By Javier Bermeo, Founder of Wild Nexus
Growing up, the outdoor video space was heavily catered to trophy fishing and trophy big game animals. You would have to dig a lot deeper to find content about upland bird hunting, and even then, turkeys yes, they count, then pheasants may take the front row seat for most popular pursued upland bird species. Quail, I have said many a time, are a reading man’s animal. The greats, like Robert Ruark and Hemingway, held them in great esteem, and with the ability of those two, you could picture exactly what they looked and sounded like by the written word alone. I, like many people, had not had the privilege to hunt quail, especially bobwhites. All of that changed earlier this year, and I am fortunate it did.
Earlier this year, I married my wife, and though weddings are a mess of fun, I reckon an excuse for a bachelor party is even more so. I had spoken to my twin brother about wanting to do a hunt of any kind. We could get a good drunk at home, a bar, or even better, after a successful hunt for any myriad of critters we could get down in Florida during January. Gracefully, he set up an unforgettable hunt with some of the closest people I have to me in the world. Our main attraction was going to be those big Florida boar, this time on private land, not the thick gator infested, Jurassic Park kind of swamps we are used to on public land. I was beyond thrilled, as I believe wild boar are one of the most underrated critters, especially for us in the south. Boar was on the menu, but Mig had an ace up his sleeve reserved for a more exclusive audience: a bobwhite quail hunt just for him, me, and the guide. Our nephew does not count, as we often say we are consubstantial, but he was present for the ordeal as well.
Our first night at the cabin was met with all the excitement one could think of when reuniting with such close friends and family. Beer was ice cold, and the company was anything but. It was a truly horrendous night, though, to be a beer of any light domestic variety, or worse, a humble bottle of Jaeger. Thankfully, the next morning would not be as early as we are used to, so sleeping in extra was in order.
The next morning came, and the excitement of the whole trip was beating back any signs of hangover like Gandalf in an epic last stand. We boarded a swamp buggy, and I made quick work of a moving adolescent boar ten minutes into the ride, one shot in the chest at 125 yards with my Creedmoor, which had me feeling like Gandalf indeed. My brother and I, accompanied by our motley crew, would go on to harvest four hogs successfully that day and fill our freezer that had been depleted from hurricane Milton. The final boar, being harvested via spear, was the cherry on top of a long conversation we had regarding the First and Second Punic Wars the night previous.
Returning to our lodge, the group would split. Some would go hunt quail, and the others, who pretended not to be hungover, would nap in the afternoon. I was more than excited to have an afternoon hunt and meet our quail guide, a light hearted and comedic gentleman who took a liking to Mig and me. After ten minutes of quail talk and more laughter, we went to our shotguns, ready to embark on the hunt.
Now, the afternoon began to sit on us pretty heavily on the drive to the quail area. The hangover I was so proud of not having seemed to return to me like an unpaid traffic ticket. The dirt road, tight quarters, and no sign of where we were going made me feel anything but good. Crammed on some bizarre row of seats on the top of a truck bed, me, Mig, and my nephew Austin were ready to meet gentleman Bob. As we approached closer to our site, both my head and stomach were in agreement that they would make this day hard for me.
To make matters worse, pulling into our site, I saw an unfamiliar creature, a male waterbuck, standing in a marsh off the side of the road. The only thing I could think of, given my state, was what the hell did I drink last night. That critter, as it is not an exaggeration to say, was over two thousand miles from home. Thankfully, I was assured they had exotic animals on the ranch, and I was not hallucinating, good news for me.
After feeling the brunt of the Ruark and Hemingway experience, we got out of the truck, met the dogs, and let the woods come alive. We drove into a beautifully managed pine savannah that Florida is famous for. It is remarkable what standing on your own two feet and breathing in fresh air in beautiful country can do for your health. Five minutes of that and it felt like I had never even had a headache at all. The only thing on my mind was it’s go time.
We proceeded to venture into this savannah with our four man crew and two trusted dogs. One was a flusher, the other was a pointer. Their work in tandem would put the best sniper team to shame. Seeing the first point from a bird dog is more exciting than most people let on, and in truth, the feeling I had from his subsequent points were no less exciting.. After our pointer was ready, we were told to get ready for mid flying birds. Before I could say “sounds good”, the flushing dog went headfirst into a thick stack of palm trees, and bang, the first covey of bobwhites came screaming out of there like mini fighter jets trying to escape.
I whiffed my first shot, but my twin brother downed his first ever quail, a hen. We descended deeper into this oasis and were given covey after covey due to our noble pointer and excitable flushing dog. My first bird would be a handsome looking male with the most distinctive white crest above his beak, though that would come after a few tough lessons of shooting close range quail with a modified choke.
About an hour into our hunt, we had harvested around five or six birds, which, for total upland bird novices like ourselves, was nothing short of incredible. Firing on all cylinders, we began to take coveys together, one pair falling after another, then even a triple. Though our shooting was finally honing in on these miniature trophies, we encountered a problem that I would hope most beginners would avoid. We were running very low on ammo.
As the evening drew closer, the number and size of coveys we saw were truly something out of a film. We even spooked a ground running cover of over sixty bobwhites. It became clear that we would have to make our last shots count. Our final chance would consist of us having two shells apiece and a single covey on our way back to the truck.
The sun was set far below the midpoint on those iconic slash pine trees in South Florida, and all I knew was this may be my last shot at quail for a good long while. Apprehensive as the flushing dog seemed to miss the covey entirely, we waited, and at the most unexpected moment, two males flushed right out of the thicket, and Miguel and I shot both of them. The day had consisted of many a hen being shot, so our final duo, both being males, was a great way to end the hunt.
As we walked back to the truck, it felt like I was floating on a kind of adrenaline that was stemming from more fun than survival. Many a picture was taken, and I had to let my soon-to-be wife know that her husband is a quail hunter, the quality of which is unimportant. Our drive back reminded me that often, good times are more about the people you are with, but also that the experiences we value in life are made better in the company of those we care about. I hear Vegas is a fun time for most bachelor parties, but I am supremely confident they do not beat the ones where you have a chance of meeting gentleman Bob.