The Quail

I’d never seen wild quail in Florida until I was fourteen. I know they were there, in the hot, Florida scrubland. Colinus Virginianus; the northern bobwhite quail. Their call is a high pitched fwee- fwoo, fwee- fwoo, always in sets of two or three. I’ve heard them while hiking a few times before, mixed in with the dull roar of the cicadas and the low roh-roh-roh of great blue herons. 

My mother and I hike a lot, and though I always groan about it in various tones of “moooom,” I always enjoy the thick South Florida scrub. Tall grasses hide plenty of unique animals, and looming pine, oak, and cypress trees are welcome respites from the scalding sun. We started hiking more and exploring new trails during quarantine, because it was the only way to escape the oppressive boredom and isolation. 

The day I saw the quail started like any other day in quarantine — in my house. I probably bounced to the car when my mother said we were going hiking. My tune had changed by the time we were hiking in knee high grasses. It was so hot that even my shoes had been soaked with sweat through my socks. We were hiking next to a lilypad (and probably gator) infested canal. A boggy, buggy field on the other side completed the picture. The area had been slated for a housing development before people realized that when you add water to the Florida heat you get mosquitoes. They turned it into a park and hunting sanctuary instead. Today wasn’t any different, with clouds of sweat vaporizing off our skin and mosquitoes shadowing us more effectively than bodyguards. By the time my mother and I realized we were lost it was too late—cell service had long since

deserted us to our fate. The first thing we did was try to get a GPS reading; that was a no-go. Our second step was to backtrack the path; also a no-go, as the path twisted into several small footpaths in every direction. The signs had been scratched out or taken down, probably by hunters during hunting season. Our third step was to check our supplies; as this was only supposed to be a three mile hike, all we had was a single canteen of water and half a bag of stale kettle-corn popcorn. My mom’s decision was to keep following the dusty, shrub lined path until we hit a major road or got cell service. We set down the trail lined with oaks and cocoplums. Soon, the forest thinned out to arid scrubland. Four more miles in I sat in the dirt, put my head in my hands, and cried. We had long since left the shade of the oak trees, and were now hiking on a hot, crushed shell path next to a drainage canal. 

“We’re going to die and they’re never going to find our bodies!” I said to my mom. It would be the next “Florida Man” title: 50 Year Old Corpses of Woman and Young Teenager Found in the Scrubland. My mother promised me, helping me to my feet and offering me the canteen, that no, we were not going to die. I didn’t really believe her, but I let her hoist me to my feet. We continued trekking, checking for service or trail signs.  In the heat-hazy distance I saw two small shapes putter onto the shell-grit road. Until that point, there had been no other signs of life but the soul-sucking bugs. As we got closer the shapes morphed into the distinct pear shaped bodies of northern bobwhite quail. The male, upon seeing us, froze and wheezed out several fwee-fwoo’s. His companion scuttled in the brush, but he stood his ground until we got within a few feet of his white and black striped head. In an instant, both darted in front of us. Quail exhibit a behavior called “flushing” when they are startled, where they take off at almost a ninety degree angle. After they settled down farther on the path, we followed their steps doggedly, hoping that eventually the path would lead to a road. 

“I have service!” my mom said, grabbing my shoulder. My mother called my dad, and we plotted the closest way to civilization. By the time we finally reached the highway, we had hiked over 10 miles. My dad was not particularly happy to see us.