It was opening day last weekend. I had time for a short hunt. Work called, and while you might ask, “What kind of a hunter listens to that siren song on opening day?” I can only say reasons, but the weather offered cover.
Surely, by now you’ve seen the chaos in the Southwest caused by record rains. The extreme El Niño in the eastern Pacific off the coast of South America, superheating the ocean along the equator, is pumping moisture into the storms battering Arizona, New Mexico and southern Colorado.
I lived in Flagstaff, Ariz., for six years. Large chunks of the south side of that town — homes, coffee shops, pizza joints — were flooded by waist-deep water a few days ago. Aerial photos of the Flagstaff fields where my daughters played their first soccer matches look like a muddy lake rather than an emerald pitch.
So, what’s that got to do with my opening day on the Great Plains? Those storms had to go somewhere after they trashed the Southwest. My opening day was where they arrived, though the forecast was well off. I could have hunted all afternoon if my to-do list back in the office wasn’t as long.
Still, it’s been an odd fall. It was particularly wet on the plains, even if we haven’t seen any flooding. We also haven’t had a freeze yet, and while this is going to sound whiny, when we haven’t had a good frost before opening day the skeeters are often the most numerous winged critters in the uplands. It was a wet and drizzly day. A good day for skeeters; for bird hunters not so much.
Not that Jade, my English setter, didn’t hold up her end of the bargain. We didn’t see many birds on the field we hunted, but the better half of my partnership put in some good work on a rooster, pointing, then repointing three times before the bird finally held long enough for a flush. My first shot of the season, and it was no surprise I missed. I always rush on opening day. I’d do better if I learned to count to three before I fired.
Concentrate, grasshopper. Cover the bird and give your pattern time to spread, increasing the circle of lethality.
We also moved a lone quail, but never found the covey. Or at least I never saw those birds. The lone quail flushed near a clump of willow the size of a small apartment. I lost Jade in that thicket for about 10 minutes. I suspect she was on the covey, somewhere in that tangle, waiting for me to arrive.
I’m away traveling for work the second weekend of the season, so by the time I hunt again the early-season pheasant hunters will have moved on to other interests, and (fingers crossed) things will have dried out. If I can settle down a bit the next time a bird flushes in front of me, I might do all right this season.
Since I’m mostly a quail hunter, I’m also optimistic about the 2027-28 season. The deserts of California and Arizona have both received a lot of rain this fall. The conventional wisdom is that winter rain — January to March — is key for desert quail. What these fall rains mean is less certain, and there are some projections the El Niño-fueled storms will taper off after the first of the year. I suspect that won’t matter and I plan to spend the Christmas holidays down south next year.
Unfortunately, what El Niño provides it also takes away. When the winter storm track lays waste to the Southwest, the northern tier of the country usually pays the price. This could be a bad winter to be a skier in the Northern Rockies. More importantly for my interests, snow is just trout streams in storage.
I fear for another hoot owl summer.