Thankful for Quail

I had an opportunity this past weekend to scoot down to the Southeastern corner of the state for a couple of days of quail hunting with my four-leggers. The weather was typically desert New Mexican, requiring both running the heater on full tilt at dawn and the air conditioner at mid-day to cool down the cabin. Such is life with the humidity hovering around zero.

Southeast New Mexico is often called "Little Texas." The oil and gas industry predominates the culture, economy, and landscape here. Large, well-paved highways crisscross the hardpan to move tankers along and get that precious oil moving towards the Gulf. At times, the smell of petroleum-based effluent wafts through the breezes. The plant life that thrives in the area -- mesquite, creosote, cacti and their thorny friends -- beat up indiscriminately on dogs, hunters, clothes, trucks, and sometimes, and when the wind whips up above 50 miles an hour, even your soul can feel a little bruised. This place surely fits no conventional definition of beauty.

Yet, hunting has a transformative quality that can turn these desolate biomes and nasty climates into pure enjoyment. The thorns, enemies, become allies as they provide essential cover for quail. The headwinds, instead of simply slowing you down, become appreciated as they fill dogs' noses with scent. Feet stop hurting as one hurries to catch up with a dog on point. Any real hunter knows these feelings well.

But there's another quality about hunting that I find rather unique. There's a saying among photographers that the key to taking a good photo is "F11 and be there," emphasizing that the most important aspect is not technical but temporal. Maybe this is true for any passion, but hunting is something that motivates me be there. Any hunter knows that a quarry does not harvest itself. Hunting is that reason to get up pre-dawn, possibly suffer through inclimate conditions, and simply be there. The rewards are frequent and come in many flavors. One of my favorite rewards is the magic dusk light washing the landscape in gold in these wide open spaces.

A moment like this captures it all for me. I pause to reflect alone with my dogs that we are fatigued in the best of ways. We have a few quail. Our spirits are refilled with an enthusiasm and a joy that will bring us back early the next morning, and then again, and again. I appreciate that we are in a truly beautiful place, however unconventional it may be.

Fish Fingers

Presented a few months ago with a bachelor weekend, amigo Anthony and I headed for the Jemez Mountains for a few days of fishing. As a rank fly fishing beginner I was looking forward to another opportunity to improve. Learning to fly fish was a goal in 2009 and I accomplished it, I guess, as long as we can consider accomplishment to mean 1) acquiring a rig, 2) learning how to cast a fly line, and 3) catching one and only one trout. For the record, I do, and I did.

Anthony snapped a couple of pics. Hey, there I am. Probably tying on another fly after getting snagged in the encroaching vegation for the who knows how many-ith time. Fishing the small waters of northern New Mexico sometimes requires a hobbit like nimbleness and an aptitude in precision casting. I possess neither quality. Fortunately it doesn't diminish the good times one bit.

 

The mighty Rio Guadalupe begins at the confluence of the Rio de las Vacas and the Rio Cebolla, two smaller streams a little higher up. Not longer after it joins up with the main stem of the Jemez River. The water was cool and the many small trout that call this place home were hungry. We caught many throughout the weekend, most no bigger than the size of your hand.

Many thanks to my friend and guide for the weekend.