I am a pretty fair shot with a rifle and also reasonably good with a handgun, but there’s something about shotguns that eludes me. Try as I might, I have difficulty hitting a moving bird with a shotgun.

Still, every year I go out and learn new lessons in humility from pheasants. Even though I’m a lousy shotgunner, I still find it delightful to walk a field with a couple buddies in search of pheasants.

Here’s how a good pheasant day might go:

"Cold! Good God, it's cold!" I said to myself as I looked out across the fog. There's something about fog that seems to creep in around your sleeves and cuffs and collars. I don't know if it's real or just psychological, but fog chills me clear to the bone.

This is it, the day I've been awaiting for weeks now — the opening of pheasant season. I was hoping for the morning to dawn clear and crisp and sunny cold, but the fog is everywhere.

Oh well, I'm out here. I might as well give it a try.

We start in a picked-over pepper field west of Linden. We begin to walk abreast, six rows apart. The mud sticks to the bottom of your boots and builds up higher and higher until it feels as though you're walking on stilts. It doesn't do any good to kick it off, because it just builds up again.

The moisture from the wet plants soaks you from the knee down. As you walk, you feel the "crunch" of the fallen peppers underfoot. They make a distinct "pop" when stepped on, sounding like the fuchsia buds we used to pop in Grandma's garden as kids.

Quiet banter flows up and down the line of hunters. "Hey Bob," someone says, "Remember the time a pheasant flushed right in front of you and you pointed your gun and hollered, ‘Bang, bang!’ and forgot to pull the trigger? Hoo boy, that was great!"

"Oh yeah," comes the reply. "I remember the dove hunt when you earned the nickname ‘Meadowlark.’”

The talk subsides as we approach the end of the field. If they're in here, this is when they're going to flush. Any minute now — easy, gun ready. Each soft crunch of a pepper underfoot now sounds as loud as a firecracker.

Here it is — but nothing. Not one bird.

We move on into a walnut orchard. Suddenly, a large shape comes flying out of the fog.

"Hold it!" somebody yells. "It's only a barn owl.” The owl lumbers off slowly and disappears into the mist.

We begin to make a second pass through the pepper field and flush a rabbit, but still no pheasants.

The guy on the end of the line hollers to our host, "Hey Meatball, you make any money on these peppers?" The owner replies "Hell no, I just plant ’em so you clowns will have a place to hunt.”

As we approach the end of the peppers, a hush again falls over the hunters. A pheasant flushes at the far end. "Boom! Boom! Boom!” Two more birds flush off the right end, and the two guys next to me empty their guns. Three hunters have fired nine shots, and all three birds sail off unruffled into the fog.

The guys who didn't shoot are unmerciful in their kidding of the guys who've missed. Oh well, we got plenty of exercise and some great companionship. It was a good morning, anyway.

Just as we’re about to pack it in for the day, Francis suggested that he and I take one last try at a couple acres of weeds next to a young wheat field. The weeds are pretty thick, so we move closer together, because the birds are more likely to just hunker down and sit tight instead of fly.

We reach the end of the weed patch and make a last turn back toward the trucks. There he is! Twenty yards out and heading away to the left! Easy now — swing the gun from behind, pass the bird, keep swinging. Fire. Got him!

Off to the right come three or four more shots, and Francis has his bird too. I can't believe it — I actually got my bird on the first shot.

Pheasant for dinner tonight! With a little rice, some gravy and voila, a gourmet delight. Of course, I'll save the feathers for tying trout flies and making hat bands. Nothing's going to waste from this bird.

Later that evening, when swirling a snifter of brandy around in front of the fire, I feel comfortably full and darned content. Yes indeed, this pheasant hunting is all right.

Until next week, Tight Lines.

• Don Moyer is president and CEO of a consulting firm and has more than 20 years’ experience working with the outdoor recreation community, including anglers, hunters, backpackers, environmental groups and the public. He can be reached at don.moyer@gmail.com.