LAST EDITED ON Oct-02-08 AT 04:13PM (MST)[p]Yup, that's the place. The food isn't too bad either, if I recall. It's been years since I have been there, though.
Here's an article I did on Mearns' hunting in that area way back in the late 1980s. -TONY
THE MAGICAL MEARNS
Copyright by Tony Mandile
The heavy coating of frost had caused the foot-high grass to lay over, forming little pockets beneath it. As I pussyfooted through the stand of trees, I tried to avoid the partially frozen arches. My effort was futile. Each time my boot touched down, the crisp clumps of grass crunched noisily. I stopped next to a spreading oak, where only the sound of rustling leaves in the gentle breeze disrupted the quiet.
I was on my first Coues deer hunt in southeastern Arizona. My optimism had convinced me a trophy buck would walk out from the trees on the canyon's opposite side. Intently, I scanned the sunlit openings on the far slope.
Suddenly, a loud ?brrrrrrr? came from a few feet behind me. I froze in place and listened to my heartbeat beat an up-tempo rhythm reminiscent of a Jerry Lee Lewis tune.
Since coming to state from New Jersey a year earlier, I had heard lots of strange things. One person told me everything in the Arizona outdoors bites, stings or sticks. Someone else advised me to watch where I walked to avoid stepping on snakes and other crawly things. With these helpful warnings in mind, I immediately connected the sound to a 10-foot-long, man-eating rattlesnake.
I didn't laugh when the incident occurred nearly 25 years ago. Now, however, I always smile when I remember my embarrassment after I realized what had scared the bejabbers out of me. A few tiny birds had flushed from their hiding place beneath the grass near my feet, providing a sudden and somewhat startling introduction to the tight-holding tactics of the Mearns' quail.
I had no idea what the feathered buzzbombs were at the time. They took off in a whirlwind of motion with wings beating faster than a window shutter in a hurricane. Counting them was out of the question; within seconds, they had disappeared again.
Five years later, I actually hunted the Mearns' in the Santa Rita Mountains near Tucson for the first time. I had filled my deer tag with a young whitetail buck. While my two companions continued to hunt their venison, I uncased my shotgun and went searching for quail
I had successfully hunted Gambel's quail a few times and thought chasing Mearns would be similar. Boy, was I wrong.
The Gambel's inhabit predominantly desert landscapes, with lots of sand, rocks and cactus. By contrast, Mearns' habitat, at elevations between 4,000 to 8,000 feet, consists of grassy, open woodlands --- mostly rolling hills covered with a mixture of evergreen oaks and junipers.
Unfortunately, no one told me finding these birds without a dog in this type of country would be equivalent to locating a penny on the turf of a football stadium with my eyes closed. A day's walking produced nothing more than sore feet and a few deer sightings.
Two weeks later, I called a friend who avidly hunts Mearns. He also owns a two Brittany spaniels. When I asked if he was planning a hunt before the season ended, he graciously invited me to go on the following Saturday. I had hoped he would, of course.
That weekend I learned why the Mearns' is the classiest of all quail. No other western game bird outshines the sporting qualities of these fast-flying missiles. Unlike the West's other species that run like race horses, the diminutive Mearns' quail hold for a dog and prefer to sit tight until kicked out. Yet despite these holding traits, they are less-than-easy targets.
Mearns' have various tricks to outwit the unsuspecting hunter -- ahem -- up their wings. One of their favorite maneuvers is the turn-and-dive routine. The birds flush wildly, accelerate to about 40 mph. over 20 yards, then sharply turn left or right and dive for the ground. This would be fine in the open, but the turn usually puts them behind the nearest tree just as the gun goes off. Although the bird flies off unscathed, the hunter finds out how well his shotgun patterns by measuring the hole through the leaves.
Another of their unfair techniques is what I call their kamikaze mode. Most quail flush in the direction they are facing while sitting on the ground. Sometimes that direction points straight at the guy with the gun. It's not bad if the hunter is back away from the flush. It rarely happens that way, though. Instead, the rise occurs within a few feet. Rather than downing birds, the hunter is often busy ducking.
Several years ago, outdoor writer Tom Huggler called me for some help. He was on three-month-long, cross-country trip to gather material for his book, QUAIL HUNTING IN AMERICA. Huggler had hunted the other species in past years and during his current trip. He was coming to Arizona to hunt Mearns', so we set up a mid-December meeting.
The week before Tom was due, I contacted Floyd Preas. He had hunted almost every weekend since the season began. I hoped he would pinpoint some of the better areas. He did much better. When I told him when Huggler would arrive, Preas checked his calendar. The dates were open, so he decided to come with us.
We met Huggler and his two English setters, which only a former English teacher would name Chaucer and McBeth, at an interchange on Interstate 10, south of Tucson. From there, we drove south to the Stage Stop Motel in Patagonia.
Bird hunting monopolized the dinner conversation that night. Huggler had obviously done his homework on the bird's history and habits. He even knew about the confusion surrounding the bird's true name.
The Mearns' has acquired an assortment of names over the years. A few of the common ones include the Montezuma, Harlequin, crazy, massena and fool quail. Its official Latin name is Crytonyx montezuma mearnsi, the last part derived from Edgar A. Mearns, a U.S. Army doctor and naturalist who roamed the southwest a century ago. A few field guides list it as one of three subspecies of the Harlequin quail, a long-time inhabitant of the northern states of Mexico.
The colorful bird has a small range in the United States. The largest population inhabits southeastern Arizona, a fair number exist in southern New Mexico and a few birds supposedly live in Texas, where they are protected. Although New Mexico and the Mexican states of Chihuahua and Tlaxcala allow hunting, the southeastern hills of Arizona, near Tucson, Patagonia, Sonoita and Ruby, draw the most hunters.
Mearns' hunting is a relatively recent happening. Because the birds' overall range was so tiny, and biologists knew little about their reproductive capability, the Mearns' quail had been protected during the first half of this century. In 1951, Steve Gallizioli, a now-retired chief of the Arizona Game and Fish Department's wildlife division began an intensive quail study.
Gallizioli's findings showed quail populations fluctuated with the weather; more rainfall meant more quail. Moreover, his research showed hunting had little or no effect on bird numbers. The weather conclusion apparently was correct; the above-average rainfall for much of the last decade has provided excellent quail counts and long seasons. Over the past two years, however, quail numbers, especially Gambel's, have dropped because of below-average moisture.
When Preas suggested we meet for breakfast at 7:00 a.m., Huggler's face took on a surprised expression. "How come so late?" he asked.
Preas laughed. "These birds don't get up early on cold December mornings. They like to sit on their roosts 'til the sun comes up and warms things. I think the best hunting really is in the afternoon."
The explanation apparently made sense to Huggler. As he turned to leave the restaurant, he turned and smiled. "Sounds like these are my kind of birds."
The sun had moved well above the Huachuca Mountains when Huggler opened the tailgate of my Nissan pickup. Chaucer and MacBeth, no doubt anxious after the 20-mile drive from the motel to the field, hit the ground running and immediately started searching for scent.
Huggler loaded his 20-ga. Browning, then encouraged the dogs with "Hunt 'em up!"
The setters dashed up a hill that appeared too steep for mere mortals. A few seconds later, seemingly unconcerned about our welfare, the dogs disappeared over the crest. After exchanging mournful glances, we spread out and started the climb. We finally caught up with the dogs 20 minutes later.
Huggler signaled us to a halt and cautioned, "Be ready. Chaucer looks birdie."
Eager to pinpoint the scent, the black and white setter quartered the oak-studded hillside. Frantically, he started circling, sniffing each suspect clump of bunchgrass. He briefly locked into a not-so-sure point, then moved on.
When Huggler reached the spot, the air filled with birds. He had stepped right in the middle of the covey. The quail's sudden departure and the heart-stopping ?brrrrrrr? of their wings seemed to turn the startled hunter into a statue. Five seconds later, he raised his over-and-under, pointed the barrels at two different birds but never pulled the trigger.
The brief hesitation had provided the quail the time they needed. In characteristic fashion they set their buzzing wings and turned sharply behind the nearest tree.
Flustered, Huggler looked at me, laughed and shook his head. He knew the birds had outsmarted him on this occasion.
I quickly remembered my first meeting with the Mearns' and what the unexpected ?brrrrrrr? had done to me. I couldn't keep from chuckling aloud.
The sun was directly overhead when we arrived back at the truck. Between us, we had bagged six birds. We had missed many more, though. After one double miss, Huggler even blamed me for substituting blanks in his shell vest. Tired and probably frustrated by our less-than-perfect marksmanship, the dogs had stretched out on the ground to lap at their water dish.
Huggler bent over, patted each one on the head and removed a male bird from his game pouch. He examined it closely. "I see why folks call these harlequin quail."
Among game birds only the male chukar and ringneck pheasant come close to the striking appearance of the male Mearns'. The distinctive white and black markings on its dark face and throat give the bird a circus-clown look. Elliptical, buff-colored spots cover its brown rump and back, while white and black dots pepper the grayish-brown wings. The breast is a deep reddish brown, and pure white spots fleck the bird's dark gray flanks. The hen's mottled brown plumage looks similar to the females of other bird species and is rather dull.
Mearns' hunters have used nearly every breed of dog. Hoyd Patty, who has lived in Patagonia for 30 years, is a devout Mearns' hunter and favors the Brittany spaniel. Another friend would throw down the gauntlet if someone suggested his yellow Lab was unsuited to quail hunting.
After getting hooked on Mearns a few years ago, I bought a German shorthair pup and relegated Ginger's training to Bruce Ludwig in Chino Valley. She is excellent on Mearns' and also does a fine job on Gambel's and pheasant. If I were to recommend a specific breed, my prejudice would show. Ludwig, on the other hand, prefers English pointers or red setters.
Mearns' quail like to "scratch." Because they feed mostly on tubers and bulbs, their search for food produces cone-shaped depressions, normally under or near trees and bushes. When these telltale signs are fresh, a dog has little problem following the birds' scent.
The ground markings aid those hardy enough to hunt without dogs, too. Rather than hunting haphazardly like I did on my first hunt, they look for fresh diggings and make ever-widening circles until they bust a covey. Then, they hunt up the singles. Granted, it's more difficult than using a good dog, but a friend of mine frequently takes a limit in this manner.
Mearns' quail are small. Two loaded shotshells weigh about the same as the bird. Moreover, typical shooting distances rarely exceed 30 yards. The birds are easy to stop --- if you hit one. Even though a heavy load might penetrate an oak tree's foliage better, most gunners get good results with No. 8 or No. 9 shot out of a modified or improved choke barrel.
The most important consideration for a gun is weight. Searching for Mearns' is much different from sitting in a field and waiting for a dove to fly past. Although the quail's habitat looks as if walking it will be easy, it is deceptively tough and amounts to real work. A cumbersome scattergun seems to get heavier with each step.
I once lugged a heavy Fox double on an all-day hunt near Pena Blanca Lake. At day's end, the 12 gauge side-by-side seemed twice as heavy as it did in the morning. I now carry the lightest shotgun I own --- a 20-ga. Browning Citori with 26-inch barrels.
A camaraderie has grown between those who enjoy hunting the Mearns'. On most weekends during the season, you will find a dozen or so members of the loose-knit fraternity having a cup of coffee or something a bit stronger in the Stage Stop restaurant, the unofficial gathering place. Most are friendly and willing to help newcomers. They will tell you about the habits of the Mearns', answer questions about dogs or what load to use. That's where the helps ends, though. Whatever you do, refrain from asking where the birds are congregating; once a Mearns' hunter finds a hotspot, it becomes a closely guarded secret.