December 25, 2011

The Start of Something New

As a kid, dressed in oversized hand-me-downs from my brother and a blaze orange vest that hung down to my knees, I spent one of my first quail hunts walking the fields of Wintergreen during the Christmas season. So when I met Dr. Carroll Overton of Raleigh and his 12 year old son, John at Wintergreen Christmas Eve morning, I was glad to see a father and son taking their first steps in following a family tradition of hunting during the holidays.

Both new to the sport of wing shooting, I was just as impressed with the shots they didn’t take as the ones they did. Gun safety is always a top priority in the field, and to see a young hunter demonstrate restraint during the excitement of one of his first hunts speaks volumes. A successful hunt isn’t measured by the number of bagged birds, but by the shared experiences that are imprinted on our memory.  It was a pleasure hunting with the both of you and can't wait to see you guys again.  Merry Christmas!

Father and Son walking in on a point
















John's First Prize in the Field.  A Great Left to Right shot!




















A Dog's Eye View


December 21, 2011

Three Geese Up, Three Geese Down

As my brother and I paddle out into the darkness, the Old Man calls out from the duck blind,
“How are the decoys going?”

“Your son is cussing up a storm and chucking sh@# out of the boat.” I answer.

The Old Man is notorious for wrestling with tangled decoy lines and shouting out expletives in the pitch black mornings before a duck hunt. It’s the reason he is in the blind, and we’re putting out decoys. My brother carries on this family tradition.


"Tangle-free decoys"


“Tangle-free decoys my a$#!” he mumbles underneath is breath.

“Where are the goose decoys?” he asks.

I pass him two beat up decoys.

“You know we’re not going to see any geese this morning.” I comment.

“Why’s that?” He asks.

“Because we put out goose decoys.” I answer.


Its one of the laws of duck hunting. Whatever you’re unprepared for happens. And vise versa. No matter how much preparation you’ve put into the following morning's hunt, the boat motor doesn’t start. Or the one day you’re covered in ducks, your duck call freezes, or falls apart leaving you with expensive kazoo.

And of course, when my brother and I tuck back into the blind, we have ducks landing all over our decoys, 10 minutes before shooting time.

One of my favorite things about the Christmas season is hunting with family. Its one of the few times during the year, our schedules free up and we get to share a duck blind. Ducks or no ducks, I enjoy the time spent recounting old stories, using unfiltered language, poking fun at each others’ expense, and sharing opinions about life.

“You know,” says the Old Man, “when I was in my early twenties, I thought for sure by the time I reached my sixties, we would have invented flying cars.”

“That’s !@#$$ ing bullsh@#” He shakes his head, “One of the biggest disappointments of my life.”

My brother laughs, “Don’t worry, my 8 year old has it figured out, he told me, ‘it’s easy Dad, just put wings and an engine on a car.’ ”


If only engineering was as easy as legos. My brother unwraps his biscuit.

“Sausage..can’t do sausage right now. I better wait. The combination of coffee and a sausage biscuit doesn‘t bode well for me right now.” he says.

“That’s not the manliest thing I’ve heard in a duck blind.” the Old Man jokes.

The consumption of sausage biscuits is a quintessential part of duck hunting for the Old Man. He ate his upon immediate arrival in the blind.

“Hmm, you know what would be really good right now?” he says as he sips his Hot Chocolate.

“Marshmallows, the little ones, go find me some marshmallows.” He jokes.


Some might claim that drinking Hot Chocolate isn’t the manliest thing to do in a duck blind either.



Before our next round of banter begins, we hear honks in the tree line behind us.
“Geese!” I whisper and reach for my call.

My brother mirrors my reaction as our blind erupts with the cacophony of squeaks and honks.
Out of the corner off my eye, I see three geese pass through the pine boughs on the right side of the blind, wings cupped and feet down. I stand to shoot. On my first shot, the lead goose barely flinches. On my second shot, two geese drop. My brother follows the last goose and he drops on his first shot.
I scratch my head as the water is peppered with steel shot.  
Confused on the mechanics of my shooting I ask, “Did you shoot at those two geese?”




“Nope, I only had a clear shot at the last one.” my brother answers.

“I didn’t even shoot.” The Old Man grins.

“But let’s be clear, you shot those two geese, so you get to cook and clean them.” he adds.

Nevertheless, three geese up, three geese down.

We finish the morning with intermittent groups of ducks circling our spread and the acquisition of new nicknames such as Chief Shoots-No-Ducks and Chief Poops-In-The-Woods. Ducks or no ducks, the time spent hunting with family is reward enough.

December 13, 2011

Quail Quesadillas


Lets face it. Mexican just goes well with mystery meats. So does Chinese for that matter. But more importantly, its cheaper to cook Mexican than Chinese. And if you really knew how fish sauce was made, you would think twice about eating your Szechuan Beef or Moo Goo Gai Pan. Mystery meat would be the least of your concerns.

So lets get down to the basics of Mexican: Meat, Cheese and Tortilla. A Cost-Co Churro being the only anomaly. That being said, a soft shelled taco is just a lazy attempt at a quesadilla and a chimichanga is just a rolled quesadilla deep fried and dressed up in a white cheesy sauce that says, “I want to be formal, but I’m here to party.” Hence the sprinkling of cilantro.

Quail Quesadillas

Meat:

Grilled Quail breasts

Cheese:

Shredded (mine comes from a bag)

Tortilla:

Flour or Corn, complimented with grilled onions, finely diced raw onions, diced roma tomatoes and cilantro





Cover quail breasts with a mixture of olive oil, salt, pepper and chopped garlic. Grill 5-10 minutes. Rest. Then pull meat from the breast bone.

In a heated pan(medium to low heat) add a tablespoon of oil and tortilla. Cover tortilla with cheese, onions, tomatoes, pulled quail and cilantro. Sandwich another tortilla on top and continue to cook. Then try to flip without spilling contents out on the burners or kitchen floor.

Rest. Then slice into wedges and serve with sour cream, guacamole, and sirach. And sprinkle more cilantro on top.

A Little Redneck Engineering..

Six hundred dollars for a push pole? Really? After I googled push poles and saw the mind-numbing prices, the first thing I did was go to Lowe’s to buy a 10 ft. closet rod. I’m not proud, or stupid for that matter. Well, I take that back. I’ve done my share of stupid things in my life. And the only thing I’ve learned is that being stupid is painful and expensive. So if I can help it, I try to be smart.

I realized the first trip out on my new boat that I was missing 4 ft. from my closet rod. So I spent most of the afternoon crouched in the catcher’s position on my polling platform. Despite the discomfort on my knees, it worked. And my dad, the Old Man, hooked up with his first redfish. I wish I could have seen the take, but I was too busy trying to get the feeling back in my legs. But by all accounts, it was a successful trip: I didn’t wreck the boat, no one fell into the water, we caught fish and it only took one try to successfully back the trailer down the boat ramp.

On the way home, the Old Man had an idea.

“You know, I got a way to give you an extra 4 ft. on your push pole,” he said.

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” I asked.

“A Dutch Uncle,” he said.

“A what?” I laughed.

“A Dutch Uncle,” he replied.

“Have you seen the movie Zac and Miri?” I asked.

“Who?” he answered.

“Nevermind,” I said as I shook my head.

“It’s an old traditional carpentry joint used in colonial homes, barns and ship making,” he continued.

“Ah…” I said, still confused but glad I didn’t have to explain the Urban Dictionary to my father

So the next day, we “Dutch Uncled” a 10 ft. closet rod with a 6 ft. closet rod. And it looked good. I was actually quite proud of my carpentry skills. My last experience with woodworking was the Pine Wood Derby in Boy Scouts, so to build something that was actually useful made me really happy. After a few layers of Teak Oil for aesthetics, I gave my custom made wooden push pole a test run on my polling platform in the backyard. I measured it against the hull of my boat and it felt good. I put pressure on it, imaging I was sliding through the shallow flats with complete silence and stealth. It broke immediately.






“I was afraid of that,” the Old Man said. “Back to the drawing board.”

I’ve seen the movie Tarpon. In the days before $40,000 skiff boats, carbon fiber push poles and graphite fly rods, those guys were getting it done. They made it happen with the materials at hand. So I was determined to do the same.
Our second attempt involved a simple end-to-end joint reinforced by a 5/8 in. wooden dowel inserted into each section. In essence, a glued male to female connection.

“It’s the rule of thirds,” the Old Man said. “The strongest joints follow this concept,” he continued.
We finished it off with a beautiful black and white cord wrapping to cover the joint.
“Now you need a foot,” he said, “to keep you from getting stuck in the mud.”
“Good idea,” I replied.


So the next day, we “Dutch Uncled” one of those on there and covered the whole thing with a coat of polyurethane. I took another imaginary test run in the backyard and it held. So much so, I catapulted myself off the platform into the center console of my boat. Satisfied with our redneck engineering, we decided to hit the water the following day.

As I cut the motor and drifted towards the edge of the bay, the strong SW winds already had my boat turning in circles. I quickly climbed on to my polling platform and jammed the foot of my push pole into the mud. The boat slowed. Then the push pole buckled and snapped. The black and white wrapping unfurled, leaving me with a working section that was a little under 10ft. I shook my head in frustration. Turns out 5/8ths is not 1/3 of 1¼.

I poled (more honestly, paddled) to a calm stretch of water that funneled into a creek mouth. I decided that standing after each push was the best way to keep a perspective on the approaching water. Mid-crouch, I noticed two dark submarine shaped fish making their way towards the boat. I stood up.



“Redfish, 12 o’clock, 20ft.!” I said.

“What?” the Old Man replied.

“12 o’clock. You gotta make it happen. Two redfish headed right for the boat. Just give me 20ft.,” I said.

The Old Man put a cast perfectly in front of the approaching targets.

“Strip, strip, strip!” I directed from the back.

I could see one of the fish turn on the Old Man’s presentation. As he striped, the fish kept following. And the fish was closing in fast, nearing 10ft. from the boat. I feared that the Old Man would over lead the target. I shouted, “Leave it!”

The fished turned abruptly at a 90 degree angle and swam off. My first instinct was a refusal. He saw the boat and spooked. But as I saw the Old Man’s fly line start to follow the escaping redfish, I realized he had eaten the fly and was swimming off with it.

“Strip!” I yelled, and he set the hook perfectly in the side of the fish’s mouth. His reel screamed as the fish raced out towards to bay. The Old Man was hooked. He wrestled the 6 lbs. of redfish back to the boat and offered a huge smile towards the back of the boat






The next week, I came home to a freshly painted white push pole, half PVC/half closet rod. The Old Man had overcome my Pine Wood Derby level of carpentry and horrible understanding of fractions. It was perfect. And it gave me the luxury of standing upright on my polling platform. The closet rod bottom section has the perfect amount of stiffness to get you through the muddy marsh, and the 5ft. of PVC offers just enough bend to give you some pop. And the best part, all materials included, it cost under $20.

December 7, 2011

All Coveyed Up

I thought 4.5 hours of hard hunting, 39 flushes, and the season’s first covey rise was a pretty good effort. But apparently for Gus, it wasn’t. As I walked back to the car with John Ferguson and Linwood Parker of White Swan Barbeque, I could hear Gus’ beeper collar start to trail off in the distance. He knows which direction the car is parked and what it means when you start walking towards it. That’s when his collar sends out the morse code message, “The hell with this.. There ain’t no birds at the car.” You can’t get angry at a dog who will hunt his brains out. And unfortunately for Gus, that’s exactly what’s happened. I once caught him trying to eat one of my freshly tied white articulated bully streamers. He kept picking it up and spitting it out, confused on why it was biting him back.

In the morning I met John at Wintergreen and waited for Linwood to arrive. John is an avid fly fishermen, so I was glad to talk fishing. And even more glad to hear him say the words February and fly fishing in the same sentence. I was more than willing to listen to someone who has hiked into secluded creeks in search of wild brook trout.

Shortly after Linwood’s arrival, we hit the field.

I hunted with John last season, and as the sun broke through the slotted silhouettes of long leaf pines, he immediately remembered the number of coveys that we busted up late in the afternoon. It is a bird hunters dream to walk the fields with iconic covey calls whistling in the background.


Dixie quickly worked the field, steadily turning back into the wind. This time of year, scent conditions can be as dynamic as a tidal marsh. The cool early morning air clings close to the terrain, but gradually rises with the increasing temperature and humidity. It then returns back to ground with the evening’s cold temperatures, sometimes appearing as frost the following morning. An ebb and flow that continues until Winter decides on a more consistent chill.

Despite Dixie’s efforts, our first hour progressed slowly. We managed to track down a few singles, but our pace left me worried about the number of birds that remained hidden in the brush. We worked our way towards the adjacent field and heard the steady beep of Dixie’s collar as she was locked up on a bird. Linwood walked in on the point.

“I see him on the ground.” Linwood said.
“Wait, there’s two birds, get ready. No, there’s three, no four?!” he continued.

Before he could count to five, the ground erupted with birds. An explosion of feathers and gunpowder followed. Five birds scattered. And Dixie was still locked in on a point.







“There’s still birds in here.” I said.

And as John and Linwood rushed to reload, the ground exploded again. Six more birds got up. In the excitement of trying to take a picture, I dropped my camera, capturing a picture mid-air as it fell to the ground. The second flush caught us all off guard.





“Did you get a mark on any of those birds?” I said.
“Nope.” they replied.
“Well, get ready because Dixie’s still on point.” I said.

A straggler flushed towards the safety of thick timber and dropped on John’s second shot.

The hardest part about shooting over a covey of quail is finding one single target among the countless scattering birds. The overwhelming sight and sound of wings overloads your senses as you try to shoulder your gun. It is a test of nerves and the essence of wing shooting.

We decided to chase down a few singles on the way back to the car and let the remainder of the birds call each other back together. After I switched out dogs, we ended our morning pin pointing covey calls and flushing birds grouped in two’s, three’s and four’s. A classic southern quail hunt.

Dam, That's a Huge Fish

Hey Morgan where's your head? Oh, I see, there's a huge fish in front of it
Bull Trout are an endangered species. The introduction of non-native fish and the loss of cold pristine mountain waters have severely impacted their numbers. So, anyone who has fished at Spotted Bear Ranch knows how important catch and release regulations are and how precious our resource is. It's one of the last true wild and native trout fisheries in the lower 48.

What does wild and native really mean?
Well, wild means they have bright beautiful colors, fully formed fins and a genetic code that leads them to the same spawning grounds year after year. Native means they’ve spent the last 10,000 years making cold pristine waters their home. Wild trout have a distinct character and appearance that sets them apart from their stocked counterparts. This isn’t a criticism of hatchery fish, or the practice of stocking, just the simple fact that Mother Nature does it better.

So the wild and native Bull Trout, in and around the waters of Spotted Bear Ranch, have earned the right to be there. And after a recent stream survey published by Montana Fish, Wildlife, and Parks, they continue to flourish. And it could all be thanks to a dam.

As a general rule, dams are extremely bad for a fishery. They slow currents, warm the water, destroy habitats and cut off migration to spawning sites. Steelhead fishermen know this all too well. But there are always exceptions, and dam above Spotted Bear Ranch just happens to be one.

An overall decline in Bull Trout numbers seems to be linked to the increased population of Lake Trout. It is a familiar trend throughout Montana waters. Lake Trout are an invasive species that will out compete other fish for resources and food. While these trout are wild and native to the region, they are being introduced into drainages where they don’t belong. The Dam has insulated and isolated Bull Trout from the expansion of Lake Trout, and it appears the FWP stream survey reflects the it’s benefit.

Those of us who witnessed the 2011 Bull Trout season aren’t surprised.
For more information on Bull Trout Regulations:


http://fwp.mt.gov/fishing/license/bulltrout.html


December 2, 2011

Fowl Play

When the alarm goes off at 4:30a.m I have a hard time making it out of the house before 5. Honestly, putting on pants is difficult. The simple act of dressing yourself can become as mentally taxing as touching your nose during a sobriety test. As I‘m waiting for the coffee to brew, I proceed down the duck hunting checklist in my head: Decoys, check. Kayak, check. Kayak paddle, check. Flashlight, check. Gun, check. Bullets, check. Oh sh@#! where are my duck calls? In my car. Ok. Check. If I were smart, I’d drink the coffee first.

The morning commute can be stressful. After repeating the duck hunting checklist in my head several times, my intestinal tract feels the effect of it. Usually its nerves. I’m excited and ready to hit the water. But this morning, its not. And TP didn’t make the checklist. Thankfully, I keep a emergency stash of moist towelettes in my glove compartment. I’m meeting my uncle Wayne at a bridge off the highway where we can slip into a creek with our kayaks. After the congenial, “Good mornings”, I heed mother nature’s call underneath the bridge and continue my mental checklist: Unemployed, Check. Squatting underneath a bridge, Check. If I could trade my car in for a grocery cart full of empty cans, I could complete the tri-fecta. Almost Check.

With my anxiety left behind me, I paddle down the creek. The morning’s cold temperature leaves a heavy fog over the water that renders my headlamp useless. Every direction I look, a wall of white blinds my vision. I turn it off. My only hope is to follow the tunnel of cypress and oak trees against the starlight sky. My original game plan was to hunt the flooded timber next to a beaver dam a quarter mile down the creek, but after running into numerous stumps and wrong turns, I decide to set up at the closest convenient patch of open water. A sudden splash of a beaver slapping its tail against the water tells me I’m close enough.

I scatter my decoys out as if I could see what I was doing and tuck up against the bank. As the fog slowly recedes and first light trickles through the trees, I notice that most of my decoys have drifted towards the bank and a single lonely decoy sways in the current in the middle of the creek. Not my best spread. Suddenly, one of the clustered decoys disappears underwater, then bobs back up to the surface. The others float nervously and one tries swimming away. It reminds me of a scene from Jaws. Not fooled by this early morning puppet show, I worry about who’s pulling the strings.

A Beaver Trap: New slang for bad spread of decoys

Its been un-seasonably warm, and not unlikely for gators to still be lurking around. And if a gator gets himself wrapped up in my decoy lines, I’m cutting my losses. I enjoy my appendages. They are very helpful in an array of tasks, such as paddling out of the creek and driving home. The obviously tangled decoys stop moving. A slick furry head breaks the water’s surface and heads towards the middle of the creek. The beaver slaps his tail in anger at the sight of another decoy. I laugh. Sorry about that buddy.

Still laughing about my beaver trap, a half dozen wood ducks set down to the left on the opposite bank, out of range. Great. Four more follow suit and set down off to the right, out of range. The fog has lifted off the water to mid treeline, camouflaging the ducks approach, and putting them right on top of me before I can realize what was going on. Of course, if I would have tucked up against the opposite bank, I would have had shots at both groups. I hear Wayne shoot in the distance. One of the ducks flutters but returns to the water after the whole group remains calm and un-impressed. At least someone is getting shots. The allure of my lifeless decoys wears off as one group swims down the creek towards the flooded timber.
Apparently there is a morning buffet down the creek and everyone is waiting in to get in. Since my decoys stopped swimming minutes ago, three more woodies cut in line and flush towards the flooded timber. No shots. Really? I’m surrounded by ducks and have yet to pull the trigger. The last three flush and I swing on the group, zeroing in on the trailer. I pull the trigger. He crumples mid-air. And before I can grab my paddle to retrieve my duck, another drake hidden against the bank flushes. He drops on my second shot. The whole scene unfolds like a doorbuster on Black Friday with pepper spray. I usually don’t shoot this well, so I decide to quit while I’m ahead, plus I’m down to my last three duck loads.



The legal limit on wood ducks is three. But hunting resident ducks takes restraint. Three ducks, twice a week adds up pretty quick, and it doesn’t take too much pressure to shoot out your favorite honey hole. Two birds once a week is a better strategy. A big part of being a responsible sportsman is knowing your resource. What’s wrong with ending the morning with a double on woodies anyway?

December 1, 2011

Teal Tacos?

Yes! Let’s look at the history of a taco. No, they were not invented at a late night fast food chain for drunk college students. And if you’ve ever eaten a taco at such a establishment, you loose all sincerity scoffing at the idea of a “duck” taco.

The word “taco” roughly translates to sandwich and has origins that go back thousands of years in Meso-America. Tacos started simply as tortillas(made from corn or flour) wrapped in whatever meat early Mexicans could get their hands on. And in some respect, a very clever way to eat without utensils. So the fairly recent craze of expanding the taco’s contents to fish, isn’t something new. I’m sure the Aztecs beat you to that a long time ago.

The essence of Mexican cuisine for me is freshness. Local meats complimented by extremely fresh, bright ingredients: tomatoes, onions, avocados, peppers, cilantro, lettuce, etc. All things that can be grown in your backyard garden. So really, a duck taco is more traditional than its conventional late night greasy ground beef counterpart. And for that matter, deer tacos would be just as legitimate.



Teal Taco Recipe:
2-4 fillets brined and grilled teal (any wild duck, wood duck, mallard, etc)
1 tomato
1 yellow onion
1 Cup shredded cheese
Cilantro
Sour cream
Guacamole



Wet Rub
¼ cup freshly cracked pepper
1 tbs Worchestershire sauce
Brine
4 cups water
¼ cup montreal steak seasoning

Now that we an understanding of what a taco is, lets talk preparation. The secret to any wild game is brining. Brining allows for a deeper penetration of flavor than a marinade, and makes cooking game a little more forgiving considering its lack of fat. The basic recipe of a brine is water and salt. 1 cup of salt for 1 gallon. Or ¼ cup salt for 1 quart.

I prefer to clean and cook my ducks the same day I shot them, only because I can’t think that far ahead. And I would rather spend 6-8 hours brining my duck adding flavor, than waiting for it to thaw. But for those of who you have the foresight to tomorrow’s dinner, just thaw before brining.

So the first step is filleting the breasts. I save the flank feathers for fly tying, and freeze the breast bone, legs, and feet. Yes, feet. I’d wash them pretty thoroughly first. Ducks aren’t the cleanliest birds out there. So at the end of the season you’ll have a freezer full of duck parts perfect for making duck demi glace. Something you would pay an exorbitant amount of money for in a restaurant, if you could find it. Then the fillets go into the brine.

My brine is: 1quart water and 1/4cup montreal steak seasoning.
(there’s plenty of salt in that mixture to act as a brining agent, plus it gives you whatever other flavorful goodness is in there)
Brine for 6-8 hours, then rest for 2-4 hours. Resting allows the brine to fully disperse throughout the meat.

Once brined, make a wet rub of freshly cracked pepper and Worchestershire sauce.
Coat the fillets with the rub and grill fillets to medium rare, rest, and slice thinly.

Fill flour tortillas with shredded cheese, thinly sliced duck, diced tomatoes and onion.
Top with guacamole, sour cream, caramelized onions and cilantro.

 

One season Ends and Another Begins

“There’s nothing like the smell of gun in the morning.” John said as we walked through an idyllic quail field surrounded by southern pines. As odd as that sounded, I couldn’t help but agree. The mixture of gun oil and burnt gunpowder has a distinct aroma. For me, it’s a smell that’s forever connected with cool crisp mornings spent in the woods, bird hunting.

And after hunting with Chet and his son Chip, and family friend, old army buddy, John, I couldn’t have asked for a better way to start my guiding season at Wintergreen Hunting Preserve. Upon arrival, John introduced himself, and wasted no time in introducing Chet as Dick Chaney. A familiar joke, but I promptly changed into my blaze orange flannel. I hunted with Chet and Chip the previous fall so it was good to see familiar faces and knew both were safe hunters and a pleasure to walk with in the woods. And after John shared a few colloquial Louisiana duck hunting stories, I knew I was in good company.

With the warmer weather this fall, the scent conditions haven’t been that favorable. Factors such as humidity, temperature and wind can all affect scent conditions in a number a different ways. But the morning after a rainy cold front was a perfect opportunity to look for birds. And five steps into the field, Dixie was already on point. The first bird flushed wild before we could set ourselves up for a shot. I appreciated everyone’s safety and restraint. Dixie even held her nerves and remained steady to wing.  Once we relocated on our first bird and got ourselves set up, I was happy to feel the weight of the field’s first prize in my vest.




After several great shots over great points, I noticed Chip walking to my left and recognized the antique side by side he had broken over his arm. A mental picture of our hunt the previous fall flashed in my head.

Just before sunset, we chased down a covey that hung out in the marshy thicket next to the duck impoundments. My puppy Max had located the covey the evening before, so on a hunch we decided to re-investigate the area. For those who hunt Wintergreen often enough, you learn where the coveys like to hang out. And then it becomes a matter of being at the right place at the right time.

Gus trailed the covey to the edge of the thicket and went on point. Dixie respectfully backed. They both smelled the excitement that laid in front of them. The ground exploded as a covey of a quail flushed before us. Chip knocked the first bird down, but failed to find a target among the myriad of feathered bodies scattering towards the thicket. It is a scene that will be forever imprinted in my memory, and triggered by the sight of a early century family heirloom double barrel.

As our morning progressed, the temperature warmed and the humidity seemed to dilute the bird‘s scent throughout the air. And the birds took advantage of it, quietly sneaking off from under points. At noon and one final survey of the field, we decided that those birds who had eluded both gun and dog deserved the afternoon off. After a few laughs back at the car and plenty of quail to make a meal, the hunt was a morning well spent.