The Moon Shot

A gassy dog, a missed pheasant, and the hunting trip I’ll never live down

They say every hunter has that one shot—the one that got away, or went way, way wrong. Mine happened just outside Red Cloud, Nebraska, on my first real bird hunt with Dad and Harold. I was twelve, eager, armed, and sealed inside the camper shell with the world’s gassiest dog. What followed was a day I’ll never forget… no matter how hard I try.

Trapped with Trouble

“Good grief, Sam, stop farting! You’re making me sick!” I hollered from my perch in the camper shell of Dad’s truck.

As if the wet dog smell wasn’t bad enough, Sam had been eating grass all day like a lawnmower trying to settle his stomach—and now he had nuclear gas. I don’t know what he’d eaten in the field the day before, but it had turned his insides into a biohazard. Every time he let one rip, I just about passed out.

I had every window in the camper wide open. It was a frigid 19 degrees outside, but I didn’t care—I needed fresh air or I was going to pass out.

At first, I tried stuffing tissues up my nose. Then I buried my face in my hunting coat, hoping the insulation might act like a gas mask. When that failed, I tried lying on my back with my head half hanging out the little sliding window, gasping for mercy. Nothing worked. The smell was winning. Somewhere up front, I was sure Harold’s famous baloney sandwiches were joining forces with Sam to finish me off.

Finally, Dad eased the brown Ford F-150 off the bumpy dirt road and parked at our last hunting spot of the day. Sam and I nearly collided trying to get out of the camper. I came tumbling out the back, hitting the tailgate with my shin and sprawling into the dirt, gasping like I’d just come up from thirty feet deep.

There stood Dad and Harold, bent over in laughter, shoulders shaking, faces red. When they finally straightened up, Harold grinned that famous grin of his. 

Then I spotted it—the dangling intercom cord swaying in the truck window.
My stomach dropped. They’d heard... everything.
Every last gag, groan, and desperate gasp.

Suddenly, I was very, very glad I hadn’t cussed Sam out.

Red Cloud or Bust

It was my first big hunting trip with Dad—and before we ever spotted a pheasant, Sam made sure I’d remember it for something else entirely. Dennis wouldn’t get to come along until the next year. We had driven all the way to Red Cloud, Nebraska—bird-hunting heaven. Rolling cornfields stretched for miles, and the pheasant and quail were legendary.

And so were the chiggers.

After a day of trudging through waist-high brush, my ankles were on fire with bites. I couldn’t wait to stop and find a scratching post—just like Sam.

Red Cloud itself was something else. Corn stubble crunched underfoot, brittle and sharp as kindling. The cold seeped through boots and jeans, sneaking up from the ground until your bones felt wrapped in ice. Every breath left a little white ghost trailing behind you, and every gust slapped your ears like the backhand of a frozen giant.

The birds had been holding tight all day. We’d gotten a few, but we weren’t at our limit yet. So, we made one last stop before sunset, just on the edge of town. The spot was perfect: a freshly cut cornfield bordered by thick brush and flanked by a row of towering cedar trees planted decades ago as a windbreak. Just to the south stood an old, sagging farmhouse—classic roosting ground.

A brutal northwest wind cut across the field, bringing sleet and freezing rain. I pulled my neck gaiter up higher and adjusted my grip on my Remington 870. The gun barrel was already collecting icicles. The birds were hunkered down deep in the bad weather.

Locked, Loaded, and Shaking

We fanned out into the field. Sam, one of the finest hunting dogs in the county, worked back and forth ahead of us. I was in the middle, Dad off to my left, Harold to the right. I could feel my heart pick up its pace—that always happened when we were closing in on birds.

Sam locked up. Frozen mid-stride, nose buried in the brush, body tense as a bowstring. He was only five yards ahead of me.

Harold would usually flush the birds, but this time he looked over and said, “Go ahead, Eric—flush ’em.”

Pride and panic collided somewhere inside my chest. I was ready. I was the man for the job. I was going to stride in like one of those guys on the Saturday morning hunting shows—cool, calm, collected.

I nodded, clicked off the safety, crouched low, and crept forward, step by slow step, eyes on Sam’s target. My boots squished in the frozen mud. My hands were sweaty inside my gloves.

And that’s when it happened.

Moon Shot: The Legend Begins

A full-sized Huey helicopter exploded out of the grass beneath me.

At least, that’s what it felt like. The biggest rooster pheasant I’ve ever seen launched straight into the air—from right between my legs!

His wings roared like jet engines. His tail feathers slapped me on the way up, knocking my hat clean off.

And my spirit? My spirit bailed out and yanked the trigger on the way up.

 I squeezed off a desperate shot straight into the clouds—not even a feather fluttered.

Then came the embarrassment.

The infamous “moon shot” became instant hunting camp legend. As did the number 6 magnum shot that rained back down on me seconds later like divine punishment. I looked like I was trying to dodge invisible hailstones, hopping around slapping at my coat while Dad and Harold howled.

My only consolation was that Dennis wasn’t there to witness it firsthand. I would’ve never lived it down.

Thankfully, Harold was more composed. Another rooster flushed alongside the one that buzzed me, and he dropped it clean. Sam had been right—birds were in there. I just didn’t expect to step directly on one.

The flush was wild, but the outing turned out okay. We ended the day with eight pheasant and a dozen quail between us. I even bagged one myself before sundown, after regaining some of my dignity.

But that Huey? He got away.

Oh—and the smell?

Blame It on the Dog (Or Don’t)

Turns out Sam wasn’t the only one with intestinal issues that day. I’d forgotten about it in the cold, but back inside the camper, it became obvious.

At first, Sam shot me a look—then made a grand production of trying to crank the little window open himself with muddy paws, like he had urgent business elsewhere and no opposable thumbs to manage it.

Dad caught a whiff, doubled over laughing, and declared he was adding a gas mask to next year’s hunting checklist. Harold threatened to install an emergency oxygen tank for Sam.

Fair’s fair.

Sam finally gave up and flopped down with a long, dramatic sigh—clearly deciding the human race was a lost cause.

And somewhere, just outside Red Cloud, Nebraska, there’s probably a rooster who still tells his grandkids about the day he left a hunter standing in a cloud of panic smoke, leaving skid marks—and a racing stripe—for his trouble.

On Pearl Street, we didn’t need pheasants or shotguns—just a rickety bike, a muddy pond, and a little bad judgment.

We hunted pride, dodged shame, and wore our bruises like medals.

And if you were really lucky… there was an audience.

Got your own Moon Shot story? Hit reply, drop a comment, or message me at facebook.com/RealChatRat.

Bonus points if it involves a gassy dog, a misfire, or someone laughing so hard they fell over.