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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.

Upland hunting fall 2019 Grouse Pheasant
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Pheasant Tales from South Dakota

By Katie Hunhoff

Redfield recently celebrated the 100th anniversary of South Dakota’s first official pheasant hunt. Hundreds of men and women marched the cornfields of Spink County and then gathered for a prime rib dinner and some wonderful storytelling. The festive event prompted us to remember some of our favorite pheasant tales from the last 35 years of publishing South Dakota Magazine.

Madison wildlife artist John Green once told us the story of when he went afield with some out-of-state sportsmen who had only seen jackalopes in pictures and gift shops. As they neared the end of a corn row, a jackrabbit with tall ears — but, needless to say, no antlers — jumped from the corn and hopped away. One of the hunters yelled out,”Don’t shoot! It’s a doe!”

Lots of famous people have come to South Dakota to hunt pheasants. That makes for some interesting conversations, especially for the Zoss family. Adolf Zoss was hunting near Letcher in 1945 when an old Ford came down a dirt road. It was Lawrence Welk, the famous champagne music man, with members of his band. Welk asked Adolf if he knew where there might be birds, and the South Dakotan gladly guided them to several of his favorite spots.

Zoss couldn’t wait to tell his wife, Amelia, but unfortunately neither she or any of their 11 children believed him because he was known for telling stories.

As Welk gained greater fame and a national TV audience, Zoss told and retold the story to his doubting family until he died in 1957.

Imagine his survivors’ surprise, however, when an issue of Lawrence Welk Magazine was published in 1968 with stories about Welk’s days in the Dakotas and a picture and story about a successful pheasant hunt. There on page 56 was a photo of Welk with a shotgun, and sitting in the old Ford were his band members and a slightly bemused Adolf Zoss. No doubt they all had a”wunnerful” time.

The Brooklyn Dodgers came to Winner to hunt pheasants in the 1930s. After quickly limiting on birds, the players were looking for more to do so the hotel manager suggested they talk to David Busk, who told them about rattlesnake hunting. Busk was known for eradicating more than 3,000 rattlesnakes to protect local children. He took the ballplayers to the White River valley where they caught and killed quite a few snakes. The players came back for several years to help Busk in his mission, giving double meaning to the old Dodger saying,”Wait’til next year!”

Peggy Schiedel of Yankton remembers meeting Cary Grant when he came to their Faulkton farm to hunt. He was a friend of her uncle, who was a Navy captain in California.”My brothers and I slept in the mudroom so our guests could have our bedrooms, but we were still thrilled to have them because they brought boxes of La Fama Candy.” She says Grant taught them how to walk on stilts, and he showed her dad how to build them.

Monte James, a South Dakota farm broadcaster on the Ag Network, once guided some Coca Cola executives from Atlanta on a hunt near Vivian. Despite their enthusiasm, the Southerners couldn’t hit the proverbial barn. But they were determined to get some birds. Finally, James and his dog Ice Cream flushed some pheasants in some very high grass and the hunters emptied their shotguns to no avail. But James hollered,”You knocked a couple down!”

Then he and Ice Cream disappeared into the brush to look for the birds. He stealthily pulled a few birds from his own pouch. He sent one with Ice Cream and he carried the other himself. The hunters were giddy with excitement and left James a big tip, which he used in part to buy Ice Cream a buffalo ribeye.

Out-of-state hunters do, unfortunately, become the inspiration for some of our pheasant humor but they probably don’t mind — at least not any more than we mind the joke about the South Dakota cowboy who traveled to Kansas to see the Statue of Liberty.

These past 100 pheasant hunting seasons have been all about having a fun time and turning strangers into friends. Here’s to another 100 years, humor and all.

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The Winter Deer Hunt

By John Andrews

Deer are the most popular big game species hunted in South Dakota. The state earns nearly $4.8 million annually in license revenue. Photo by Jesse Brown Nelson.

We arrived just before the sun crested the eastern horizon. A small propane heater buzzed in the corner of the 4-by-8-foot shack, softening the bite of a 29-degree late November morning.

Our eyes strained through cloudy windows into the thick shelterbelt, watching for any movement. A hen pheasant clucked furiously somewhere inside the tangle of cottonwoods. A squirrel pounced back and forth between tiny branches that barely held his weight.

Our silent vigil was aided by 6 inches of snow that had fallen the week before. The draws and valleys, normally a monotone late autumn brown, were filled with white, making the deer we sought even more visible.

Deer are by far the most popular big game species hunted in South Dakota. Deer license sales, on average, are about three times greater than all other big game licenses, and generate $4.8 million annually in license fee revenue. In 2015, about 61,000 South Dakotans (7.5 percent of the population) and another 6,850 non-residents hunted deer in the state.

For many families, the winter deer hunt is a long held and cherished tradition. That’s what brought us to this deer blind on a farmstead north of Henry, in the far western edge of Codington County — to pass that tradition along to my son Joe, a newly licensed 12-year-old, experiencing his first hunt.

The hunt was a lesson in patience. Not a single deer appeared in the first hour of daylight, although we knew this stand of trees was a favored spot. Just three days earlier, a fine 4-by-4 had been harvested from this very shelterbelt. And two weeks earlier we watched two trophy bucks chase several does up the ridge on the far side of the trees. One of them stopped, alerted by the faintest of sounds coming from our hiding spot, and stared in our direction for what seemed an eternity.

As the sun finally peeked over the tops of low-lying clouds to our backs, the gnarled cottonwoods were bathed in golden light. Stubble in the field off to the south began to lose its coat of frost. A thin layer of fog formed over a small pond just beyond the trees, and slowly burned away as the sun rose higher into the sky. But no deer. More than once, Joe’s attention turned to his iPhone and a rousing game of Brain Dots to stem the boredom.

Just before 9 a.m., we saw three does trotting south to north through the trees. My young hunter quietly opened the hinged window and rested the barrel of his rifle on the ledge.”Shoot the last one,” our guide whispered. Nervous anticipation filled the shack. He had done well shooting at targets in the farmyard, but what would happen now that an actual deer stood in his crosshairs? For some hunters, this is the moment they learn that they simply can’t pull the trigger, despite the desire and preparation.

A shot rang out — but not from us. A hunter somewhere to our south had spied his own prize. The deer froze for an instant, and then ran north into thicker trees. The opportunity was lost.

Once again, we waited. Two young bucks wandered into a clearing from the east, but since Joe’s tag allowed only the harvest of one antlerless deer we watched as they jumped the barbed wire fence with ease and trotted into the trees.

At 9:40, we called it a morning, much to Joe’s disappointment. Deer are most active in the hours immediately around dawn and dusk, bedding down for much of the bright daylight hours. Later, we would have another chance.

Joe Andrews, a newly-licensed 12-year-old, discovered that the winter deer hunt can be a lesson in patience as he waited in the deer shack west of Watertown with uncle Eric Johnson.

The first written record of deer hunting by European explorers came in 1804, when Meriwether Lewis killed two mule deer at the mouth of the White River. Deer were abundant when homesteaders began flooding into Dakota Territory in the 1860s, which meant they were a steady food source for families eking out a sparse existence on the frontier. Deer numbers dropped so drastically that in 1883 the territorial legislature banned hunting from Jan. 1 to Sept. 1, hoping to help herds recover.

The animals rebounded, but slowly. More stringent legislation in the early 1900s and creation of the state Game, Fish and Parks Department in 1909 aided deer populations. A structured deer season was reintroduced in 1929, when 2,000 residents were given licenses to hunt in the Black Hills. An East River season was added in 1947, followed by a West River Prairie season in 1952. Deer hunting in South Dakota reached record levels in 2010, when 81,478 hunters purchased 128,250 licenses to hunt deer, resulting in a harvest of 95,000 animals. Today South Dakota offers separate seasons for archery, muzzleloaders and youth, among others, all under the watchful eye of Game, Fish and Parks, the agency tasked with ensuring South Dakota’s deer herds remain healthy and plentiful. At last count, 426,000 whitetails and 116,500 mule deer roamed the state.

We returned at 4:10 p.m., with 41 minutes of daylight left and 71 minutes to hunt. It was 46 degrees; no need for the heater. Now, as we faced west, we stared into the brightly setting sun. There wasn’t a breath of wind. A squirrel — maybe the same one we saw just hours earlier — leapt from thin branch to thin branch, evoking a sense of dÈj‡ vu.

But this wasn’t a repeat of our morning in the blind. After barely more than 30 minutes, three deer ambled along the fence line. Again, the window quietly opened. We watched as they nosed through the undergrowth, pausing every now and then to sniff the air and listen for sounds that didn’t belong.

Joe trained his attention on the large deer in the rear, waiting for it to emerge from the brush. Silence filled the blind. The deer stepped forward and raised its head.

The loud crack of his rifle shot reverberated throughout the small confines of the shack. Two deer turned and ran, while the third reared up on its back legs. It cleared the barbed wire, stumbled and fell no more than 20 feet into the clearing. It was 4:51. Sunset.

Another November is now upon us; talk of returning to the blind has permeated suppertime conversations for several weeks. Joe was lucky enough to secure an East River buck tag for 2019, in addition to his youth tag. His trophy buck roams this very morning somewhere in the trees of Codington County. Soon, we’ll be back for another season among the squirrels, pheasants and the chill of a late autumn day.

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the November/December 2017 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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A New Look

By John Andrews

The problem stared Jordan Deutsch in the face as he sat in the cab of his tractor. Deutsch is an avid waterfowl hunter whose farm lies just outside the Langford city limits. He always believed the camouflage he wore was too dark to blend well with the fields of corn stubble that he and his friends hunt every fall. So he started taking pictures of corn and contacted a graphic designer who helped him devise his Killer Korn pattern.

Capturing the intricacies of corn in its various stages proved challenging.”It’s lighter in the spring and more yellow in fall,” Deutsch says.”I took pictures of wet corn that had been rained on, combined corn. Some brands are more red than others, or more yellow.”

After three years of tweaking the pattern, he found a company in New Jersey that could reproduce it on clothing, and Deutsch’s Fallin’ Fowl Camo brand was born. It’s now appearing on blinds and other outdoor gear and is available at rchuntingstore.com, a retailer based in Aberdeen, or through Deutsch’s Fallin’ Fowl Camo Facebook page.

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the September/October 2017 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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Our 100th Pheasant Party

By Katie Hunhoff

Families gather every autumn to walk the fields in search of ringneck pheasants. But the season has become as much about fellowship as bagging birds. Photo by Chad Coppess/S.D. Tourism.

Just imagine that we all dress alike for one autumn weekend in South Dakota. We cook big pots of chili and make ham sandwiches and taverns (or sloppy joes, if you prefer). We invite family and friends and retired baseball stars to go for long walks with us through the fields and weeds.

We bring our dogs and we take rides in the back of grandpa’s old pickup truck. We tell stories and enjoy the sunshine and blue skies of October in South Dakota.

Wouldn’t that be the perfect weekend?

Of course, I am describing the opening weekend of pheasant season. It would be a special occasion with or without 6 million pheasants. This year, there actually may be even more. Our wildlife experts predict there’s a 47 percent increase. But few of us are counting. This is the 100th consecutive”opening day” in South Dakota, and the hunt is no longer all about the birds. It’s a festival of our grand outdoors.

To commemorate the centennial hunt, we devoted much of our September/October issue to stories. We didn’t have to do much hunting. Just about everybody has a pheasant tale.

Sen. John Thune told us of the day he was hunting with a group that included Twins slugger Kent Hrbek. They knocked on a farmer’s door to ask permission to hunt, and as it turned out the man happened to be watching a replay of Hrbek’s dramatic home run in Game Six of the’87 World Series.

“He wasn’t that pleased to meet me,” laughs Thune.”But Hrbek got it done for us.”

We learned that the Dunse family of Beadle County has been gathering on the family farm for decades, and it’s really special when all 10 grandsons arrive. They usually dine at the Presbyterian Church supper in nearby Bonilla.

Madison artist John Green remembered hunting with some out-of-staters who had seen horned rabbits at a gift shop before they went afield. Once they reached the corn, a jackrabbit jumped up. It had big ears but no horns so one of the novice hunters yelled,”Don’t shoot, it’s a doe!”

Watertown attorney Lee Schoenbeck wondered if it’s sacrilegious to secretly help the bishop bag a bird. Peggy Schiedel remembered when actor Cary Grant visited her family’s Faulkton farm. Yankton broadcaster Monte James told of guiding a group of Coca Cola executives from Atlanta who hardly knew how to hold a gun.

Rapid City journalist and sage Kevin Woster penned a story about his family’s tradition of meeting at cousin Donnie’s farm. Kevin noted that his brother Jim called everyone last year to warn that the bird numbers were down and to ask who might still be coming.

“Well, is there still going to be some sloppy joes in the tool shed before the hunt?” Kevin asked.

Jim thought so.

“And are at least some of the Irish cousins and neighbors going to gather there in the shed and hang out for awhile and swap a few lies?”

Jim was sure they would gather.

“That’s all I need to know,” Kevin said.

One hundred years of South Dakota socialization will be celebrated in October. Toss in a few million pheasants and we’ve got a real party.

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The Hunter’s New Friend

By John Andrews

Hunting can try your patience, especially when the prized buck you’ve been tracking disappears for the rest of the season. But the sport shouldn’t be frustrating simply because you can’t keep your gear straight.

Bill Conkling is a Yankton realtor and avid archery hunter who contemplated that very problem one day in his deer blind.”I was sitting there trying to manage all my equipment — my bow, binoculars, range finder. I was frustrated with not having a way to organize it all.”

That night he started sketching, and soon he had a prototype for what he calls the Ground Blind Buddy.”Most hunters have their rifle or bow, a range finder, a game call, water, cell phone. This is an adjustable stand with a tray. There’s a hook for your bow and another for a backpack. You can set your binoculars, range finder and other items on top so they are easily within reach. You don’t have to be digging through clothes to find them.”

Conkling’s idea originated several years ago, but was pushed to the back burner. His original prototype was metal, but research showed the best option would be high density plastic, which meant making molds would be much more expensive. Then last spring he spoke at Yankton’s 1 Million Cups, a weekly gathering that allows area entrepreneurs a chance to talk about their work. A local businessman liked the concept and offered to help Conkling launch a Kickstarter fundraising campaign to move the Ground Blind Buddy into production.”For a while I just wasn’t sure what to do,” Conkling says.”Now it’s like I’ve got my second wind.”

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the September/October 2015 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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Opening Day

By Bernie Hunhoff

Teenagers who help at Louise’s Cafe in Fairfax, population 115, are about to get a lesson in communications. That’s one of several side benefits to the hunting season for Gregory County, in the heart of pheasant country.

“I keep telling the kids that they’ll get better tips if they just learn to talk to the hunters a little bit,” says Louise Truax, who has been frying eggs on Fairfax’s Main Street for 30 years.”They joke with you and you joke back.'”

Louise’s Cafe, with its $6.50 breakfast special (eggs, bacon, potatoes, toast and coffee) spices the Gregory County ambiance, along with dozens of other small town restaurants, shops and lodges.

Marge LaFave has run the tiny and impeccably clean Hertz Motel in Bonesteel, population 100, for nearly 40 years. Even though most of the pheasants have migrated west of her little town, hunters still sleep there. Across the street is the historic TeePee Cafe, managed by Tami Jons who features Friday night steak specials, prime rib on Saturdays and Sunday breakfast buffets. The motel and cafe were built in the 1950s in anticipation of the lake traffic everybody thought would flood Highway 18 once Fort Randall Dam filled Lake Francis Case.

Walleye and anglers have taken to the lake, but ring-necked roosters take precedence in October when the sorghum heads turn red and the sumac even redder. Pheasants are a $250 million industry statewide. More than 170,000 hunters will be gunning for the birds this fall. That creates 4,500 jobs for guides, taxidermists, waiters, bartenders and lodge-keepers in the four very small towns (Fairfax, Herrick, Bonesteel and Dallas) and two small cities (Burke and Gregory) that comprise Gregory County. Churches hold bake sales to capitalize on the hunters, and the city of Gregory celebrates with a soup-tasting contest.

Opening Day has a fresh aura, especially in Gregory County where an autumn blue sky is beautifully framed by the muted, earthy colors of cornfields, grasslands and tree belts. Hunters regularly remark that they wouldn’t care if they never saw a pheasant, so lovely are the landscapes.

“It’s more about the relationships and the camaraderie,” says Mike Karbo, who bought the funeral home in Burke 20 years ago and moved from Sioux Falls because he loved the outdoors. He says deer, turkey and walleye are also big draws.

And did we mention pancakes?”I’ve been using the same mix forever,” says Louise, the Fairfax restaurateur.”It’s just milk and butter and the mix and you add water, but they sure like them.”

Then add syrup.”I always tell the kids that when the customer gets ready to pay, all you have to say is ‘have a good day,'” she says.”Some of them do and some don’t. But that’s ok, too.”

Who wouldn’t want to hunt in a place like this?

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the September/October 2012 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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Copper’s Last Stand

By Lee Schoenbeck

To paraphrase Ecclesiastes, there is a time set for everything, a time for birth and a time for death. He sets the time for mourning and the time for dancing. Unfortunately, my old friend Copper has seen his last dancing, his last retrieve, and now it’s time.

When you’re born you’ve begun to die — the trick is to put as much space between the two events as you can. With a new puppy it’s the same story, just less space between. With a hard-working hunting dog, the space is even shorter. Ten or 11 good years is a good run through the winter sloughs and fields up here on the Coteau.

Copper came into our family in a picnic basket with a red bow on it for my daughter Erin’s 12th birthday, a cute, lovable yellow lab puppy. Copper’s bloodline came from a bait shop in Browns Valley, Minnesota, the last available of a litter of a hunting buddy’s buddy’s dog. Kind of an inauspicious way to start a decade-long journey as the best hunting dog that ever owned me.

Copper was never a housedog. He lived in an outdoor kennel on our place his whole life. For 12 years Copper and I have shared his morning and evening constitutional and feeding. In the early years these 20 minutes together twice a day were school time, but the smart ones learn quickly. Copper’s first fall was at six months, and before Christmas he was a hunting guy’s best buddy afield.

With great ones you don’t get many memorable stories because performance in the field is the norm. Copper lived for flushing roosters out of cattails in waist-deep snow in the sloughs of the Coteau. He’d hunt all day and only give up when the shotguns were emptied and he’d nestled into the straw in the back of the Avalanche at day’s end.

But I can remember one great (and unfortunately tragic) performance in Copper’s life. It happened on the Missouri River breaks. Copper was working a line of three of us up and down the rolling hills of the river breaks when a rooster flushed high, sucked the wind and was heading for freedom over a hill and a cattle fence to our right. Just on the edge of range my buddy hits the ringneck, clearly wounding it, but leaving it with enough power to coast over the hill, and the next one, into a pasture of large bulls. The bird came down a good quarter mile away, but Copper was on it.

We watched Copper go over the first hill, under the fence, and over the next hill cleanly on the bird’s line. But he was also heading into a crowd of very large Angus. We saw Copper run the bird down, grab it, turn and trot back towards us, with about 15 Angus bulls gaining on him. When we lost sight of him below the first hill, I was pretty sure the herd had just trampled the best dog I had ever owned.

After a few minutes Copper popped over the hill, bird firmly in grasp, trotting at a good pace with the herd still gaining. Like it was just another day’s work, Copper popped under the fence, left the bulls in the dust and dropped a beautiful rooster at my feet. Richard Nixon said that you can’t appreciate the greatest heights unless you’ve experienced the greatest depths. Ten minutes after we celebrated that amazing retrieve, Copper came up lame and never hunted with four good wheels again.

Copper’s had a lot of great days in the field. His picture popping out of the hole in the back of my Avalanche has been celebrated in published hunting stories and social media. But those bookend events on the story of his life have gotten very close together. He hasn’t hunted for two seasons and he really can’t get around very well any more. He sounds like a three-pack-a-day smoker when he breathes. He still smiles and lights up when he sees the Avalanche getting loaded for the field, and his memory is filled with enthusiasm for the hunt, even if his body says he can’t go along.

When you get a dog, you know this day’s coming. You just wish for that one last season, one last hunt, that last flush and retrieve, that last stand on the South Dakota prairie.

Lee Schoenbeck grew up in Webster, practices law in Watertown, and is a freelance writer for the South Dakota Magazine website.

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The Ringneck Ritual

Before South Dakota was blanketed with winter’s first snowfall, Scott Korsten snapped these pheasant hunting photos at Hunters Pointe near Humboldt. “While growing up in southeast Minnesota my dad and I spent a fair amount of time pheasant hunting. In those days and in that part of the country, we didn’t find many pheasants — and the activity didn’t involve much actual hunting — but it was a great opportunity to spend time together,” Korsten says. “This time of year people gather in South Dakota for world-class pheasant hunting, an annual ritual that brings people together while providing an economic boost to the state’s economy.” See more of Korsten’s work at inspiredbynatureimages.com.
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Gas, Pop, Eggs … and 1,000 Guns

By Bernie Hunhoff

Editor’s Note: A lot has changed since we first wrote about Kones Korner. The old store has been replaced with a new, more modern building. Curt Carter, the friendly proprietor we met, passed away in 1996. Today his son Vic operates the business, which celebrates its 50th birthday this year. And even though you won’t find gas for $1.22 a gallon, much about Kones Korner has remained the same. Here’s what we found on the day we stopped in the summer of 1985.

Driving by on U.S. Highway 81, Kones Korner looks like a lot of other country gas stations, except for the bear trap on the roof.

Black hens peck peacefully at the gravel in the parking lot. Red letters advertise regular gas for $1.22. An aluminum-sided ice machine struggles to stay cool in the summer sun.

Even when you first enter the station, it appears generic. There’s a cooler of milk and pop. A cardboard sign advertises eggs, manufactured fresh daily by the hens outside. Hiland Potato Chip bags, in a rainbow of colors, fill a rack by the door. All the name-brand candy bars are in rows on the counter. A few beer signs and auction posters round out the decor.

That’s the front room. Step past the auction posters and the Castlewood girls basketball schedule to your right and Kones Korner takes on a new dimension; suddenly you see guns hanging on the walls, guns standing in racks, guns lying in display cases — more guns than you’ve likely ever seen within four walls.

Housed in this unpretentious exterior is South Dakota’s biggest gun shop. Owner Curt Carter says he usually has 1,000 guns on hand, including new and used. He sells and trades up to 2,000 guns a year.

A lifelong sportsman, Carter was born on a farm south of Castlewood. “Granddad was a homesteader here. In fact, he’s buried on a plot of ground on the homestead. We don’t even know where exactly. ” Curt’s father was an avid sportsman — one of the early Black Hills hunters — and he taught his son how to handle a gun. “I grew up with a gun my hand,” he says. Ever since his youth, he has enjoyed hunting pheasant, deer, waterfowl and other game.

He farmed as a young man in the Castlewood area before he and his wife, Vi, bought Kones Korner from an uncle in 1964. Back then, the station was a typical “pop, gas and beer” stop on the highway.

“I had a few used guns I’d got at a sale and I took them to the station to see if I could sell them,” he recalls. “When they were gone, people asked me if I was going to get more guns.”

Always anxious to oblige, he got a few more.

“It just didn’t take a long time,” he says. “In three or four years, we had a couple hundred guns. In 1969, we built on a new gunroom and expanded to about 500 guns. In 1974, we added another gunroom and now we carry a thousand guns continually.”

A few big gun stores in the Midwest may carry that many guns, but they probably have a dozen or more of each type, and very few used guns. Nowhere in the region are hunters likely to find the variety of rifles, shotguns and handguns, new and used, that are on display in this modest country store 10 miles south of Watertown.

If Kones Korner is the premier gun shop in the state, then its proprietor must be the premier gun dealer. He doesn’t fit Dale Carnegie’s description of a top salesman. Yet his soft-spoken manner, rural wit and Dakota-western garb seem to be just what it takes to move firearms.

“Are you finding something?” he asks a young man who is browsing through the gunroom with a toddler in tow. “I’ll trade you a gun for that nice little boy you got there … he could help me pump gas!”

The little boy looks up with a start and the young father grins.

Another customer, stopping for a half-gallon carton of Lakeside milk, asks if the weather will be “fit to combine” that afternoon. “Somewhere it might be,” replied Curt. He has a good word for all who enter, including both the locals who buy milk and beer and fuel, or the visitors from afar who come to see the guns.

Equally friendly are two large, black German short hairs that roam the shop, Joe and Speck. “Joe is the best young dog we’ve come up with,” says Curt matter-of-factly. Speck doesn’t seem offended. Curt and his wife live in the back of the store. They raise chickens and ducks and cats and a female coon named Jim.

“Jim gets along with the cats. She’s the boss, I tell you!” laughed Curt. Time to sell sweet corn Vi Carter helps with the store but refuses to get too involved with the guns. Their son, Vic, has been associated with the store for the past 10 years. They also have two daughters and five grandchildren.

Even though the guns have given Kones Korner a big-time reputation, the Carters still provide the service you might expect of a small-town store. They sell a local farm boy’s sweet corn for $1 a dozen. Tacked up with farm auction posters and the girls basketball schedule are other community announcements, including a notice that Senator Jim Abdnor will speak in the area.

In fact, that down-home touch lends an atmosphere to the establishment that the gun counter of K-mart could never copy. (The Carters wouldn’t consider it “marketing,” but the antlers nailed to the roof alongside the bear trap also add to the mystique) .

The only fixture that looks out of place is a bright red video machine; but even it has been adapted to fit the environment. It is home to a bumper sticker that reads BERNHARD GOETZ: AMERICAN HERO.

Carter says his business doesn’t change much from year to year. “We’re in shotgun country here, and my shotgun business is tremendous. We’re on the edge of real good bird country.” He said goose hunting was suffering for a few years, “but it came back last fall.” Numerous marshes, ponds and lakes in the region create ideal duck conditions, and the pheasant population seems to be improving. But local hunting conditions don’t affect his gun trade. Customers come from a radius of 250 miles around. Most arrive in the months of September, October and November — a 90-day spell when he will sell half of his guns for the year. An Alaskan who comes to northeast South Dakota annually to hunt pheasants always buys his shells from the Carters.

“It used to be you’d wake up in the mornings and you’d wonder where the people would come from to buy the guns,” Carter said, confessing to an affliction that strikes many small businessmen. “But it seemed the more guns I gathered in, the more people would come.”

Carter, a self-confessed wheeler-dealer, says he enjoys dealing with the vast majority of hunters. He even admits to a streak of “wheeler-dealer-ism” and has been known to shake dice for a gun. “I don’t like to do that, though,” he says. “It’s too hard on my nerves.” (However, he is always ready to shake for a pop or a beer.) He sells guns for prices ranging from $50 to $1,500 and says he operates on about a 10 percent markup on new guns. In fact, he says he sells the new firearms for about wholesale price to cash customers and makes his only profit from a 10 percent discount allowed by the wholesalers for paying promptly. He and his son check over all used guns before re-selling them. “We stand back of them,” he said. “Most people are very understanding if there is a problem. We give them their money back, or put it toward another gun.” The Carters are active members of the Dakota Territory Gun Collectors Association. They regularly exhibit their stock at the 10 shows held each year by the group. Along with his inventory of new and used guns, Carter has acquired a collection of antique Colt handguns and Winchester rifles dating back to the 1850s.

The hours are long. Kones Korner is open 7 a.m. to 9 p.m. daily except Sundays, when “I sleep in until 8 a.m.” But they still find time for hunting trips and an occasional country-western concert.

At age 57, Curt Carter is content with life as it is at Kones Korner. “I’ll continue just as long as the good Lord will let me.”

This story is edited from the September 1985 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.