Thanksgiving weekend at Grandma’s house triggers memories of quail hunt

During a typical Thanksgiving weekend, we can be found shooting clay targets, plinking steel silhouettes at the old dump down the road, or hunting quail and cottontail rabbits along parts of the Spanish Trail. For the younger members of the family, my brother-in-law set up an air rifle range against the hill behind the house. It’s amazing how long an air rifle and a box of BBs will keep some youngsters engaged.

In years when the quail population is high, we spend most of our time chasing them up and down the hills and washes in the nearby desert. Some years it seems that we do more chasing than shooting, but it’s always memorable nonetheless. In the years when there aren’t so many quail, we bust a lot of clay targets or spend more of our time at the old dump.

This year it looks like we better have plenty of clay targets on hand along with a few extra boxes of .22 cartridges for the silhouette range.

Whenever I think about Thanksgiving at Grandma’s house, my mind usually finds its way back to one particular quail hunt. It was one of those learning experiences that teach a hunter never to give up and not to unlace your boots too early.

A half-dozen of us loaded up early in the morning and made our way to a large wash known for holding quail. We parked next to an old corral where the cottonwood trees would provide us with some shade, and after looking the country over decided to make a large loop that would take us through the hills and gullies on the west side of the wash and then back again on the east side.

Four hours or so later, we finished the loop but had only a handful of rabbits and tired feet to show for our efforts. We hadn’t seen or heard a quail all morning and didn’t expect to see any. So I sat down in the front seat of the Suburban and removed my boots. Then, as we sat there expressing our disbelief about the morning’s results, I happened to look in the mirror just as a rather large covey of quail was quietly sneaking across the dirt road behind the truck.

We quickly scrambled out of the truck. I jumped into my boots but didn’t stop to lace them up because I didn’t want to get left behind. Just as quickly, the birds picked up their pace and headed for cover in a series of steep draws along a bluff that rises above the wash.

For the next couple of hours, the quail crossed back and forth from one draw to another with us in hot pursuit. The action was fast and the hunt exciting. Somewhere along the line, I finally made the time to tie my boots, but it wasn’t until I had a few birds in my vest and a couple of blisters on my feet.

By the time we made our way back to the Suburban, we had enough quail in the bag to make a good meal and the makings of a hunting story that is relived at Grandma’s house every Thanksgiving.

In the years since, we have been back to the wash a few times but have yet to match the experience of that Thanksgiving quail hunt. Perhaps this year we should unlace our boots and wait in the truck for the birds to come to us.

Freelance writer Doug Nielsen is a conservation educator for the Nevada Department of Wildlife. His “In the Outdoors” column, published Thursday in the Las Vegas Review-Journal, is not affiliated with or endorsed by the NDOW. Any opinions he states in his column are his own. He can be reached at intheoutdoorslv@gmail.com.