Southeast Arizona’s Sky Island mountain ranges provide steep elevation gain from the desert floor, offering different habitat types at different altitudes.
Editor’s Note: The following is part 2 of Desert Catharsis (read part 1 here). This article, by Jodi Stemler, originally appeared in the Winter 2025 issue of The Upland Almanac and is reprinted here with permission. To subscribe to The Upland Almanac visit UplandAlmanac.com.
We drove past Tucson for our next night with a plan to look for Mearns’ quail in the national forests close to the border with Mexico. Known as the Sky Islands, this area of southeast Arizona has multiple mountain ranges jutting sharply out of the Sonoran Desert floor. The altitude change of nearly 6,000 feet leads to different vegetation and the mid-elevation oak/ pine savannahs were a welcome difference from the cactus-filled, scrubby area we hunted the day before — not to say there wasn’t a variety of pokey vegetation all around, but there was more space between plants so you could avoid the worst of them.
When Gauge’s Garmin collar showed him on point, we were all excited to see what he found.
Within 100 yards of the trucks, Josh’s dogs went on point. There were no birds, but they’d been there recently as Josh pointed out marks in the soil where the quails’ remarkably long claws had scratched up the nutsedge and oxalis nodules they favor.
Josh’s approach was to let his dogs roam hundreds of yards away, and a ping from their collars would send us scampering uphill 200 yards to the northwest then back another 75 down into a different draw. Sometimes they were on point, other times one of the dogs was just taking a break, but we’d always hike the distance just in case because Mearns’ hold tight for pointing dogs.
We all celebrated when Gauge’s collar tone sent us cross country to find him pointing a small group of birds. They were mixed in amongst the rocks and tawny bunchgrass. The tan and black ladder-like feathers on their backs, coupled with the iconic, white-spotted black feathers on their flanks, provided the perfect camouflage in the dappled light.
The beautiful, unique feathers of the Mearns’ quail provide the cryptic camouflage needed to hide them in the tawny grasses and shadows of oaks and pines.
As the day wound down, everyone had managed to connect with at least one bird. The rocky terrain had taken its toll on the pads of Gauge’s feet and on the stock of my new shotgun after I slipped down a rocky slope. But those hard-earned scars will tell a story each time the gun comes out of the case.
We plucked birds, their unique feather patterns adding to the stock that Sophie maintains to make earrings for her side business. Mesa once again had the chance to live vicariously through us. Knowing her days of hunting were now over, we all wished we’d been able to get down here a year or two sooner so that she would have had the chance to hunt them, too.
At 13, Mesa’s breathing condition meant she couldn’t hunt with us but she enjoyed short morning walks and getting a nose full of quail feathers.
We headed east on I-10 to our final overnight in Wilcox and stopped to have an authentic Mexican meal in one of the few restaurants in town. Planning the next day’s hunt, Josh told us we would target scaled quail, but a mixed bag would be possible. He added that the previous year he had found hundreds of scalies and Gambel’s in this area.
Unfortunately, it became apparent quickly that this year was very different for bird numbers.
We drove in on a private road that offered access to state lands, full of high hopes but flagging energy. Two days of hard hunting had nearly done us in, including young Gauge. Scaled quail are notorious runners, and the dogs would pick up the scent and try to figure out their path, but the birds always stayed just out of range. We spent an hour working a low area, chasing around the same small covey.
We headed up another steep hillside, and I opted to take the low road while Casey, Sophie and Josh went near the top, hoping an elevation change would make a difference. One passing bird drew a “Hail Mary” shot from Casey, but we ultimately ended the day with empty game bags. As we drove out, a covey of Gambel’s ran the road ahead. Alas, one look at the onX map alerted us to the fact that we were, once again, on private land.
After five days of driving over 2,600 miles, we relished the amount of windshield available for debriefing. Unable to call my dad to tell him about the hunt, we nevertheless continued the tradition, reminiscing about the incredible experience. In spite of the exhaustion (and the embedded cactus and catclaw stickers that wouldn’t come out for a couple more days), we all wanted to return the following year.
The family’s hunting tradition remains strong with a bright future of long sun-drenched days afield and tired pups.
An adventurous spirit and the love of travel, hunting and good bird dogs were some of the greatest gifts Dad gave me, and we have shared with our daughter. Our desert experience pursuing some of this country’s beautiful native quail was a fitting tribute.
Once again, during the quiet times on the drive, we listened to a selection of country music.
At one point, I entered a deeper silence as Riley Green’s singing became more personal:
“I wish good dogs never got grey and old
I wish farms never got sold …
And I wish grandpas never died”
— Jodi Stemler
Hunting was always a part of her roots, but it was her daughter’s enthusiasm and the opportunity to hunt as a family that brought Jodi Stemler back to the ranks as a “re-activated” hunter. Her natural resource management degree from Rutgers University provides a foundation in ecology to her work as a communications and policy consultant for national hunting conservation organizations. It also provides a unique lens through which she views her time in the field and conveys those experiences within her freelance writing.
