Taken From The August 2002 Issue of Gray's Sporting Journal

Sweet Bird of Myth
From heartland to
wasteland. And back?

by Terry Wieland

Terry Wieland Photo

It was the afternoon of the fifth day of a five-day trip to hunt quail in Missouri. We came out after lunch to find the wind from the north and the clouds piling up. The dogs were shivering, and the oak leaves were dancing. So much for the nice weather over Christmas.

“Ready to find some quail?” Scot grinned.

“Been ready for five days.”

The road led up into the Ozarks, skirting the Mark Twain National Forest. It was a muddy track, used mostly by logging trucks, with only the odd abandoned homestead to suggest a more settled time. We stopped by an old church and wandered into the graveyard. The headstones perched at odd angles, and several lay mossy in the grass. Scot pointed out four graves in a row. Three were infants, born in consecutive years, all gone within a month or two. The fourth was the mother, dead a year later. She was 22 years old.

“Short life.”

“Tough life.”

Our pointers, Sally and Rex, barked and crooned as we turned the truck back onto the logging road.

“Now for some quail.”

Many twists and turns later, we jounced out into an open meadow stretching along a ridge. The Ozark Mountains marched into the distance, fold upon fold, until swallowed by the clouds. The trees around us were bending now, giving up the last of their leaves to a wind determined to rip them, and us, from our moorings. Sally and Rex raced to get downwind, circling far and wide. My 28-gauge, which had seemed like such a good idea that warm and sunny morning, now looked pitifully small in the teeth of that wind. Any quail we raised would be sailing like clippers.

But then, based on our experience so far, any quail we raised would probably be ghosts, and I don’t know of any shotgun that will bring down a ghost, wind or no wind.

At one time, Missouri was one of the premier bobwhite quail states in the country, bar none. It didn’t have the traditions of Georgia, with its plantations and Democrat wagons. A bobwhite shot in Missouri was more likely to be collected with a 12-gauge pump than a 20-gauge side-by-side, and neckties were confined to church. And not every Sunday at that.

But

White River Trace, 2,000-acre preserve beckons hunters and dogs alike. Terry Wieland Photo

Missouri did have quail—quail by the zillions. Periodically, one of the outdoors magazines would run a piece about hunting quail in the decidedly democratic Ozarks, usually with the word “heartland” somewhere in the title. The gist of these stories was, if all you cared about was seeing birds, and hearing birds, and flushing birds, and shooting birds—and could get by without your necktie and a horse to ride—why, Missouri was the place for you.

Those days are but a memory in Missouri today. Wild native bobwhite quail are now as hard to come by as wild pheasant in Vermont. From a quail-hunter’s perspective, Missouri has gone from heartland to wasteland.

What brought this about? It can be summed up in two short words: “beef” and “fescue.” Beef cattle now inhabit what used to be the mixed-use farms of the rolling hills, making Missouri the second-largest beef-producing state in the Union. Fescue, a cool-weather grass brought from Europe in the late 1800s and refined as an agricultural crop by the University of Kentucky in the 1940s, is one-stop grocery shopping for beef farmers: Plant it once, leave it alone and it takes over.

An Arrieta 12-gauge took these bobwhites. Terry Wieland Photo

For quail, however, fescue is death: It provides no food, no cover, no protection. Fescue crowds out the native warm-weather grasses and shrubs that nurture the quail, and when their habitat is gone, the quail go, too. Drive through Missouri and look at the lush green fields of grass, growing fence line to fence line with nary a “weed” to be seen, and you are looking at, in quail terms, a desert.

That, in a nutshell, is the story of the drastic 30-year decline of Missouri bobwhites.

There are pockets of wild birds left, of course: on farms that have been allowed to revert to their native state while the farmhouse crumbles; along railroad embankments where native weeds have fought off the fescue; and in remote areas like the meadows that dot the Mark Twain National Forest, invaded periodically by hikers and logging trucks but given a wide berth by cattlemen.

Watching the wind tear at the vegetation, I saw these weeds in a totally different light. The seeds that clung to the wool of my Filson mackinaw were no longer an irritation; they were a welcome sign that here there was food, and there might be quail. The snatching of the spiky branches at my legs was less a hindrance than an indication of ground cover that would protect the birds from predators. A meadow that a few days earlier I would have looked upon as pasture gone to seed I now saw as a bobwhite’s Garden of Eden.

And if Sally and Rex, frozen in place and trembling from cold and excitement, were any indication, there were indeed birds here on this wind-swept plateau. Scot grinned at me, I checked my chambers and we began to walk in on them.

Scot Mikols is the manager of an outfit called Upland Wings, a private shooting preserve where you can hunt deer, shoot planted quail or hunt any number of other feathered creatures pretty much 12 months a year. Shooting preserves are growing more common everywhere, as the opportunity to hunt wild birds diminishes, it seems, with every passing season. But Upland Wings is a preserve with a difference: It has a mission.

“Our goal is to rehabilitate this land so that it will support a native quail population,” Scot said. “We want to get away from pen-raised birds and offer the chance to hunt quail the way they should be hunted. The way it used to be.”

To that end, Scot and Upland Wings’ owner Jim Kennedy have undertaken a long-term investment devoted to bobwhite quail. As well as assembling the property that is now Upland Wings, with its man-made lakes, log-cabin lodge and meadows of replanted quail forage, Kennedy is investing in two huge tracts of nearby land that belonged to a lead mine and an iron mine. These deals were being finalized when I visited them over Christmas last year, and will give Upland Wings thousands more acres to work with.

A century ago, mines like these were seen as the economic salvation of Missouri. Today, with lead and iron prices at rock bottom, the mines are bankrupt, abandoned eyesores. Their saving grace is that most include large acreages above ground—land that once was leased to farmers for grazing but now can be reclaimed, the fescue rooted out and Missouri’s native warm-weather grasses and essential plants restored. With their restoration, it is hoped, will come a thriving population of native, wild bobwhites.

This isn’t just theory.

About 50 miles from Upland Wings, near the town of Salem, is the White River Trace conservation area, a 2,044-acre experiment in quail rehabilitation run by the state of Missouri.

In the 1980s, with quail numbers in alarming decline, the department of natural resources bought 1,600 acres of farmland with the aim of restoring the native grasses and plants that once supported a huge quail population. A few years later, they added the farm next door. Game biologist Robert Chapman, who manages the area, joined us for a walk. A walk was all it would be, however, because White River’s quail season is open only for the month of November. But what a month it is if you’re a quail hunter!

“Anyone can hunt, as long as they have a Missouri hunting license,” Rob said. “There is no fee and few rules. You check in at the headquarters to get a tag. You’re free to hunt with your own dogs. But hunting ends by one in the afternoon, so the birds can covey up for the night.”

Hunters return to the headquarters to report the number of birds taken, details of the birds themselves and the number of coveys flushed. These statistics help the managers keep track of their flock.

From the start, White River was managed to restore natural quail habitat. Invading grasses like fescue were removed, replaced by warm-season native grasses like little bluestem and plants that other people call weeds—ragweed, lespedeza and a range of bushes and shrubs that give quail food, shelter, overhead protection from predators and some bare patches of soil for dusting.

The conservation department introduced no non-native birds: The quail population that exists today descends from native birds that remained when the area was purchased. So quickly did they spring back that White River was able to hold its first hunt in 1991, and 275 hunters took 380 quail during its 30-day season. Since then, annual numbers have been up and down. The biggest year was 1994, when 422 birds were taken. In 2001, there were 187 hunters and 157 birds, but it was a poor year for weather. Overall, the trend is upward and sustainable.

White River could support far more hunters than it does, but the area is not well known, and those who do hunt it are reluctant to spread the word. And who can blame them? Unless it is seen to be popular, however, there is little incentive for the state to expand the program, and areas such as White River Trace are vital if Missouri is to rebuild its quail population.

As important as the quail, however, are quail hunters, and Chapman is concerned on that score.

“Most of our hunters are older,” he said. “Mid-forties to late fifties. Last year, I think we had only three or four hunters in their twenties.”

Since quail need political support as much as anything, it is important to have enough quail hunters to maintain pressure on the state. If quail numbers start to come back, presumably, so will the hunters. To a great degree, it’s a chicken-and-egg situation.

The problem of older hunters, and a dearth of young ones, is also an issue for Quail Unlimited.

Jef Hodges, the regional director, told me that attracting younger members to the organization is one of his most important goals.

“Quail hunters as a group are aging,” he says. “Many of them do it, not because they expect to get anything, but because they remember the way it used to be, and it’s fun to go out with their dogs. Young hunters want action. They want to see some birds.”

Game preserves and planted birds may provide some of that action, but they do so at a price. Most young hunters don’t have the money to spend on a game-preserve hunt. So, once again, you need the birds, wild and free, to attract new blood to the game. With new blood come the political clout and the financial contributions that will make it sustainable.

I must confess, as Scot and I walked in on Sally and Rex, that such thoughts weren’t uppermost in my mind. My mind focused on the wind direction, the feel of the breeze on my cheek and the strange, lip-curling expression of near ecstasy on Sally’s pointer face. Dogs are weird, aren’t they?

Weird she may have been, but the birds were right there. They were barely above the grass in a whirring of wings when the wind sent them skimming. One bird dropped, my second shot was a forlorn farewell borne away on the breeze, and Rex was on the fluttering bobwhite in a leap.

We marked where the birds lit and began to stroll in that direction. It dawned on me, in a rush, that I was one of those old quail hunters Jef talked about—guys in their 50s doing it more in memory than in hope. It came as kind of a shock.

Well-intentioned and dedicated as they might be, organizations like Quail Unlimited, Upland Wings and state conservation departments can do only so much. They can help, but they can’t solve the problem.

For a century, Missouri’s strength as a quail state stemmed from its small farms. Those same small farms, consolidating, converting to cattle and planting fescue, were the cataclysm that struck the bobwhite. And it is those farmers who, wanting to hear quail at sunset on their land once again, will bring back the bobwhite. Or not.

The state department of conservation has a section devoted to helping private landowners rehabilitate their property to support wildlife, especially quail. One afternoon, Scot and I joined Dave Knisley, a state private land conservationist, on a visit to a cattle farm owned by businessman Norm Strauser. Norm owns a machine shop and runs the farm as a sideline business, but he’s also a devoted hunter.

Dave Kniskley, a conservationist with the Missouri Department of Conservation, and hunting partner Gus in search of the elusive quail. Terry Wieland Photo

On his farm are the remnants of an ancient village, with buildings predating Jesse James. One of the houses he keeps purely as a deer-hunting lodge. Norm being another of our little band of aging quail hunters, he has decided that quail are more important to him than cattle, and he plans to start a program of removing fescue and reintroducing native grasses.

Actually, it should be pointed out—and Dave did, more than once—this isn’t an either-or situation. Cattle and quail can cohabit quite cheerfully. But you do have to accept that it will be a little more work.

“Most farmers are quite receptive to the idea of managing for quail,” he told me, “and they don’t mind spending the money. The greatest cost is buying the seed for the native grasses. A couple of years ago, you could get it for a few dollars a pound. Today, it might cost a hundred dollars. There is great demand and not much supply.

“But that’s a good sign. It means more farmers are getting into this. Once people understand what is involved, they’re usually anxious to do something. Their problem is, they don’t know exactly what to do or how to go about it. That’s where we come in.”

For Norm, the rehabilitation will take several years. But, as he pointed out, he’s nearing retirement and wants something to keep his interest. Bringing back quail should fill the bill nicely.

“Come back here in two or three years and you’ll see quite a difference,” he promised. “I really miss the quail. We used to have a lot, and now we have just a few. But that should be enough to bring them back. I really do miss hearing them in the evening.”

Our covey rode the wind for the better part of a hundred yards, settling down into a patch of little bluestem—the tall, clumping native grass they love to live in—and Sally and Rex circled with their noses high. As Scot and I approached, the dogs homed in and finally locked onto the birds where they hugged the earth.

This time there was no mistake, and both dogs came barreling back with birds in their mouths before racing off before the wind, searching out the singles.

We followed slowly. It was cold, dark, windy winter now. We crossed the dirt tracks of the logging trucks and skirted the blowdowns. All the earth had turned to brown, and I had that strange warm-cold that comes with a beating heart and a gusting wind and the comforting nudge of a handful of quail against your back.

When the sleet came slicing in from the north we were ready to call it a day and a season and a year. We didn’t have many quail, but we had enough. It doesn’t take many.