This past Saturday was February 28th the last day of the month and the final day of quail hunting for this season. Once upon a time it was a very bittersweet day for me. I truly hated to see it come because with it my passion for dogs and birds would be curtailed for 8 months until November rolled around once again.
This year marked my 47th consecutive year of quail hunting. It has been quite an adventure, and I am utterly grateful that I’ve been able to do it for so long. A friend told me yesterday that quail hunting and bird dogs defined my identity, who I really am. I have to agree with him, but there are other things in this life that make me who I am.
As I continue to age and thankfully so, I look back at how my life has evolved and all the many things I’ve been taught. I’ve also been given many, many things, not of worldly value, but things that carry with them eternal value. I stand in awe of all I have been given in spite of myself.
As I sit here and type these words out, there is a movie of all the years and the memories that are playing in my mind. I think back to when I was a very young boy, nine years old to be exact and Sonny Lamb along with the Rountree boys started taking me quail hunting. I hope Lamb is somewhere in heaven watching a liver pointer find a covey of birds.
My eyes have suddenly become filled with tears as the memories continue to rush in my mind. I am overwhelmed with gratitude that those men decided so long ago to take me hunting and furthermore, be willing to put up with me. I will be eternally grateful to them all. It was, as far I’m concerned, totally providential. It was meant to be.
We hunted hard back in those days wearing out a pair of boots every year from walking in the briars. My britches would be tattered all over from the miles we logged trying to find a bird or two. Even back then, we were the last of the great white quail hunters. We found some birds, but there were never big numbers in our vests at the end of the day.
We were in fact trying to kill birds, as many as we could. We shot automatic shotguns loaded with more than the legal limit of shells in an effort to do just that. Although the proof was in the pudding and we averaged killing 8 to 10 birds between us in an afternoon. Despite our best effort to kill as many as we could, even then it was about the whole experience and not the number of birds killed. However, I had not learned that lesson quite yet.
As the years have rolled on by, there have been many dogs that have come and gone. I remain thankful for them all. Our method of hunting has changed as well; we ride on a hunting buggy in order to cover more ground and hopefully find a few birds. At this stage in the ballgame, I fully understand why I continue to hunt wild bobwhite quail and it’s not about the number of birds killed.
Providence, thankfully, stepped in once again about twenty-five years ago. I started hunting in the famed landscape of Texas and that hallowed ground in southwest Georgia. I have found a tremendous amount of birds in both places, although my desire to fill up game bags has long since waned.
Another miracle occurred twenty-five years ago as well. I laid down that automatic 12 gauge I had shot since I was a boy. I picked up a twenty gauge over and under shotgun. I’ve read that with age comes refinement, but I never imagined shooting a twice pipe bored in twenty gauge. Apparently, refinement continues as well, five years ago I put that 20 gauge in the gun cabinet and picked up a little 5 pound over and under bored in .410.
I’ve always read that quail hunting is a gentleman’s sport, but I don’t know if I’ve made it to that status yet. Quail hunting and English Pointers have in a very large way contributed to who I am today. I cannot, even remotely, imagine what my life would be like without those aforementioned things present in my life.
So, last Saturday was our final chance to see a wild covey of birds’ flush until next fall. The weather was not favorable, it was in the upper 60’s and the air was heavy, filled with humidity. We worked some young dogs, and I had already rolled my sleeves up. I had walked with those young dogs and was effectively out of breath.
My lifelong friend and hunting partner, Ralph, said let’s go hunt these older dogs. We turned out “Girl” and we figured out these dogs wouldn’t last long in the heat. “Girl” found a covey in some thick briars and all we could do was watch them fly away. The next dog “Spanky” hunted well but ran out of steam rather quickly.
We let out another dog and took off hunting again. We were coming by some young, planted pines and Ralph commented that this was where “Lillie’s” covey was supposed to be. We had it named after her because she was the first dog to ever find this particular covey. As it happened, Lillie was on the ground hunting.
Ralph had no more uttered those words when Lillie pointed. We bailed off the buggy, headed to her. We walked all around her and no birds flushed. She looked at us like “I know they are here!” As we turned to walk back to the buggy a covey of wild birds erupted going in every direction.
We both killed a bird on the rise. I looked at Ralph and said we need to stop now. We finished out the season with a beautiful find and some good shooting. We only had two birds, but they were more than enough to justify why we do what we do.
So, you see, after all the years and all the miles. I have been given one of the greatest gifts of all, understanding. I fully understand why I feed dogs all year to go chase some little brown birds. I do it for the love of the dogs and the birds, but mostly for the ability to be there and see it all unfold in living color.
