Tegan Largent shoots for two points for the B-squad

At the bottom of a narrow east and west running canyon, on what little flat ground was afforded, stands the remnants of an old homestead. Barns. Outbuildings. Machinery parts peeking out from beneath heaps of blackberry and rose bushes. There is no sign of the old home. Maybe it was never there, but all signs suggest otherwise.

Apple, cherry, plum, and apricot trees are scattered about the moist drainage. The fruit that falls is kept clean by the deer and birds. Elderberry hangs heavy with tiny black berry clusters in autumn, an important food item that keeps the quail going through the winter.

My first look upon the homestead came as I crested the southern horizon, hiking in from the forgotten county road that meandered through the adjacent hills. The canyon floor was hemmed in by emerald winter wheat that poked through a light snow blanket, which had accumulated beneath the fluffy flakes of a January morning. The creek bottom weaved between the fields like a zipper, impenetrable by time, allowing no influence of the modern world and protecting quail within the drainage walls.

From afar, the prospects looked good, but as I approached the canyon bottom, the density of the cover became apparent. The unkempt fruit trees drooped branches nearly to the ground, where they were met with briars. They stuffed the very basement of the canyon from wall to wall, making it virtually impossible to navigate, much less find a shooting lane other than up and out the sides of the crevasse.

My setter, Finn, dropped in out of sight as the telltale "pit pit" calls of a nervous covey drifted up from the blackberries. Within seconds, Finn's global positioning system (GPS) collar signaled "point," and I was torn between excitement and exasperation. To flush while preserving any hope of a shot seemed insurmountable.

The covey was perched beneath an elderberry that grew on the side of a sheer bank. The tree overhung woody debris piled higher than Finn's head with the gray remnants of fallen hawthorn. Bryony vine snaked its way up through the tangle, and somewhere beneath the withered tendrils sat the covey, teetering on the verge of explosion.

I approached from Finn's left as she gazed up into the brush. The rustle of quail scurrying away from me telegraphed their impending escape. A flush from the other side of the brush meant I might have a half-second glimpse for a shot, so I readied the gun.

Often, quail will flush in groups, giving three or four opportunities to the patient gunner. I let the first bird go. Four birds left on the second flush, but my trigger finger was shy of being on time. I volleyed another shot on the third flush, again, a bit too late. The remainder of the covey flushed as I scrambled to reload-another common quail behavior.

Finn split to follow the covey, but I called her back to push the opposite direction into the wind. Surely, another covey was nearby.

Crouching to pass beneath the low branches of an old apple tree, I spied a car body poking out from beneath the blackberries behind an old barn. The rusty quarter panel housed a busted headlight that seemed to be keeping an eye on the place. My mind wandered among the possible events the car had seen in its day, and a heavy, damp air settled as if attempting to trap us in the forgotten past.

Circling the barn, I found rusty metal oil cans, a steel-framed chair with a faded green seat inside a stall, and what appeared to be an old mower supporting a rose bush.

The chair was intriguing. It was the only furnishing. It was placed as though it belonged where it was, but why would someone have been sitting there? What was missing that would make the scene make sense? Maybe a table had been there in the past, and some other furnishings to suggest it was a place to rest a minute when putting in a day's labor. I became so preoccupied with the possibilities that I completely missed Finn pinning another quail covey.

The "beep" of my handheld GPS telling me that Finn was on point yanked me back into reality. Suddenly, the only puzzle I cared to solve was how to flush the birds and maintain a shooting lane.

Finn stood at the edge of the brush where blackberry, hawthorn, teasle, and hemlock converged. The covey had taken up residence in the blackberries, and the hawthorns prevented pushing birds into the open. The only option was to push in from the outer edge and hope a straggler or two would glide out along the wheat field.

As the birds began to move, I flanked around the blackberries and readied the gun, sighting down the field edge. Luckily, a single bailed into the open for an easy flight, and the cylinder-choked barrel connected cleanly, dropping the little gray hen into the wheat.

I admired our gift and thanked Finn for remaining on task. She was snow-covered and shivering. Looking back over my right shoulder, I gazed upon the old barn, feeling a magnetism to the past. Like the creek bottom might shackle Finn and me into the eternal moment like a time warp. I broke my gaze and began the climb to reality.