Asking Permission: A Pheasant Hunt in Nebraska by Jim Fergus "Once upon a time...hunters were known to actually develop relationships with their landowner hosts." Pheasant hunting in Nebraska starts with getting permission to hunt -- not always an easy task. It's a time-honored part of the hunting experience, but one that with the increasing privatization and leasing of hunting lands is beginning to fall by the wayside -- that is, the practice of stopping at ranch and farm houses to ask hunting permission of the owners. Once upon a time (and even still these days in certain parts of the country) hunters were known to actually develop relationships with their landowner hosts -- to leave them some birds from the bag, be invited to dinner, exchange Christmas cards. It was a wonderful way for people from different parts of the country and different circumstances to get to know something of each other's lives. Sadly, these days in many regions, especially in such states as South Dakota so renowned for its pheasant hunting, many farmers have finally thrown in the towel and leased their lands to clubs, groups or individuals, not only for the obvious economic incentives but simply so that they don't have to be constantly interrupted by hunters stopping by to request access. At the same time, other landowners are posting their land to avoid having to deal at all with hunters -- who all too often drive their vehicles across their fields or leave gates open or pepper livestock and even the farmhouse itself with errant shots. All of this to say that the entire process of asking permission has become more complicated and more of a challenge than ever; it's harder to find places at which to even stop and ask, and then harder to gain access once one does. But some people have the golden touch, and so it is with my friend Mike Hall. When we hunt with Mike, he is always the designated permission-asker. In fact, the rest of us usually wait in the vehicle, having learned over the years that Mike works best alone. He walks up on the back porch and knocks on the door. When the man or woman of the house answers, Mike respectfully removes his cap, shuffles his feet, smiles ingratiatingly. We watch this pantomime through the windshield, as if watching a silent movie, trying to gauge how things are going from both his and the owner's posture and expressions. Mike schmoozes like a great salesman, talking, gesturing, asking all the right questions, expressing interest in this and that -- the farmer's livestock, the weather, this year's crop. He laughs and chats, pats the family dog or cat, taking his sweet time. In this particular instance we are in Nebraska, outside the little town of Trenton on the Republican River. It's November and pheasant season is in full swing, but we have come here without permission to hunt, and in spite of Mike's considerable talents, we are having trouble finding a place to hunt today. And the day is stretching on. We have already been turned down several times or no one has been home where we've stopped to ask. Small farming and ranching being what it is these days, many of the landowners and their wives have been forced to take jobs in town. Besides absent owners, being turned down flat, or discouraged by leased land postings, we've also heard every evasive excuse that farmers use to avoid letting hunters on their property, without being downright rude about it. "Well, I can't let you hunt here," said one fellow regretfully, "but you might try asking over to Hoot's place." Foisting hunters off on the neighbors is a favorite ploy. But when we stopped at Hoot's place we were greeted in the farmyard by an ancient, fat, gray-muzzled, half-blind black Lab who barked at us without real conviction, and Hoot wasn't even at home. As we later learned, he was where he is every afternoon -- down at the local grain elevator playing poker with the boys. So then we stopped by Hoot's neighbor's on the other side, the farmyard full of an astonishing variety of junked cars and farm implements, a third-world looking place, where we found the owner in his shop up to his elbows in grease working on a piece of unidentifiable farm machinery. "I keep hoping to break even one of these years," he said with no prompting whatsoever from us. But the "junk man," as we would later refer to him, wouldn't let us hunt, either. "Don't have any birds here anymore, fellas," he told us with a sad shake of his head, another favorite landowner excuse. "You'd be wasting your time. Used to have birds all over the place. Don't know what's happened to 'em...I swear ever since we let a man walk on the moon the birds have been on a steady downswing." So now Mike stands on the porch of a place that we thought looked promising as we drove in. They have, for instance, a couple of Brittanies that look suspiciously like hunting dogs in their fenced yard. But we can see that things are not going well for Mike. The woman to whom he is talking has now come out on the porch, but she keeps shaking her head, which is never a good sign. Finally, so much time has passed that I decide to get out of the vehicle and see if I can't help Mike out. I'm not proud of it, but when all else fails our last ditch ploy is for Mike to introduce me as a famous outdoor writer. "Mrs. Stratton, here," says Mike, briefing me on the progress of negotiations so far, "won't allow anyone from Colorado to hunt on her property because the last time she did the hunters left the gates open and the cows got out." (C'mon hunters, how hard is it to shut a damn gate? Why make things hard for all of us?) "Well, you don't have to worry about that with us, ma'am," I assure her. "We always shut the gates." And then Mike introduces me as a famous outdoor writer. But Mrs. Stratton is distinctly unimpressed; she's clearly heard that one before. In fact, she tells us that one time some years ago Gene Hill hunted here. "What did you say your name was?" she asks me. So then I ask her about her Brittanies. It turns out that they are from the line of a trainer with whom I am familiar. We make some small inroads on this score, the subject of people's dogs being a great icebreaker. Mrs. Stratton actually seems to be softening. We make further promises to shut all gates, we cajole, we stop just short of begging...no, we don't...we actually beg. And finally Mrs. Stratton cracks under our relentless double-team assault. She agrees to let us hunt her property and gives us specific directions. "Don't go near the sow on the other side of the road," she cautions. "She'll tear your leg off. And don't shoot the cows." She pauses and looks hard at us. "And boys," she says sternly. "If you find any birds -- don't miss!" Copyright 1998 Jim Fergus. All rights reserved.