LAST FALL'S FIRST HUNT
Too many interests laying claim on my attention -- mainly, whitetail and mule deer bucks with big racks -- kept me from hunting quail any sooner than mid-December. It was hot for a December afternoon, 70 degrees to be exact, but I had the free time and a place to go. Studying the aerial photo of the ranch, I planned to focus my energy in the pasture with the most water, and specifically that corner of the pasture in which cattle grazing was limited, leaving more grass cover for quail. I planned to hunt the last two hours of the day, when temperatures would start to cool. My hunting buddies for the excursion, a pair of 2 1/2-year-old English pointers named Sue and Jane, were just as eager as I was to get started.

As I unloaded Jane and fastened a collar around her neck, Sue whimpered like a week-old pup from inside her kennel. "Don't forget me, Dad!" she seemed to say, plainly not wanting to be left behind on this, our first quail hunt of the fall season.

Parked next to a windmill, I planned to make a wide loop across rolling rangeland past another windmill, where the dogs could cool off, and then return to the truck at dark. As I released both dogs, I paused to study the earth around the run-off puddle. Dozens of fresh pitchfork-shaped quail tracks were visible in the powdery dust.

Just 200 yards from the windmill, Sue locked up stiff as a stone statue, her nose tipped into the wind. I had my doubts as to what she'd found -- but when I shuffled closer, a half-dozen bobwhites filled the air. Two shots later, I had a cock bird in hand.

We hiked along the rim of a steep canyon towards the second windmill, where, I remembered, I'd seen both bobwhite and blue quail while I was deer hunting there. Sue was zooming 60 yards ahead of me, weaving back and forth tasting the wind, while Jane stayed close. (Jane always stays close. She'd rather stay home and sleep on her plush doggie bed in our house, but occasionally she acts enough like a real hunting dog to earn the chance to tag along.)

In a brushy draw near the second windmill, Sue went stiff as a coathanger, pointing under a cedar bush. Jane and I stalked closer, and birds buzzed out from under that bush like miniature helicopters. My 20 gauge barked twice, and two more bobwhites hit the dusty dirt.

The weight of three plump birds in my vest pocket was satisfying. Both dogs were hot, panting with their tongues hanging out, so it was time for a break.

Kneeling in the shade of a tall cedar, I sipped water from a plastic bottle and the dogs slurped water from my cupped hands. Then they chewed string cheese and venison jerky that I'd hidden in my coat pocket. For 20 minutes or longer we just sat under that tree, cooling down, enjoying the fading shadows of late afternoon and the sinking of the western sun. Sue whined and moaned the whole time, as if to say, "Let's go! Let's go! Hunt, hunt, hunt!"