R. Michael DiLullo

Chejudo Roosters

The rising sun gleamed brightly off the unbroken rows of frost covered cabbages as we climbed into the warm cab of the idling pick-up truck. The pre-dawn temperature was in the mid-twenties, but the combination of a light wind and the sea air made it feel twice as cold. At the wheel sat Mr. Kim, our guide for two days of pheasant hunting on Chejudo Island, in The Republic of South Korea. Mr. Kim spoke only broken English. He had the build and that weathered appearance of a farmer. A man attached, not just by culture and tradition, but by spirit to the land. He epitomized the gentle, happy nature so common among the Korean people.

Iced over puddles cracked under the truck’s tires like a thousand panes of glass, as we drove down an ancient dirt road. The old Chevy bounced and shifted between the deep ruts that meandered down the narrow road like a trail made by some giant serpent. Dogs barked from behind hidden courtyards as we passed through a village. The golden rays of the sun broke the quiet darkness of morning and the land was bathed in a warm glow. A world which had been hidden in darkness since our arrival the night before was now being revealed. Dark brick colored pumice walls terraced the hilly landscape and divided the island into a thousand parcels of green fields. The image of Chejudo that I had conjured-up in my imagination was nothing like it appeared. In reality it was more like I had pictured Ireland to be. A mosaic of bright green meadows divided by the chest high walls of the island’s igneous matrix. A landscape broken only by the naturally rising hills and bluffs that led from the towering snow covered pinnacle of Mount Hallasan, an extinct volcano at the island’s center, down to the cliffs and beaches reaching into the East China Sea.

As a young Marine officer stationed on Okinawa, I had deployed throughout the Far East. In that time I had accrued several months each year in the frozen mud of the Korean peninsula. It was the end of the Cold War, and terms like “Glasnost” and “Perestroika” where in vogue. The Olympics had just left Seoul, and exercises with names like “Bear Hunt,” “Valiant Blitz” and “Team Spirit” had brought me to South Korea for the past three years. I had come to Chejudo for a different reason, however. Throughout my time in Asia, I had heard from others of the island’s haunting beauty, relaxing atmosphere and legendary pheasant hunting. For the island was once the Korean Emperor’s personal hunting grounds and its native pheasant population vastly outnumbers its indigenes human residents. So, when the opportunity arose to join several senior Navy officers on a Chejudo hunt, I accepted without hesitation.

Chejudo, like most of Korea, is a land of contrast and mystery. It is an island of unique customs and legends, and it is the largest of the Korean Islands. Situated off the southern tip of the Korean peninsula, the island is bathed by the warm sub-tropic currents of the East China Sea, producing a prolific amount of sea life. The island’s residents are primarily an agricultural
society, however, a small group of women divers prowl the rocky coasts harvesting plants and shellfish. Chejudo has become the “Niagara Falls” of South Korea. It is the honeymoon resort of choice to thousands of Korean and Japanese newlyweds each year. Newsweek magazine once
considered the island one of the ten unspoiled tourist paradises in the world.

A trio of colorful Chejudo roosters. The number of pheasants on Chejudo greatly outnumbers the Island’s human population. Photo by: Author

In 1882, Judge Owen Denny, the U.S. Consul in Shanghai, China imported 30 Chinese ring-necked pheasants into Oregon where the birds prospered. Ten years later, Oregon held it’s first pheasant hunt and hunters took more than 50,000 birds. America was hooked on pheasant hunting and Asia became a primary contributor to the growing North American pheasant population.

And so it was, I had returned to one of the places from which it had all begun. Growing-up in non-hunting home left me to dream of days like this. Outdoor magazines, books and television shows fed my youthful imagination until I was old enough to begin hunting with high school friends. But, sports, dating and academics all limited our time afield. We mostly hunted the crowded public hunting grounds of New York and New Jersey. We were all inexperienced hunters, but we all shared an eagerness to learn and a desire to be afield. We all had shotguns, mostly old 12’s with scared stocks and bluing worn to the color of storm filled seas. Few of us had hunting dogs, so we were left to beating the brush for the occasional birds we did manage to shoot. With age came experience and improved wingshooting skills, it also brought an appreciation and reverence for being afield with gun and dog. This was something I had sorely missed after nearly three years overseas.

We began the morning’s hunt by driving the long networks of dirt roads that cut their way towards the island’s interior, looking for birds. Road hunting is how pheasants are hunted during the early morning and late afternoon hours on Chejudo. When birds were spotted, the guide would usually continue about a hundred yards farther down the road, then deploy the hunters who would begin working their way back towards the birds. We made several unsuccessful “drives” at birds we had spotted, but each time they would run far ahead of us or flushed out of range.

	The Author (left) and guide Mr. Kim, near the spot where the Author scored his double on Chejudo roosters.

Mr. Kim pulled the truck off the road near a power-line that cut it’s way through a thick block of pines. My anticipation soared as I stepped from the truck and breathed in the cool fresh air. Mr. Kim gave us some quick instructions as he lit a cigarette. We confirmed that hens and ducks were legal since it was February and he nodded. Without much haste, he had the dog out and was heading towards a low culvert across the road waving for us to follow. Stepping across the road to the high bank of the culvert I reached into my vest and retrieved two red shells. I stood there momentarily daydreaming as I took in the reality of being in this wonderful place. My trance was broken as Mr. Kim whistled to the dog. I fumbled with the two twelve gauge number 6’s as I quickly tried to load the borrowed SKB over and under. The shotgun felt awkward and unfamiliar. It had been awhile since I had carried anything but my “A2,” and it’s feel was still imbedded in the memory of my hands making this gun feel strangely foreign in it’s place. I felt embarrassed at my own awkwardness. These feelings did nothing to boost my confidence in my shooting ability, or the growing competitiveness and inter-service rivalry being voiced between the two Navy dentists below me. I felt like I did as a kid on opening day, the nervous anticipation was building as we “stepped-off.”

The culvert ran parallel to the road for about a quarter mile; it then intersected with a small creek that crossed back under the road. The plan was simple, we were going to follow the culvert to the stream, cross the road and work the roadside cover back towards the truck to the power-line. We hadn’t gone fifty yards when the dog locked onto point near a tall clump of cattails and reeds. Mr. Kim waved for me to come down the bank and walk in behind the dog. My senior partners were strategically positioned across the weed filled ditch to intercept any birds that tried to escape. I approached the dog and entered the head-high cattails slowly. The flaxen rushes were dry and brittle; they swayed in the light breeze producing a sound like a drum-roll as the wind increased. As I slowly shuffled my way through the tangle of reeds the dog rushed forward and locked-up again. I took a few more steps and suddenly the reeds erupted as two birds rocketed skyward. I never saw the two hens get-up in the tall rushes, but, the three shots that rang out and the joyous celebrating indicated that Navy was on the scoreboard. As usual, the Marines had done the tough work and the Navy had claimed the victory.

I made my way out of the reeds, to get my first look at a Chejudo pheasant. The rooster had backdoored us; he was standing at the edge of the reeds and grass as I emerged. He quickly ran across the road into the thick cover on the opposite side. He was a flash of iridescent colors with a bright white choker around his neck. The most remarkable thing I remember was the length of his tail, it had to be more than two feet long! Mr. Kim, in broken English and hand gestures, said we would get him on the way back.

We approached the end of the culvert without any other points, the dog continued to work a zigzag pattern with his nose to the ground. He occasionally ventured into the thick rushes and reeds, crashing through the fragile stalks sending a flurry of cattail seeds into the air. He became “birdie” several times, but could not locate the source of the scent he was obviously picking-up. We crossed the road and began working our way back towards the power-line. I knew the rooster I had seen was somewhere ahead of us. My anticipation was growing and my heart pounding harder as the dog almost by chance locked on point. Mr. Kim and I were closest to the road; my partners were to the right near a line of pine trees. Between us lay a tangled maze of vines, low shrubs and knee high broom straw grass.

Mr. Kim (left) and the Author, with Mr. Kim’s dog after an average day afield on Chejudo Island. During the Korean War era, Quonset hut’s in the background served as lodging for visiting military members hunting on Chejudo. Photo by: Author

The cover opened-up ahead of us then got thicker for several hundred yards before it joined the power-line, near where we had parked earlier. My two senior hunting partners told me to take this one. Mr. Kim began whistling softly as he moved in on the dog, which was pointing at a small bush. As Mr. Kim closed the gap, the dog began creeping forward. Suddenly, the cover exploded as a blur of golden brown and gray feathers burst upward from the labyrinth of vines and thorns. I found myself so amazed at the sight of the huge rooster cackling his way skyward, that I momentarily forgot to shoot. As if in slow motion, I remember him looking back at me, his wings beating franticly in an effort to gain altitude. I pulled the trigger and the lower barrel released its ounce of lead. Between the flash of the powder and the gun’s report the rooster folded in mid-air. After the handshakes, I carefully placed the rooster into my gamebag, his tail feathers sticking far out to the side.

We hiked several miles of the island’s hills and worked their slopes and the thick coverts between them. Each of us shot several more birds as the morning turned into early afternoon. Lunchtime found us resting next to one of a thousand stonewalls that cut through the island’s landscape. Like stoic sentinels, they were reminders of hundreds of decades of labor by a stalwart people trying to make their land arable, some of whose very components where probably laid into place by my guide’s forefathers. We ate our sandwiches in front of a view that photo’s would not do justice. A magnificent panorama of snow capped mountains juxtaposed against vibrant green meadows, pine lots and a turquoise sea. After a much-needed rest we decided to try another area.

Walking across a large green field we neared the intersection of two rock walls. As we climbed over the wall ahead of us, something caught my eye. About forty yards forward of our position two cock birds emerged from the high cover. The duo was sneaking through the gradually thinning grass along the wall until they were obviously exposed. Crossing back over the wall we had been following, my senior Navy partners got into a flanking position. I hurried to get myself into a good shooting position. Just as I thought the birds were about to launch skyward, they disappeared over a low spot in the wall. Suddenly, as one of my companions approached, the birds flushed, heading back towards me. I shouldered the gun and caught the first bird as he passed in front of me. I quickly swung the gun to my left and knocked the other rooster down. A perfect “going-away shot.” My aim, however, was slightly off-mark. With the shot’s impact the big cockbird set his wings and sailed to the edge of the field near another wall. He hit the ground hard, obviously crippled, but with the speed of a sprinter ran the last few yards and disappeared over the wall.

Mr. Kim climbed over the wall and whistled for the dog to join him. He sent the dog to the spot where the rooster was last seen and the dog instantly went on point. We approached with a casual caution, expecting to find the bird lying on the other side of the wall. The dog remained locked-up on a very solid point while we searched the cover. The four of us searched the thin strip of cover but could not locate the bird we had all seen hit the ground. With the dog still holding point, I approached the spot in the wall where I had seen the bird cross. For the first time I realized the dog was pointing the wall! Noticing several gaps and spaces in the wall, I began inspecting them closer. Removing several of the rocks from the wall I spied the unmistakable tips of rooster’s tail feathers. With some maneuvering and the removal of a few more large rocks the rooster found his way into my gamebag.

With late afternoon upon us, we began making our way back towards the truck. At the top of a hill the dog became very “birdie” near an old rock pile. His nose was up in the air and working overtime. The wind was beginning to pick-up speed as it traveled across the barren landscape. As the dog turned the corner, he became increasingly interested in the brush around the rock pile. He turned and headed towards the far end of the ancient stone mound. Suddenly, in mid-stride he froze, as if turned into stone himself. He locked on point at the corner of the rock pile. As I approached the dog, he took one step forward; I stopped with my gun at the ready. Mr. Kim said something slowly, yet firmly in Korean and the dog returned to a solid point. I could see his muscles straining as he tried to prevent himself from creeping in on the unseen birds. Knowing pheasant, however, they were probably moving on the dog.

The dog held tight, we approached in a line. Mr. Kim and I were to the left with my partners again spread-out, to the right. As we closed the distance to the rock pile, several birds got-up on its far side. My comrades unleashed a barrage of naval gunfire. Before the shooting had ceased, I saw two big roosters fall and several other birds fly away. The dog was still holding point ahead of us. As we closed the gap a nervous rooster scrambled skyward cackling loudly, I swung the gun to the left and dropped him before he could reach the safety of a bordering thicket.

Reaching into the grass, I held-up the rooster and began to admire it. The bird’s colors and markings seemed brighter, more highlighted in the waning light of “The Land of the Morning Calm.” Mr. Kim came over with a big smile and nodded. He lit a cigarette and patted the dog’s head, praising him in his native tongue. Even though we could not fully communicate to one another, the message and meaning was somehow conveyed, one hunter to another.

	The Navy and Marine Corps teamed-up to hunt pheasants on Chejudo Island, in The Republic of South Korea. The Author and his senior partners take a break next to an ancient wall after a morning hunt. (Mt. Hallasan can be seen in the background). Photo by: Mr. Kim

There would be a hot meal and a restful night of sleep awaiting us, followed by another full day of hunting. Although, a building storm front would bring degrading weather, we did manage to shrug-off the falling temperatures and brace ourselves during the brief periods freezing rain. And we managed to flush a few more birds.

Even though more than a decade has passed since my two days on Chejudo Island, it remains indelibly etched in my mind’s eye as one of the best pheasant hunts I have experienced. Not just because the birds were so plentiful, it was the cumulative nature of the entire experience. The uniqueness of the location, the beauty of the land and the personality of it’s people all combined to leave a lasting impression. And it taught me a valuable lesson, that the love of the outdoors, the freedom of being afield with dog and gun and respect for wild creatures can transcend languages and even cultures. My adventure on Chejudo Island was my own personal pilgrimage to the home of one of North America’s favorite game birds. As I reflect back on that time spent afield, the memories remain as clear today as the photographs in my album. And, there poised atop my bookcase, as if to reinforce the recollection even further, is a mounted rooster standing on a piece of dark red pumice rock, his tail is more than two feet long!