With now about 20 desert quail seasons under our belts we pretty much fell into a routine. First camp is on public land in the Sonoran desert northeast of Tucson. And, as always, the first order of business is to police the site of unwanted, unsightly trash--murdered beer bottles and cans, perhaps an old TV, empty pistol and rifle cartridges and shotshells littering the ground and other assorted treasures left behind by thoughtless idiots too lazy to haul out what the bastards bring. And of course shoveling the ever present cow crap...
Anyway enough bawlin', that done we rig the dogs, Annie and Maggie, with bells and electric collars ( you know, just in case the puppies forget their manners), pull on our boots, shell vests, sticker proof (hopefully) brush pants or chaps, load the guns and take a hike. The first circle is a short jaunt around camp, how short depends on how much daylight. This time the sun is well settled on the tops of the Tortalitas. In other words if the dogs are going to hit paydirt will have to do so soon.
As if on cue, suddenly the bells stop ringing. And as we round a mesquite thicket we spy Annie locked tight with her understudy, Maggie, sticking a pretty back. I circle quickly, hoping to come in to the front but the covey busts before I can get there. Coming up in a typical Gambel's scatter, I have my choice of several birds buzzing off well in range, right to left. Easy pickings, naturally I miss both barrels. Blame it on the long drive, a too-tired ol' boy...cast the blame as you wish but...the good news we are HERE and the season doesn't end for about 8 weeks...like lots a time for redemption.
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