A December Pheasant Hunt in Iowa
A December Pheasant Hunt in Iowa
The first snow of the season had rolled in overnight, blanketing the rolling hills of north-central Iowa in a clean, white sheet. By sunrise, the thermometer hung just below twenty degrees, making for a December pheasant hunt in Iowa. The crunch of boots on frozen ground echoed through the stillness as we gathered at the edge of a big Conservation Reserve Program (CRP) field.
On a day like today for a pheasant hunter, it’s vital to prepare your dogs for the frigid temperatures. I start with a blaze orange neoprene vest. This will keep some of the cold elements off the dogs and help keep them warm. I also prefer a blaze orange vest so everyone can spot my dog easily. The dogs had been eating a few more calories to build up a little more fat that they would be working off on the hunt. When it’s cold, it’s really easy for them to burn more calories. We finished getting the dogs ready by checking their E-collar and applying a little paw wax to keep them from getting irritated by the cold, wet ground.
Prime Habitat
The CRP ground stretched nearly eighty acres, a mix of waist-high native warm-season grasses consisting of big bluestem, Indiangrass, and switchgrass all interspersed with patches of forbs and scattered plum thickets. This was the kind of cover that pheasants thrived in: tall, dense grasses offering thermal protection from the biting wind, enough structure to hold birds through winter, and just enough open pockets to make for challenging but rewarding shooting. The snow piled on top of the grass, dogs’ job both easier and harder. Every movement left a track, but the thick cover swallowed sound and sight, giving the birds plenty of escape routes.
We stood around the tailgate for a few minutes, pulling on vests, loading guns, and enjoying the peace of the morning. Dehydration happens quickly in cold weather, for dogs, so we had them drink a little warm water before heading out. We all knew every draw and fenceline by heart. We began our push from the north. Because of the cold snap, birds have been holding tight this week and they don’t want to leave this grass. We were likely to have birds flush right in front of the walkers.
High Anticipation
The dog was antsy with anticipation and paced back and forth at my feet, whining softly as if to remind us we were burning daylight. We formed our line and started forward, the grass brushing against our legs and snow crunching underfoot.
As we pushed deeper into the field, the terrain began to roll. In the distance, a tree line bordered the CRP, separating it from a cut cornfield beyond—a classic Iowa setup. The birds had been feeding in the corn, then retreating to the CRP for safety. With snow on the ground, their movements were more predictable. We spread out, each hunter keeping a careful line, while the dogs zig-zagged in front of us, their noses buried in the frosted cover.
The first flush came without warning. Buddy dove into a clump of switchgrass, and a rooster exploded out of the snow-covered stems with a sharp cackle. The sudden cackle and flurry of wings startled us, but instinct kicked in fast. It was closest to my brother, and he swung his shotgun smoothly, a sharp crack echoed, and the bird folded midair, disappearing into the grass with a soft thud. Buddy took off after it, returning a moment later with the rooster held proudly in his mouth, tail wagging like he’d just won a prize. All the drills and training paid off. He went to the bird, retrieved, and brought it back. He was so proud!
The next push took us through a stretch of CRP that sloped gently down toward a frozen creek. This was prime habitat: dense enough to offer warmth and protection, but with just enough structure to let the birds remain unseen if we weren’t careful. Sure enough, two hens flushed wild ahead of us.
The End Draws Near
As we neared the creek, the line tightened. My friend moved up to block, positioning himself near a narrow gap in the grass where birds often funneled through. The rest of us continued forward, hearts beating a little faster. These end pushes were where things got exciting. Suddenly, Buddy locked up on point near a small cluster of plum thickets, tail rigid, nose buried deep. I closed in slowly, shotgun ready.
The rooster flushed and I shouldered my shotgun and fired. The gun kicked back into my shoulder as the sulfur from the powder filled the air. I knew I had a solid shot on the rooster, and the bird tumbled into the snow. This was one of the best snowy pheasant hunts for me.
The CRP program, with its stands of native warm-season grasses, had turned an ordinary farm field into a winter sanctuary for pheasants. On this snowy Iowa day, it gave a group of friends a December pheasant hunt in Iowa they’d talk about for years. We made our way back to the pickups; the dogs would be ready for the heated mats in their kennels. Their heated dog bowls were ready to re-hydrate them. As we packed up our gear, guns, and dogs, there is a deep-rooted camaraderie that only comes from good habitat, good dogs, and even better company.
By Shannon Rivers
December 2025
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