PARKER CANYON, Ariz. — I’ve been hunting Mearns’ quail for a long time, and while I’m by no means an expert, I was beginning to think I’d seen it all. That was until last week.
I’m on my annual winter sojourn to Mearns’ quail country in southern Arizona. Mearns’ – often referred to as Montezuma quail these days – are a destination species for bird hunters. That’s because these birds are unique to place, and that place is unlike any other in the lower 48.
What we saw last week occurred on a narrow road in the Coronado National Forest on what had been to that point a birdless day. While driving between spots we came upon a covey of Mearns’ crossing the road. We stopped and watched. The birds crouched down, their bellies hugging the road, in what is a distinctive Mearns’ response to a threat. When danger approaches their instincts scream, “Freeze!” But as we watched, we soon realized the birds weren’t frozen, but were instead barely creeping along, like feather-covered Tribbles (you know, from the old-school William Shatner Star Trek) inching across the dirt road.
You need to know a little about Mearns’ quail and the place they inhabit to understand how a bird with such curious, and frankly suicidal behavior, could be considered one of America’s great gamebirds. It boils down to habitat. This part of Arizona, south of Tucson and hard on the Mexican border, isn’t the desert most of us imagine when we think of the Southwest. It’s a little higher here, 4,000 to 5,000 feet. And during the summer, moisture streams in from the Gulf of Mexico dumping monsoon rains that pound the southern part of the state.
Well, there have been two great monsoon seasons in a row, which has resulted in a bumper crop of grass. This is bunchgrass country, and this year the grass is waist to shoulder deep in the canyons where we hunt. There are times when it seems as though you need a machete to work your way through the cover.
That’s what all that crouching and creeping is all about. Other than humans, Mearns’ predators are winged critters such as hawks. Surrounded by waist-deep grass, the birds are pretty darn safe creeping on their bellies away from danger. Mearns’ quail which readily take to the air, however, become hawk chow long before they can pass on their destructive impulses to the next generation.
That’s why bird hunters love Mearns’ quail. If you’ve got a dog with a good nose that will take its time working through the grass, you are rewarded with a gamebird that holds in that cover, maybe just a few feet in front of your statuesque pointer, for as long as 15 minutes in my experience. The birds wait, frozen, and when they do flush, the explosion of quail can be a riot coming from all directions.
If you do everything right and take your time to aim — while at the same time hurrying because that bird is working furiously to put an oak tree between itself and you as quickly as it can beat its wings — you might get a shot. If your good, and lucky, that shot will be successful two or three times out of 10, at least for a lousy shot such as myself. The rest of the time you’ll be standing there muttering under your breath wondering how you blew it.
All that instinct for survival in heavy cover leaves Mearns’ quail vulnerable when they intersect modernity, such as the graded road we were traveling last week. Mearns’ are the only quail I’ve ever seen as road kill, and the reaction of those eight-feathered Tribbles to our approach explains why. These birds are hard wired to freeze in the face of danger, even if that danger comes in the form of a pickup truck.
Mearns’ haven’t yet learned that the freeze-until-danger-passes strategy only works in deep grass. On pavement or a well-maintained forest road, it’s a recipe for disaster.
That’s unless the folks on the road aren’t in a hurry. In that case, the feathered-Tribble show can be almost as good as a vest heavy with birds.