I used to speak in hushed tones about a certain draw. If offered a thousand bucks to deliver a valley quail , that’s where I’d take someone. I knew it like the back of my hand, from where birds roosted, to where the rattlesnake hung out on Sunday afternoon of opening weekend. Until one year, the sagebrush was silent: no calls, no muttering from a feeding covey. Now what?
That thousand-dollar payday was a bust, but could there be hope somewhere, somehow? Not under the streamside brush. Nor in the little gullies draining into it. It was dire, a birdless hellscape. Until I thought creatively, and illogically.
Most times, birds would have scorned the nearby north-facing slopes. They’re too steep and boulder-strewn for quail who like to stroll under overhead cover, which was absent. But they were lush with the tender shoots of cheatgrass and low-growing forbs—and quail.
On the trudge back to camp, we deduced the cause of our honey hole’s desertion. Almost two dozen empty shotshells littered the landscape, left by a small army of hunters who’d put the hurt on every likely, logical hiding spot for quail. Survivors had pulled up stakes, moving to habitat where survival prospects were better. It was a lesson in the resilience of those little birds, and how to cope with situations where tried-and-true doesn’t work.
Splitting up with your hunting partner can provide you with additional opportunities. (Photo courtesy of Scott Linden) 1. Divide and Conquer For example, we’d chased scaled quail all over the desert landscape, frustrating dogs and humans who were always ten steps too far away when one-two-twenty birds ran then flushed. After lunch, we split into two groups, swinging wide of the best habitat then hunting toward prime ground and each other. Running scalies bounced like pinballs from one group of hunters to the other, panicking into flight where one group could get a shot. Scaled quail: zero, human hunters: one (or two, if I’d just shot better).
Sometimes, an unconventional opportunity can still yield a bird. (Photo courtesy of Scott Linden) 2. Take Unconventional Opportunities My experience with U.S. Marine veterans taught me one valuable lesson: adapt, improvise, and overcome. Its corollary was voiced by prize fighter Mike Tyson: “Every plan looks good until you get punched in the face.” Quail have punched me in the face more times than I care to recollect, and if they’ve done the same to you, here are some thoughts on adapting when Plan A goes off the rails.
One spur-of-the-moment improvisations involved a steady mature dog and a rambunctious young Brittany. Squinting into the sun uphill, I could see my wirehair standing rock-solid, nostrils quivering (I’ll bet, but being 80 yards away couldn’t confirm). I started my uphill scramble with little confidence the covey—or my pie-eyed dog—would hold until I got within shotgun range. Enter the Britt.
Eight months old and full of exuberance, he spotted my motionless dog on the slope, saw a playmate-in-waiting, and galloped toward him from a couple hundred yards away. In a fit of brilliance I’ll never duplicate, I gave up my climb and settled in what I hoped would be the quails’ downward escape trajectory. The oblivious pup made a beeline for my dog, busting the covey into flight, and one—just one—male valley quail made a fatal choice. I dropped him when he crossed hard right in front of me and my shot string. Yep, even the blind squirrel finds the occasional acorn when he adapts and improvises. This squirrel, that time, overcame.
Jazz pianist Thelonius Monk once said, “There are no wrong notes: any note can be made right if you know how.” Years ago, I was grateful for Monk’s insights while on stage. Now in the field as I hit a lot of wrong notes, I hope one or two become right notes.
Including the time a big covey launched in unison, jinked left, then settled into a cattail-filled slough. Like nervous mallards, they settled in to wait us out, wet feet and all. We hunkered like duck hunters, setting up for shots that would drop a bird on dry ground. Then, we lobbed rocks until quail rose in dribs and drabs, one coming right at my face. When it swerved (you’ve seen my face—you would too), I took a swing and a puff of feathers drifted away as it dropped in a cloud of dust.
Quail can sometimes be in areas you may not expect. (Photo courtesy of Scott Linden) 3. Check Unlikely Locations for Quail An oak woodland in Kansas yielded not a single bobwhite . We emerged at the edge of a wheat stubble field and shuffled disconsolately toward the truck via a dike and shallow ditch. That’s where the quail were, chased by who-knew-what into third-rate cover, but who cared? I’ve found roosters in the little crease at the bottom of a terrace in CRP, jumped Huns in rain-gouged gullies, and boosted chukar out of trees. I’ll check all of these unlikely locations again next time I’m going bird-less.
If you don't find quail in likely places, check secondary habitat too. (Photo courtesy of Scott Linden) 4. Hunt Secondary Habitat Too And boy, do I know bird-less. So, I’ve got my own set of desperation moves for days when quail aren’t where they should be. Windy day? Head for the leeward side of hills, even if the habitat looks bleak. Or sheltering boulders, thicker-than-usual shrubs. Frigid nights might keep birds on south-facing slopes or at the bottom of dark-colored lava rock cliffs that warm fastest in the morning.
Sure, we know quail prefer bare, level ground under a canopy of overhead vegetation. But if a fox passed through, birds may vamoose to less-favorable (but safer) digs. The good spots see much more predator traffic than we imagine, and biologists tell me that activity could move birds away for weeks. So, improvise, checking dry washes and arroyos for desert quail—especially the shady side. Steep vertical landscapes aren’t any quail’s first choice…unless they have no other choice. Overhangs and big timber have produced for me, once I assessed the situation and gave up on the best cover.
When in doubt, follow an experienced bird dog. (Photo courtesy of Scott Linden) 5. Follow the Dogs We’d once exhausted the potential in a desert sage flat, dogs bored and humans frustrated. When my wirehair ascended a volcanic cinder cone cloaked in snow, my inclination was to whistle him back and head for coffee. But when the GPS collar sounded “point,” I clawed my way up the slope to find him staunch at the entrance to a small cave. Quail swarmed out like bats on a National Geographic special. I missed, but learned that even my dog adapts and improvises—and sometimes, overcomes.
