He’s running now. Bowling-ball sized chunks of rock are spilling down behind him as he races uphill. Sweat is dripping down his brow and you can read the profanity-laced tirade on his face.
This morning, he was hesitant, waiting for the birds to stop as if this was some kind of gentleman’s hunt where he wouldn’t have to break a sweat and the birds would cooperate.
Two coveys later, the thorns, cacti, brush, hills, rocks and sand have brought him to a more basic understanding of the guerilla warfare that is desert quail hunting.
Sometimes you have to run the bastards down and when they flush wild, you empty your gun at them.
– GM
Mouthful of Feathers 
I just came back from one of those quail hunts, and my freezer has three new temporary inhabitants. I was totally soaked through not once but twice, with sweat generated by a fearsome battle with gravity and feral plantlife. It was the best torture I’ve endured in weeks, since the last time I went quail hunting. I’ve learned it isn’t a cakewalk, more like an endurance trial or a mini-triathalon… Cheerio!
What sort of quail were you chasing out there on the west coast?
Sounds exactly like the experience I had last week with Valley Quail out in the Mojave Desert. I watched them run circles around Hank. I thought he was going to spontaneously combust. I was tempted to just put him back in the rig, along with my shotgun, and go after them with a wrist rocket.
That sounds like Gambels here in Arizona. Up and down hills, scratching your way through more cat-claw then you can shake a stick at. I feel your pain. Thanks for sharing.
Ben