A stiff north wind wreaks havoc on the thirty-three-foot camper being pulled behind my under-gunned Ram truck. The kids and woman are asleep, giving me the silence I rarely get on such a trip to mull over the last week.

We have been chasing scaled quail near Carlsbad, New Mexico with little luck. Rumors are rumbling through the landscape that the quail numbers are way down in the area. Top that off with attempting to hunt these wary birds near the end of the season and you have yourself a recipe for disappointment.

The decision was made to head closer to the Arizona border in hopes of finding more quail and of different variety. Scaled, Gambel’s and if lucky, Mearn’s quail would be chased in good numbers. We have a week left to get it done. The goal is to get Hazel her first quail, have the kids run free in the desert wilds, show Braker, our Pudelpointer, enough birds that he becomes sick of their smell and for me; the much sought-after New Mexico quail trifecta.

I watch my gas gauge plummet faster than lifestyle changes from kids. From dirtbag hunter to KOA visiting, kid toting modern-day Clark Griswald. Change happens, often without us taking notice, until one day it is as evident as an elephant in the room, or in my case a house on wheels.

Upon arriving, we lay down camp in quick fashion. Get the essentials taken care of, a cocktail for dad to calm his frazzled nerves from white-knuckling the windstorms, and prep for a hunt.

OnX is fired up on the phone and we head off to what looks like promising terrain. Braker is shaking with anticipation in the rearview mirror, staring out the back window at the passing mesquite bushes with the concentration of a fighter pilot. The kids’ boots are laced up, ready to unleash endless energy that only toddlers are blessed with and grownups look on with envy.

Hazel drops me off on the upper end of an arroyo that I picked out. She’ll take the kids to the lower end and meet me towards the bottom. She knows me all too well, I am either blessed or cursed with the drive of a field trial dog. If some of that steam isn’t released the engine could blow.

Braker and I plan on putting in four or five miles before we reach them, finishing out the hunt with the full crew.

I’m daydreaming of the new opportunities in new territory when a bush explodes in front of me. Dark outlines of Gambel’s quail fill the sky momentarily and as quick as they appeared are dispersed like confetti into the wind the next. My Browning Featherweight is clutched in my right hand, never moving from its original position. I see Braker looking back my direction with his ever disappointed eyes.

I grin at him sheepishly. He holds the stare a bit longer to drive home the point.

“Alright, alright already. Get after them,” I say as I release him from his point.

He tears off like a possessed demon. By the time I catch up with him he’s locked down like a statue. I make my approach at a poorly thought out angle and two Gambel’s quail with rocket boosters blast into orbit at opposite directions.

Paralysis by analysis. I can’t decide which way to swing.

In any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing.

Damn you, Theodore Roosevelt.

This time I refuse to make eye contact with my judgemental birddog.

We edge near private property and I decide to pull anchor and head further down the arroyo. In the world of cameras behind every bush, I’m too paranoid to even piss past a barbed wire fence that’s bordering private land.

We walk through terrain that belongs at the end of a Google search for ‘where do you find quail?’

I have my game face on now. Disappoint my gun dog once and he’ll let you know it. Twice? He’s telling his friends what a lame hunter I am. Three times? Well three times, and he’s looking for a new owner.

He cuts the country apart like a Samari sword, throwing pebbles and clumps of sand in his wake.

Any and every square inch of this place could contain birds and he’s determined to leave his mark on all of it.

We make our way down the arroyo and closer to the little bouncing orange dots that is the family before his stumpy tail picks up cadence signaling to me that I best get ready. I crack my over/under and check that I didn’t pull a knuckleheaded move like forgetting to load it. I’m on thin ice as is.

Braker scales a ten-foot eroded creek bank with the skill of a mountaineer. As he crests the top he locks up. I take a few steps forward and another covey explodes in the four cardinal directions. I lock in on two and with the determination that comes from a man staring down a third strike, I pull off a double in a fashion
I’m not accustomed to nor deserve.

I break the barrel and two smoking shells arc for the sky. I grab a fresh one from the pouch and as I slide it in the top barrel another Gambel’s takes to the sky. I close her up and mount to my shoulder in one move.

Another puff of feathers and I’m looking my birddog’s way for that eye contact he was so desperate for earlier.

“Eh?! Hope you include that in your story to your little friends,” I quip with raised eyebrows.

His only response is to find the nearest downed bird, not wanting to acknowledge in my childish remarks. We round up the fallen birds and decide it’s time to see if we can accomplish one of the original goals of getting Hazel her first quail.

I pull Braker off the scent of the now long gone covey and head towards the family. A sizable portion of the birds headed their direction and they will have had plenty of time to settle down and let their stink coat the area.

I wave Hazel over and we converge in the middle, about a mile from where she has parked the truck. I can hear two bouncing kids following on her heels asking her a million questions from where does the sun go every night to what’s her favorite dinosaur. Little carbon-powered voiceboxes with feet.

I point her over to where part of the covey landed and back off with the kids to let her and Braker go to work.

“Did you get any Dad? How many more do we need before we can make quail chicken nuggets?” they ask without slowing down for an answer. They’ve been away from dad for about two hours and they have earth-shattering stories to tell of their exploits during that time. I kneel down, crack open the scattergun and take it all in. Hearing the excitement from my two favorite little people in the world starts to make my eyes well up.

I listen and fill in explanations where I can. I watch Hazel work out in the mesquite, pausing at random bushes as Braker locks up on birds that were there only moments ago. They’re running, as desert birds will, and he has to figure a way to lock them down in order to get Hazel a shot.

I see the glimmer of steel as she raises her Ithica pump, a bottom ejecting 20 gauge that is older than she is, up to her shoulder. There’s a crack in the air that silences the little ones.

“Did mommy get one?” my son asks.

“Wahooo!” reverberates back to us from here position.

“I think so buddy, should we go find out?” I ask.

We’re running over her way, little feet pumping like pistons, powered by curiosity.

By the time we get to Hazel, she’s holding her first quail in hand, slightly dampened by Braker’s saliva. The kids pet the bird and ask more questions. Life and death can be a heavy subject for any human, but presented this way it appears more natural, easier to explain.

Hazel and I look at one another, knowing the significance of these moments. To the kids, it’s another day, absorbing the world around them and the role that they play in it.

We walk back to the truck, happy with the day, happy with the way we’ve decided to live our lives, and just simply happy to be together. We’re in a bubble. Outside our immediate area, nothing matters. Not politics, not ranting social media posts, not the world’s problems.

I hesitate at the handle of the truck, knowing that when I open it and we move on we enter back into the world. It’s cowardly to avoid it so I relent. I know a piece of that bubble will come with us and as long as we keep doing what we’re doing right now. These memories will continue to build and more of what is really insignificant in our lives will become less and less relevant.

I smile, help load the kids up and look forward to tomorrow, and the tomorrow after tomorrow. I look forward to keeping my bubble small.

// Fred Bohm