Old Luke had found them and there wasn’t any doubt about that. He stood there in the woodland cover with his tail high and head forward, his body twisted slightly with one foreleg lifted, drinking in the mesmerizing scent of bobwhite quail. Behind him a few yards was his hunting mate, Sadie, honoring his point and no doubt disappointed that the big Setter had found them first.
The three of us moved in quickly and the air was filled with the explosion of brown birds. There wasn’t much time to find a target and intercept it. I clobbered a small oak with a charge of No. 8 shot and then missed the same bird clean as he sailed past it. Tom and Kent did the same thing I did and we stood there talking about how tough it was to hit a quail in that heavy cover. The first covey of the afternoon and we hadn’t pulled a feather. But Tom Goldsmith had seen his first covey rise.
Tom is the talented wildlife artist from Coldwater, Ontario, who illustrates my books, and he owns a pair of English Setters back in Canada where he hunts grouse and woodcock with enthusiasm. He spent several days with me a few years back, anxious to see what quail hunting is like. To show him that, we needed to hunt over good dogs, and I knew who had them. Kent Caplinger, from Ozark, Mo., grew up hunting quail as a kid in Howell County. I met him at the University of Missouri when we were both about 18 years old and I have always counted him as one of my closest friends. Little wonder; Kent is an enthusiastic outdoorsmen! He and I once hitch-hiked home from the University of Missouri to hunt ducks on the Piney, thumbing a ride with cased shotguns lying beside our suitcases. Kent has always had two or three good bird dogs.
Luke and Sadie aren’t just good, they are great! They both sat in my boat while we motored across Truman Lake to a hard to reach spot where my setter Freckles and I had found quail years ago.
We tied the boat and went up into the woods where we walked past the foundation of an old home-place, through skimpier cover and briars and buckbrush with small groups of cedar and scattered hardwoods. We talked about how often coveys are found around an old home-place like that. And just moments later old Luke found the covey. It was their good fortune to leave us there with nothing but spent shotshell hulls and excuses, but it was our good fortune to watch many of the birds, 15 or 18 in all, sail out into high grass and a harvested sunflower field.
Tom downed his first bobwhite 15 minutes later in front of Sadie’s staunch point and as he did, another bird flushed beside me and sped toward the sunflower field just skimming the weeds, never higher than my waist. That’s the kind of shot I can handle. Moments later, Luke pinned a bird next to Kent and we all had some weight in our game bags. But we left them with only the three birds to our credit and motored over to a spot where I thought we’d find another covey in less difficult conditions.
Topping a rise 150 yards from the boat, we watched Luke working birds before us. He moved into the wind with head low and tail moving nervously, something bird-dog men recognize instantly, a clear message that a covey is close by. Kent cautioned his dog to go easy, and sharply commanded Sadie to hold. She hadn’t scented the quail yet but she heard the command and looked for Luke. By that time he was frozen before her and she honored his point.
This covey rise was in shorter cover and we each dropped a bird. Someone got two. I said it was me but I don’t think it was. I don’t think it was Tom either or he would have argued with me. Kent didn’t claim it, being the gentleman that day he has always been. The entire afternoon he situated himself where the shot was least likely to be, putting Tom and I in the best of positions.
But none of us were there for just the shooting. We talked about how, as you grow older, you walk in slower, not wanting the moment to end. You know that any second the birds will take to flight and the wonder of the magnificent scene before you will be gone. I just want to stand there and drink it in, absorb it to the fullest while the dogs are statue-still before me.
“Some people think I’m crazy to keep going with my dogs in a time when there are so few quail,” Kent said that day. “But I can’t give it up, not ever. Even if we only find one covey, it’s a big day for me. Anyone who has ever hunted over good dogs knows why, you can’t explain it to anyone else!”
With the temperature dropping and the sky gray with the warning of coming snow, we hunted on, watching the dogs find singles, missing one and dropping another until the game bags were bulging at least a little. We found a third covey not 100 yards from the other, and both coveys had more than 20 birds. The last one was the largest of the day and yet the singles were the hardest to find.
When we had a dozen birds, we headed back to the boat and left them to reorganize with some light left in the day, hoping the coming weather wouldn’t catch them unassembled. As we did we listened to bobwhites whistling in the fields above us. I couldn’t have imagined a better afternoon.
Read more about quail hunting in the old days in my Christmas issue of the Lightnin’ Ridge Outdoor magazine.
I am giving away free copies as Christmas gifts, but you’ll have to pay the postage. Just call me at 417-777-5227 to get one, or maybe order a subscription for someone as a Christmas gift.