A Stroll With Elvis

[Leica Sport Optics]

Coming from Europe, hunting in the United States can appear a bit strange or at least quite distant from our ancient hunting culture. However, the New World also has its hunts laced with tradition, which transport you into a different era. Saddle up, we’re headed to the forests of South Georgia.

We left Knoxville, Tennessee. In this city is the headquarters of SportDOG®, the worlds leader in educational collars for hunting dogs. It was hard to imagine that in a mere two hours our society’s-private-jet would be touching down in South Georgia and we’d enjoy an additional twenty degrees of heat. It was under a radiating sun and in a seemingly sub-tropical ambiance that we shed our winter parkas upon touching the tarmac. We had arrived in Thomasville, and headed straight towards the Sinkola territory, a rare pearl of some 1000 hectares.

Here, the owner, Gates Kirkham, faces the daily struggle of preserving the area as natural as it currently is, just as his ancestors had for five generations. Chris Morgan, the general director of SportDOG®, and Darrel Douglas, the director of the department responsible for location tracking, are at home here. Not only does their enterprise reserve half of the hunting days per season organized by Gates for themselves, but SportDOG® also contributes financially to the conservation of the natural habit of the Northern Bobwhite quail. We’d crossed the Atlantic Ocean to pursue this game, and let me assure you… it was well worth it!

After having settled into our quarters at the hunting lodge, an elegantly decorated colonial style house, where each beam ages well, we headed towards the hunting “cabin”. Built on the banks of a lake encircled by forest of longleaf pine (Pinus palustris), a species endemic to the South-East, this wood construction boasted a chimney stack that released smells that no carnivore could resist. “Welcome to Sinkola plantation.”

It’s with these words that Gates welcome us into his abode, and quickly suggested we take a seat at the table. Dinner was the perfect opportunity to discuss the plans for the following two days. The schedule would indeed be hard on our backsides, as at Sinkola the quail are hunted on horseback, in the most traditional method of hunting in the South.

The next morning we became familiarized with our companions: Neal Carter Jr, in charge of the hunting at Sinkola, his assistant William, and David who was in command of the carriage pulled behind two mules. In the back of the chariot were a dozen, very impatient, caged pointers who pawed the ground with lightning speed in anticipation of the upcoming hunt. Meanwhile, the star of the day sunned himself in the rising rays of the morning sun: his name was Elvis, and he was the boss’ English Cocker Spaniel.

Neal had the laid back attitude of a man who had mastered an art, and he had reason to! He’d been managing the hunting at Sinkola for over 40 years. Humbled by such a wealth of knowledge, we listened religiously to the instructions of this master of ceremony. We were six guns, and every time the pointers stopped, Neal and William would halt their horses and silently lift their red caps. At that point, everyone would stop and two hunters forming a prearranged team would advance towards Neal, who would give them instructions.

Once the shotguns were loaded, the hunters could advance parallel to Neal towards the pointers until the birds flew. If necessary, Neal would ask the hunters to reload their weapons and continue the operation until all the birds had been flushed. If one or more birds were killed, Elvis would spring into action for the retrieval. Once the birds were recovered, everyone could mount onto their horses again and the caravan would continue their journey across the undergrowth until the next stop or the next pair of hunters was up.

After a precise listing of the safety protocol, no further questions delayed the start of the hunt and everyone found themselves appointed a team partner and a horse. The rifles were slid into the scabbards hanging near the horses’ flanks, and we climbed into the saddle. Not exactly being equestrian aficionados, the entire operation appeared a tad comical. However, Neal was used to this spectacle. With a grin spreading across his face, he unclipped the first two pointers from their leashes. Until then, the dogs had been standing outside of their cage, still as statues, equipped with their GPS TEK 2.0 collars. Impressive self-control!

With Formula 1 speed, the two canines disappeared into the low vegetation that blankets the area. Neal followed their progress on his GPS screen, while the horsemen follow the dogs through their binos. The horses were as calm as the dogs, and fell into single file behind the boss. We looked around us to appreciate the softness of the season and the scents unique to the bayou. The spongey soil absorbed the noise of the hoof beats. The absolute silence was only occasionally broken by the whining of one of the remaining dogs in the cage. We continued on the forest trails, surrounded by towering trees cloaked in lichen, giving the landscape a haunted appearance.

Suddenly, Neal and William halted their steads and lifted their caps. As settled upon, Chris and Darrel started the day off and demonstrated how it’s done. The first pointer was stopped, tail straight in the air, while the second was positioned fifty meters away. It was beautifully handled! We stayed back and used our binoculars to watch the spectacle unfold. Neal positioned himself between the two hunters, and so the three men silently advanced towards the head pointer.

Neal flogged the brushes to flush the birds, who seemed hesitant to fly. Finally, the first quail took off, followed by a dozen peers. The birds fanned out, propelled by their survival instincts. 5 rounds were shot, and a ball of feathers crashed onto the dead leaves. Neal walked back towards the wagon and spoke a guttural “Send Elvis”, who took to his duties without hesitating. The fluffy ball of brown fur threw himself into the bramble bushes.

Shortly thereafter, he reappeared with the quail cradled in his mouth. Without waiting for an additional command, he returned to his initial post, where he handed the bird over to Daniel. During this time, the two pointers hadn’t bat an eyelash, and were waiting for Neal’s next command. The quest had taken little under half an hour, and the dog handler decided to release two other pointers. A water dish was served to the first pointers, who rejoined the wagon. The new additions were equipped with collars. These added a modern spin to the hunt, but it definitely added a sense of tranquility. It was reassuring to have constant control and a watchful eye over the canine auxiliary. Some see these as torture devices, but it only takes one look at the respect with which Neal honors the gravestones of his old beloved hunting dogs to realize that this man was neither an executioner nor torturer.

Respectful of the protocol that ran like a precision timepiece, we continued our ride across the Sinkola territory. Compared side by side, our Merkel 20-gauge couldn’t be trumped by the American Over-Under 12-gauges… that were considerably less effective. After a lunch break that allowed us to devour the first quail, grilled over a wood fire, we saddled up again until four pm. One must understand, hunting Northern Bobwhite quail is associated with frugality.

If you look for great numbers of dead birds, you will get bored before the first shot is fired.
Supper took place in the hunting cabin, where we were reunited with Gates for the day’s debriefing. This young man commands the property with an iron fist in a velvet glove. Like his great-great grandparents who settled here in 1904, he strives for what’s now known as sustainable management and what was back then known simply as common sense.

Hunting days are rare, no more than 20 per season, with a maximum of 24 birds taken per day by a group of 4 to 6 hunters. At 7,500 USD per group per day, one can consider this hunt an absolutely luxury. However, the excellent bird density found at Sinkola wasn’t merely coincidence. Each parcel is managed by expert foresters and biologists. As a result, the biotope is an environment as favourable for the quail as possible. These measures are equally beneficial to a whole variety of animal and plant species that are endangered.

On the evening of the second hunting day we counted the trip total. 28 quail were killed, in over 40 stops. Thanks to a job well done by Elvis, only a single bird was lost. The loudspeaker of an old radio played “I can’t stop loving you”, but tonight the King was no longer on duty, he was sleeping under the stars next to the fire.

Family Portrait
The Northern Bobwhite quail (Colinus virginianus) is the only Galliforme found on the North American continent. Its natural habitat extends from the south-east quarter of the USA to the Caribbean, and passes over the north of Mexico. There are more than 21 subspecies of quail, of which 20 are hunted. The bird measures 24 to 28 centimeters tall, has a wingspan of approximately 33 to 38 centimeters and weighs around 200 grams. It lives primarily on the ground, where its camouflage allows it to hide from predators.

The sexual dimorphism of this species is very noticeable. The males have white cheeks with a black border, while the females sport rusty colored cheeks. The quail is not migratory, which renders it particularly vulnerable to the hard winters in the northernmost limits of its habitat. These birds are mainly monogamous, and live in pairs accompanied by chicks. In the fall, flocks can form and comprise of 25-30 individuals. The conservational status of the quail remains satisfactory, but at the cost of innumerable measures to conserve their habitat. Essentially, these efforts are financed by hunters, and companies in the hunting industry such as SportDOG®, via the Quail Forever foundation.

Author:
Philippe Jaeger
Philippe Jaeger is originally from Alsace and in his youth he was opposed to hunting. He changed his opinion when he met people who explained to him that the foolish behaviour of some hunters had nothing to do with real hunting. Philippe got his hunting licence and bought a hunting dog, which he trained himself. Today he can’t imagine his life without hunting. He is now 46 years old and has a son, and, when he is not travelling around the world to go hunting, he enjoys his family life in the Vosges Mountains.