Visiting the Old Homeplace Covey
Reprinted from the book “Dogs and Ducks and Hatrack Bucks”…by Larry Dablemont-- published in 2003
Old Luke had found them and there wasn't any doubt about that. He stood there in the woodland cover with his tail high and head forward, his body twisted slightly with one foreleg lifted, drinking in the mesmerizing scent of bobwhite quail. The three of us moved in quickly and the air was filled with the explosion of brown birds. There wasn't much time to find a target and intercept it. I clobbered a small oak with a charge of number eight shot and then missed the same bird clean as he sailed past it. Tom and Kent did the same thing I did and we stood there talking about how tough it was to hit a quail in that heavy cover. The first covey of the afternoon and we hadn't pulled a feather. But Tom Goldsmith had seen his first covey rise.
Tom is the talented wildlife artist from Coldwater, Ontario who illustrates my books, and he owns a pair of English Setters back in Canada where he hunts grouse and woodcock with enthusiasm. He spent several days with me this week, anxious to see what quail hunting is like. Since my little Setter died a few years ago, I have been without a pointing dog. But I knew who would have the very best, and I called him. Kent Caplinger lives in Ozark, Missouri, and he grew up hunting quail as a kid in Howell County. I met him at the University of Missouri when we were both about 18 years old and I have always counted him as one of my closest friends. Little wonder....Kent is one of the most enthusiastic outdoorsmen I have ever known. He and I once hitch-hiked home from the University of Missouri to hunt ducks on the Piney, thumbing a ride with cased shotguns hidden behind the suitcases. There has never been a time in all those years I've known Kent that he hasn't had two or three good bird dogs.
Luke and Sadie aren't just good, they are great! They both sat in my boat while we motored across Truman Lake to a hard to reach spot where Freckles and I found quail years ago. And in the high cover along the lake, they disappeared for awhile. Three wild gobblers flushed before us, only yards away, and I heard Kent groan. "Not this again," he said. "Old Luke just loves turkeys! And they seem to be more of them than quail anymore."
I took them up just into the woods and we walked past the foundation of an old homeplace, through skimpier cover and briars and buckbrush with small groups of cedar and scattered hardwoods. We talked about how often coveys are found around an old homeplace like that. And just moments later old Luke found a covey. It was their good fortune to leave us there with nothing but spent shotshell hulls and excuses, but it was our good fortune to watch many of the birds, 15 or 18 in all, sail out into high grass and a sunflower field.
Tom downed his first bobwhite 15 minutes later in front of Sadie's staunch point and as he did, another bird flushed beside me and sped toward the sunflower field just skimming the weeds, never higher than my waist. That's the kind of shot I can handle. Moments later Luke pinned a bird next to Kent and we all had some weight in our game bags. But we left them with only the three birds to our credit and motored over to a spot where I thought we'd find another covey in less difficult conditions.
Topping a rise 150 yards from the boat, we watched Luke working birds before us. He moved into the wind with head low and tail moving nervously, something bird-dog men recognize instantly, a clear message that a covey is close by. Kent cautioned his dog to go easy, and sharply commanded Sadie to hold. She hadn't scented the quail yet but she heard the command and looked for Luke. By that time he was frozen before her and she honored his point.
This covey rise was in shorter cover and we each dropped a bird. Someone got two. I said it was me but I don't think it was. I don't think it was Tom either or he would have argued with me. Kent didn't claim it, the gentleman today he has always been. The entire afternoon he situated himself where the shot was least likely to be, putting Tom and I in the best of positions. But none of us were there for the shooting. We talked about how, as you grow older, you walk in slower... not wanting the moment to end. You know that any second the birds will take to flight and the wonder of the magnificent scene before you will be gone. I just want to stand there and drink it in, absorb it to the fullest while the dogs are statue-still before me.
"Some people think I'm crazy to keep going with my dogs in a time when there are so few quail," Kent told me. "But I can't give it up, not ever. Even if we only find one covey, it's a big day for me. Anyone who has ever hunted over good dogs knows why, you can't explain it to anyone else!"
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