Truth to tell, my Minnesota pheasant opener on Saturday was one of lowered expectations.

And not because the Department of Natural Resources’ August roadside survey results suggested a 24 percent decline in pheasant numbers this fall from 2007 levels.

Anyone who has spent a few decades chasing ringnecks knows that, in the big picture, the pheasant hunting is still much better than the darkest rooster-busting days in the late 60s and 70s.

Rather, I was resigned to mostly a pleasant walk behind the dog on a fine, sun-bathed Saturday morning after noting the thousands of acres of unpicked corn the birds had to hide in along our route to a Nobles County Wildlife Management Area.

We passed several groups of hunters who had already staked claims at other WMAs and leaned against pickup hoods in their blaze orange awaiting the 9 a.m. opener.

We figured that our late start, one precipitated by Bob’s need to buy a new gun case at the local Wal-Mart, would mean that the area of a WMA we had hoped to hunt already had been claimed as well.

We were pleasantly surprised to discover that, as we made the last turn at 8:30 a.m., the WMA parking area was pleasingly deserted.

And sitting in the pleasant weather with the cab windows open, our stock in an opening day hunt grew significantly when we heard what sounded like several groups of roosters crowing and cackling from the nearby grass.

At 9 a.m., legal shooting time, we waded into the light cover behind our eager springer spaniels, choosing a route that took us to a hedge where some of the cackling had come from.

Five minutes into the hunt, a couple of shots rang out from Bob Westphal’s side. Moments later, a rooster sailed unscathed over my head. Then a second and a third sailed passed too quickly for me to swing on.

Twenty minutes later, as we worked our way back to the truck, a single rooster flushed from a fence line adjacent to a harvested bean field and this time, Westphal sent it tumbling.

On the way back to the road and in a stand of switch grass where I had watched some of the earlier birds settle in to, one of the springers put several roosters into the air at Westphal’s feet. He shot twice and missed.

I swung on one of the birds that cut my way, pulled well out ahead of it and fired. It tumbled into the thick grass.

I swung on a second bird flying straight away and it cart-wheeled into the grass at my shot.

A few minutes later, after the dogs had found both birds, including one that was a runner, I looked at my watch: 9:45 a.m.