Last Hunt with John

By Lucas Nogelmeier

Time spent outdoors helped soothe Lucas Nogelmeier's grieving soul after the death of his father-in-law. Photo by Dean Pearson

When we lose someone dear to us, we yearn for one more conversation, one more Christmas or one more smile. When I lost my father-in-law John Wiles in November of 2019, I wanted one more hunt with the man who took me on so many memorable outdoor excursions in South Dakota. Thankfully, we got it.

On my annual West River deer hunting trip, my phone rang with the news. My father-in-law had been in the hospital for several weeks. After many ups and downs, he ultimately suffered a setback and there was nothing keeping him alive beyond the machines. I loaded my gear and came home. I stayed with the kids, and my wife went to be with her mom and family. I could have gone, and maybe I should have, but I remembered my grandfather in the hospital during his final days and selfishly decided that wasn’t the memory I wanted to have of John. A little after 2 a.m., the call came. My father-in-law was at eternal rest.

I spent most of the following morning feeling sorry for myself, thinking of the times John and I shared. As most South Dakotans know, hunting isn’t about the harvest. It’s about the connection we feel when interacting with the outdoors. My hunting trips with John were no exception. I remembered watching the sunrise with him out at the Pass, our local hunting club near Watertown, where he would recall moments from his childhood, his early adulthood and as a new parent. His life was tethered to that spot and it was a gift to be there with him. My memories weren’t of bag limits or trophy animals. They were simply of being together.

Unable to clear my head, I grabbed my gun and loaded up my dog. It was a magnificent mid-November day, the perfect medicine for my soul. I didn’t care about shooting a pheasant. I just wanted to be outside with my yellow lab Sage, to feel the sunshine on my face and the grasses brushing the backs of my hands as I walked through the prairie.  

Using the Game, Fish and Parks map, I picked a spot I’d never hunted before. I arrived to find that cattle had grazed the ground so short it would be hard for a mouse to hide. Sage and I walked around the edge toward a slough to see what we could find. The property extended back into more public ground that had served as pasture but was fenced off and probably hadn’t been grazed in years. It was about 75 acres of overgrown feedlot.

It was a nightmare to walk through. The habitat was thick, layered and tall, but I knew it was prime hunting ground. About 10 yards in, Sage pointed and we dropped our first rooster. Another bird took flight. I kept an eye on where he landed, and Sage and I trudged over to the spot. As excited as we were to get to him, I slowed my pace. Soon my dog’s tail and demeanor indicated we were close. Sage moved north and I followed.

Watertown's John Wiles (far right) loved hunting, and used the outdoor experiences to impart life lessons to his family, including (from left) son-in-law Lucas Nogelmeier and daughters Amber Nogelmeier and Shannon Bahr.

And then it happened. It was one of those moments that people travel from all over the world to South Dakota to experience. Hens exploded from the ground like popcorn. There were roosters in front of me, behind me, next to me. Cackling and beating wings roared in my ears. I shot once, twice three times, and didn’t touch a feather on any of them. I didn’t have time to reload completely, so I threw a shell in the chamber and shot. And missed again. Pheasants kept flushing, so I threw in another shell and still I missed. No less than 75 birds were piled into an area the size of half a basketball court. My dog looked at me quizzically, and all I could hear was my father-in-law’s boisterous laugh. He had a laugh that rose above the crowd. Amidst my tears, I couldn’t help but laugh as well.

Sage and I headed to a spot where the habitat was a little lighter. I was hoping for easier walking, and maybe some water for my dog. Just before we reached the easier stuff, a rooster flushed. This time, I focused and put him on the ground. We made a beeline out of the nastiness and back to the grazed land.

I walked Sage over to the slough and busted a hole through the ice with my heel so she could drink. Naturally, she ignored the water and acted birdy. I imagined that any one of the horde of birds we flushed could have landed anywhere, even out here in the short grass. I wandered behind her as she worked back and forth into the wind. We were close to the truck, but I didn’t want to go home and I didn’t want to keep pressing for my limit. I simply needed to be outdoors. Just as food and water nourish the body, nature nourishes the soul.

I was deep in thought as Sage and I walked the edge of the slough. The shoreline wound its way back into the thick cover, and soon we came to the spot where we first entered the overgrown feedlot. Rather than jump back in, I walked the grazed outside and let Sage work the edge of the prairie wilds.

I strode slowly north, the ancient, overgrown pasture on my right and the setting sun on my left. Geese honked above and two deer ambled out of the trees while I tried to wrap my head around losing someone who held such an exalted place in my life. Then Sage flushed a rooster about 30 yards into the mess, but I just didn’t feel like shooting. The purples, blues and greens radiated from the bird, and the scene was so idyllic that it seemed better just to admire.

Up ahead, the public land cut off and on the other side was an alfalfa field. Our hunt would soon be over. Fifty yards to go, then 20, then 10. And quiet. Sage and I stop. Tears began to pour down my cheeks again. I knew what was coming. My dog knew it too, and I could feel my father-in-law’s hand on my shoulder. My word for Sage to break point is “okay.” I let it out and Sage pounced. I heard the wingbeats before I saw the pheasant rise above the habitat, colors ablaze. Deliberately, I pulled the gun up and made a good shot. I knelt, sobbing, and Sage returned with the bird in her mouth.

For most of the day, I had been grieving, desperately wishing for one more hunt with my father-in-law. It was on my knees on the South Dakota prairie, my dog by my side and a limit of roosters in the vest that I realized this was that hunt. I didn’t want it to end, so we stayed a moment, together in spirit, in prayer and thanksgiving.

The same warm, November sun shone a bit brighter as we headed back to the truck, and my grief had been replaced with gratitude. A small trickle of water ran amidst the pasture, and Sage found the muddiest place to lie down and cool off. I typically try to keep her out of the mud, but if she’s willing to let me do the easy walking while she busts through the hard stuff to flush pheasants, I think it’s fair to let her wallow in the muck. She stepped out looking two-tone with mud covering every square inch from the middle of her belly and down. And I heard John laugh once more.

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the November/December 2020 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.