Sated in Sinaloa
"No bird exemplifies Latin America as much as the White-winged dove. Its coarse, "who cooks for you" call, whether heard in Phoenix, Tucson, or Alamos Sonora, always conjures up an aura of the Neotropics and a promise of exotic happenings... "
-David E. Brown,
Arizona Game Birds
The afternoon wind blew hot on the shooter hiding in the sparse shade of a white-thorn mesquite. In late December at half past three, the sun in the Mexican State of Sinaloa was relentless, and the warm, gusty wind erased any comfort afforded by the tree. Relentless, too, was the flight of mourning doves flashing overhead like windblown leaves, many of them employing the unpleasant tack of slipping sideways for no apparent reason in their headlong rush to the fields. This characteristic was not lost on the gunner, who did his best to swing with each bird before pulling the trigger. For almost 90 minutes the onslaught continued, with birds flashing through openings in the mesquite, sailing over the tops, diving down like phantoms between branches, and then leveling off just above the ground. Often it was impossible to load fast enough.
During infrequent lulls in the action, the shooter faced squarely in the direction of the flight, holding his gun lightly, shifting nervously on the balls of his feet like a tennis player awaiting a serve. Success came now and then as a bird arced out of the sky and hit the ground with a lovely plop, trailing feathers as it rolled on the hard desert floor. A few of the birds immediately stiffened and spun down like propellers; others flinched and flew on, only to collapse when their "oil light" finally went out. It was the kind of shooting to rival the driven grouse of Scotland, the partridge of Spain, the gyrations of snipe. A mourning dove under such circumstances is simply a world-class bird: How many shooters can appreciate that?
In the 1960s and '70s, Mexico was a traditional destination for shotgunners seeking winter diversion. Shooting parties from California, Texas and beyond filled their station wagons with guns and ammo for the sojourn "south of the border." They often had to bribe their way in, but once there basically took unlimited advantage of, well, everything. Today things have changed. The Mexican people have taken control of their valuable hunting resources and now require visiting shooters to use the services of licensed guides. Gun laws are stricter, too, and bringing a shotgun across the border is no longer a simple matter (although it recently has been made much easier). Bribery is almost nonexistent at the bureaucratic level of the average tourist/shooter, but a roadblock inspection by Federales for drugs or illegal weapons is not unknown. Given these complications, you might wonder, Why bother?
In my opinion, there are many reasons. First and foremost is the landscape itself. Mexico is a beautiful country. There are mountains, forests, coasts and deserts to rival any on earth. If you can overlook the national propensity to dump trash anywhere, on the grand scale the scenery is magnificent. Then there are the Mexican people-they have an infectious love of life that rubs off on all who take time to get to know them on their own terms (and although the "manana" culture is still very much alive, unhappily for traditionalists, it surely is being replaced by our Norte Americano more-rapid-paced existence). Then there are the birds. There is a great variety of species almost impossible to list, including doves, pigeons, quail, ducks and geese. Most of our northern migratory birds are there, and some, like the elegante quail or the black-chinned bobwhite, are found nowhere else. And finally, with today's somewhat complicated air-travel scenario, Mexico is close and relatively simple. It can offer an exotic shooting destination for gunners with only a limited amount of time to spend on travel.
On my trip to Mexico last December, conditions couldn't have been better. I departed LAX in the early afternoon on a new Aero California regional jet and touched down, after connecting in Hermosillo, as the sun was setting on a balmy tropical evening in Los Mochis, Sinaloa. My host was Bobby Balderrama, whose Sinalopato Duck & Dove Club offers a host of waterfowl species and superb white-winged and mourning dove shooting. As a measure of success, Balderrama has been going strong in Los Mochis for more than 20 years.
This thriving agricultural town of 230,000 is a bit north of the Baja tip but five miles inland on the mainland side of the Gulf of California. It is also the western terminus for the Chihuahua Pacific Railroad, which traverses world-famous Copper Canyon. Many shooters and their wives enjoy taking the train as a side trip while in town. Weather-wise, daytime highs might reach 85, and mornings are cool and pleasant. In four days of hunting there was no rain. Balderrama, a Mochis native, owns the Plaza Inn Hotel, the premier hotel in the city and his venue for lodging hunters. It takes about an hour to reach the most distant hunting spots, and some of the dove fields are only 30 minutes away.
The evening I arrived, I met the other five Guns-two of them fathers with teenage sons-in the hotel dining room. After an early supper, I settled into the well-appointed room to unpack and get some sleep; wake-up would be 4:30 am.
The next morning we started out toward the Sierra Madre Occidental, which forms a formidable barrier 50 miles east of town. Field workers already were heading out for the huge tracts of tomatoes, corn and sugarcane surrounding the city. They rode packed together in dusty pickups or trustingly on bicycles illuminated by our headlights as we passed them pedaling along the road's shoulder. As the sky lightened, we drove through El Ranchito, a small town where uniformed school children were awaiting the bus beneath huge cottonwood trees. Abruptly, the van left the level coastal plain and headed into the foothills. We motored over a rise, and a huge plantation of blue agave came into view. This succulent plant source of tequila-the national spirit-looked almost as fiery as the notorious liquor itself in the orange pre-dawn glow.
Soon we topped another rise and saw our destination: a field of sorghum tucked away in the shrub-covered foothills. The field, backing against rocky cliffs, was the perfect lure for grain-loving birds, and the surrounding thickets offered a day-roost as well. As we pulled off the blacktop on a sandy two-track bisecting the tall stalks, silhouettes of swift-winged birds whistled overhead. The main event here would be paloma blanca, the white-winged dove. There also had been rumors of a few red-billed pigeons, and now and then we could see the larger birds, looking out of place among the myriad doves now streaming into the field.
As with most dove shooting, our setup was simple: We sat on buckets at auspicious crossings. The first bird that approached me, a 40-yard-high incomer, posed an immediate dilemma. Should it be taken like a Station 8 skeet target, with my gun pulled straight back and the shot loosed on blot-out, or should it be "turn sideways" with the bird in sight the whole time? On a high bird, the second option generally works best for me, and a puff of white feathers signaled the shoot had started.
After that, things quickly got crazy as the white-wings began to come over from all quarters. I tried to hold off on the long side shots and pick doves flying closer to the roadway. I figured that eight-foot-tall sorghum might make recovery very difficult. Regardless, a cripple drifted out over the tangled jungle, and my birdman, Edgar, set off on the run. While he was searching, I dropped four more doves, marking them all myself. There was no need. Edgar had remarkable eyesight and had marked every one while searching. I don't think I have ever seen anything like his skill, and his recovery of several "impossible" birds was the highlight of the morning.
As the sun got higher and birds filling their crops began to shift locations within the field, the shooting became almost too easy. I then concentrated on higher birds and difficult angles. Some of the beginning shooters enjoyed their first real wingshooting success on some of the "floater" doves.
I had a first success too. I had seen quite a few white-wings sitting around backyard feeders during winter visits to Tucson but had never killed one. It was enjoyable to play at Audubon discovering the species. In the hand, the bird's weight, size and color are distinctly different from those of the mourning dove. White-wings weigh about a fifth more, males averaging 5.5 ounces versus 4.3 for their smaller cousins. The body feathers are much paler, and the "white-wing" patch on the shoulder is obvious in flight, especially on the down-stroke. The head sports a long, slightly curved bill that is probably an adaptation for drinking the nectar and eating the fruits of cactuses, especially the saguaro. They sport a patch of pale blue skin around their eyes that is only visible at close range. The birds are blockier-looking in the air, with shorter tails rounded at the heavily white-tipped ends. Their flight is strong and direct, with less "jinking" than the mourning dove's. Overall these are beautiful and challenging birds.
By 10:30 the doves seemingly had evaporated, and we climbed into the van for the ride back to Los Mochis. On the way we stopped at a roadside vendor to sample some fresh-baked local bread and honey, complete with bees. When we arrived back at the hotel, uniformed waiters met us at the van with a tasty Mexican brunch: fritos y salsa y guacamole. After that I had something even more delicious: a two-hour siesta.
A knock at the door announced that it was time to head back to the fields-this time for the mourning doves mentioned at the beginning. It was only a 30-minute drive to the field, and host Senor Balderrama joined us in the van and on the shoot. After the exhilarating doves, we returned to the hotel as the western sky lost its color. This time the staff met us at the curb with margaritas and hors d'oeuvres. I relaxed in my room and did some computer work while waiting for dinner at 7:30. It turned out to be my favorite meal of the trip: a house specialty tortilla soup served with grilled white-wing breasts wrapped in bacon and stuffed with cheese and jalapenos. Rice, sauteed vegetables and cold cervezas rounded out the feast.
We enjoyed another excellent day of doves, but the final day truly put the "mixed" into our mixed bag. Again we departed early, but this time we headed toward the coast. In this part of Mexico, the Sea of Cortez meets the land in a series of shallow lagoons. Most feature barrier islands of sand sheltering a labyrinth of bays and channels behind breaker-washed dunes. The mangroves lining these waterways make good hunting hides, and northern ducks find the shallow waters ideal for wintering.
Half of our group drove north to a fishing village where they disembarked in airboats to hunt ducks from the mangroves lining a huge bay. My half went almost directly west of town to hunt brackish ponds just inland from the sea. On the way to the ponds we motored across bare mud flats, and I was glad it hadn't rained lately. Unloading the decoys and guns, there was the unmistakable smell of alkali marsh, reminding me of the Great Salt Lake.
As the light began to grow over the Sierra Madre, we settled into our blind on an isthmus between two ponds. Soon a large flock of strange-looking fowl flew directly toward us from the east. As they grew nearer, the undulating flight, long trailing legs and high-pitched whistling gave them away: pichiguila, or black-bellied whistling ducks. They had been out at night feeding on corn and were now heading back to the ponds.
As the flock set wings and glided over at 35 yards, red flames erupted from barrels and several birds fell like broken scarecrows to the water. With the shots, the place came alive with ducks. It was hard to pick a bird, but soon a swarm of green-winged teal buzzed the decoys so fast that only one shot was possible. Luckily, a fine drake stayed behind, one foot slowly kicking as he floated belly-up in the decoys.
Next another pair of teal zoomed over, and I could just make out the dark form of a drake cinnamon in the gathering light. He, too, tumbled to the water and was soon joined by a drake wigeon that came in whistling, "Whee... whee-whee." A slender pintail gave a high fly-over and, being used to shooting non-decoyable "buck pins" on the Great Salt Lake, I gave him eight feet of forward allowance and brought him down.
Several other mallard-like ducks worked past, but they all appeared to be hens. Then it dawned on me: Mexican ducks. They proved as wary as their Northeastern cousin the black duck, but we did take a pair on a wide swing. Then a pair of shovelers came right in, and one of the boys selected the picture-book drake with the "Boone and Crockett" bill.
By 9 am the action had slowed, and we began to get that "end-of-the-hunt" feeling. As we put off the decision to pick up, another pair of teal flashed toward us. I spotted a white crescent on the drake on my side and dared not think too much. Boom! Yes, a blue-wing. I had a personal record: all three species of teal in one hunt. By now the action definitely was over, so we loaded the ducks into the van. Our mixed bag included shovelers, all three species of teal, pichiguila, wigeon, pintails and Mexican ducks. If only we had managed to bag one of the redheads that had screamed by at first light...
As we drove along a dirt canal back to town, a fleeting blur of quail scurried across in front of the van and ducked into a tangle of paloverde.
"Edgar, cual es ese?"
"Codorniz elegante."
"Es posible caza?"
"Si, senor!"
We pulled over, and I piled out with my borrowed SKB 20-bore side-by-side. Edgar did yeoman work rousting the quail out of the brush, but as the birds popped out one by one, flying behind limbs to the next tangle, I had only fleeting glimpses and no shots. I asked Edgar if it was worthwhile to give chase, and he indicated it was. We ran after the birds, and I managed to drop one as it tried to leapfrog to the next tangle. Another Sinalopato first: a Douglas, or elegante, quail. Sized much like a Gambel's quail (which we also saw), the male elegante I shot had a speckled gray head with a long, straight, mustard-orange topknot. Although his beak seemed heavier than those of other quail, at home I couldn't determine why; there is almost no research on the species. Perhaps the beak is used to dig succulent water-bearing roots in the hot summer months.
We soon located another small covey in the dense paloverde along the canal bank, and after another footrace I dropped a second bird. It was not classic desert quail hunting over pointing dogs; it was more like a running shoot for mountain quail in the dense cover of the Oregon coast. Nevertheless, for a person bent on collecting a bird or two, it may be possible to do so on this trip.
Later that day I gathered my belongings and headed to the airport for the flight home. After takeoff, I looked down on the sprawling estuaries lining the coast west of Mochis and saw the huge agricultural fields just inland. Off to the east, the Sierra Madre rose in reddish jagged blocks, forming the southern backbone of the North American continent. With such diversity of habitat and terrain, it was hard not to wonder about the multitude of places perfect for gamebirds. There was no doubt that I would be back to explore them.
Author's Note: For more information on hunting in Mexico, contact the Sinalopato Duck & Dove Club, 800-862-9026 or 01152-668-816-0800, ext. 1700; www.sinalopato.net or Global Sporting Safaris, 888-850-4868; www.gssafaris.com.
Clair Kofoed is an Editor at Large for Shooting Sportsman.
-David E. Brown,
Arizona Game Birds
The afternoon wind blew hot on the shooter hiding in the sparse shade of a white-thorn mesquite. In late December at half past three, the sun in the Mexican State of Sinaloa was relentless, and the warm, gusty wind erased any comfort afforded by the tree. Relentless, too, was the flight of mourning doves flashing overhead like windblown leaves, many of them employing the unpleasant tack of slipping sideways for no apparent reason in their headlong rush to the fields. This characteristic was not lost on the gunner, who did his best to swing with each bird before pulling the trigger. For almost 90 minutes the onslaught continued, with birds flashing through openings in the mesquite, sailing over the tops, diving down like phantoms between branches, and then leveling off just above the ground. Often it was impossible to load fast enough.
During infrequent lulls in the action, the shooter faced squarely in the direction of the flight, holding his gun lightly, shifting nervously on the balls of his feet like a tennis player awaiting a serve. Success came now and then as a bird arced out of the sky and hit the ground with a lovely plop, trailing feathers as it rolled on the hard desert floor. A few of the birds immediately stiffened and spun down like propellers; others flinched and flew on, only to collapse when their "oil light" finally went out. It was the kind of shooting to rival the driven grouse of Scotland, the partridge of Spain, the gyrations of snipe. A mourning dove under such circumstances is simply a world-class bird: How many shooters can appreciate that?
In the 1960s and '70s, Mexico was a traditional destination for shotgunners seeking winter diversion. Shooting parties from California, Texas and beyond filled their station wagons with guns and ammo for the sojourn "south of the border." They often had to bribe their way in, but once there basically took unlimited advantage of, well, everything. Today things have changed. The Mexican people have taken control of their valuable hunting resources and now require visiting shooters to use the services of licensed guides. Gun laws are stricter, too, and bringing a shotgun across the border is no longer a simple matter (although it recently has been made much easier). Bribery is almost nonexistent at the bureaucratic level of the average tourist/shooter, but a roadblock inspection by Federales for drugs or illegal weapons is not unknown. Given these complications, you might wonder, Why bother?
In my opinion, there are many reasons. First and foremost is the landscape itself. Mexico is a beautiful country. There are mountains, forests, coasts and deserts to rival any on earth. If you can overlook the national propensity to dump trash anywhere, on the grand scale the scenery is magnificent. Then there are the Mexican people-they have an infectious love of life that rubs off on all who take time to get to know them on their own terms (and although the "manana" culture is still very much alive, unhappily for traditionalists, it surely is being replaced by our Norte Americano more-rapid-paced existence). Then there are the birds. There is a great variety of species almost impossible to list, including doves, pigeons, quail, ducks and geese. Most of our northern migratory birds are there, and some, like the elegante quail or the black-chinned bobwhite, are found nowhere else. And finally, with today's somewhat complicated air-travel scenario, Mexico is close and relatively simple. It can offer an exotic shooting destination for gunners with only a limited amount of time to spend on travel.
On my trip to Mexico last December, conditions couldn't have been better. I departed LAX in the early afternoon on a new Aero California regional jet and touched down, after connecting in Hermosillo, as the sun was setting on a balmy tropical evening in Los Mochis, Sinaloa. My host was Bobby Balderrama, whose Sinalopato Duck & Dove Club offers a host of waterfowl species and superb white-winged and mourning dove shooting. As a measure of success, Balderrama has been going strong in Los Mochis for more than 20 years.
This thriving agricultural town of 230,000 is a bit north of the Baja tip but five miles inland on the mainland side of the Gulf of California. It is also the western terminus for the Chihuahua Pacific Railroad, which traverses world-famous Copper Canyon. Many shooters and their wives enjoy taking the train as a side trip while in town. Weather-wise, daytime highs might reach 85, and mornings are cool and pleasant. In four days of hunting there was no rain. Balderrama, a Mochis native, owns the Plaza Inn Hotel, the premier hotel in the city and his venue for lodging hunters. It takes about an hour to reach the most distant hunting spots, and some of the dove fields are only 30 minutes away.
The evening I arrived, I met the other five Guns-two of them fathers with teenage sons-in the hotel dining room. After an early supper, I settled into the well-appointed room to unpack and get some sleep; wake-up would be 4:30 am.
The next morning we started out toward the Sierra Madre Occidental, which forms a formidable barrier 50 miles east of town. Field workers already were heading out for the huge tracts of tomatoes, corn and sugarcane surrounding the city. They rode packed together in dusty pickups or trustingly on bicycles illuminated by our headlights as we passed them pedaling along the road's shoulder. As the sky lightened, we drove through El Ranchito, a small town where uniformed school children were awaiting the bus beneath huge cottonwood trees. Abruptly, the van left the level coastal plain and headed into the foothills. We motored over a rise, and a huge plantation of blue agave came into view. This succulent plant source of tequila-the national spirit-looked almost as fiery as the notorious liquor itself in the orange pre-dawn glow.
Soon we topped another rise and saw our destination: a field of sorghum tucked away in the shrub-covered foothills. The field, backing against rocky cliffs, was the perfect lure for grain-loving birds, and the surrounding thickets offered a day-roost as well. As we pulled off the blacktop on a sandy two-track bisecting the tall stalks, silhouettes of swift-winged birds whistled overhead. The main event here would be paloma blanca, the white-winged dove. There also had been rumors of a few red-billed pigeons, and now and then we could see the larger birds, looking out of place among the myriad doves now streaming into the field.
As with most dove shooting, our setup was simple: We sat on buckets at auspicious crossings. The first bird that approached me, a 40-yard-high incomer, posed an immediate dilemma. Should it be taken like a Station 8 skeet target, with my gun pulled straight back and the shot loosed on blot-out, or should it be "turn sideways" with the bird in sight the whole time? On a high bird, the second option generally works best for me, and a puff of white feathers signaled the shoot had started.
After that, things quickly got crazy as the white-wings began to come over from all quarters. I tried to hold off on the long side shots and pick doves flying closer to the roadway. I figured that eight-foot-tall sorghum might make recovery very difficult. Regardless, a cripple drifted out over the tangled jungle, and my birdman, Edgar, set off on the run. While he was searching, I dropped four more doves, marking them all myself. There was no need. Edgar had remarkable eyesight and had marked every one while searching. I don't think I have ever seen anything like his skill, and his recovery of several "impossible" birds was the highlight of the morning.
As the sun got higher and birds filling their crops began to shift locations within the field, the shooting became almost too easy. I then concentrated on higher birds and difficult angles. Some of the beginning shooters enjoyed their first real wingshooting success on some of the "floater" doves.
I had a first success too. I had seen quite a few white-wings sitting around backyard feeders during winter visits to Tucson but had never killed one. It was enjoyable to play at Audubon discovering the species. In the hand, the bird's weight, size and color are distinctly different from those of the mourning dove. White-wings weigh about a fifth more, males averaging 5.5 ounces versus 4.3 for their smaller cousins. The body feathers are much paler, and the "white-wing" patch on the shoulder is obvious in flight, especially on the down-stroke. The head sports a long, slightly curved bill that is probably an adaptation for drinking the nectar and eating the fruits of cactuses, especially the saguaro. They sport a patch of pale blue skin around their eyes that is only visible at close range. The birds are blockier-looking in the air, with shorter tails rounded at the heavily white-tipped ends. Their flight is strong and direct, with less "jinking" than the mourning dove's. Overall these are beautiful and challenging birds.
By 10:30 the doves seemingly had evaporated, and we climbed into the van for the ride back to Los Mochis. On the way we stopped at a roadside vendor to sample some fresh-baked local bread and honey, complete with bees. When we arrived back at the hotel, uniformed waiters met us at the van with a tasty Mexican brunch: fritos y salsa y guacamole. After that I had something even more delicious: a two-hour siesta.
A knock at the door announced that it was time to head back to the fields-this time for the mourning doves mentioned at the beginning. It was only a 30-minute drive to the field, and host Senor Balderrama joined us in the van and on the shoot. After the exhilarating doves, we returned to the hotel as the western sky lost its color. This time the staff met us at the curb with margaritas and hors d'oeuvres. I relaxed in my room and did some computer work while waiting for dinner at 7:30. It turned out to be my favorite meal of the trip: a house specialty tortilla soup served with grilled white-wing breasts wrapped in bacon and stuffed with cheese and jalapenos. Rice, sauteed vegetables and cold cervezas rounded out the feast.
We enjoyed another excellent day of doves, but the final day truly put the "mixed" into our mixed bag. Again we departed early, but this time we headed toward the coast. In this part of Mexico, the Sea of Cortez meets the land in a series of shallow lagoons. Most feature barrier islands of sand sheltering a labyrinth of bays and channels behind breaker-washed dunes. The mangroves lining these waterways make good hunting hides, and northern ducks find the shallow waters ideal for wintering.
Half of our group drove north to a fishing village where they disembarked in airboats to hunt ducks from the mangroves lining a huge bay. My half went almost directly west of town to hunt brackish ponds just inland from the sea. On the way to the ponds we motored across bare mud flats, and I was glad it hadn't rained lately. Unloading the decoys and guns, there was the unmistakable smell of alkali marsh, reminding me of the Great Salt Lake.
As the light began to grow over the Sierra Madre, we settled into our blind on an isthmus between two ponds. Soon a large flock of strange-looking fowl flew directly toward us from the east. As they grew nearer, the undulating flight, long trailing legs and high-pitched whistling gave them away: pichiguila, or black-bellied whistling ducks. They had been out at night feeding on corn and were now heading back to the ponds.
As the flock set wings and glided over at 35 yards, red flames erupted from barrels and several birds fell like broken scarecrows to the water. With the shots, the place came alive with ducks. It was hard to pick a bird, but soon a swarm of green-winged teal buzzed the decoys so fast that only one shot was possible. Luckily, a fine drake stayed behind, one foot slowly kicking as he floated belly-up in the decoys.
Next another pair of teal zoomed over, and I could just make out the dark form of a drake cinnamon in the gathering light. He, too, tumbled to the water and was soon joined by a drake wigeon that came in whistling, "Whee... whee-whee." A slender pintail gave a high fly-over and, being used to shooting non-decoyable "buck pins" on the Great Salt Lake, I gave him eight feet of forward allowance and brought him down.
Several other mallard-like ducks worked past, but they all appeared to be hens. Then it dawned on me: Mexican ducks. They proved as wary as their Northeastern cousin the black duck, but we did take a pair on a wide swing. Then a pair of shovelers came right in, and one of the boys selected the picture-book drake with the "Boone and Crockett" bill.
By 9 am the action had slowed, and we began to get that "end-of-the-hunt" feeling. As we put off the decision to pick up, another pair of teal flashed toward us. I spotted a white crescent on the drake on my side and dared not think too much. Boom! Yes, a blue-wing. I had a personal record: all three species of teal in one hunt. By now the action definitely was over, so we loaded the ducks into the van. Our mixed bag included shovelers, all three species of teal, pichiguila, wigeon, pintails and Mexican ducks. If only we had managed to bag one of the redheads that had screamed by at first light...
As we drove along a dirt canal back to town, a fleeting blur of quail scurried across in front of the van and ducked into a tangle of paloverde.
"Edgar, cual es ese?"
"Codorniz elegante."
"Es posible caza?"
"Si, senor!"
We pulled over, and I piled out with my borrowed SKB 20-bore side-by-side. Edgar did yeoman work rousting the quail out of the brush, but as the birds popped out one by one, flying behind limbs to the next tangle, I had only fleeting glimpses and no shots. I asked Edgar if it was worthwhile to give chase, and he indicated it was. We ran after the birds, and I managed to drop one as it tried to leapfrog to the next tangle. Another Sinalopato first: a Douglas, or elegante, quail. Sized much like a Gambel's quail (which we also saw), the male elegante I shot had a speckled gray head with a long, straight, mustard-orange topknot. Although his beak seemed heavier than those of other quail, at home I couldn't determine why; there is almost no research on the species. Perhaps the beak is used to dig succulent water-bearing roots in the hot summer months.
We soon located another small covey in the dense paloverde along the canal bank, and after another footrace I dropped a second bird. It was not classic desert quail hunting over pointing dogs; it was more like a running shoot for mountain quail in the dense cover of the Oregon coast. Nevertheless, for a person bent on collecting a bird or two, it may be possible to do so on this trip.
Later that day I gathered my belongings and headed to the airport for the flight home. After takeoff, I looked down on the sprawling estuaries lining the coast west of Mochis and saw the huge agricultural fields just inland. Off to the east, the Sierra Madre rose in reddish jagged blocks, forming the southern backbone of the North American continent. With such diversity of habitat and terrain, it was hard not to wonder about the multitude of places perfect for gamebirds. There was no doubt that I would be back to explore them.
Author's Note: For more information on hunting in Mexico, contact the Sinalopato Duck & Dove Club, 800-862-9026 or 01152-668-816-0800, ext. 1700; www.sinalopato.net or Global Sporting Safaris, 888-850-4868; www.gssafaris.com.
Clair Kofoed is an Editor at Large for Shooting Sportsman.
- By: Clair Kofoed
