I was jinxed, hoodooed, skunked, and snakebit. Over the years I had bagged bobwhite, scaled, Gambel’s, Mearns, and even mountain quail. But valley quail (also called California quail) had eluded me, despite the fact that the birds are abundant in parts of Idaho and Oregon where I’d often hunted. In my defense, I’d spent most of my time in those states hunting chukar partridge, which typically live higher up on the rocky slopes than valley quail. But it had begun to get embarrassing. School kids were shooting limits of valley quail in the farmlands around Weiser, Idaho, where I often headquartered on my chukar hunts, and I couldn’t find a single bird, let alone shoot one.
I finally figured out how to do it—not through scientific analysis or boot leather, but by following a tall, lean guy named Mike Mosolf. A former college football quarterback, Mike can chase his wide- ranging English pointer, Sky, through rough terrain all day and hardly break a sweat.
Simply put, Mike has a nose for valley quail, and so does Sky. Because we often hunted chukars together, he eventually took pity on me. Or maybe he just got tired of my whining. One day as we drove our trucks along the Snake River on the way to a chukar hunting spot, we passed a brushy hillside. Mike pulled off to the side. When I drove up behind him, he said, “See that little draw right there? There’s usually a covey of quail in it. Why don’t you give it a try and I’ll go down the road a bit farther and see what I can find.”
The draw didn’t look any different than a dozen others we had passed, but I wasn’t about to second-guess Mike. I started up the steep hillside with my Brittany, Groucho, and we hadn’t gone far when Groucho pointed into a brushy tangle. Soon a quail buzzed out, followed by a dozen more. I slipped on the steep slope and didn’t get off a shot. The birds flew out of sight up the draw.
Groucho ran ahead and I struggled up the slope after him. When I’d gone about a hundred yards, I stopped to listen. I couldn’t hear Groucho’s bell, so I knew he must be on point. I’d passed a little side draw on the way up, and I wondered if the quail had peeled off into it. I worked my way around, approaching it from above, and sure enough, I spotted a patch of Groucho’s white coat gleaming in the sunlight. I whistled softly to let him know I was on the way.
The first quail zipped out from under a sage bush and promptly darted behind a boulder. A second bird boiled out of the same bush and pitched downhill. I shot over him, and began to wonder if I’d ever break my jinx.
Five minutes later Groucho slid to a point near a clump of rabbitbrush. This time the bird was silhouetted against the sky when it flew, offering a good shot. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw it fall. Groucho retrieved my first valley quail and I took a moment to admire its teardrop plume and the pretty scaled pattern on its breast. We worked the area methodically for the next half-hour and Groucho pointed six more quail, four of which ended up in my game vest.
Valley quail have a reputation for running, especially in open terrain, but once a covey is broken up the singles hold tighter than ticks. Some hunters recommend waiting for a time after scattering a covey to let the quail move around a little and give off scent. I’ve never had that kind of patience. But I do know it pays to go slow and investigate every possible hiding place.
Because the majority of shots are taken at close range, I like a light, open-choked gun with No. 7½ or No. 8 shot. In open desert country where longer shots are possible, a double-barrel choked improved cylinder / modified is a good combination. A dog is indispensable for locating tight-sitting singles and retrieving downed birds.
I was surprised to learn that valley quail are not native to much of the Pacific Northwest where they now thrive, including the area where I shot my first one. According to the late A. Starker Leopold, eldest son of Aldo and author of The California Quail, trapping and transplanting efforts began as early as the 1860s and continued well into the 1900s. As a result, valley quail are now found in much of Washington, Oregon, and Nevada, and smaller portions of Idaho and Utah.
While the bobwhite quail has always been the darling of American upland bird hunting literature, the valley quail, too, has had its devoted followers over the years. Legendary dog trainer Charlie Babcock, who handled the pointer Manitoba Rap to a National Field Championship in 1909 (the first pointer to be accorded that honor), considered the valley quail “America’s greatest game bird.” I’ve seen old photos of Manitoba Rap, and Mike Mosolf’s pointer, Sky, looks like he could be a descendant of that famous dog.
In the 1950s and 1960s, Ted Trueblood wrote glowing accounts of chasing valley quail with his pointers Joe and Rip near his home in southwestern Idaho. One of his articles he titled “Very Easy Birds to Miss.” In another story called “A Day on Fluster Flat,” Trueblood confessed to being totally discombobulated by valley quail, for the only time in all his experience with a smoothbore gun. “I was flustered and my dog was flustered,” he wrote. “I had to call him in, sit down, and smoke a pipe before I could resume hunting with some degree of sanity.”
In more recent times, author Worth Mathewson, who grew up in Virginia, wondered if any bird could replace the bobwhite in his heart. In his book Best Birds he concludes, “After moving to the West … I sure didn’t have to look far. The valley quail has made its own tradition out in the sagebrush.”
Mike and I have had several memorable valley quail hunts but the one that stands out in my mind took place in the Owyhee River country of southwestern Idaho. We had been chukar hunting farther north in the steep hills above Brownlee Reservoir, but a freezing rain had left the slopes ice-covered and dangerous. Mike suggested we shift operations to lower and drier country. The next morning, after driving south for a few hours, we passed through a small burg and continued down a gravel road that followed a small creek. We pulled into the driveway of a farmhouse and knocked on the door. No one answered.
“Now what?” I asked.
“No problem,” said Mike. “There’s public land just down the road. Let’s go hunting.”
“Wait a minute,” I replied. “If it’s public land, why did we even bother to ask?”
“People are a little edgy out here with Claude Dallas on the loose.”
Claude Dallas was a self-styled mountain man who killed two Idaho game wardens in Owyhee County in 1981 and eluded capture for almost a year. He was charged with first-degree murder, but a sympathetic jury (go figure) convicted him on a lesser charge of involuntary manslaughter. In 1986 he escaped prison and went on the lam for another year before being captured again. All told, he served twenty-two years of a thirty-year sentence and was released in 2005.
We drove along the creek for a few miles, pulled over and unloaded Sky and my Brittany, Groucho. We found a place to cross the creek and hiked to the top of a small, sage-covered hill. At that point Mike headed downstream and I went upstream. I hadn’t gone far when Groucho struck scent and slowed to a point. I hustled ahead and flushed a huge covey of quail, the roar of their wings shattering the still morning air. For six-ounce birds, they make a lot of noise when they take off in a bunch. I managed to knock down one bird on the covey rise, which Groucho gathered up and brought to me.
I continued walking in the direction the birds had flown, through a series of small hills cloaked in pungent sage and sparse, knee- high grass. Before long, Groucho feathered to another point. This time two quail skittered out of the grass, offering a good chance for a double. The first bird collapsed in a puff of feathers but the second escaped my load of 7½ shot.
For the next hour I wandered through what can only be described as wingshooting nirvana: The cool, damp air provided perfect scenting conditions for Groucho, the quail held tight, and my 20 gauge Browning over/under found its mark more often than not. All too soon, I had a limit of quail nestled in my hunting vest. I heard lots of shooting coming from Mike’s direction, so I knew he and Sky had also found their little piece of heaven.
Back at the trucks, we laid out two limits of lovely quail and took pictures to document our dream hunt. When we were done taking photos, I asked Mike, “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Find these little rascals.”
Mike shrugged. “They’re usually close to water, although after fall rains they can be about anyplace. I just walk until I find ’em.”
Personally, I think he has a nose for valley quail.