Morning Start up

Yeah Come On Brothers!

I can smell the mesquite on the moist morning breeze before the hot Mexican Sun burns off the mist. Out in the disappearing gloom a quail whistles his other-worldly morning assembly call, and all the hunters look expectantly in that direction-"There's one more covey" they all whisper and nod to one another.

The last minute preparations of each hunter donning chaps or boots or vests, loading up with shells, is reminiscent of a combat platoon preparing for a long patrol.

Its still so dark that a photograph turns out all black, but one can see 150 yards of Buffle Grass stretching out past the cortina in the grey-light of the morning. On each side, still invisible to the eye, are the arrow-straight tangled boundaries of the pasture, marking out the playing field where we are about to do battle. This is where the quail will fly when we wake them from their sleep and they explode in a whir, hurtling themselves to the safety of the thick hedgerows guarded by thorns and rattlers.

But for now four or five coveys sit bunched up in their little knots of eyes, blinking at the morning light, waiting for us to rudely roust them from bed.

Quivering pointers whine in the truck box, looking like track stars waiting their turn to run a heat. Who will be first? Who will strike the first covey? Pointers are eternal optimists, and they all look wide-eyed like a freshman wanting to get in his first game-standing taut at the sideline all suited up & ready to go-every turn of the coach is attended with absolute attention.

The guide moves around the truck; all the pointers lean and look as he moves, shifting and scuffling to stay in his view. He reaches for a door, out shoot Bud & Sally-winding the quail before they hit the rank floor of buffle grass. They work fast and careful, taking in scent like a vacuum on a pendulum, arcing towards the point that will produce the first covey of the morning.

As we step off, individually we convince ourselves the dogs will point, the birds will make a perfect covey rise, 3 shotguns will bark twice and six birds will fall. We walk on, following the lead of the dogs who really only seem to be toying with the quail, zig zagging back and forth, all the time knowing exactly where the birds are roosted.

Then suddenly Sally hammers them, cast in iron, every muscle tight and still, tail pointing to the grey sky. Bud immediately slams to a halt, honoring the point. A ball of quail boils up through the thick grass with a thousand fairy-drum beats, coming apart as they rise. "QUAIL" rings out and a series of pops, a measured shot, then a pause and another shot nailing the sleeper that always waits for the rest of the covey to flush.

Feathers float down on the breeze and lodge in the brown grass tops. Calls of "Two down in front", "I got one on the left" and a mumbled curse from the one that emptied both barrels at thin air shock the time back into a normal pace. Several still warm birds are gathered, and the skirmish line marches on.


"One of the sanest, surest, and most generous joys of life comes from being happy over the good fortune of others." - Archibald Rutledge