The Mexican Desert Holds a Surprising Number of Ducks and Quail. Here’s Why

This story, “Ducks Plus,” appeared in the June 1957 issue of Outdoor Life.

My friend Vic was taking me duck hunting in a jeep that jounced and bumped through weird desert coun­try south of Sasabe in Sonora, Mexico. It was hard for me to imagine why a duck or any other aquatic fowl would settle in this arid region. Surrounding us were rocks carved into scowling ogres and frightening beasts by ages of wind erosion. Giant saguaro cactus raised their arms menacingly. This is tierra embrujada, bewitched ground, and must be avoided after dark. At night evil things are seen here, including the blue fire.

All this I know because Arnaldo, the little lefiador (wood­ cutter) solemnly assured me it is so. Three times, while hunting a strayed burro at night, Arnaldo has seen the blue flames dancing in this area. They are a sure sign of buried treasure, perhaps marking great riches hidden by the con­quistadores, but one must not dig, señor, or terrible things will happen.

It was November now, and the yellow grama grass on the flats was cropped short. Clumps of mesquite, ironwood, and palo verde trees patched the country with green. Our jeep raised a cloud of red adobe dust that trailed away behind us. The road was a mixture of washboard, deep ruts, and holes in which you could bury a deceased tomcat without digging. Nowhere along the way was there the slightest sign of a puddle where a duck could even wet his feet. Yet Vic as­ sured me we were nearing the ranch of two Mexican friends who would show us ducks aplenty.

We were about three miles from this ranch, which is oper­ated by two brothers named Pablo and Pepe, when Vic pointed and over the roar and rattle of our vehicle yelled, “Ducks! High and to the left. They’re shovelers – heading for the represa at the ranch.”

Vic kept his eyes on the ducks a second too long. A vio­lent jolt reminded him that he was still driving on a terrible road, and before he could control the jeep we were into a deep sand boil. The engine coughed and died as sand swal­lowed the wheels. We were stuck.

But you expect that in this part of Mexico, south of the Arizona border. One travels with the right equipment and mental attitude. It took us 20 minutes with shovel, jack, and flat rocks to get on hard ground again, but the day was still young and time is cheap in Mexico. They don’t go in for ulcers or coronaries. To hasty people they say, “Patience, flea, the night is long.”

At the ranch Pablo and his brother Pepe were ready to go. They’d seen the shovelers come in, and reported that there were also many other ducks on the represa.

A represa is an artificial reservoir made by throwing up a dike of earth in a draw to hold water from the torrential summer rains. The result is a pond that holds up well through most of the winter. These ponds may be anywhere from 50 yards to half a mile across. The smaller ones are ideal to hunt, if their dikes are high enough to offer good concealment. The big ones are tough, because a duck can gain too much altitude when flushed and is usually out of range when he passes you.

Gunning these water holes is a group game, and four men make a fine team – two gunners and two drivers. All of you creep up the sloping dike and cautiously peer over at the water. Easy does it; a sudden movement will spoil everything. You spot the ducks, which here may be blue­bills, canvasbacks, whistlers, teal, pintails, mallards, or most anything except blacks and wood ducks. Then you mark the direction of the wind, if any, and make plans. The gunners want the wind on their backs, if it’s strong, because a duck will flush upwind and usually keep coming straight over the gun.

The shovelers we’d seen flying were on the water when we sneaked a look over the dike. They were feeding out near the center along with a dozen bluebills and a big mal­lard drake. Vic and I took stands about 80 yards apart while Pablo and Pepe skirted the dike and melted out of sight.

Screened by burrow weeds, we waited for several minutes and then tensed as we heard Pepe and Pablo shout to flush the ducks. Then the ducks left the water with a racket that drowned out the shouts of Pablo and Pepe, who were wildly wav­ing their arms on the opposite bank. A group of four bluebills, followed by the mallard, headed toward me.

On they came, streaking across the turquoise sky like jet planes. They were almost overhead now, slightly to my left. The fast little bluebills out­ distanced the slower greenhead. Win­nowing wings filled the air with music.

“Lead them,” I reminded myself. “Get out in front of them and keep the gun swinging.”

The report of my first shot bounced back sharply from the water. The lead bluebill lurched, rolled over, and tum­bled earthward. The greenhead flared and started to climb. My second shot got him.

In the excitement I hadn’t heard Vic’s gun; one seldom does when the sport is hot. Now I took my eyes off the cir­cling ducks and saw that Vic had picked up a pair of shovelers.

Things had gone off fine, and if we used our heads we might get another chance at this same flock. Pablo and Pepe dissolved into a clump of mes­quite and Vic and I flattened ourselves on the ground. We wore khaki pants and shirts which blended into the desert soil perfectly. Sliding our guns under weeds to prevent reflections, we waited, immobile and hopeful.

A full 10 minutes passed before we heard the musical beat of duck wings. It was the same flock coming back. They circled high, then swung in lower, still suspicious. At last we heard the splash of birds tumbling in. After a few moments we crawled cautiously up the dike and peeked over.

The birds were restless, swimming in little circles. This time they were closer to the far end of the water hole and a little nearer shore. Vic slipped down and walked fast and quietly through the grama grass to get closer to the ducks. He’d just about made it when a herd of Hereford cattle came splash­ing noisily into the water for a drink. Pablo and Pepe saw that the ducks were about to be spooked by the cattle, so they jumped up and let out their war whoops.

This time the birds broke like a covey of quail, fanning out in several direc­tions and just skimming the water. A pair of bluebills sizzled by at 40 yards and not two feet over the water. I shot three feet behind the front duck, then corrected my lead for the second shot and had the luck to roll him.

I don’t ordinarily shoot this well.

With Vic it’s different. He’s duck happy and is one of the best wildfowl shots in anyone’s company. He got two ducks out of that last round, a shoveler and a bluebill.
As the last of the ducks disappeared behind a mesa a mile away, Pablo and Pepe walked up wreathed in smiles.

“You two shoot pretty good, no?” said Pablo. “I think it’s your lucky day. If we go to the represa down by the big wash soon, I think we’ll see ducks because there won’t be cows.”

It was 11 a.m. and the cattle would be lying in the shade chewing their cud.

The rural Mexican seldom shoots ducks himself. One family in a dozen may own a rusty old shotgun, but shells are prohibitive in price and ducks are too small a return for the investment. Any spare pesos the countryman has are saved to purchase a rifle. With it he can knock over a fat deer now and then and really get food for the family. Any chase is a great thrill to the Mexi­can, however, and he will drop anything he’s doing to drive game for you.

The second represa was surrounded by mesquite trees and had high dikes, which made it a perfect set-up. Pablo was right about the cows; there weren’t any. But there was another detail which proved annoying, especially after driving some six miles over a rough road – there weren’t any ducks either.

It was nearing noon and the sun blazed steadily from a cloudless sky. We were hot, thirsty, and hungry. The initial thrill of the hunt had worn thin for the time being and we were ready for food and a siesta. But not quite ready.

Pepe abruptly announced, “Ducks are coming from the south to us.”

We froze and watched eight ducks beating steadily toward us. They circled high once, didn’t like what they saw, and took right out again. Some­ thing was wrong.

“The jeep,” said Vic. “They spotted it.” He jumped up when the ducks had become mere specks, drove it a few hundred yards off, and parked it under a mesquite which hid it perfectly. He came back puffing. A quarter of an hour passed and there was no sign of birds. I figured they’d left the country, and was about to say so when we spotted them again.

They came in high, circled three times, then sloped down steeply and splashed in.

We gave them 10 minutes to settle down and went after them. It was a small water hole, barely 100 yards across, and almost round. Vic covered one end and I went to the other. The ducks were widgeon, a species not com­mon here, and we wanted them badly.

Pablo and Pepe did their driving act and the widgeon jumped from the water as though propelled by steel springs. I crumpled one at about 30 yards, but my right foot slipped and I was spun around by the recoil of the gun. It was one of Vic’s, a straight-stocked, close­ choked, English 16 gauge that weighed a scant six pounds. With high-speed shells it was a hard hitter at both ends. I recovered in time to take a fast shot at another widgeon.

He flew steadily for a few yards, then sloped down on a long angle and plunked in near a palo verde tree. I found him stone-dead with a single pellet through his head. Vic had downed two as usual. If we wanted more ducks, there were four more represas within a reasonable distance. But right now we were more interested in lunch.

It was pleasant to sit in the shade of a mesquite, munch sandwiches, drink coffee, and make small talk. We con­templated a calm afternoon and a lei­surely drive home.

My watch showed 2 o’clock and we were ready to pack out for the ranch when, as if by appointment, a covey of quail came along. Pablo, who’d been dozing, suddenly sat bolt upright and said, “Quail! Let’s go!”

He’d heard the gossipy voices of a big flock of Gambel quail. They were moving over a flat, mesquite-covered bottom at the foot of a steep bench plentifully spotted with cactus. If you’ve ever hunted desert quail you know the kind of mess these handsome little blue-and-chestnut runners can get you into.

We were almost fagged out from the morning jaunts, but we’d come to Mexico to hunt, had we not? There’s the game, what are we waiting for?

The looks from Pablo and Pepe said all this plainly.

We spread out in a line, Vic and I in the center, and moved in. Soon we saw skulking blue figures darting in and out of the low ground cover. The bench was only 100 yards off and we had to get the birds in the air before they reached it. So we rushed them, dodging mesquite trees, sliding over loose rock, puffing and panting.

The covey broke with a roar. There must have been between 30 and 40 birds and they packed solidly on the rise. Our four shots brought down five birds, one of us catching an extra quail in a shot pattern.

The swift little quail zoomed to the top of the bench and landed in two bunches. We started to plod up after them, hoping for another shot or two. Pablo and I took the left side, climb­ing a steep, rocky cow trail to the top. Cactus and other growth was even thicker than it had looked from below. Pablo took off to my left and dog­ trotted toward a little arroyo to scout. I detoured past a reclining Hereford so as not to disturb her, then another and another. I heard the musical note of a quail and spotted it under a cactus. Walking slowly forward, I made out three others milling around in a circle. Trotting up to within 20 yards, I slid to a stop and whipped up the gun as the birds broke. Something else broke, too – the thundering herd. I wouldn’t have believed there were so many cattle in the whole of Sonora.

Swinging onto a quail that was scal­ing through the mesquite, I saw, over the gun’s rib, the white face of a gal­ loping Hereford. I shifted to another bird, but it was directly in line with the rear end of a fleeing bovine. A hundred sets of pounding hoofs filled the air with a cloud of thick, yellow dust and the sound was like a violent summer storm.

I eased back to the rim, and there was Pablo, waiting with a grin. “It’s too many cows, no?” he asked.

I didn’t say so, but I was grateful to the cows for breaking up the quail hunt. Now we could rest. It was 3 o’clock, time to idle back to the ranch, stop briefly to greet the families of Pablo and Pepe, then head for the Arizona border.

We might have done it that way too – if Pablo hadn’t pulled another of his happy thoughts out of his sombrero: “The doves! Did not the señores wish some of the fine palomas to take home?”

There it was. By the time we got through with the doves it would be so late that we’d have to take la cena, the supper. There would be good food and much talk, and goodness only knew when we’d get back to Arizona. But refusing Mexican hospitality is equivalent to offering an insult.

You are in a hurry? It is incompre­hensible, señor, there is no such thing. We returned down the road over which we’d come for a mile or so, then struck off across another ranch road to some cultivated land.

An irrigation ditch filled with sparkling clear water skirted one edge of a field from which corn had been harvested. Heavy willow growth on the other side made a good blind. Vic and I got set at the edge of the cover while our eager beaters made wide loops around each side of the field toward the far end, where the doves were feeding.

Shortly we heard shouts and saw a cloud of mourning doves coming at us, making for the cover of the willows. They came over with rocket speed, twisting, turning, and side-slipping. There isn’t anything tougher to hit than a dove with a full head of steam up. I missed with both my shots. Vic did a little better, pulling down one of the little winged bullets. We reloaded and had shots at stragglers. Each of us got one.

If Pablo and Pepe were disappointed, they didn’t show it. One has luck, good or bad, according to how the cards are dealt. Is it not so?

Pablo developed a far-away look as though lost in deep thought, then he said, “We are all needing a little drink, no?”

So we drove to the ranch, washed off some of the dust, and gathered on the patio under a huge old eucalyptus tree. The patio was enclosed by an adobe wall, and the floor was flagged with gaily colored tiles. It was late fall, but flowers in profusion bloomed in beds along the walls. Frosts are rare here. A sad-eyed hound dozed in a corner. A calico cat followed by two kittens marched by aloofly with tail erect, and two gamecocks kept hopping up and down in mock battle. In the nearby corral a sheep bleated.

Here was a little kingdom shut off from the worry and turmoil of world events.

Lolita, Pablo’s wife, came through the door of the house bearing a tray with tequila, ice, salt, and slices of lemon. There were also little bottles of Mexican beer. Lolita was followed by Maclovia, the wife of Pepe, who had two pretty little girls and a handsome lad in tow. They giggled shyly as she cautioned them softly in Spanish to be on their best behavior.

After a few moments of conversa­tion the women left to prepare the meal. They did not drink with us. Mexican women rarely do, except the sophisti­cated ones in the towns and cities. The children were allowed to play on the patio.

We had tequila the Mexican way – a pinch of salt on the back of the hand and a slice of lemon. Suck the lemon, lick the salt, then gulp the cactus juice. Tequila is a fine drink this way. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s dreadful stuff, strong enough to etch copper.

The western sky glowed brilliantly as the day faded. Conversation was pleas­ant and went from ducks and quail to deer, cattle, sheep, and burros. Then somehow we got around to mountain lions. Pablo, who was about to lick the paper of a cigarette he was rolling, stopped abruptly and said, “Pepe, they don’ know about the lion. Bring him out.”

We didn’t know what to expect­, possibly a lion cub on a leash? But Pepe returned carrying an incredible and fearsome object which turned out to be the skin of a huge cougar, stuffed with hay. As he threw it on the floor of the patio the hound bristled and growled, then slunk off into a corner and sulked.

As we viewed the weird trophy we were told the story, simply and honest­ly as plain country folk talk. The cat was killed, not by Pablo or Pepe, but by little Pablito, the 11-year-old son of Pablo.

The lion had been killing sheep and calves, but the men had never been able to get a shot at him. Losing stock is a serious business, so they had taken to penning young animals in the corral at night. But the cat slipped in one dark night and made off with a sheep. The men followed the trail next morn­ing for a mile, then lost it in a rocky canyon.

Pablito went out that afternoon with his single-shot .22, a cheap little rifle his father had given him so that he might learn to shoot. He had soon de­veloped into a fine marksman by shoot­ing quail and desert cottontails. Pab­lito’s ammunition was the .22 short, which was cheaper – and did not spoil the meat of small game.

In his father’s room, however, there was a box of .22 Long Rifle, high-speed cartridges with hollow-point bullets. Pablo considered these very powerful cartridges. He had slipped up to the room before starting out and looked at them longingly. He was not to touch them, he knew, but surely one would not be missed. He slipped one into the pocket of his jeans.

Pablito had swung in a big loop from the ranch, and his homeward route took him near the rocky canyon where the lions’ trail had been lost. It was late afternoon and the shadows were lengthening. A gentle breeze blew in the lad’s face as he walked noiselessly over the bare rocks in moccasins.

Topping a rise, he froze in his tracks. Thirty yards away the great tawny cat was crouched feeding on the re­mains of a sheep. It’s back was toward the boy.

Pablito sank down behind Panic seized him. If only he father’s big .30/30. Then he remem­bered the Long Rifle cartridge. slipped it into the breech and cupped his hand over the action to muffle the click of closing the bolt.

Then he slid the rifle slowly, quietly, alongside the concealing rock. The great beast reared its head and the tawny scalp came directly into the rifle sights. Pablito breathed deeply and squeezed the trigger. The bullet thudded squarely into the cat’s skull. The killer sprang up with a great leap, staggered a few yards, and fell dead.

“He is so young, Pablito, but he has the heart-” Pablo was saying just as Pablito came in from doing chores. Then, turning slowly toward us, the proud father winked slyly and said, “It is wonderful, no, amigos, the power of the .22 short.”

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It was 9 o’clock when we headed the jeep back toward Sasabe, Arizona. There was about 50 miles of rough road ahead, but the border station would not close until midnight. A sickle moon glowed brightly, casting weird shadows on the desert floor. It had been a won­derful day. There were ducks, quail, and doves in the jeep – the things we’d come after.

But there was much more. We had savored the spirit of the country and its people, and those are the things you can keep.