My daughter was nearly a year old during the 2016/2017 California General Quail Season opener. I was nervous leaving my wife behind with her. We hadn’t gone out or done much since the day she was born, and I felt a little guilty taking off for a couple days to chase after some quail. I didn’t hunt the previous season because it was just too close to her due date. I didn’t want to chance it. And as all good husbands and daddies do, I made the sacrifice. Not to mention, my poor wife suffered an agonizingly brutal last few months of her pregnancy. I saw the woman I love, carry our child… and suffer! It wasn’t an easy pregnancy. And I will forever appreciate my wife for what she went through. I had it easy compared to what she went through and a few sacrifices here and there were the absolute minimum I could do! We got it easy, guys. I remember what my wife went through, and I had no problem being the one getting up 3-4 times a night to do all the feedings and changings.

Luckily for me, I have a wife who is awesome and understands that I have a calling. My soul yearns to get out into the wilderness when the mornings and nights get chilly and the leaves begin to drop. When the time of harvest begins, I long for walks through the hills with the scent of fresh junipers in the air. She may have noticed my mind wander to far off high-desert areas. Maybe it was my constant, uninteresting conversations of wild birds and wild places?

She encouraged me to go out that season, and although I felt guilty, I took that opportunity. And only looked back twice.

I left home on a Friday. A day before the opener. The drive up into the hills on an old 4×4 trail was nice and windy and only a little bit bumpy. Driving along, two coveys raced across the dirt road. Surely a good omen for things to come! A promise of a great season opener! The spot I was driving to was a bit out of the way at a higher elevation than I would actually hunt. The area had some sentimental value. It was a place my pops and I used to camp when we used to deer hunt.

I got to thinking about the Old Man. Every time I went out hunting, I wish he was here with me. Even as a full-on adult with a kid of my own, there is just something about having pops around. The thought of him was comforting, and I just wish I could spend more time with him these days. But life just has a way of getting you busy and distance becomes a great excuse.

I arrived at “Quail Camp” late afternoon. The “camping area” is a convenient flat, surrounded by mountains and tall pines. We used to pull deer out of here often back in the 90’s. There were already some pickup trucks parked on the flat already. Likely, they were deer-hunters. I parked between a couple of pines, got out and stretched my legs from the long drive. I stretched to get some of the stiffness out of lower back and reached for the sky. Closing my eyes, I listened to the wind whirl through pine needles. A couple of woodpeckers were squawking obscenities at one another in the distance.

I pulled out my folding chair, cracked open a beer and a book. I read Wingbeats & Heartbeats, by Dave Books. I read about Dave’s adventures in the uplands across the country. The stories were setting the tone for my hunt and I was ready to begin my own adventure tomorrow. This is it. Upland Hunting season is here!

The sun started its slow descent behind the mountains and the temperature began to drop. Right on queue, a group of hunters made their way into camp. An older gentleman, a guy about my age, and a young boy. Parked across from their truck, I waved at them as they got closer. They looked a little hesitant to say hello, but when I explained I was only here for quail, their stoned-faces melted and they smiled, realizing I wasn’t a part of the competition. As they packed away their rifles, they said they had only seen does that morning. They mentioned that a couple of guys pulled out a huge six-pointer on the opener, the weekend before. I asked if they saw any Mountain Quail out there. Having been to this area several times I had often heard them in the thick overgrowth but never seen them. I was here for Valley Quail a couple hundred feet below, but if there were any Mountain Quail here, I would stick around. They said other than the does, they had only seen a couple of cottontails and bobcat. No quail.

We chatted for awhile and shared a couple of beers. The younger gentleman was interested in upland hunting. He said he just bought a Weimaraner pup and was interested in possibly hunting with him. I didn’t pretend to know what kind of dog that was and could not offer any advice on hunting with one.

As night approached, the owners of the other trucks filed in. Three middle-aged gentlemen and an older fellow. They were speaking Spanish. I waved and said “Buenas tardes, compadres,”  and I immediately realized how infrequently I get to use Spanish these days. It sounded odd to me. And I was sure they were weirded out by my bad-Spanish. At least, that was what my insecurity was telling me.

It was a great night of congregating. In the few hours of knowing each other, the three parties there had formed one large camp. The Compadres had a ton of food and they were cooking up carne asada tacos for everyone, and wouldn’t take NO for an answer. All the fixings were there. Beans. HOT salsita. Limes. Tortillas. The other group of guys brought over some chicken and a little tequila. I brought over some of my sausages and the last of my beers for this very-early-Thanksgiving feast. I had a little bit of everything that night, except for the agave juice.

I don’t remember anyone’s name from that night. Not because of alcohol consumption, but because I am just plain bad with names. I do remember Don Felipe, however. He had just turned 81 and his friends brought him along for a deer hunt. He said he didn’t do a lot of shooting these days and couldn’t go as far as the other guys, but he enjoyed being out.

Don Felipe grew up in Baja California. He married his sweetheart and they had a ton of adventures together. He hunted in the hills and shot everything from deer, cougar and quail. His wife was always by his side. She killed more deer than he ever could, he claimed. She was also a fiery woman, who slapped the shit-out of Don Felipe one night when he was out on an all-nighter, out drinking and driving from bar to bar with his boys. She told him she was tired of his drinking and all it was going to do was kill him. If that’s what he wanted, she was glad to shoot him dead on that spot. From that day on, he was sober and loved his wife passionately. He re-dedicated his life to the Lord. His only vice was coffee, which was the only thing he drank that night.

Don Felipe lost his wife a couple years back, he said. Although he was deeply saddened, he knew where she was and took comfort in knowing he would be reunited. He liked heading out into the woods because that is where he felt his best days were spent with his wife and he wanted to continue their traditions. His sons were older and never took to hunting, but he still felt it was his duty to carry on the hunting heritage. Old Felipe warned me against alcohol abuse, mistreating your woman, and not taking your kids outdoors. He also told me to wake up every day and be joyful. Admire God’s creation, like the sunrise, because we only get so many of those. He was the first to call it a night. I gave it another 30 minutes and headed to my sleeping bag as well. The fellas stayed up for a few more hours, before it went completely silent and dark.

 

Early the next morning, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Opening Day! I quickly dressed and squared myself away. When I went outside, Don Felipe was already up drinking coffee. I could hear groans and snoring. “They had a rough night. I don’t think they are going to hunt this morning”, he chuckled.

Just before the sun came up, we chatted. I told him my plans and where I was hunting. He said he hoped to see me back and I told him he would. The sun began to peek out from behind the mountains. “It’s beautiful”, I said. Don Felipe just stared and admired the birth of a new day and drank his black-coffee.

 

I drove back down about 30 minutes from where I camped. The pines and oaks slowly disappeared, and in their place both junipers and scrub-brush appeared. I parked and pulled out my gear. I threw the old Filson vest on and tossed the Ithaca 37 on my shoulder. The smell of the gun-oil and the wax on my vest was a familiar smell. And that smell means quail hunting!

Walking into quail country is like a dream. Every time. It’s almost surreal. I dream of being here often and I have a hard time realizing that I am actually here sometimes. It doesn’t hit me until the first quail covey bursts into the sky!

When the quail finally flush, that’s when I am fully awake. This is it! I shoulder my old pump-gun and fire at the covey! Rookie mistake. I don’t hit any birds because I am not aiming at a single bird. I was aiming at the mass of feather and beaks, and that is why I missed.

I see where a couple birds land, not more than 15 yards away. As I get closer, I can hear the nervous pipping of quail. It’s going to happen. Prepared and composed this time, I half-ready my 37. A flash and whirl of wings erupts. My shotgun instinctively raises to my shoulder and fires and I feel like someone else is controlling my body. The quail drops and I can visibly see where it has fallen. If the other bird takes flight, I can shoot this one too. Just before I can rack a new shell, the second bird flushes and glides over the hill. Missed opportunity.

I pick up the handsome male Valley Quail I just shot. He is surprisingly warm in my hand. I admire the beauty of his scaled body and the dark lines on his face. Such a pretty bird. People that call Ruffed Grouse the king of the Upland Game Birds must have never hunted this regal little guy. They are fast and capable flyers, always presenting challenging shots and their plumage rivals any other game-birds.

I stick the quail into my game-bag. I start moving towards the ravine where singles are sure to be hiding. Hoping to kick a few up, I push through the waist-high brush. About 20 yards to my right, I see movement on the hill. A single is at the base of a juniper, nervously pacing back and forth, biding his time. looking for his chance to run across into the thick ravine. He spots me and tucks under the juniper. Pulling myself out of the entanglement of brush, I make my way towards him up the hill. Just before I free myself, another single rockets out from the ravine and I knock her down. The male under the juniper also decides that it is his time to book-it as well. He shoots over the hill and I throw some lead at him just a foot too low.

I only walked out with two birds that day. I headed back to camp in the afternoon to give the birds a break. When I had arrived, the small trio of deer-hunters had already left. They were too hungover and called it a day and headed home. Don Felipe was there, but the Compadres headed out for another chance at a buck. I showed him the two quail I had shot, hoping to impress him. He wrinkled his nose and told me, those were only going to make me two tacos at the most. I laughed and told him that was better than no tacos!

We traded some more stories. I got to talking about my dad and how we used to hunt deer out here years ago. I told him the stories of my dad growing up on a ranch in Mexico and how he used to pack an old smooth-bore muzzle-loader with rocks and bearings to shoot quail or crows. I started to think about my own hunting. The traditions I wanted to pass down to my daughter. These past few years of hunting, I found myself hunting alone often, which I didn’t really mind before. Passing on heritage, especially hunting heritage, is important and you can’t do that hunting alone, however. Something was stirring in me.

That weekend was a huge turning point in my life. Not long after, I quit my job to follow a dream. I started my blog. Although this is my passion, I also feel it’s my duty. A calling. Passing on heritage isn’t something passive. It takes time and work and it is deliberate. As old Don Felipe said, you don’t get many sunrises in your life. Every day counts. Everyday is your chance to make a difference and an impact. You have to be all-in with what you do or what you are passionate about. And the people here with you today? They may not be here tomorrow. Love them and cherish them. Take their lessons and experiences. Give back wisdom. Heritage.

 

God Bless & Happy Hunting!

– J.R.

 

 

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