Presho
“This will really get your juices flowing…” West says as he undoes his seatbelt and leans toward the windshield. “Whoa! Georgia!”
My friend and neighbor Dr. West Waugh is as excited about the license plates flying by as a junior high boy stealing a glimpse of the lingerie pages in a JCPenney catalog. I had the lovely pleasure of driving his old ass from Topeka to Presho; so there I was, pushing 90 MPH across I-90, wondering what in the actual fuck I had gotten myself into.
Originally, Dr. Waugh, a seasoned bird-hunter, sold this trip to me as an opportunity to see the carnival-like atmosphere of a South Dakota opening weekend. The annual “guys’ trip,” comprised of his friends and acquaintances from all over the country, plus me, a recent Washington, DC, transplant to Topeka, Kansas, who happens to live two doors down from him. He detailed how we’d experience the challenges of the flush and a fast left-to-right shot by day and enjoy the luxuries of a private chef and fine spirits by night. My three-year-old retriever Weller would get to run to his heart’s desire, and I would learn the delicate balance of allocating ice between our YETI coolers and my sore shooting shoulder. I didn’t waste much time considering before I said yes.
It dawned on me that there could possibly be a discrepancy between the sales pitch and the reality of the trip when we pulled into camp in Presho, South Dakota (population: 472). At the sight of it, my expectations of a five-star lodge, high-thread-count linens and sprawling views quickly faded. Anticipations of a solid oak structure with a grand entrance and exposed beams was replaced with a gravel drive, vinyl siding, and chain-link dog kennels.
Maybe I had spent too much time researching outfitters and reading about plush, but I should’ve been prepared for something less than lavish. In hindsight, a few things clued me in, like the eight-hour drive’s worth of tales from years past, one long stop at the world’s (probably) busiest Cabela’s and an experience eating Oacoma gas station trout. But my friend Dr. Waugh’s childlike anticipation of the trip clouded my judgment.
Nevertheless, I was underwhelmed upon arrival. Weller, my admittedly spoiled bird-ish dog, had other ideas, too. He posted up next to our vehicle, clearly hoping we wouldn’t stay long. But this was night one of three—we were in it for the long haul.
Judging by the frozen lasagna they served, our private “chef” and “sous-chef” were more like the line cooks you’d find at a middle-America Applebee’s than the kitchen staff at a fancy hunting lodge. And the “grade-A personalities” of our companions—a ragtag crew of 14 small-town bankers, lawyers, “chefs,” and doctors—left something to be desired. When it took the sale of a 1970 Ford Ranger in the third hour of watching the Mecum Auctions to raise their voices over five decibels, I questioned Dr. Waugh’s definition of personality.
The following morning, my attitude began to change. As the sun rose and I dug into my “Chef Special” congealed egg mess of a breakfast, a familiar feeling of excitement crept into my bones. Our first hunt. Weller must have felt it radiating from me, because he hopped into his vest and agreeably rolled over for his pre-hunt Cowboy Magic spray down. We rallied the troops within 45 minutes, which was impressive given some of the old timers’ mobility levels. And after a short truck ride to the first CRP Strip, we loaded the guns and were ready to limit-out.
“ROOSTER!”
Ten steps into our first walk, we had five birds in the vest. My competitive juices surged to an all-time high, despite the fact that I had missed twice (due to being a bad shot and underestimating the speed of a wild pheasant) and Weller had taken a few spurs to the face from a wounded flyer (instantly realizing he’s more of a duck-ish dog than a bird-ish dog). In the switch of a safety, my perspective and priorities shifted.
I finally understood the palpable joy behind Dr. Waugh’s initial invitation on this trip. I found myself smiling from ear to ear, and for the rest of the weekend, I was all in. I started savoring the chance to strip cockleburs off our clothes and dogs, clean our birds and dishes, and drive trucks from one CRP site to another. Every bit of the heavy lift was worth it.
Back at camp, I was glued to the Mecum Auction. I described the chefs’ pheasant ragu as decadent. I drank very old, very expensive port wine from a dirty-ass glass, and sat back to observe Dr. Waugh in his element, telling stories and calling for his dear friend Tom to pour another glass. Weller licked his wounds, and after a dearth of birds, he hunted plenty of pets from the other guys. Just like that, we formed traditions.
It had an inauspicious start, but this trip will be marked on my calendar as a mandatory event next year…and every year thereafter. Knowing what I know now, I wouldn’t have done this adventure any other way. Experiencing the five-star version of the opening day rush will always be an option, but seeing both sides of that aisle, I am completely certain that whatever is lost in comfort and luxury is gained back in stories and grit.
In the future, I’ll pack my own pillows, towels, and soap, but there’s so much more to learn. This group has met for the last 10 to 15 years to share bird hunting knowledge and gallons of Hundred Acre and 12-year-old bourbon. And while I may have missed out on previous prized pours and limits reached before noon at the most remote parts of the outfitter’s property, I have a chance to catch up—though a couple of offseason shooting lessons will help. I’m already counting the days until I get to watch the sun set over the prairie as we road-hunt during the evening feed in Presho.