- Joined
- Mar 11, 2001
- Messages
- 70,011
- Reaction score
- 1,003
QUAIL SEASON ENDS -- ONS-Jim Matthews outdoor column 29jan03
Quail season memorable for reasons other than birds
The quail had flushed out from under the shorthair's point in the head-high chemise. Ginger was just over the crest of the ridge I was hiking and the birds flushed right at me and then dived down the steep slope into the canyon. The first group of three birds were right in front of me and I snapped two shots at them as they shot through an opening in the oaks. I was about six feet behind them. The next bigger flush caught me with the over-and-under open, and I literally had to duck out of their way. They wheeled on both sides of me and then veered sharply down into the canyon and swept down the slope out of sight.
Ginger came out of the brush, her tongue out of her mouth panting, and we started on down the slope. The quail hunting had been more like chukar hunting, with the late-season birds flushing wildly up onto steep hillsides and running out of the county or holding tightly in the chemise, digger pines, and buckwheat.
Just 200 yards down the ridge, Ginger locked up on point on the steep slope. I had to stomp through the buckwheat to flush the bird that came out at my feet. I missed it twice. Ginger went on point under a scrubby oak a few yards away, and as I went in under the tree, a bird flushed from behind me and was over the crest of the hill before I could find footing, turn, and shoot. Not 20 feet away she pointed again and the bird flushed straight away down the hill and I missed twice. Further down the ridge, the dog pointed again and before I could get down to her, two more birds flushed. I slipped slightly as I put the gun up, and they were out of range before I regained my balance.
The worst part of this horrible shooting exhibition was that my hunting buddy Dennis Culley and our hosts George and Sharon Weir were on the opposite ridge watching me slip and slide all over the slope missing the quail. The last day of the quail season had been like that.
One of the only truly easy shots I'd had the whole weekend I'd missed earlier that morning. Dennis and George had pushed some birds off the steep slope down across the canyon where I stood on relatively flat ground, feet planted, and I had an easy crossing shot with no obscuring trees or brush as the bird glided to the opposite side of the canyon. So of course I missed it twice with the 28 gauge.
Dennis, George and I ended up with a 16 birds for three hard days of hunting, and that includes a final day where we didn't get a single bird. Dennis didn't even get a shot Sunday. But hunters who only measure success in the weight of the game bag are missing the big picture. We saw couple of hundred valley quail on the Weir's property out of San Miguel on the Central Coast. There were glimpses of two bobcats, wild hogs, and deer. We ate like kings and told stories all weekend, laughing out loud with heads thrown back while driving around on dirt roads or sitting together in the evenings. Hunting is about friendships, family, stories, and being outdoors in good country. Game in the bag is a bonus.
The Weirs showed us the "quail ranch," as George called it, and told us the history of the old outbuildings and house they were refurbishing. Hanging in a back room was an old woolen vest with a neat, round bullet hole in the front on the side and then a bigger exit hole on the back. There were old blood stains around the bigger hole. They didn't know the story of that vest, but the evidence painted a vivid picture. Details frequently aren't all that important. The old vest was all that remained, and it was enough to tell a story.
So it is with hunting. Years from now, I doubt that I'll remember how many birds we shot on this trip. I'll forget my mediocre shotgun skills. But I will remember that vest and the stories and people and dogs that are threads that weave into the rich fabric that makes up our hunting heritage. Already I’m looking forward to next quail season.
Quail season memorable for reasons other than birds
The quail had flushed out from under the shorthair's point in the head-high chemise. Ginger was just over the crest of the ridge I was hiking and the birds flushed right at me and then dived down the steep slope into the canyon. The first group of three birds were right in front of me and I snapped two shots at them as they shot through an opening in the oaks. I was about six feet behind them. The next bigger flush caught me with the over-and-under open, and I literally had to duck out of their way. They wheeled on both sides of me and then veered sharply down into the canyon and swept down the slope out of sight.
Ginger came out of the brush, her tongue out of her mouth panting, and we started on down the slope. The quail hunting had been more like chukar hunting, with the late-season birds flushing wildly up onto steep hillsides and running out of the county or holding tightly in the chemise, digger pines, and buckwheat.
Just 200 yards down the ridge, Ginger locked up on point on the steep slope. I had to stomp through the buckwheat to flush the bird that came out at my feet. I missed it twice. Ginger went on point under a scrubby oak a few yards away, and as I went in under the tree, a bird flushed from behind me and was over the crest of the hill before I could find footing, turn, and shoot. Not 20 feet away she pointed again and the bird flushed straight away down the hill and I missed twice. Further down the ridge, the dog pointed again and before I could get down to her, two more birds flushed. I slipped slightly as I put the gun up, and they were out of range before I regained my balance.
The worst part of this horrible shooting exhibition was that my hunting buddy Dennis Culley and our hosts George and Sharon Weir were on the opposite ridge watching me slip and slide all over the slope missing the quail. The last day of the quail season had been like that.
One of the only truly easy shots I'd had the whole weekend I'd missed earlier that morning. Dennis and George had pushed some birds off the steep slope down across the canyon where I stood on relatively flat ground, feet planted, and I had an easy crossing shot with no obscuring trees or brush as the bird glided to the opposite side of the canyon. So of course I missed it twice with the 28 gauge.
Dennis, George and I ended up with a 16 birds for three hard days of hunting, and that includes a final day where we didn't get a single bird. Dennis didn't even get a shot Sunday. But hunters who only measure success in the weight of the game bag are missing the big picture. We saw couple of hundred valley quail on the Weir's property out of San Miguel on the Central Coast. There were glimpses of two bobcats, wild hogs, and deer. We ate like kings and told stories all weekend, laughing out loud with heads thrown back while driving around on dirt roads or sitting together in the evenings. Hunting is about friendships, family, stories, and being outdoors in good country. Game in the bag is a bonus.
The Weirs showed us the "quail ranch," as George called it, and told us the history of the old outbuildings and house they were refurbishing. Hanging in a back room was an old woolen vest with a neat, round bullet hole in the front on the side and then a bigger exit hole on the back. There were old blood stains around the bigger hole. They didn't know the story of that vest, but the evidence painted a vivid picture. Details frequently aren't all that important. The old vest was all that remained, and it was enough to tell a story.
So it is with hunting. Years from now, I doubt that I'll remember how many birds we shot on this trip. I'll forget my mediocre shotgun skills. But I will remember that vest and the stories and people and dogs that are threads that weave into the rich fabric that makes up our hunting heritage. Already I’m looking forward to next quail season.
