I just returned from a kind of bi-annual pheasant hunting trip out to the flooded cornfields and sloughs of northeaster South Dakota. Evidently, they had some rain there over the summer. I'm saying that "tongue in cheek" of course because I know the farmers have had a headache this year with the weather, start to finish. I can empathize with each and every one of them.

It's the pits to see your combine up to its running gear in goo. No fun to be had there.

But, I digress. This column will deal with what I have come to discern as a change in my anatomy. I've been in training for this pheasant hunting trip since September when I started running our black Labrador through the woods of northern Minnesota. The dog trimmed down quite well, thank you, but my waistline seems not interested in decreasing in width.

Although my knees felt better than the last few years, there was a tenderness there after plowing through the timber in search of a grouse.

The groin pull I fought for the last two years seemed to magically disappear this year. My back spasms have abated so far this year and I haven't had to spend a week on our living room floor atop a block of ice. Health- wise, things looked relatively well as I packed my 12- and 20-gauge shotguns.

I had a kind of sinking feeling as we crossed the border into South Dakota.

I had been watching the field crop harvest reports over recent weeks and I knew that harvest was way behind the norm. I just didn't know how far behind and how high the water level was.

For those who haven't ventured to that part of the country, you'll find new lakes where none had been before. Basements are flooded, septic tanks are popping out of the ground and water is flowing over roads where only a year or two ago dust blew.

Our pheasant crew was hale and hearty though as we drove our first patch of cornfield and CRP. I slipped and slid my way through the rows of flooded corn and managed to twist one ankle in the process. I noticed that I was having a tough time keeping adequate oxygen in my lungs as I surged behind the Lab, who was having no trouble at all. She kept looking over her shoulder at the form stumbling behind, trying to keep up - me.

Over the four days I spent afield, my body gradually adapted to field conditions and at the end I was actually feeling very little pain. The pills I took back at the motel could have had something to do with that.

I watched tens of thousands of ducks and geese getting ready to head south, I watched rooster pheasants aplenty glide into the middle of a cattail swamps where they knew I couldn't follow, I missed my good share of shots I'd have made ten years ago and I did manage to down a couple of birds whose fate had failed them.

It was a great trip, regardless of my semi-sprained ankle, eye-strain, cramped legs and lack of a second wind due to blood pressure medicine. I also discovered that you don't have quite the leg reach at 63 as you did at 43 when crawling over a four-strand barbed wire fence.

Close call.

Sixty-three ain't the new 43 to a human. If you don't believe me, just ask the Lab.

See you next time. Okay?