Palouse Outdoors: Reward and Adventure are Captured in the "B-Roll"

A stiff breeze shoved through the sagebrush, wafting the soft branch tips like a feather duster and scattering the pungent scent with the puffs of dust rising from underfoot. A valley quail breast feather clung to the sage as it whipped in the wind. The soft, downy barbs flailed around the feather shaft while the vane gently fanned. The feather was that of a female, white with a thin black outlining band and dark shaft splitting the vane perfectly centered.

The feather was deposited following a popcorn spew of around 100 of the six-ounce pewter rockets from a tangle of Russian olive, western clematis, and rose. It was late October in the scablands and unusually hot and dry. The vegetation shimmered in the morning heat while the dogs searched frantically for downed birds. Minutes passed as Gary and I waited for the quail to disperse, our vintage side-by-sides of model years 1948 and 1951 at the ready.

Even the best dog to "hunt dead" would have struggled in the bone-dry conditions, evidenced by two adept tri-colored Llewellin setters coming up empty when the evening's meal lay obvious between the hip-high sage.

"Fine shooting, Gary!" I remarked, rising from beneath the sage and handing over his beautiful little hen.

Brad Trumbo

A happy Finn looks back at the camera while Gary gazes across the sagebrush expanse, contemplating the next covey rise.

"Where are your birds?"

"Still flying. And I'm out of shells."

I have enjoyed some fine hunts in my upland career but had never emptied a shell pouch before that morning. The notion struck that every quail to meet my vest over the weekend had come on the same shot – left-to-right, head high, and within 20 yards. I had missed every other attempt.

"Do you want to quit?" Gary asked.

"No. I rarely miss with the camera. Besides, if I had a quail for every shot fired, I would feel guilty after these past few days."

Before discovering a few sweet spots in Washington, chasing quail in the sagebrush was an Arizona bucket list hunt for me. It was our third and final day. I had a few quail in the bag, spent time with a friend walking God's country behind our Llewellin setters, and was immersed in the natural history of the scablands. I wanted for nothing, save a few more photos of the journey.

It's easy to focus on the subject, the singular purpose of our outing, be it a deer or elk to fill a tag, a steelhead ripping drag, or that rare songbird perching in just the right spot for a photo. But the story lies within the "B-roll" – the supplemental details rarely captured without intent. It's the adventure surrounding the pinnacle moment that makes the memories.

Gary continued walking high beneath the toe of a basalt bluff while I walked below with a finger on the shutter button. An expanse of sagebrush and basalt scree appearing like chocolate chip deposits spanned the distance between us, and the dogs worked within the margins. I kept an eye on the dogs and marked Gary's downed birds as he focused on his foot placement and follow-up with quail scattering in all directions.

Quail hunting was why we ventured into the scablands, but the birds played a minor role in etching the "epic" into the experience. It was one for the books, bird numbers included, but least defined by the few birds that came to hand.

Brad Trumbo

A pair of male valley quail perched briefly atop a rock to preen and scan the way ahead for the rest of the feeding covey.

Grand vistas of flood-scoured terrain, columnar basalt corralling dry creek beds, sagebrush expanses concealing wetland pockets of bulrush and thistle, and the occasional Russian olive stretched in every direction. The late October sun crept lazily upon the horizon, bathing the ancient lands in a vibrant golden hue. Valley quail obliged the shoulders of the day by filtering to and from the thickest roost covers. They scuttled through the sparse grasses, sunbathed while pecking gravel from the nearby outcrops, and foraged through the sage forest understory, calling continually. Mornings in camp began with steaming coffee and a sit with the camera, capturing the quail routine and the awakening of a complex world of survival.

Scablands Valley quail unconsciously epitomize "living every day to its fullest." Their days are wrought with peril. Northern harriers glided overhead from the moment the quail left their roost. Upon silent wings, these large brown raptors appeared unannounced over the sage; their heads cocked down to see between the brush as they soared. Warning chirps were heard before the covey went silent, and the harrier dropped abruptly into the brush. Quail scurried to avoid capture, flushing only after the harrier had moved a safe distance away. The covey quickly reformed, seemingly undeterred, to loaf in the rust-colored kochia and the shade of rustling Great Basin Wild Rye, their guard for the northern harrier never waning.

Brad Trumbo

Zeta sits proudly with her prize, displayed among black sagebrush with a 1951 C.F. Dumoulin shotgun.

The setters perused the sagebrush, whisking between the gnarly aromatic tufts. Coveys held for a steady point, only to explode in chirping waves like gravel from a dynamite cap and sprinkling through the sage-like confetti in the wind. Conditions made locating singles and pairs difficult, but the girls occasionally did, stopping staunch, noses low to the ground, mere feet from the tiny gray apparitions that materialized with human presence.

There was no eye-popping stack of birds photographed on the tailgate. We couldn't have captured that image had we wanted to. The rewards were a dog on point, the palpable covey rise, and observing the birds' natural behavior as they drifted over the landscape and preened on rocky points. The images refresh the feel of the American wingshooting tradition that Gary and I held in our hands as we walked and the knowledge of the landscape so dramatically carved more than 10,000 years ago by Bretz' Floods. The smell of the powder, the rustle of sage, and the shoulders of the day bathed in alpenglow. The hunt was about fellowship, escape from daily routine, and recounting each day over wild game dinners-the details of 1,000 words that no singular image could begin to share.