Scalies Over a Barrel (Cactus)
Story | Photos by Garhart Stephenson
The day dawned softly. Pastel tones of pink, orange and gold breathed a lifelike vibrancy ever so briefly into the expanse of clouds keeping watch over adjacent mountain peaks. A rather small group of mountains, downright tiny compared to the Wind Rivers I hail from, this mass of rock protruding from the desert floor makes up for diminutive size with absolute upthrust. I thought to myself, “I could make the summit in less than an hour here”… a very, very strenuous hour.
On this chilly desert morning, the objects of my desire were more likely to be found –
with the aid of Sir Rusty, bird finder supreme and bunk warmer extraordinaire – out amongst the twisting sand washes and frost whitened grasses winding down from the slopes. In case anyone still wonders, it bears mentioning that Rusty is my dog. His little pink nose is well travelled, and on an intimate basis with all of our quail species except the Mountain quail. Perhaps someday…
Scaled quail.
However, on this day our intended quarry consisted of the dashing little rascal with a fish scale jacket and punk rock hairdo. Scaled quail carry quite a reputation as runners. I think it goes deeper than that. They are impudent characters with the gleam of mischief in their eye and fire under their feet, basically miniature chukars all revved up on energy drinks, albeit in a different environment. Split up their gang or send them into thick grass cover (a veritable jungle when you’re only 7-inches tall) and the game of cat and mouse will often come to an end, with the odds favoring a good dog and a sharp eyed hunter with a quick gun. This end served as our goal, bringing result of bird in hand and ultimately, bird in pan.
The author’s Remington 870 had taken this pair of scaled quail.
The simplicity of my plan held much promise. I would venture to one end of these rugged mountains and chase the blue devils all the way up into the rocky crags above if necessary, as I had done so in days long past with Rusty’s predecessor, Katie. She was my second Border Collie and showed me truly what such a dog could do. Until then I entertained the idea of other admirable breeds, breeds traditionally devoted to pursuit of feathered game. She changed my mind about all of that by revealing I was already signed to a winning team. Rusty entered my home during her 15thyear proving just as capable, thus solidifying my bias for life. Not that I wouldn’t thoroughly enjoy the assistance of a setter or one of the spaniels (I do appreciate both flushing and pointing schools of thought), but it’s best a man recognize when he’s well off with something, and not fool enough to abandon a good thing.
Katie now long gone and Rusty nearing the finish of his 10th season, I couldn’t help recall her being in her 10th when I last hunted this same wash. Ah yes, I had it all figured out, until a contingent of cotton topped jesters interrupted my progress by having the audacity to flush from the trail a half mile short of where I expected them. Not one to pass up a gift, I sent forth Rusty to roust the little demons as they evaded my pursuit on foot.
These birds seemed to be enjoying their frantic scramble through everything prickly and over every rock loose or unstable. Could it be they really do take delight in embarrassing man, woman and beast? The jury is still out on that one. However, a scaled quail is still no ground speed match for a Border Collie. Rusty convinced them to give up on their bond with terra firma soon enough, spreading the birds to and fro in a ragged, unorganized exodus. I followed suit with a ragged, unorganized dispensing of #8s. With due effort, two of their members mistakenly found their way into some of the flack, after which it was all singles work for Rusty. A few more quail in the bag, we continued up the sand wash finding a few tracks, mostly from quail, although I’m sure it wasn’t the quail who dropped the backpack, flannel shirt, or JuMex juice cans.
Classic New Mexico scaled-quail habitat.
Our search continued in earnest with no avail for about a mile when seven blue darters flushed wild and lit amongst jagged rock columns, loose volcanic rubble, and prickly pear. Now we’d have some fun! I do so embrace a challenge. I thrive on the unique. I adore a thrilling experience in a compelling setting. Scaled quail in a steep mountain environment checks all those boxes and more.
Just a couple. No need to be greedy. This small bunch proved darn difficult to approach, continuing the wild flush routine. Three more quail joined them and now ten were playing “keep away.” I suddenly wished the 20 gauge. in my hands were a 12. Whiiiirr! Bang! Finally, a straggler validated my rock dancing efforts, falling to a charge of small shot at close range.
When hunting scaled (or Gambels) quail, one wonderful phenomenon that occurs on a somewhat regular basis is how one group of birds, pursued far enough, will lead to new birds. Such proved the case this day. Four birds climbed wildly out of the brush the instant I peered down from an overhang. This time they went right back down in short order, prompting further attempt on their general health. Yes, by now with enough calories spent and sweat invested, I wanted another crack at one of them. Soon, Rusty put them up one by one. No, they didn’t all go in the bag. More importantly, Rusty found more scent and a second covey lit the afterburners for places higher and safer.
The fearsome barrel cactus.
We chased after them with much gusto. I enjoyed thrilling mountainside flushes and the old dog enjoyed a few feathered grins. Birds scattered every direction, as quail are prone to. One of the more endearing traits of this species is their tendency to call vocally to other covey members once separated.
Siren calls lured me down into a big wash of rock rubble, cantaloupe to beach ball in size, which somehow contained enough soil to host plenty of tall grass and small shrubs. If sand washes are a drag strip for quail, this was a parking lot! The dog locked onto their aroma and proceeded forth to sweep the lot clean if necessary.
These were not the same birds. I should have known by my dog’s behavior that we weren’t closing in on a single. Chalk it up to excited enthusiasm, but in my mind I was just rushing in after another bird before it put its track shoes back on. Oh, was I ever wrong. Bird one peeled out of there as if fired from a slingshot. It went down just as fast. Then, much to my surprise another flushed further out, then a third. My brain, now awash with adrenaline, barked out commands. “They’re too far! Run, you dummy!” This is when the situation turned sour… unless you were a quail, and I wasn’t.
In many regions of desert there is a plant known as a barrel cactus. Beautiful plants, these cacti, especially when in bloom. Pretty big too. This makes them easy to avoid. Unfortunately, at some point everything big is first little and a small barrel cactus is the same size and shape as most of the rocks I was stomping across. As soon as I bolted toward the two far jumping quail, my foot found one such Barrel cactus, about 8 inches in diameter, with sufficient force to fully engage its spines. Now it stands to reason that if something is still small, all parts of it are small, right? Well, not so in the plant kingdom. The first part of this prickly wonder to attain considerable size appears to be its armament, both the narrow spines, and the broad fish hook ones with the flat profile. There’s nothing small about either.
As my foot finished using the cactus as a starting block, a great many of these protrusions penetrated my boot sole and included my foot in the deal. Normally this would be the height of the cactus’s glory and the climax of my agony, but no. Interestingly enough, barrel cactus spines are tough enough to go through a boot sole, but not sufficiently strong to remain attached to the host plant. This is the stage of the game where humans are most prone go into radical gyrations and begins shouting in strange tongues. As appealing as this was, other items demanded my attention, like my dog suddenly plowing his way through a covey of twenty while I did the rain dance. Of course, this all happened very slowly, so as to prolong my ignominious experience.
A pair of scaled quail set on a barrel cactus.
First a single jumped so close it should have been a death wish bird. Planting my left foot, pain shot up my leg like a rocket-powered squirrel. Forget the bird. Peel the boot! I set my gun down and pulled on the boot. It wouldn’t come loose! The laces were loose enough but…ah yes, those curved spines. Yeah, they weren’t strong enough to stay attached to the cactus but they darn sure weren’t going to allow this boot to come loose from the bottom of my foot. Aw rats! And everything the rat left behind after its last meal. This was not cool. I’ve heard of shooting quail over a point, but I don’t think this matches the intended sentiment. Now what?
Several quail were kind enough to answer this question by erupting right in front of me. Once airborne, they seemed in no hurry as if they were rubbing it in. Regular chip shots, if I could shoot while standing on one leg like a heron, which I can’t. Nooooo! I carefully tugged, twisted, and peeled the boot away from my foot…all while singles, pairs, and trios took their sweet time exiting the theater. Theater? Well I gave them a good show and they seemed to enjoy it. Did I mention how good my foot felt?
Okay I’m making progress. Blood pressure is returning to normal. Whiiiiiirrr! Whiiiirr! Whiiirr! A steady procession of birds come up under Rusty’s nose, a mere 15 yards distant. “Screw it! I’ll shoot one without my boot on!” My foot goes down. Another bird goes up, this one even closer. I miss as my foot, now throbbing, comes back up as pure reflex. The process repeats itself twice. Defeated and apparently out of feathered spectators I finally get my sock loose and proceed to carefully extract a great many offending cactus parts from the bottom of my foot before restoring the sock to its proper location. Now I could put my boot back in a position useful to resuming the hunt and begin doing so.
Whiiiirr! Not again! “That’s it; someone’s getting a salute!” More out of frustration than anything I grabbed the gun. Several more made a move for the exits. There I stood in the rocks, wearing one boot, while “running all three” out of my Remington 870 Special Field. Two birds go down. Glorious redemption!
I finish tying my bootlaces as Rusty returns with the first of these two scalies. I’ve admired many of the little buggers in hand, but this one brought a special satisfaction, dare I even say relief? With the retrieval of the second, we proceeded to search out more chances and ended up encountering four more groups before returning to the truck. All the while, the ball of my foot would occasionally get a sharp pain, but only when I stepped firmly on a sharp rock. I chalked it up as swelling and perhaps a touch of poison from the cactus.
That night back in the camper when I cleaned my feet with rubbing alcohol, the wet paper towel snagged on the bottom of my left. It seems I missed one of the wannabe porcupine quills. Well, I wanted a unique and thrilling experience…thankfully the snakes were still underground.
Garhart Stephenson is an avid outdoorsman residing in west central Wyoming. Throughout the year he is typically outdoors with rod or gun in the company of his faithful Border Collie, Rusty.
Garhart Stephenson is an avid outdoorsman residing in west central Wyoming. Throughout the year he is typically outdoors with rod or gun in the company of his faithful Border Collie, Rusty.
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