By Mike Arnold
Our guide, Chris Futch smiled broadly as he mentioned a previous hunt on the Dorchester Shooting Preserve when a deep frost hit: "We hit one covey of about 30 birds. They were packed together like biscuits in a tin." Later on, Frances and I grinned at one another as Chris tried to herd our group of three hunters, two German Short-Haired Pointers and Midnight who, to my eyes, resembled a black French Brittany. While trying to extricate us from a corner of the dense woodland, Chris exclaimed as the GSHs pointed a covey located even deeper into the cover, "Hey boys, you're killing me!"
A word about Chris’ charges. They were all amazingly instinctive and trained animals. And you could tell they were much more than tools for finding quail; they were obviously of great value to their master. The GSH, Bee, 18 months old and hunting for only four weeks, Billy Ray Cyrus, many more years older, Scotch the Yellow Lab, or diminutive Midnight, short of height but brave as a lion, were each more sentient than some academics I know.
As Frances and I drove from our home in the Georgia Piedmont to the Coastal Plain near Savannah, and the 5000-acres making up Dorchester Shooting Preserve, we passed from rolling hills and granite outcrops to sand and Spanish Moss-enveloped trees. There is something Tolkienesque about the grayish bark of the oaks and sweetgums – made that way by a patchy covering of lichens – with the whisps of ‘moss’ hanging down like an Ent’s hair. Time for me to geek-out. To quote the University of Florida, IFAS Extension: “Contrary to popular belief, Spanish moss (Tillandsia usneoides) is not a moss and although it grows on trees, it’s not a parasite, either. Spanish moss is actually a flowering epiphyte, meaning it is a plant that grows on other plants for support and to access sunlight. Epiphytes get all of their nutrients from the air and rainwater.” Depending on your level of nerdiness, you’ll either find that information really, really interesting, or a waste of precious time you’ll never get back.
As mentioned, Dorchester encompasses 5000-acres, on which there is 1500-acres of prime Bobwhite Quail habitat, with other portions full of Turkeys and Whitetails, and others set up for Sporting Clays, and even ranges for training law enforcement personnel. Scattered through the year are the ever-popular European Tower Shoots with hundreds of Pheasants released over the space of a morning or afternoon. Even in the Summer off-season, sportsmen and sportswomen grace the Dorchester property and nearby waterways, in search of fresh and saltwater fish. Quail hunting, however, is Dorchester’s raison d'être, with approximately 170,000 Colinus virginianus passing through the property each year.
There are 20+ so-called Cabins, a.k.a Coastal Cottages/Homes owned by members, most available for rent by visitors like Frances and me when not in use by their owners. The layout and decorations of each home are warmly welcoming, with wood paneling, stone fireplaces, and shooting and hunting memorabilia galore. Upon arrival, we quickly unpacked all our gear into ‘Gill’ house, including Frances’ video and camera equipment, and my shotgun and shells. I admit that the wonderful Deep-South lunch of Fried Chicken, Shrimp and Rice and Fresh-baked biscuits awaiting us went by me without much notice because of my desire to get out to the pine woods and thickets teeming with the beautifully speckled bird rockets. A row of 10 four-wheel drive ‘buggies’, with elevated trailer seats and dog kennels in tow, met us as we exited the front door of the lodge after lunch.
Our companions for the afternoon hunt included the aforementioned canines, and also our host, Sonny Deriso, and long-time friend Tim Lowe. Both carried beautiful Beretta shotguns, Tim’s chambered in 28-guage and Sonny’s in .410. I was definitely over-gunned in comparison with my off-the-shelf, 20-gauge Browning Citori. But it pointed well for me on skeet fields, and on many previous hunts. Tim and Sonny proved throughout the afternoon that they were superior wing shots, but it wasn’t my Browning’s fault! As Chris towed the trailer containing his two- and four-legged charges, Frances, Sonny, Tim and I chatted about the beauty of the Coastal Plain environs. I am not a grass expert, but the understory among the well-spaced pines looked like a mixture of Bluestem, Switchgrass, and Indiangrass. Regardless of species, the landscape looked extremely ‘Quaily’ (a technical term that isn’t on Google…yet). This prediction soon proved correct.
Parking the buggy, unloading the dogs, and Chris’ safety instruction took about 15 minutes. The safety training included the statement that if we shot the dogs beloved by his wife and kids, not only would we owe the club $7500 for each canine but we would also become our guide’s new landlord, since his family would evict him for allowing harm to befall their pets. We did not make it more than 20-yards from the buggy before Billy Ray Cyrus locked onto point, with Bee edging in to back him up. The three hunters, with Frances recording, slowly edged our way towards the clump of tall grass. When we were within a few feet of the pointers, Chris gave the command “Flush” to Midnight who charged straight between the two German Short Hairs, pouncing into the midst of the thick vegetation. The sky seemed to fill with whirring missiles that veered crazily as they reached head height to the humans. I missed with both barrels, which is quite common for me on a first rise. In contrast, Sonny and Tim knocked their targets out of the sky in a shower of feathers. Midnight proceeded to streak off for the retrieval of the downed birds.
I missed more birds throughout the afternoon than I hit. However, my 20-gauge did prove its range when I occasionally reached out for a bit longer shot at a Bobwhite weaving in-and-out of the Pines. Whenever any of the three hunters knocked one of the ‘partridges’ from its flight, shouts of encouragement came from Chris and the others. The dogs too seemed to grin broadly when the focus of their pointing and flushing came falling from the sky. At one point in our several hour hunt, with shotgun opened and laying across my shoulder, I turned to Frances and stated the truth: “I could leave my shotgun like this for the remainder of the day, never pulling a trigger, and watch the dogs work and be perfectly happy.” It was amazing watching Chris handle his friends, and remarkable how the dogs knew instinctively where birds would be hiding. Billy Ray Cyrus, Bee and Midnight also seemed to comprhend how much joy their hunters derived from the pursuit of these diminutive birds.
As the sun disappeared behind the Pine/Oak treeline, we loaded back onto the buggy for the trip back to the lodge. When Sonny asked Chris how we’d done, our guide responded, “59 birds.” I quipped, “You guys said you collected 58 this morning. I think we all know who managed only one quail this afternoon!” I guess I knocked a few more down than one, but the number of birds in the trailer’s cooler was not the true measure of success. Instead, success came from the sweet memories of a Southern Tradition again observed by those passionate about hunting a diminutive, speckled, and elusive, wonder.