She was running with effortless, mechanical ease when she plowed through the scent. It reached out, clawed at her nose, snapped her head around and fastened it with unseen brute force. The rest of her body did not react as instantaneously and remained in motion for just the briefest part of a second. The bit of residual motion nearly folded Tocchet in half, but her attention remained riveted on a small, age-brittled patch of Mojave Sage not more than twenty inches from the tip of her nose. She had just been gulping down huge, locomotive gasps of air to fill her lungs, power her legs, enable her unquenchable desire. Now she stood silent, bowstring taut with anticipation, and gave not the slightest indication of breathing at all or, more amazingly, that she ever needed to take another breath. She would not even blink her eyes. It was a snapshot of intense instinctual desire.

Tocchet on point, Cima Dome, Mojave Desert

The hunters froze as well, though only momentarily. I was actually closest to Tocchet but David was a guest of sorts and he deserved some small reward for what I had subjected him to earlier in the day. I invited him to flush the bird. He mumbled something about shooting poorly but if he had any doubt about his ability there was no delay in accepting my offer. His gun came up as he braced for the flush and with cautious confidence he approached Tocchet and the sagebrush that concealed the bird. He paused briefly just a few feet away. Seeing David and Tocchet, man and dog, both focused on the sage engraved a picture I will not soon forget. When David ventured another step it triggered a fatal nervousness and a feathered gray blur burst into the air from under Tocchet's chin. She whipped her head around to follow the straight-arrow flight of the low flying Gambel's quail. The distinctive drumming of those stubby, pounding wings filled the air and beat into our ears. For the thousandth time I wondered how it was possible to achieve such velocity in three feet. Who could ever tire to see and hear it? The ritual never fails to fill me with such a sense of admiration that it often makes just shake my head with wonder. David's second shot brought the bird to ground.

Tocchet easily marked the bird, reanimated, and made a short sprint to retrieve it. I thought of the old adage, "'tis better to give than receive." It was the first time I had ever asked someone to shoot a bird Tocchet had pointed when I myself was in position to take it. It was pleasing to watch my companion of eight years give a memorable point and then a bird to a person I had met less than eight hours before. I could not have been more satisfied had I been the successful shooter. Collectively, Clint, David, and I must have seen hundreds of Gambel's quail in our time. Naturally when David had the bird in hand we indulged ourselves for a simple moment to admire one yet again.

We often think of people, usually unconsciously, in terms of our similarities or differences with them. It seems natural to do so, to see ourselves in terms of where we fit. So much of what we do, or decide not to do, is affected by with whom we identify.

In one respect it is safe, comfortable, and in some cases perhaps a symptom of a collective social shyness. Most of us will gravitate toward people with whom we will feel more at ease as similitude influences us to unite. It may stretch us vertically or horizontally in a social and cultural dynamic but regardless of the direction our need to unify moves us toward those with whom we sense we belong.

What is exceptional, however, about seeking comfort among kindred is that it need not limit one's horizon. Indeed, the contrary is true and many marvelous revelations are offered every day for those who may but reach for them. And that seems to be the key: One must be curious, interested, questioning, and open to new opportunities.

And so hunters who come together solely as hunters are often rewarded with more than they could ever have anticipated or even dreamed. It is not uncommon. Such meetings happen in every walk of life. There is, however, something about hunting that creates a tighter bond. Perhaps the explanation lies in the fact it is such a unique and too often misunderstood activity. The questioning, outright misunderstanding, and more than a fair share of criticism, can join hunters as they close ranks to support one another in partnership, enjoy their hunting with one another, and more so in their friendship. Doctors, bull riders, lawyers, farmers, engineers, police officers, game wardens, warehousemen, salesmen, veterinarians, ship's captains, and many more have hunted together. The single thread that ties them is their shared passion for hunting. Bound by hunting, differences melt as readily as candle wax.

I read a short plea for help written and posted to a hunting website by a young man attending college here in Southern California. He was from Washington and accustomed to good fishing and hunting. The more I later learned from him the more I equated "accustomed" to "spoiled" given the fishing and hunting opportunities he had enjoyed. However, he had little experience hunting in California and sought to meet someone who better knew the area. I answered his post and by email we set up a time to meet and hunt together. Here was a twenty year old "kid" driving nearly two hours just to meet a fifty-six year old "kid," then drive another two and a half hours hoping to find a bird or two. Teamed up were a twenty-year-old economics major and a fifty-six year old career prosecutor. Absolutely nothing in common but one small thread, strong as a battleship hawser: An insatiable desire to be outdoors and to hunt.

We met on in the Cajon Pass of the San Bernardino Mountains. We drove separate trucks. With me was a long-time hunting partner, Clint Shaffer. At 3:30 in the morning we began our trip into the Mojave Desert. Hunting with David was part curiosity, as I enjoy meeting new hunters, and part benevolence. But hunting with Clint is almost a necessity. The man is a virtual bird magnet.

As we drove north and neared Baker, California, the sky began to turn. The freeway was crowded even at this hour with the lifeblood of Las Vegas. I often try to fix the exact moment the eastern horizon appears and have yet to be successful. It merely becomes visible and I am always left with the sense that it has been so for the preceding ten minutes but was not observant enough to recognize precisely when it occurred. A few miles past Baker we turned off the freeway and headed for the Kingston Mountain range. I had heard from two sources that the wet winter that had finally interrupted years of drought had spawned a wonderful resurgence of chukar and Gambel's quail in those mountains. It was an arduous drive but I looked forward to the opportunity to hunt an area that I had visited and hunted only once before.

When we arrived at our destination the sun was still struggling to climb into the eastern sky. Towering cottonwoods surrounded the spring from where we would begin hunting and shadows were cast far from their base. As usual I was cold. I was the only one who put on gloves. I released Tocchet from her kennel and put out her water bowl. She nervously darted around us, wondering what was holding up the parade, went to her bowl for water, ran up to each of us as if to implore us to go NOW, went to her bowl for more water, pranced around a little more, and so on, and on, and on. David, Clint, and I had said less than fifty words to each other and felt no need to start conversation. We had come to hunt, not talk. We began to climb into the hills and mountains.

Horse Thief Springs, Kingston Mountains, Mojave Desert

We walked south away from the spring and decided to take a turn around a near hill to see if we might stumble onto a covey of Gambel's quail or chukar. Though the brightening sky was cloudless and clear it had obviously rained less than twenty-four hours earlier. The ground was still moist. I suspected, and worried, that if any birds had been holding close to the spring there would be much less need for them to do so now. The near future would prove that I was painfully correct.

Nothing. We had worked our way in a rough circle back to the spring and saw and heard nothing. Tocchet never gave any sign that there might be birds in the area. We struck south again but this time climbed to the top of the nearest peak, traversed a saddle to an adjoining peak and climbed higher yet. David and I stayed high and Clint dropped down about two hundred feet below us as we wrapped around the mountain and headed east. Tocchet ran ahead of me, climbing higher or descending below me as her instinct and experience took her. She has always been a wonderful chukar hunter, sure-footed and confident in slippery dirt and gravel or climbing among Cadillac-sized boulders.

The cover was luscious. Everything was greened up, testament to the volume of life-giving rain that had showered the area the previous winter and spring. Nature had created small bowls in some of the larger rocks and they were filled with clear water. Some could have been man-made bird feeders so symmetrical were their appearance. There was no debris, not even dust, floating on the surface of the water, confirming that the rain had fallen very recently. I knew then that if we were going to find chukar we would have to work for them. As usual, Clint was the first to hear them calling. I knew I should have Velcroed myself to his shoulder, should have known better than to stray. No fear, however. He waited until David and I joined him and he gave us his best guess of where he thought the birds might be and we started climbing again. Such is chukar hunting.

David and Clint went a little higher than I did. Not more than fifteen minutes later I looked up to the ridgeline above me and saw two chukar rise into the air and plunge down the other side of the mountain. A few seconds later I heard two shots. Clint. Would I ever learn? I continued until I hiked around the mountain, gaining elevation as I went, and after a half-hour of sweaty effort joined David and Clint. Clint had taken one bird out of the covey rise. They thought the covey, which Clint estimated to be from thirty to forty birds, was not far ahead of us. Of course when climbing over rocks and vegetation, slipping on loose gravel and dirt with every other step, and all this on sloping ground, "not far ahead" is entirely subjective.

David climbed slightly higher while Clint and I loafed along below. Twenty minutes later the covey flushed. The birds were closer to David's elevation but none of us had much of what one would call "a shot." The maddening frustration was what probably caused Clint and I to pull the triggers on our guns nonetheless. Truly hopeless but somehow it made me feel better; like we were actually chukar hunting rather than mountain climbing with shotguns.

We watched the locked-wing gray formation glide purposely and gracefully out of sight. It is a sight that all chukar hunters are accustomed to watching. Some become justifiably irate and curse everything from their boots to their local Congressman, some look like they would crumble to their knees and cry but for the presence of their fellow hunters, but most just stand there with their mouths open, eyes glazed, and try to track the birds to their landing.

Good news: David joined us and said he had marked the spot where the covey had settled to earth. Bad news: The covey had flown on a straight line to the side of the next mountain but for us to get there we would have to descend the one we were on and (oh God why me?) scale the other. Such is chukar hunting.

We never came close to them. Tocchet never gave any indication there was a chukar within two miles. My guess is that they ran to a higher elevation long before we could get there. We never had a chance.

We had been hunting four hours, most of it on the move, climbing, traversing, descending, and falling now and then. "Level ground" were two words and that had no relevance to our current vocabulary. My baseball cap was again stained with sweat. My T-shirt was soaked where the hunting vest rested on my back. Descending a slope was almost as painful as climbing it. Quadriceps and tendon felt like so much overcooked spaghetti and kite string. I meekly offered a comment about my stomach beginning to think of the sandwich waiting for me back at the truck. Neither David nor Clint argued with my obvious suggestion. But to get to the trucks we had to reconquer two mountains. There being no helicopter service in the immediate vicinity we started climbing yet again. Such is - oh forget it.

As I ate turkey and roast beef on whole wheat I fed Tocchet a few dog bones. Now she really loved me. We found the time to talk and I learned that David was only the second person I knew in the world who fly-fished in the ocean. Clint was the other. I had cast a fly exactly once in my life but listening to them talk with subdued enthusiasm almost made me want to try it myself. One day perhaps.

All three of us were wrung out. Tocchet had a bloody cut between two of her toes and a bare spot where one pad had been rubbed down scaling and climbing over countless rocks. The last five hours had been about as much fun as conjugating irregular verbs. Our lack of success simply compounded our weariness. There was an area I had hunted near Cima Dome, only about a half-hour's drive away, where I had found Gambel's quail before but after bringing David and Clint to this "hot" spot I was reluctant to suggest another. I gave them the option and after a few minutes of unspirited discussion we finally decided to become dedicated Gambel's quail hunters. The persuading factor was one attractive feature of the land: It was virtually flat.

We turned off paved highway through a cattle gate and drove over a rough, serpentine road about a mile into the Mojave Desert. I love its stark beauty. Of all living things you see a single thought recurs; "how do they survive?" To succeed in the desert is a testament to nature's patient power of adaptation. If Charles Darwin saw the Mojave he would nod his head knowingly, then smile. Summer temperatures often soar past 110 degrees. Snow will cover the landscape in winter, and the wind can blast the sand into the air with such force that it will peel the paint from the any vehicle caught in a windstorm. Even when daytime temperatures reach into the 50's nighttime temperatures can be well below freezing. Today the temperature was in the low 60's, there was a slight breeze from the southeast, and the air was clear. It could not have been more perfect for hunting Gambel's quail. I left my chukar gun in the truck, loaded my Model 42 and took Tocchet and my friends hunting for Gambel's quail, an endeavor which often resembles a track meet matching the swift-running bird against man and dog. Those who have hunted Gambel's quail will understand that more often than not the bird will cross the finish line first.

Within fifteen minutes we had passed a windmill and cattle tank and were into a broad, bush-choked dry wash. Joshua trees and cholla cactus dotted and dominated the landscape. We welcomed the relative flatness of the terrain and tried to push the memory of our recent frustrating assault on the Kingston range out of our minds. I was not bored, but I was not exactly excited either; still too tired. Then Tocchet became very animated. Out ahead of me, I first noticed her interest intensify. Instead of simply coursing back and forth she would pause briefly for a moment to sample the air, seeming to analyze the implications of what had come to her nose, then rush to another location and repeat the information gathering. Then she stopped once, held momentarily, then again, then worked farther into the wind and stopped for good: Covey point.

Cima Dome, Mojave Desert

My tired legs were instantly forgotten. Clint was nearby on my right and he too had noticed the change in Tocchet's demeanor. David was perhaps twenty to thirty yards to Clint's right. I did not have to tell Clint to be ready. He had hunted with Tocchet before and trusted her as much as I did. We walked a few more cautious yards before the covey of forty to fifty birds exploded into the air directly in front of us and fanned out in all directions. The sound of so many pairs of wings beating through the air sounded like a helicopter squadron lifting off. I had no shot but Clint did and brought down one bird. With Clint's shot Tocchet rocketed forward in search of another bird. She had not seen the bird that Clint shot but she certainly saw the covey rise and was determined to find her own bird. I allowed her to hunt since Clint had marked and easily found the quail.

It seemed that the birds had landed just as quickly as they had flushed from us and now it became an exercise of chasing and trying to pin running birds. The dominating gray of their backs and wings blends all too well into the subdued complexion of the Mojave's winter vegetation. The birds begin to meld into the background and gradually melt until what once had been obscurity is now nonexistent. Tocchet was far off to my right when I peripherally caught sight of movement just to my left. Less than ten feet away was a Gambel's male just darting out of sight under a small bush. I turned my head just briefly and looked for Tocchet. Behind a low hill I guessed, out of sight for sure. I looked back left and ran to where I had last seen the bird. Not there. I quickly walked around as much of the surrounding area as I could and found nothing. For three or four more minutes I expanded my search area and still failed to find the bird. Probably in Costa Rica by now I thought.

Then I heard a shot off to my right followed quickly by another. I heard Clint yell at me, "Vic." When I looked up I immediately caught the flight of a male bird scorching the air from right to left, about twenty yards in front of me and no more than eight feet off the ground. I instinctively fingered off the safety as I brought up my gun and pulled the trigger as soon as the butt of the Winchester hit my shoulder. The bird folded and sliced into the ground. I yelled back at Clint, "Thanks." Then my heart almost stopped, and I know I stopped breathing, as I saw Tocchet appear just to the left of the muzzle of my .410. I tried to tell myself I would have seen her had my swing traversed a little more left but I was not too convinced; her magical appearance there when only a minute before she had been far to my right scared me. For Tocchet's part, she marked the bird, found it and brought it to me, irritating me by rolling the bird around in her mouth, a habit I have never been able to persuade her to kick.

We crisscrossed an area of perhaps ten to fifteen acres looking for singles. Clint and David bumped one or two more small coveys into the air. I took another bird on a wild flush. Although the bird was at least thirty feet out when my shot ran it down it never rose more than three feet off the ground.

A half-hour later I found myself separated from David and Clint when I heard them become suddenly active with their guns. Instantly envious, I turned and hunted in their direction and when I arrived in the area I found them looking for a downed bird. Clint was fairly certain of where it had fallen and since he and David had failed to find it we surmised that it had only been clipped and ran. I brought Tocchet into the area, gave her a "fetch" command and put her nose to work. Within two minutes she went on a hard point. She knows the difference between a live and dead bird. Since she was pointing and not retrieving I assumed the bird remained very much alive. I casually walked in to pick it up myself when it suddenly bolted into the air and left us wondering at our surprise rather than reacting. I finally took one hurried shot and I missed it easy going-away. My pride was only slightly salved when Clint missed a shot at the bird as well.

Tocchet and Gambel's quail, Cima Dome

In less than five minutes Tocchet was back on another pretty point. She had her nose planted in a bush nearly as tall as I, at 5'9", and about the same in diameter. It was at the edge of a narrow, sandy, dry bed. Clint was above on the side of a slope and waited while I walked around the bush to flush the bird. When it launched Clint's shot preceded mine by a microsecond as we both connected this time. It was nearing sundown and we started back to the trucks. A few doves began to fly and David connected on a nice, long shot. His retrieve was almost as efficient as one of Tocchet's.

We hunted the sun nearly into the ground. It had been a long day, beginning with promise, as do all hunts, humbling us after five hours of grinding effort, and ending with three hours of terrific hunting. Clint bagged the most birds but I earned the biggest reward of the day by being able to afford David an opportunity to hunt. It was a pleasure to share a day with a person who would appreciate it. Another thread strung: Hunter to hunter, hunters to dog, all to nature. Regardless of whether we ever hunt together again it will continue to bind us.