Meet the snobs and slobs of upland hunting
By Ryan Sparks
While we might collectively label ourselves “upland hunters,” there is a great deal of difference from one bird camp to the next.
Perhaps no two camps are more dissimilar than quail hunters and pheasant hunters. How we hunt is different. How we dress is different. Our shotguns are different. Our dogs are different.
In fact, quail hunters and pheasant hunters are like a vinaigrette — you can shake them up and call them “upland hunters,” but when left alone, they settle into their own defined layers. Like a trout fisherman using worms and another using flies, the worm dunker cries, “snob!” while the fly-fisherman retorts, “slob!”
Being a member of both the quail and pheasant tribes, I appreciate them equally and laugh at the hard lines we draw between ourselves. Of course, most hunters blur the lines between one group and another, but still, it can be fun to lean into the stereotypes. Both are odd birds indeed.
But by understanding our differences, we can learn more about those on the other side of the fence and, perhaps, understand our own idiosyncrasies better. To really nail down the differences, let’s compare what a day afield looks like for both hunters.
The quail hunter rises before dawn, prepares their artisanal coffee, and steps out on the porch to light their pipe. This is their morning hunting routine, never to be altered or broken. Outside, the dogs are stirring in their runs, but remain composed and quiet. The quail hunter will not tolerate a barking dog. He sips his coffee and puffs his pipe while reading a few pages of Wehle’s Wing and Shot, to remind himself of the standard he holds himself to.
The pheasant hunter wakes up — hungover — just after 9 a.m. That’s perfectly fine though. He wakes his nine hunting companions and lets them know they still have an hour before legal hunting time. Plenty of time to head to the gas station for some breakfast pizza, a Monster energy drink, and to refill the beer supply.
After his coffee, the quail hunter dresses in layers of waxed canvas. He tucks his shirt in and cinches his belt. He checks his watch. His hunting partner will arrive in precisely 13 minutes. He dons his faded hunting vest and takes his freshly oiled 28-gauge out of the gun cabinet. He sighs with satisfaction. Today will combine the three things he loves most — the beauty of a fine double-gun, staunch points, and the grandeur of a covey flush.
Meanwhile, the pheasant hunters have finished their gas station breakfast and downed their preferred brand of caffeinated chemical. Clad in blaze orange from head to toe, they resemble walking traffic cones. Their Labs bark in the back of the truck, shaking the vehicle from side to side as they jostle in their kennels.
The hunters have also brought along their preferred shotguns, although their choice of gun is determined by function rather than form. In the back seat is a stack of synthetic-stocked semi-autos. Every one is a 12-gauge — utilitarian guns that flawlessly cycle 3.5-inch shells, never jam, and only get cleaned once a year despite being pulled through miles of switchgrass and cattails.
The quail hunter and his companion arrive at their hunting location well before the appointed time. They sit in the cab of the truck, sipping coffee and discussing the finer points of quail hunting. While they observe state game laws, they also follow an unwritten, self-enforced code.
Once a covey is pointed, flushed and shot into, single birds are left alone. Coveys that are flushed but not pointed are never shot at. In winter, hunts are ended early to allow the birds time to covey for the night. During the coldest days of winter, they refrain from hunting at all. They both agree that quail hunting is a sport of decorum and rules. And what is life without rules?
The convoy of pheasant hunters surrounds a section of public land, leaving three of their members at the opposite side to act as blockers. The other seven hunters form a line, release their Labs and march into the grass. This is their battlefield. Their hunting is tactical, and as their leader barks orders down the line, their movements resemble military maneuvers. When a dog gets birdy, the adjacent hunters run ahead, trying to keep up before a rooster flushes.
The quail hunters casually pull their guns from their scabbards and slip a shell in each barrel. They lean them against the side of the truck as they prepare their dogs. One collars his lean and muscled English pointer while the other whispers to his well-groomed Llewellin setter. They both secretly forgive each other the mistake of choosing the incorrect breed. Both secretly think their dog superior, but gladly admit they would never hunt with a flushing dog.
The pheasant hunters are making progress. A few hundred yards into their campaign, a gaudy bird launches into the air, cackling as it makes its way down the line. The hunters empty their guns in succession until one of their shots finds its mark. Three hunters claim they hit the bird, although it will go to whoever’s retriever finds it first. With the rooster in hand, a call of “forward easy” goes down the line and the procession continues.
Meanwhile the quail hunters are following their dogs, quartering into the wind 400 yards in the distance. They both secretly wish the dogs would range closer so they could watch them work, but they know that any dog worth its salt must “work towards the front.”
This is just one of the many rules that quail hunters have invented for their dogs. They embrace specialization and mock versatility. They want fast, wide-ranging dogs that can quickly search a broad area for a covey. They want decisive dogs that throw bold, definite points. They scorn the cautious creeping of a pheasant dog. “In quail country, creeping is time wasted,” one says as the other nods in agreement.
The quail hunters also insist their dogs remain on point until released ... even if the covey is long gone. Quail coveys rarely launch in unison, so proper quail dogs should hold point even after the initial covey rise and shooting. This gives the quail hunter a chance to reload in case of stragglers within the covey — a proper quail hunter’s gun never holds more than two shells anyway.
These are the essential rules that quail hunters have made for their dogs, and they take a great deal of pleasure in watching their dogs follow the rules correctly. This is “performance.”
Back at the pheasant hunt, the party has just finished walking their first field and have a handful of pheasants to show for it. They admire the long tailfeathers and the iridescent colors. They examine the spurs and make comments about how old each bird is. They pat their dogs on the head and tell them how good they are. They did exactly what pheasant dogs are supposed to do — work close, get birds in the air, pick up dead birds and bring them back, and repeat the process like a single-minded robot. They reward their dogs with the only thing Labs care about more than birds and praise: food.
In fact, some of the dogs appear to have enjoyed a little too much food over the summer, as they waddle from truck to truck looking for a handout.
The pheasant hunters chew the cud for the next hour with a gregarious discussion of sports, trucks, and the merits of their preferred light beers. They also talk about their love of wild pheasants. Other birds are almost as cagey, flush as wild, run as far, and live in cover almost as difficult, but no other does it all so often as the rooster pheasant.
After more than an hour of hunting, the quail hunter’s handheld buzzes, letting him know his dog is on point precisely 311 yards to the southeast. Soon after, the other hunter’s handheld beeps. His dog is backing 297 yards in the same direction. They turn and walk towards the dogs with an unhurried pace. Quail run more often than people give them credit for, but this is the genteel demeanor of quail hunting they insist on.
During their walk, they hear a rooster pheasant crow below them from a marsh. “Anything that loud and gaudy could never be a gentleman like Bob,” says one. They both laugh.
With the dogs in sight, the quail hunters move in on either side. As the covey erupts, four barrels empty … missing all four times. One comments that the sun was in his eyes, while the other blames the uneven terrain. They both remark that quail are a much more difficult target than slow-rising roosters. They might be going home empty handed, but these all-American birds are far superior to any Chinese import. They resist their secret urge to return to the cattails where they heard the pheasant.
On the walk back to the truck, their conversation shifts from the hunt to the broader landscape. They haven’t been finding as many coveys in the last few years and they wonder how the traditions they love will fare if quail numbers continue to decline. They must admit, the recent habitat work that Pheasants Forever has done at their hunting grounds has made things better.
That’s one thing that quail hunters and pheasant hunters do have in common. A shared love of the outdoors and conservation that transcends simple hunting preferences.
Another thing: They are both odd — and wonderful — birds indeed.
When Ryan Spark isn’t trying to decide if he is a pheasant hunting quail hunter or a quail hunting pheasant hunter, he edits Quail Forever Journal.