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Hot shooting in an ancient land

by Scott Linden

We started walking at the yawning mouth of a canyonthat hides the bones of mastodons, an ancientseabed now covered with desert sage and juniper.

The trickle of a creek is the only moisture left in a place thatwas once awash in saltwater. Rugged spires of lava resemblegiant teeth left by prehistoric residents of the area. They serveas sentinels for the beautiful little birds we seek, valley quail.

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“Manny slitheredthrough the roots

and branches, presenting it tomy outstretched

hand. I didn’t take it away immediately, proferring his

reward while heinhaled the

delicious scent.

”

ISTO

CK.COM / KINGWU

Generations of these desert birds(aka California quail) have scurriedto this series of tiny pools seekinglife-giving water. We come too, seek-ing a primeval connection to this an-cient place and its current residents.We were working “unplugged,” as

the e-collar was lost in my shopsomewhere. It was a refreshingchange. The beeper has proven itsworth over and over. But going with-out helps focus attention on youraural surroundings: a dog’s footfallsin dry leaves, the rustle of grass as hebulls through a field, your heartpounding and then the deafeningsilence as you anticipate a flush.Without artificial aids, you be-

come a complete predator, just likethose who walked this ground a mil-lennia ago. Senses focused, youmeld with the environment. En-tirely in the moment, the real “realworld” absorbs you and vice-versa.The visceral bond between hunterand hunting dog is sealed in pursuitof a tiny, elusive quarry.Beyond the knife edge of the

streambed my 10-year-old wirehairBuddy is searching for me from thecorner of his eye, pointing a jumbleof blackberry vines. My clumsy ap-proach cued the quail to a whirringflush, one presenting a left-rightcrossing shot even I couldn’t muff.As stragglers squirted out in ones

and twos, I fumbled for more shellsuntil the covey was a fond memory.

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Buddy belly-crawled his way througha pile of downed alders to deliver thecock bird, proudly plumed andvividly colored.Upstream and upwind, we bulled

through wild roses and head-highCanada thistle. My four-year-oldManny locked up, tail quivering. Are-set, then abandon of the birdy-looking hold. A ground track pro-duced a solid point, and soon birdserupted in a cloud from the muddyground while I was still admiring hispose. I always trust the hunter withthe longest nose.This bunch rose in two waves. I

took my reprieve gratefully, loadedup and dropped a hen on the otherside of the swampy stream. Manny’sretrieve took him through deepwater, sucking mud, cattail thicket,then over a beaver dam. Across,down, splash, a floating quail and aretrieve to hand.Back when this was the edge of

an ancient ocean, every animal wasgargantuan: giant hippos, beaversthe size of bears, dragonflies thatdwarf present-day eagles. I doubtthe quail could have been any big-ger — in our minds, at least — thanthey are on days like this, when ourdogs perform so joyously.The cottonwoods, aspen and wil-

lows framing the stream were ablazein gold, yellow and amber. Theybrightened a day that started warmand got warmer. Grateful for more

open country, the young wirehairworked adjacent sage-studded drawswith a ground-covering lope.A covey flushed from head-high

sage in dribs and drabs. One point,another, then another from Mannyas birds snuck from the far side of athicket with an alarmed “pit-pit” andwhir of wings. I listened to their es-cape, unable to see a single bird.In the distance a quail burred out

of streamside blackberries, droppingto my hunting partner’s 28 gauge.Marked well, it was still a puzzle toManny, splashing back and forth inthe creek and bucking the tangle ofroots and saplings along its banks. That’s when another bird buzzed

from the willows, tumbling to my in-stinctive shot. She dropped in theshort grass along the rim of thestream bank, where Manny skiddedto a stop, grabbed her and retrievedto hand. He soon reinforced my ad-miration for his natural abilities(certainly not his trainer’s acumen!)when I asked him to go back to thematter at hand (paw?), and hedemonstrated a strong search andretrieve on the second bird, a moresubtly-colored hen bird.A thousand yards on Manny

swapped ends as he passed anotherblackberry thicket blanketing thefloor of the streambed. From above,we watched his tail twitch into rigid-ity and one front leg come slowly tohis chest.

OREGON VALLEY QUAIL

Sagebrush harbors California quail … just ask Buddy. Find water, find quail.

SCOTT LINDEN

SCOTT LINDEN

fluff and legs muddied, he had thatquail in his mouth. I took the birdand hugged him.On our last walk of the day the

play of afternoon light on rock andsnow almost danced. A loomingbasalt column grew before ourmind’s eye into the head of a T. Rex.A buckaroo’s line shack in pre-top-ple mode cried out — wall boardsresembling a crone’s mouth withmore space than teeth.The tang assaulting my nose took

me back to high school — notes ofan old girlfriend’s perfume. A hagof an apple tree breathed sicklysweet, all but one fruit now brownor purple or black. We flew valley quail at the base of

this draw near the apple tree, whereancient junipers stood guard. Theirflush was distilled to the essence ofour dreams: quivering stalks andcrackling leaves, staccato alarm call,drum roll of wings. The two that fell will join the one

good apple I picked in a recipe I’vebeen meaning to try.

Birds up! One cartwheeled intoa tangle of alder, where I could seeit, but would need a ladder to getit. Another shot dislodged it, andManny slithered through the rootsand branches, presenting it to myoutstretched hand. I didn’t take itaway immediately, proferring hisreward while he inhaled the deli-cious scent.On our way down an arid, rocky

canyon, a pair flushed wild at ourfeet — not unusual as once thecovey is broken up quail often holdtight in hopes you’ll pass them.Open guns and dogs on the oppo-site slope ensured a safe escape.Our down-canyon route took us

toward the escapees. We scrambledalong the side of the defile, wherea deer trail was little help on theslippery, 45-degree slope. Panting,we rounded a point to find Mannyeyeball-to-eyeball with one of thestragglers. Our arrival panicked thelittle rooster, sending it soaringacross the valley and over thestream, 60 feet below.

The crack of a gun and cloud offeathers signaled “dead bird.” Itdropped into the maze of cattailsdefining a beaver dam and pond, aforeboding jungle of boot-suckingmud and unforgiving vegetation.We slipped and slid to the edge of

the swampy abyss with little hope, buta hearty “dead bird — fetch!” Wewatched and listened, the rustle ofstalks, puffs of cattail fluff and occa-sional splashes tracking Manny’ssearch. A few minutes and heemerged birdless, looking for direc-tion. I threw a rock in the general di-rection of the fall, and sent him again. Splash. Rattle. The suck of mud

on paws. Silence. Then that awful,infinite quiet when you wish youhadn’t sent your dog into such adangerous situation. We humanstraded smart-alecky remarks,ginned-up chuckles barely hidingthe undercurrent of worry. Then, a “splursh!” and the steady

sound of a dog coming our way. Wewatched the reeds shudder. WhenManny emerged covered in cattail

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OREGON VALLEY QUAIL

“Perfect” is a pretty strong word, but consider valley (or California) quail inhabit vast swaths of publicground ours for the exploring. Find a patch of scabland administered by the Bureau of Land Management andlace up your boots. But Callipepla californica also get along fine with civilization, so farms, ranches, even cityparks harbor coveys.

Valley quail prefer habitat with plenty of overstory, but little understory. Avian hunters such as the Cooper’shawk are their primary predator, so sage, bitterbrush or blackberry thickets offer overhead protection. Theirdiminutive size and short legs require relatively clear ground to aid their often ground-based escape.

True to their name, valley quail are denizens of canyon floors, folds and crevices. If you find a well-wateredstream bottom, drop the tailgate and go hunting. These birds roost in trees and shrubs, and you can oftenhear them in the afternoon as they waddle from their feeding cover to a nearby stand of mountain mahogany. They behave well for pointing dogs, often holding until flushed. And even after a covey rise, one ortwo birds might hunker in hopes you’ll go away — so reload quickly!

When you spot one quail it is usually serving as a sentinel for the bevy, perched on a rock or fence postwatching for predators, ready to sound the alarm with a “pit-pit.” Whether wild-flushed or pinned by a dog, abroken covey spells good hunting for singles. Mornings and afternoons, they sometimes betray their presencewith an unmistakable call (chi-CAH-go), and about half the time, my feeble imitations will elicit an answer call.

They are striking in their vivid coloring and occupy beautiful places. What more could you ask for in a “per-fect” bird? — Scott Linden

The Perfect Bird? — Lots of public land with birds