A photographic journal.
by Dusan Smetana
There’s something about hunting bobwhite quail that stays with you.
It might be the misty traditions of the Old South. It might be the dogs, or the guns, or the sunrise in the Georgia pines.
It might be a day afield with your friends—the rustle of brush-pants, the woofs and whistles and locked-up points from a
“staunch dog silhouetted against the setting sun,” as Havilah Babcock wrote.
But really, it’s all about the quail—Gentleman Bob, the Prince of Gamebirds, the Artful Dodger that blasts off with a
whoom and etches its jaunty personae into your soul.