Once More in Dogged Pursuit of a Secret Love

Because the secret place is a secret, I can only say that it is less than two hours from south Orange County by car, lies within the 714 area code, and will likely be overrun by human beings by the end of this decade.

The elevation is close to 5,000 feet. The sky is still immune to smog. Although it can snow in winter, this place is a high desert, so the clarity of the air and optical purity of the landscape are an almost daily norm. You can see the pupil of a mockingbird sitting atop a madrone at 100 miles, more or less--even if you have lousy eyes.

This is not the kind of terrain to be featured in National Geographic, nor even remarked upon by most people as being high in the beauty department. It is a hard place, ungentled by evergreens or streams, unlikely to ever grace a postcard. A wild lilac blossoms beneath a boulder the size of a townhouse. The long-dried orange flowers of rock lettuce still stand upon their stalks, surrounded by yards of sun-bleached gravel so neat a Japanese landscaper might have arranged the scene. It is brutally honest, yet subtle--a perfect place for a hike, a crucifixion, or, more to the point, a quail hunt.

The California quail is, of course, our state bird, although no one seems to know if it was named such before the nominating committee marinaded a batch in olive oil and barbecued them, or after. This is not to make light of another living creature’s right to live upon this Earth, but rather to establish a sense of biological balance, and, I think, continuity. Certainly no one who believes that all life is inviolable (not a bad premise) could in good conscience walk into a Pavilions and purchase much but the Enquirer. The questions for and against hunting might take years to answer, and interestingly, would not have been asked a short century ago.

Back to the scene. It was an early fall morning, a little chilly, with a pale blue sky that promised to deepen by noon. Three men emerged from the cab of a Ford pickup truck. They closed the doors quietly. One dog, so thrilled as to be leaping like a Sea World orca, was released from the bed. The other dog was so old he had to be lowered to the ground--a veteran of 14 seasons, now arthritic, tired, deaf. His thrill of the hunt was expressed only by a rapid wag of tail. He had been doing this since Carter was President. His name was Chad.

We worked the tall grass of a large meadow, and the dogs found a covey. My first shot was a long, trailing left, and the bird went down. Cassius, of Sea World comparison, watched the quail as it rose from the meadow, then as it fell from the sky. He disappeared into the sprawl of a gourd patch and returned with the bird. I watched him, smiling and calling him so he wouldn’t make a quick breakfast out of it.

Other birds rose in the distance, whirring accelerations of wing and will. My heart thumped efficiently as I reached for the bird; that wonderful tingle of hyper-alertness lightened my muscles; my eyes and ears felt as if they were burning a higher octane fuel than the one I usually run on. Five birds burst from cover to my right in a heart-stopping, percussive flurry, but the axiom of bird-in-hand is never more meaningful than on a quail hunt, and I let them go.

I will now make a statement most of you will laugh at, but if Jimmy Buffett has the courage to let Esquire run a picture of him at his first bird-dog’s grave, then I can certainly muster the fortitude to confess that the sight of my Labrador returning with a bird in his mouth is among the most exhilarating, amazing and somehow satisfying moments I’ve been privy to in this life. More cannot be said.

As the morning lengthened, the birds became warier, less prone to hold, more eager to head for the impenetrable cover of manzanita and cactus of the hillsides. The moment Chad’s owner got his limit, Chad headed for the shade of the truck. It takes a wise dog to know when enough is enough. We pressed on into the hills where barren boulders jut at impossible angles from the steep sides, bright and delicate wildflowers spray from the smallest of cracks and--thanks to the generous rain of last season--smatterings of grass still inhabit the patches of shade. Throughout this rough and handsome terrain sprouts the cholla and prickly pear cactus, too late in the season for flowers but still possessed of their fierce, protective beauty. A bright monarch butterfly lighted on the end of a cholla spine and fanned its wings in the sunlight.

And into this refuge went the quail, naturally, no strangers to the craft of survival. They waited until cactus stood in front of us before they flew. They rose between us, so no one could shoot. They fled directly at the truck, for the same reason. They lost themselves in sun, scrub, rocks. In many of the respects that count most in life, such as staying alive, quail are geniuses. We took a few more birds, but the rest disappeared into thickets of manzanita and safety.

We cleaned the quail, put them on ice and stashed the cooler in the shade of scrub just a few yards from the truck. We ate, drank, rested, bragged about the shots we made, confessed the ones we didn’t. We discussed strategy, during which three grown men actually try to think like quail, an interesting and often comical endeavor. Afternoon hunts are traditionally tougher than the morning ones, because the birds are leery. We discussed the possibility of Chad joining us, but left the decision up to him, and Chad opted for shade.

The afternoon outing was a near-bust. The quail had simply disappeared, as quail do, which is why they’re sometimes called “gray ghosts.” Cassius, tongue lolling, sat under a juniper bush and transferred cactus from his feet to his lips. We men grumbled, plotted, marched on, found nothing.

Back at the truck, feeling slightly defeated, we leaned our guns on the tires, cracked cold drinks and told ourselves we’d done well enough that morning.

Someone mentioned that this was beautiful country, which someone inevitably does when the collective spirit begins to sag. Chad gazed at us with a kind of knowing humor, but since dogs often do that, we took little note.

When we went to fetch our cleaned birds from the shade, a big covey of birds put up not two feet from the cooler and we all stood there, gunless, grinning, cursing, air-shooting at the lovely gray rockets as they sped for deep cover.

Chad yawned, forgiving our foolishness. A few minutes later we loaded him into the truck and drove away. The next morning he wasn’t much interested in going out. He may well have hunted for the last time, but that decision will be up to him. Sooner or later, I thought, we’ll all go on to other things.