

“Uh-oh, Alan,” I said. “Tom is going to show up like Bad Santa bringing a sack of demerits.”

Our laughs turned riotous when Brian added “he’s bringing a barrel of hate.”

Despite the jokes, we were concerned to not see Tom coming. I half-heartedly asked whether I should go back to make sure he’s okay. Fortunately, a lamp popped into sight as Tommy reached the edge of the last 30 yards of open water.

“Holy sh — ,” said Tom, dropping his gear to the ground. “You’re not supposed to burn out clients on the first morning, Alan.”

Our guide worked quickly to finish setting decoys and drop in the Mojo. With about 10 minutes until shooting time, everyone settled into their positions at the top point of the island. A quiet fell over the group as we looked up to the slowly awakening sky.

“Birds right. Birds left. Bird in front,” we started to remark. “Are we legal, yet?” someone asked.

Alan declared us legal and began to call. Small flocks of mixed-bag ducks circled around us, interspersed with marsh birds. Finally, a group of teal came into range behind us. Brian and the newlyweds turned and shot. One teal fell, dropped by Brian’s Benelli. Besides bragging rights for shooting the first duck, Tom and I each owed him $20 for the drop. The skunk was off. We slowly added to the harvest, despite watching ducks frequently land in the middle of the slough.

As the morning progressed, the winds picked up appreciably as an expected front advanced from the northwest. The upside was the hope of a push of fresh migrators. The downside was watching the water slowly move to the opposite shoreline. The waterline progressively widened a mud flat that stranded our decoys.

Around mid-morning, large flocks of pintails began to work our decoys hard. “Remember, we can only shoot two more,” said Alan, reminding us of the one-per-person limit as we looked at three pintails on the strap.

“Well that’s generally when people end up accidentally shooting at least three,” I responded. Alan didn’t find humor in the remark. “Two,” he repeated.

Two groups locked up and then flared as they approached the mud line beyond shooting range. It was at that point that we decided to call it quits. The winds were not changing, so the water wasn’t coming back. With six teal, six spoonies, three mallards and three pintails in the bag, it was not a bad morning. But that was about to change.

For the next 45 minutes, we crossed a nearly 500-yard quagmire back to solid land. Each of us fell in the mud — repeatedly. By the time we reached the truck, every bit of our equipment was covered in mud, and the ducks were indistinguishable from each other.

My parting remark for the morning summed up the mood. “So, other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?”

Our return to the ranch included a stop to hose off our waders, coats, blind bags, ducks, etc. Everything needed a cleaning, including shotguns.

Lunch was a blur. We were so hungry that it didn’t matter what was served. We just wanted to eat and relax. Tom decided to extend his relaxation straight through a prolonged nap.

“Forget pheasants,” he said. “My legs are done.”

It wasn’t necessarily a bad decision. Emily, Zach, Brian and I spent the afternoon trying to flush pheasants from road and field edges, doing our best to avoid trudging through the dense cattails. All of us were beat, and only Tom had the sense to kick back. Brian shot the only pheasant of the day, and then we were shot, too.

Just watching them

Thursday started full of hope and optimism. With water in short supply in the potholes, we went in another direction.

“We’re gonna’ hit a field where we’ve scouted a load of geese feeding,” said Alan. “It’s about 30 minutes from here.”

We headed east in two vehicles, towing a ton of gear in a trailer. Our destination was an immense harvested corn field. We drove into the middle, setting up on the edge of a fence row bordered by brush. We prepped for nearly an hour, brushing blinds and setting out a load of Canadian goose silhouettes mixed with some full-body Canadian and speckle-belly decoys.

And then we waited. And waited some more. Geese were plentiful in the air. And they were landing in the field … 150 yards from us. Group after group pitched in all around us. Charlie and Alan called their hearts out, but to no avail. The geese continued to land at the other side of a swale. We were set low and the birds went high.

“What the #%$!, Alan,” said Tom. “Is this a PETA field? Demerit!”

We debated whether we should ‘Elmer Fudd’ the geese, a low-percentage endeavor that we decided was ridiculous given the lack of cover on the open field. Finally, after two hours of watching, listening and waiting, the geese lifted off. They circled. And then went back down in the same spot.

Another group came toward us. One Canadian goose landed in the decoys. And we got greedy, hopeful that more would follow. None did, and the lone single snuck away without a shot fired.

“When are we calling this?” I asked.

The time-honored waterfowler’s reply came back. “Give it another 20 minutes.” Finally, mercifully, geese lifted off.

“They’re coming this way,” someone said as a large flock of Specklebelly geese approached. Then second thoughts set in.

“If we want to come back tomorrow, we shouldn’t blow up the field for one flight of birds,” Alan interjected.

“So, we’re going to just watch them?” asked Tom. “Is that what we’re going to do?”

That’s what we did. Two groups gave us good angles and ample opportunity. But we watched in anticipation of returning another day, returning to the ranch without a shot fired.

Do you smell that?

Lunch was spent debating why we let geese pass and whether it was the right decision. The answers didn’t matter. It was time to spend an afternoon chasing pheasants. Before venturing out, Tom asked Alan if Jeremy had upland ammo for sale.

“I’m looking for Remington Express three-inch, number-four loads,” said Tom. “Do you know the ones I’m talking about? They come in a green and yellow box. Number four.”

Alan looked back, almost expressionless, and calmly said “Yeah, Tom. I’ll walk down to the ranch ammo shop to see if it’s in inventory.”

Our five-hunter group piled on a yellow school bus along with four guys from Montana and Washington. Alan, Ethan and Andy guided us, accompanied by Gator, a springer spaniel, and Scout, a short-haired pointer. The “ammo shop” armed everyone with Federal #5 two-and-three-quarter-inch high-brass loads. The ride to our first field was short, and a call went out to volunteers to serve as blockers.

“Me,” Tom volunteered, adeptly avoiding a long walk in the field. He and another blocker rode our yellow school bus about a mile more to the end of the field. The rest of us piled off and climbed under a barbwire fence to work the field.

We methodically picked our way through a combination of cover crop and weeds that ranged from knee high to near chest high in some places. Gator and Scout did a fantastic job, regularly going on point and flushing pheasants. Game bags slowly filled up as the group did a nice job of bringing down nearly every rooster that jumped up.

As Brian and I walked next to each other, we stopped at one point to let the dogs do their work.

“Do you smell that?” Brian asked.

“Oh my god, yeah,” I responded. Neither of us saw the skunk, but the smell was unmistakable and over-powering. And then Gator passed.

“Wow,” I laughed. “The dog definitely got it.” As we pressed further down the field, heading into the wind, the smell of skunked dog assaulted us constantly. Reaching the end of the field, the blockers caught the scent.

“Ethan,” said Tom. “You’re going to have to tie that dog to a fence post and come back to get him with a pickup truck.”

Everyone except Ethan found humor in the comment. “No way. He’ll ride in the back of the bus, in a crate.”

The entire crew moved over to an adjacent field to work back to the other end. We took several more pheasants before reaching the bus. The first to hop through the open door was Gator, dutifully sitting in the driver’s seat.

“Who’s sitting in that seat?” Tom exclaimed.

“You’ll never get that smell out of the bus.”

Tom was right. We gagged through the ride to the last field where several of us hit our three-pheasant limit for the day.

The beginning of a new cold front brought a brief but heavy pelting of hail as the day drew to an end.

I’m out! I’m out!

With many of the potholes dried up, the best chance to find birds looking for water required a new tactic on day three of our trip. Several vehicles pulling boats left the ranch and headed for the Missouri River. About 45 minutes later, we launched two boats and sped up-river.

The Missouri River was looking tired from the drought, the water level several feet below normal. Rather than a single broad expanse of water, the river was a series of narrow channels divided by exposed sandbars forming ad hoc islands, some sparsely covered with marsh grasses. After a brief ride, we found our island paradise and unloaded gear as the clear night sky yielded to the sunrise.

We settled into a thatch of grass and erected panel blinds in front of us. From there a 10-yard stretch of sand led to channel of water about 40 yards wide before the next bar started. Alan set mixed-bag clumps of duck decoys to the left and right, with a few goose floaters and silhouettes mixed in for visibility. A spinning-wing Mojo completed the look.

Small groups of ducks began to traffic up and down the river. While the numbers were not overwhelming, our five-person group was encouraged. As ducks began to work our spread, they would repeatedly circle and then bug out, heading further up the river.

“Birds keep coming over us, but they aren’t landing. When do we want to call the shot?” I asked. Tom harkened back to yesterday’s goose hunt. “Let’s just watch them and then come back tomorrow.”

Everyone roared with laughter as our attention returned to the sky.

“Here comes a couple of big ducks,” someone alerted. Two gadwalls circled us and then started to set on our left side, giving Emily and Zach the first chance of the morning. They made nice shots and brought down one of the birds.

“Good job, Top Gun,” I said, noting Emily’s newly acquired nickname. Ace retrieved a beautifully feathered grey duck. And then the action slowed, sort of. Ducks were in the air, but they kept landing on the other side of the sandbar across from us, well out of shooting range. Ever restless and never hesitant to try a new approach, I offered a suggestion.

“Why don’t we see if we can wade across that cut and move to the spot where the ducks keep landing? It’s not far at all.”

Alan offered to test the waters. Literally. He slowly waded into the shallows, taking cautious steps. He stopped and looked into the clear flowing water, taking a careful half-step forward. Suddenly he went from knee-deep to belly deep water. In that short moment, everyone drew a breath. Except for Tom.

“I’m out! I’m out!” he immediately blurted out.

“The second Mike suggested it, I knew it was a bad idea,” Tom continued. “No way I’m going out there. I’m out.”

Everyone reflexively rolled with laughter. Brian was in tears. “All of us would have been debating in our heads if we wanted to do it, but you said that so fast.”

Alan agreed that moving was a bad idea, and we settled back into the routine of watching birds give us wide berth. Not all was lost as several groups buzzed the tower. We took several ones and twos, bringing a total of seven puddlers into the blind. Ace made several long retrieves, showing his waterfowling mettle.

As the morning dragged on, the group started to see mirages in the distance. “Are those geese?” was answered by Alan with “No — cormorants.” Not everyone heard the answer. Tom opened up with an impassioned series notes on his goose call.

“Is that your cormorant call?” Alan asked. When Tom indicated that he didn’t hear the conversation, Alan completed his thought on the merits of cormorant calling.

“You get a demerit, Tom.”

Shortly after that comment, a collective decision was made to pack it up and head back down river.

After a routine lunch, the group enjoyed an afternoon of pheasant hunting that proved as fruitful as the previous day, minus a skunk-spraying. Everyone in the ten-person group carried pheasants in their game bag, and half of us took limits reliably retrieved by Scout and Piper, a peppy little Brittany spaniel. The rolling plains continued to be good to us.

Winds of change

Saturday morning dawned with light snow and freezing temperatures indicative of North Dakota’s mercurial October weather. In addition to the changing weather, the flow of the day switched. Hunting would not begin until 8:30 am as we planned to head out for a morning of upland birds.

The relaxed pace allowed us to start the day slowly. Walking into the main lodge, I noticed four new faces. While the weekend typically sees a turnover, it was unusual to have new hunters arrive so early in the morning. We exchanged friendly greetings and introductions, asking the obligatory question “where are you from?”

“Just finished our drive in from Pennsylvania,” responded one of the four.

“I’m from PA, too,” I said. “Bucks County.”

“Get out of here! We’re from Doylestown.” The group of four drove nearly 1600 miles for almost 24 hours straight from a town 10 miles from where Tom and I live. Despite an early arrival, they would have to wait until the following day, so we didn’t have a chance to head into the field together.

With the honeymooners headed back home, Tom, Brian and I were matched with a four-man group from Texas. The seven of us were led afield by Ethan and Allan along with Scout, a shorthaired pointer named Mack, and a black lab named Mack. We piled into a white bus that lacked the stench of skunk.

The group tackled several fields, making our way through ground cover topped with a light layer of snow. I was glad that I packed waterproof boots. Tom was regretting his decision to not do the same.

As the morning moved along, the birds piled up as everyone knocked down birds. In fact, the group shot exceedingly well. By 11am, five of us had limits and others each had two in the bag.

Lunch was a quick turnaround with barely any time for naps. The afternoon plan called for us to drive more than one hour east to hunt geese and ducks. One of the guides, Nick, scouted a massive feeder field earlier in the week.

The plan called for us to put out a huge spread of goose silhouette and full-body decoys, interspersed with mallard decoys, with ground blinds laid out in front of a row of corn stubble. Nick’s group of four was joined by threesomes from Ethan and Alan in the midst of dropping temperatures and heavy northwest winds.

As the sun slowly moved west, the group looked east. Small and sparse flocks of ducks began to take flight, often heading to a pond about a quarter mile downwind from our spot. It felt like the “X” was going to elude us again. Finally, flights of mallards and geese increased in size and frequency, taking notice of our spread. But noticing didn’t translate into landing. The wind shifted slightly, making the spread less accommodating.

“They don’t like something,” I said.

The birds weren’t flaring, which made us feel good about our concealment, but neither ducks nor geese would drop between the decoys. Nick hopped out of his blind and moved several decoys around. Ducks and geese filled the air around us but getting them to commit continued to present a challenge. Finally, the guides began to call pass shots and downed mallards slowly accumulated.

Eventually, geese started to work the decoys, as well. The highlight of the hunt was a flight of three Specklebelly geese that gave us a picture-perfect approach on our side of the line. Tom, Brian and I fired, bringing down all three birds, one of which was a trophy with contrasting bars on the underside. Over the remainder of the hunt, a total of three Canadian geese were taken along with eight mallards.

By the time we picked up the sizable spread and made it back to camp, it was nearly 9:00 in the evening. Thankfully, Shanda kept the kitchen open so that we could enjoy a late dinner before heading back to the cabin to pack our bags for the morning flights home.

Despite the weather-impeded waterfowling, the hunting at Rolling Plains Adventures was a resounding success. Hitting the plains in October during the opening week of non-resident pheasant hunting hedges your bet that upland birds will be plentiful. And everyone at Rolling Plains, from guides to lodge staff, works tirelessly to make sure that clients have the best experience possible. Every reasonable attempt is made to put you on birds. Inside the lodge, there is no shortage of creature comforts and the Doan family makes you feel right at home.

Even our return transit provided a final bit of comic relief.

“Get a load of this,” said Tom as two guys in full camo exited Bismarck airport security. “I think they just came straight from the marsh.”

Apparently, some hunters go beyond all-in for their North Dakota hunting experience.