There must have been just the right number of pellets held tight enough in the yellow 20-gauge shell to connect with the late-flushing rooster in the group of more than a dozen tucked into the grass surrounded by the golden corn fields still waiting to be harvested. The bird fluttered and toppled a good distance away to my right as the remainder of the hens and roosters scattered to my left. I pegged a gray clump of grass a few yards in front of the crash-landing site and was just about to call my lab, Ole, over to begin the search after his switchbacking excitement of putting up the group of pheasants, but he saw the rooster fall and was already rumbling at top speed on his way.

He stutter stepped at the edge of the grass as he caught the scent, paused for a moment and pounced on the rooster which lay where it landed. Picking it up in his mouth he proudly turned and began the 40-yard trot back to me as I called him with the “dead bird, come” command we’ve used since he was a pup. Following his weave through the stands of field grass, he dropped the young of the year rooster at my feet and sat behind it, panting in the sunlight of the warming afternoon. I placed the bird in my pouch and pulled out the water bottle and offered him a drink to wash the fine gray feathers from his mouth. It was a good feeling to be back in the field and watching him do the thing that his breed is known for. While it wasn’t the longest retrieve he or any other dog I’ve owned has made, it was a good indicator that his skills remained sharp and his focus on what was going on around him — and more importantly, falling for him to get after in the field — was on point for the season a week or so in.

The farthest search and retrieve I’ve witnessed was when on a warm October day I shot a rooster on a WMA north of my hometown of Valley City. The bird bounced on the edge of the field grass and rolled into the large cattail slough. I can recall seeing his legs kick as he gained his footing and took off into the still-green cover of the swampy lowland. My lab at the time, Gunnar, was on his trail fast, and I too followed him into the slough. We plowed on a small trail through the cover. While I’d lose sight of my dog from time to time, I’d listen ahead for the rustling and know full well that the chase was still on. After a hundred yards or so, we cleared the edge of the slough and I saw Gunnar lunge into the grass. The rooster crowed in surprise, and I shouted out a “good dog” as my lab returned the bird to me capping the amazing tail job he had pulled off through at least 100 yards of cover

There are certainly other long-distance retrieves my dogs and those owned by hunting buddies have made on hunts I’ve been on which stand out in memory, and with two decades behind me and my two dogs, there are too many to recall in the white space I’m allotted each week. But whether through thick cover in the cold of late season, winding through the willows and buck brush around a swamp, or chasing down a hard-sprinting, grounded rooster through chest-high field grass, each situation has been different and the positive end results with dozens of birds brought to hand over long stretches has always been memorable. Such long-distance pursuits each autumn in the uplands ultimately serve as a reminder that the most challenging work for our four-legged friends can come after the shot, and the work put in between hunter and dog leading up to those inspiring moments — be it tossing a dummy, working with wings and scent lines, or simply walking together in the preseason — is worth the effort when those long retrieves come together … in our outdoors.