From the tailgate of the truck, Pistol stared at me, eyes bright with anticipation. She was war torn from months of battle in the upland fields. I ran my hand over her chest, feeling for the small sharp scabs that appeared like braille, telling stories of the hundreds of miles covered in search of whatever upland bird the land decided to donate.

I knew she’d follow me into any battle without the slightest hesitation. That bond has been earned over the miles of cactus, granite strewn mountain sides, ice covered creek crossing, scorching hot sands, broken stalked corn fields and countless barbed wire fences we hurdled together.

We had fought together before, we’d be doing the same this day.

Arizona’s Mearns quail, or Montezuma quail, country is no joke. The flat bobwhite territory of the Midwest was long ago in the rearview mirror. Standing before us were the rolling mountains of what looked more like Hungarian partridge country to me, not a place where quail would like to take up residence.

But who am I to tell a creature where it is they should lay their head.

The ritual of prepping this sleek little 32 pound bird seeking missile went underway without notice. It has become a habit, as much as tying your boots without remembering you’ve done so.

English Setter preparing to hunt Mearns quail

I pulled her into a heel as I locked down the truck and prepared for departure. With the amount of abandoned “runners” backpacks and other nefarious paraphernalia I’d witnessed since our arrival, I figured a full lockdown of the vehicle that was carrying all my worldly possessions would be in order.

We eyed up the hills that soon turned into mountains and looked for habitat that begged to be hunted. My Citori Featherweight found its way into the well worn notch of my shoulder as Pistol set off in search of a familiar scent.

I proudly watched her as the distance increased between us. Tweety birds scatter and she took little notice. Finally. This victory is no small one and would be easily missed by someone who hasn’t watched the progression. A diamond set in a ring didn’t look that way when pulled from the earth.

The low angle of the mid winter sun crawled its way over the horizon. The frost covered grass would soon be wet once the sun fully awakened. We were perhaps a bit early to start chasing quail, but I hated to waste a good sunrise.

We gained elevation along with the sun. The grass was tall and thick, a far cry from the Scaled quail territory we had frequented not so long back. Some humans like cities while others like the country I mussed, quail are no different with their preferences.

I continued to watch the white streak quarter the hillside. Perhaps it wasn’t as awe inspiring as the birth of my firstborn, but watching an English setter work terrain like this is a close second.

There was some oak lacing steep cuts in the hillside and Pistol was pulling us in that direction. Her instincts were good. She was beginning to understand what features attracted game. That or I was overanalyzing my birddog, acting as a parent who thinks their child is the next Einstein. We want to be a part of something special, even if we have to make it up in our mind. She could just be looking for a bit of shade.

My legs pumped oxygen into the starving muscles. Climbing fifteen feet up a treestand and sitting for hours at a time, the only exercise being moving my eyeballs from side to side had done little for my cardio. Whitetail hunting was a mental game, certainly not a physical one. Don’t let Instagram tell you otherwise.

She was out of sight at this point, the cuts in the hillside made it tough to keep her in my line of sight. I knew her general direction and the GPS collar confirmed my suspicions. A couple hundred yards out and still on the move.

I still had a lot to learn about this pup. Reading her body language had eluded me thus far. She was either on point or she was birdy. There was no in-between. Braker, my pudelpointer, for instance was as calm as a bomb until he picked up scent. At that point his stubby little tail would wag like a metronome moving to the beat of drum and bass.

Not Pistol. She seemed to treat every blade of grass, every bush as if it were loaded up with the next covey. Her white flag of a tail would swish the air like a defeated army in surrender.

A beep from the GPS unit pulled me out of my contemplations, telling me to get to my birddog and see what she’s up to. It could be one of three things.

She stalled out, waiting for my wheezing body to catch up. The high octane race car idling while the lead clogged jalopy attempts to catch up with her.
She’s on a rock solid point of some nearby cattle.
See #2, subtract the cow and replace with Mearns quail.

I decided not to test her resolve and double timed my step.

I crested a small ridge to find her in full concentration at a piece of ground forty yards in front of her nose. Unless Arizona has grasshopper sized cattle, she was on quail.

As elusive as she is with signaling me that she is picking up scent, she wears her point on her sleeve.

There is absolutely no mistaking when there is a game bird in front of her. A statue couldn’t hold as still. Her tail doesn’t wag, her heart doesn’t beat. Her eyes bore a hole in the spot she is looking, so much so that you think that the ground before her would start to smolder. The concentration is so complete, so beautiful, that I often don’t know if I should reach for my gun or my camera.

I fear disappointing her, so I double checked that there were two shells seated in the barrels and snapped the over/under shut.

I approached the point she was concentrating on at a ninety degree angle. Although she has been approached from her six o’clock plenty of times without budging, if at all possible I’ll avoid it. She’s a rock, but given enough pressure, even a rock will break.

My habit of placing pressure on the safety kicked in as I went through the scenarios of how this could go down in my head. A straight away shot would be ideal. No angles to deal with, just put the bead on the butt and squeeze the trigger. If they were going to break perpendicular to me, I’d prefer to my right. It has always been an easier shot for me. It is naturally smoother to rotate forward, but then I’d be shooting into the hillside. I like the sky behind my birds. Give me that uncluttered silhouette and my chances go from a whopping 10% kill rate to around 15%. I liked those odds.

I was moments away from taking my calculator out and breaking down the percentages for success when the explosion of feathers went off.

Not a covey, but a solo male Mearns quail. He obviously hadn’t been listening to my dissertation on what was going to work best for me and my shooting abilities because he decided his best course of action was a full on frontal charge.

I felt the disturbance of air as the quail rocketed past my head. I pivoted on my heel as I seated the stock of my shotgun home. It felt right because there was no thought behind it. I know I’m screwed when I have to think of each motion individually. When it feels natural, feathers tend to fall from the sky.

A single shot erupted from my top barrel. A cloud of lead enveloped the bird in a blanket, wrapping it up and sending it towards the earth.

Pistol breaks loose, looking for more in the covey. To her that bird was the past, and her being a buddhist and all, she practices living in the present. There are more birds to be had and if I felt like wallowing in nostalgia, I could go pick up the damn bird myself.

A setter through and through. The offseason will be a rude awakening for her.

I scooped up the pristine male Mearns quail. Another first amongst an upland road trip filled with firsts.

I pulled Pistol off the chase as I sat down, pressing by back up against the post of a barbed wire fence. She reluctantly came over, not sure what all the excitement was about over a dead bird.

I tried to force her to see it from my perspective. I wanted her to see the satisfaction of accomplishing our goal. She was more interested in the process of obtaining it, not the end result.

I respected that, but I still wanted to gloat. Our first Mearns together.