Another quail hunt heads back to cafe
"Dean said this pasture should have plenty of quail for us today," Doc said, loading his shotgun by the truck's tailgate. He watched the Brittanys poke their noses through the vents in the dog box. "In a minute," he told them.
"These are wild birds, right?" I asked. These days I have to ask, because more and more we're finding ranches with "planted" birds, or birds just released in the wild after a lifetime of living in breeding cages.
"Dean's a rancher, not an outfitter," Doc said. "His daddy owned that lease down in South Texas near Carrizo Springs back in the '70s. Now that was some bird hunting!"
Wrong Willie slid the bolt home on his 20-gauge and grinned. "I've never seen anything like it since then. Miles and miles of quail. The dogs couldn't point singles, because they were busting up coveys as they ran after downed birds."
"Do we have anything to eat?" Woodrow asked. "I'm hungry."
"Sorry, I gave the last of the snacks to White Dog," Doc said. "He was hungry first."
"But I'm starving," Woodrow complained.
"Maybe we'll come across some huckleberries," I said. "When I was a kid, we were always eating huckleberries while the old men worked the dogs."
"A few dried-up berries won't be enough for me," Woodrow said. "We'll just have to hunt fast."
Doc let the dogs out, and they hit the ground running. They sniffed every bush within a 10-year radius of the truck. "Get on out there," Doc told them. "The birds won't be right here beside us."
He talks to his dogs like they're kids. The dogs seem to respond about the same.
"Let's go," I said. I always like to say that, because that's what Uncle used to say when we started our quail hunts long ago.
"Birds," Jerry Wayne told the dogs in a soft voice. "Birds out there."
The dogs scattered and worked the pasture as we walked away from the dirt road. I fully expected to stumble into the middle of a covey like always, while the dogs ranged far ahead.
"I remember one pasture near Granny's house back in the '70s," I said. "I bet there was a covey of quail every 50 yards. It was the best shooting I've ever had on bobs."
"We've seen some fine shooting," Willie said. "But things have been slow these last few years. Something is thinning the quail out, and it isn't us."
"Sure isn't your dead-eye shooting," I told him, and we laughed.
We crunched through winter-cured grass that sounded like Shredded Wheat beneath our thick boot soles. One dog stopped for a moment, and we got excited. Then she changed her mind and went on.
"Some people say fire ants are to blame for killing off all the quail," Doc said.
For nearly 20 years, quail populations in the eastern section of the state have been in decline. In other regions, they're spotty. Some deer leases we've investigated say they have quail on the land, but when we get there we usually don't find more than a covey or two, and we refuse to shoot out the survivors.
"Coccidiosis," Jerry Wayne said with authority.
"You talking dirty?" Wrong Willie asked.
"No, it's a disease that's killing all the quail."
"Well, I heard it's mostly habitat destruction," Willie said.
"Does this country look like it's changed any in the last hundred years?" Jerry Wayne asked, pointing toward the distant horizon.
"No," I said. "But I haven't seen a bird yet, either. I tend to agree with fire ants."
"I haven't seen an ant bed since we got here," Doc said. "Whoa!" he called toward White Dog.
The other two Brittanys were too far away to see White Dog's point. We quickly stepped forward, shotguns at the ready, but Doc was almost standing behind his dog without flushing a bird.
"They're running," Jerry Wayne said.
"He's pointing a terrapin," Woodrow said.
"He won't run," I said.
Doc urged White Dog on, and for the next two hours we found ourselves on a nice, birdless hike. Our route took us in a rough circle, and we started back toward the truck when it came in sight. Apparently embarrassed at his inability to find birds, White Dog came back to walk beside Doc. The other two pups slowed up and walked just in front of us with their tongues hanging out.
Five yards from the truck, I stepped into the middle of a small covey of bobwhites. They exploded under my feet so unexpectedly that all I could do was stand there and watch them fly over the pickup.
"Don't shoot the truck!" Doc shouted.
"Huh?" Jerry Wayne asked, not hearing the covey rise. He was looking back at the country we'd just traveled.
Now completely embarrassed, White Dog simply lay in the dirt road and rested his head on his paws. The other two stood still, as if waiting for us to shoot. When we didn't, they went over to join White.
"Didn't you tell White a couple of hours there were no birds within 10 yards of the truck?" I asked.
Contemplating the three depressed dogs, Doc nodded.
"Don't give them bad advice anymore," I said.
He sighed and gazed at the quailless landscape. "I probably won't have the opportunity anymore."
"We can order fried quail in Doreen's," Woodrow said.
And we gave up for the day.
• Reavis Wortham's e-mail address is r.wortham@tx.rr.com.
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