Six birds and almost as many diverse landscapes. The “Quail Slam,” as it’s known, requires shooting all six species of quail found in the United States: bobwhite, valley, mountain, Mearns, Gambel's, and scaled. Going into the season, I never had any intentions of shooting a slam. Even after realizing I’d have the opportunity to take every species, it still wasn’t really a driving force. This isn’t a chest beating, I’m greater than that quail killing manifesto. Rather, it’s aimed to highlight the experiences chasing these wildly unique birds in wild places.

Hunting Mountain Quail

Before the thought of being able to shoot all six species of quail behind a dog entered into my mind, I was in the truck, where most good stories begin, in the middle of Montana. I had just wrapped up hunting geese in a hellish snowscape featuring wall tents in below zero temperatures with winds upwards of 20 to 30 miles per hour. The plan was to meet up with friends Chad Love, Editor of the Quail Forever Journal, and Nate Akey in Oregon to hunt three birds neither Chad nor I had ever hunted, including valley quail, mountain quail, and chukar.

The plan for the day was to chase mountain quail, a bird that held the most mystery. To be frank, I didn’t think it would be a very fun hunt. The description of the terrain sounded picturesque but simultaneously hellish for bird dogs. A forest floor full of slash, where one step could keep you at ground level, and the next you’d fall up past your knee in a tangle of limbs.

It felt as if we were climbing into the rainforest, except there was a fresh coating of snow on the moss laden trees. As we drove by cuts on seemingly impossible slopes to log on, I was simply impressed by the landscape these birds called home. As we were approaching the first hunting area, we started noticing a growing number of quail tracks on the logging road. We jumped out of the truck, a steep logged hillside to our left and a Middle Earth-esque forest on our right. Instantly, we spotted the source of said tracks, as a covey scurried across the logging road onto the steep face.

The dogs apprehensively approached as we drew nearer. Then all hell broke loose. Half the covey rocked uphill while the others did their best Top Gun impression, bombing straight down. A volley of shots rang out chasing after the covey, knocking two birds to the ground. Chad and I were awestruck. We had connected with two males that were the most stunning shade of blue, topped with their signature straight top knot. It probably took us 15 minutes to scrape our jaws off the ground and finish up taking photos of these mountain kings. The covey probably held 20 to 25 birds, and we went into the woods to try and pick off another straggler.

I quickly came to the realization that Nate was indeed correct with his description of the cover. While not dense in the slightest, the slash was brutal and it was simply amazing that a bird could even move in it.

We made the decision to forgo our return trip to the coastal mountains, not wanting to endure the snow and rain forecasted the following day. It was time to chase after the second species of quail of the season.

Hunting Valley Quail

As we drove out in the dawn, the scenery couldn’t be any different. There were no trees, only giant hills plummeting down into canyons far below. We arrived to the spot and I could see why a quail would choose the area. A brushy creek bed with forbes, grasses and some cattails sprawled out in front of us. I put Herb on the ground, as this tight cover was a perfect job for the 6-year-old Deutsch drahthaar. No sooner than we got into the draw, a massive covey flushed wild 40 yards in front of the dogs. I was zoned in as I could see the small quail rip around on the ground in front of us. As we approached the area, I knew one bird must have opted to hole up instead of continuing the race forward. Herb said the same thing, but in fewer words, as his body staunched. A lone valley male doubled back between the canyon wall and me, which only lay five yards to my left. I let it pass before connecting with a single shot. Although we were less than four hours away from yesterday’s spot, it might as well have been a different planet. As we worked down the stream bed, Herb had a beautiful find on the edge of the cattails where another large covey sought refuge. I whiffed with a smile on my face, as another quail fell with the report of my partners’ shotguns.

Hunting Bibwhite Quail

Christmas came and went, and as the winter from hell firmly grasped Minnesota, I was headed south. In the three weeks since arriving back from Oregon, and taking off to the desert southwest, I came to the conclusion that it would be a pretty cool accomplishment to take all six species of quail over my bird dogs. It just so happened that Kansas sat halfway between Minnesota and Albuquerque, New Mexico. I made a short stop in western Minnesota to add a friend’s pack of dogs to my own, as we were planning on meeting in Arizona later in the trip. It was smooth sailing with seven dogs in tow, that was until I almost lost George Lyall’s prize year-old Pointer at my first pit stop. I got him back an hour or so later thanks to a well-placed farmhouse and a dog loving farmer. We were back up and running. The goal was to break up the trip with a quick hunt in Kansas before continuing on. I arrived at a familiar motel after midnight, ready and raring to go. I had permission to hunt a property nearby and the year prior it had been loaded with bobwhites. Premonitions of a successful hunt lulled me quickly to sleep.

Wishful thinking, as it was 11 a.m. and six miles underfoot without the slightest indication of a quail. I called my friend who farmed the land and asked if he had any hail Mary haunts, as I was eager to start the next 14-hour leg of the journey on a positive note. He pointed me to one last spot, saying, “If you can’t find them here, I can’t help you.” As I circled the tree grove, my heart started sinking as the truck came back into view. Depressed by the sight of impending failure, I almost missed my year and a half old pointer trying to wave me down with a twelve o’clock tail. Turning on a dime, I quickly approached. Over with what I thought was the hardest part, a healthy covey burst skyward. Chip shot! First shot, nothing... second shot, nothing. In that split second, the thought “You are one pathetic loser” streaked through my mind.

But wait. One cock bird faltered and made a haphazard landing. Thankfully, I had the matriarch of the bunch, my ol’ girl Annie, along on this short walk. Amos could really care less about finding the bird, as his new goal was another covey. Annie didn’t see the bird fall, but I sent her off into the thicket and less than a minute later she reappeared with Mr. Bob in tow. I gave her a pat on the head, thankful for a job well done.

Hunting Gambel’s and Mearns Quail

The morning broke over a wrought iron gate adorned with quail, smack dab in the middle of Albuquerque. I was joining the one and only Tyler Sladen for a quick hunt before continuing my journey to southern New Mexico. If you haven’t heard of Tyler, his name might as well be synonymous with dialed. There are few people I know who are more dedicated to bird dogs and quail hunting. With the favorable conditions of the 2022-2023 season, Tyler had been dedicating his time to accumulating countless spots to chase Mearns quail. Arizona typically gets all the love when it comes to that pursuit, but New Mexico came out swinging on this day.

Joining us was Gary Shaw, as we started at the base of the mountain and made a quick swing through the dry washes hoping to pick off a Gambel’s quail or two before heading up in elevation. The big country was well suited for Amos, as I added him to the brace of setters Tyler and Gary had on the ground. Even though Amos had never tested his skills against desert birds, he proved to be quite adept, eventually pinning a covey into a group of bushes at the edge of the wash. One bird out of the covey picked the wrong direction and flew directly across my gun barrel. The quail slam was becoming real.

From almost the same parking spot, we climbed up. When I say up, I don’t mean at an easy angle. It was the kind of up, where you have to crane your head way up. The kind of up where I could feel the fat of my neck pinch between my skull and back. “What did I sign myself up for?” Remember when I said Tyler was dialed? That was quickly proven as a setter tail pointed skyward. I was sucking wind, and gesturing “you take this one,” partly because I’m a gentleman like that, but mostly because I had misplaced my breath 500 feet lower in elevation. But it’s better to be lucky than good as a single Mearns curled back past the dog, flying downhill right in front of me. Apparently, you don’t need oxygen to shoot, because I forgot about my burning lungs as the recoil of the shotgun checked another species off the 2022-2023 slam list.

I failed to mention that this terrain wasn’t only brutal on my lungs, but the feet of Amos. It doesn’t help he spends 99 percent of the time running like he’s in the hunt for the triple crown, but this fever had led to four blown pads in less than two hours on the ground, and with more than 10 days left in my trip I was praying it wasn’t time to bench my number one.

Hunting Scaled Quail

I bid Tyler a farewell as I continued towards the Mexican border to meet up once again with Chad Love, and a couple of new friends, Katie Willis and Stephanie Walton-Filipczak. Technically, the only bird left on my list was the ol’ cotton top, also known as a scaled or blue quail. Surely it wouldn’t be that hard! Well, two days later I had no birds to show for the hundreds of cactus spines plucked from dog’s paws. We made a last-minute decision to try a new area, nobody in the party had ever hunted. As it turns out, the key to finding these little track stars was finding grassy flats adjacent to thicker cover. While it didn’t take long to get into cotton tops, shooting them was another story.

The explosive covey rises after a foot race, quite different from the gentleman bob hunt. The dogs’ pace increased, with the tell-tale signs there were birds ahead. Then I spotted a dozen or so cruising 50 yards in front of us. Amos was on point, not certain how he should handle this game. Always trust the dog! I walked up to Amos and saw the covey still beep-bopping up ahead while he stood rock solid. Thinking he was just pointing old scent, I swung in front of him while my eyes stayed locked on the main group. The flutter of feathers took me completely off guard as I spun and fired at the trio of birds. As I approached the drab colored bird I was stunned at their intricate, yet understated beauty. After all the miles on the tires, soles, and pads, I held the last of the species.

I enjoyed another week of quail bliss as the dogs and I sharpened our skills against these amazing desert birds. Reflecting back on the season, the persisting theme was not the accomplishment of shooting all six species, but more so the opportunity to be able to experience the unique environments each individual species calls home. Whether it’s the dense pines nearly touching the Pacific Ocean or the overgrown fence rows in America’s heartland, each area and bird deserves the utmost respect. It was an amazing experience, and an experience I will revisit again.