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Jim Casada Biography

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“Roughly speaking, the period when bevies of bobwhites were found in great abundance over a goodly portion of the American landscape embraced a period from early in the 20th century into the late 1950s or early 1960s. In retrospect, we can readily perceive the circumstances that produced an incredible bounty of the saucy little patrician of peafield cormers and briar-infested fencerows. All were, in one way or another, habitat related, and all have vanished like milkweed spores caught in September thermals. It was a time of sharecroppers and small farmers, folks who worked the land by hand and with teams of horses or mules. The concept of “clean farming” was both impractical and unknown, and these staunch sons of the soil were also practical conservationists who routinely left field edges and ditch banks in an overgrown state. They allowed worn-out land to revert to broomsedge and pines, and the practice of leaving peafield corners unharvested was commonplace. Raptors were shot on sight, with every hawk being deemed a “chicken” hawk. Furbearing nest predators—'’possums, ’coons, skunks, and foxes—were trapped and hunted for food or fur. Serpents, except for black snakes, which were prized because they kept rodent populations under control around corncribs, were not only killed; they were displayed on fences as a sort of message. Coyotes were at that point unknown over most of the South, the heartland of the noble quail and home of the strongest traditions associated with the bird, Foxes weren't just hunted; they were exterminated. In other words, an area encompassing tens of millions of acres was overseen by an army of unofficial, unpaid, unheralded, yet highly effective gamekeepers.”

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“At this moment a blood-pressure estimate would bust the machine that takes it. Your heart is so loud it sounds like a pile driver. There is something in your throat about the size of a football, and your lips are dry from the temperature you're running, which is maybe just under 110 degrees Fahrenheit. You are looking straight ahead of the dog—never down at the ground—and you are carrying your shotgun slanted across your chest the stock slightly cocked under your elbow. Nothing happens. The dog creeps forward another six yards, and you come up behind him when he freezes again. This time he’s looking right down at his forefeet, and when you walk past him he jumps and the world blows up. The world explodes, and a billion bits of it fly out in front of you, tiny brown bits with the thunder of love in each wing. They go in all directions—right, left, behind you, over your head, sometimes straight at you, sometimes straight up before they level. Then a miracle happens. Out of these billion bits you choose one bit and fire, and if the bit explodes in a cloud of feathers you choose another bit and fire again, and if this bit also explodes you break your gun swiftly and load, figuring maybe there’s a lay bird and you can turn to the Old Man with a grin, and when he says, “How many?” you can answer, “Three.” More likely you’ll answer, “One” or “None.”’ - November Was Always the Best By Robert Ruark”

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“If there is a broad explanation for the fascination of quail shooting, it must be that no man can bet on just how good he’ll be on any given day. The challenge of bird to man is permanent. You will catch a full night's sleep, find perfect shooting the next day, and miss everything that flies. You can get drunk as an owl, sit up all night, fly a plane from dawn until noon, and with a bellyful of butterflies kill all that rustles. My personal record of 15 out of 18 shots was set on a basis of no sleep at all for two nights, due to work and travel, with a splitting headache and hands that shook like maraca gourds. Recently I had 11 in the bag with 13 shots. We couldn't find bird No. 12, and this so upset my timing that it took me 22 shots to get the other four quail. And we had to chase the last one to death. - The Brave Quail By Robert Ruark”

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“What's your idea of November?” he asked, his eyes half-closed. I wanted to tell him that it was mostly the opening of the bird season, and the Thanksgiving holidays, the persimmons wrinkled and ripe on the trees, when the weather was real nice, and it was hog-killing time in the country, and the pumpkins looked yellow and jolly in the fields, and the sun set good and red, and a lot of other things, but I couldn’t manage to squeeze it all out because I had no way with words. “The bird season,” I said. - November Was Always the Best By Robert Ruark”

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“It is difficult, very hard, to try to explain what a boy feels when he sees the dogs sweeping the browned peafields, or skirting the edges of the gallberry bays, or crisscrossing the fields of yellow, withered corn shocks, running like racehorses with their heads high and their tails whipping. And then that moment, after nearly a year, of the first dog striking the first scent, and the excitement communicating to the other dogs, and all hands crowding in on the act—the trailers trailing, the winders sniffing high, but slow now, and the final eggshell-creeping, the tails going feverishly and the bellies low to the ground, presaging a point. Then the sudden freeze, then the slight uncertainty, then ja minor change of course, and then the swift, dead-sure cock of head, which says plainly the bird is here, boss, right under my nose, and now it’s all up to you. - November Was Always the Best By Robert Ruark”

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“Some people step into their backyards to shoot quail; others spend thousands of dollars annually for the same privilege. But they all share one defect of character: All quail shooters are abject liars. I know, for | have been lying steadily about quail and bird dogs since I was 8, and got physically sick from excitement when I killed my first one. The quail shooter’s mind works roughly like this: They aren't making the same kind of cartridges anymore, because when you point them at the bird the bird won’ drop. Obviously something is wrong with the powder... The sun was in my eyes... The damn bird flew around a branch just as I shot. The dogs have lost their sense of smell... . The rabbit hounds ran up all the quail... One of the other hunters was in the way, or I would have killed two... It was getting too dark to shoot with safety. All the birds got up wild, ahead of the dogs . . . I slipped and fell... I had a headache and my timing was off... When I was going good after the first two coveys, we couldn't find any more for an hour and I cooled off. The safety on my gun jammed ... The little single dog won't backstand a point any more... The woods were too thick... The birds wouldn't hold to a point. These are the things you tell yourself. You tell other people that you only used half as many shells as you really used, and then you say that you had to run down a couple of wounded birds and shoot some more.’ - The Brave Quail By Robert Ruark”

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“Each man builds his dog in his own image, but the definition of a good dog, like the definition of a good man, is one who knows and respects the bobwhite. No sincere hunter will overshoot a covey. No good dog will flush a covey until the hunter is at his side. No good dog will encroach on another's point. A smart dog knows more than any man about the likeliest spot to find his quarry. No good man or good dog is happy to leave a wounded bird unfound. No good man hogs the best shot, as no good dog is disrespectful of the rights of his hunting companion. Altogether, the quail manages to bring out a great deal of fineness in both dogs and men. - The Brave Quail By Robert Ruark”

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“Aside from its bearing, one way or another, on field trial technique, the average quail hunter (or any other type, for that matter) needs and delights in a prompt, tender retriever, regardless of breed. The daring, finished retriever brings a friendly kinship to the gunning theme. Faithful service, understandingly rendered, wins everlasting affection. Many and many a dead bird is found. And, equally important to game restoration, countless cripples are brought to bag. The chap who fails to cherish and reward his dog for tackling thorns or dangerous ice and water simply lacks humanity and sportsmanship. Have you ever sat late before a low-burning log fire and recalled how the noble animal at your feet risked his life so cheerfully for your fun? If so, then you and I share a sentiment worth owning. - Amid Whirring Wings By Nash Buckingham”

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“A bird hunter should consider quail as having the attributes of a gentleman unwillingly participating in the sport. The quail deserves every courtesy, including that of a clean kill. It should go without saying that quail must be shot only while on the wing. Ground shooting is the moral equivalent of stealing from the church collection plate . .. or worse. - Shooting Quail - A Primer By Dr Joseph C. Greenfield, Jr.”

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“When the covey flushes, if possible, the hunter should try to kill the first bird off the ground. If the bird doesn’t fall, shoot again. On the other, hand, if the bird does go down and the hunter feels compelled to shoot again, he has plenty of time to pick out a second bird. Good hunters avoid shooting into the middle of a covey. They pick out birds on the periphery, The scarcity of wild quail makes it mandatory not to shoot into a covey and risk wounding several birds. - Shooting Quail - A Primer By Dr Joseph C. Greenfield, Jr.”

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“The man scuffs his boot. The lead dog switches his snout and points it downward. The man says the old cliché: “This is it.” He kicks, and the world erupts around him. The noise has something of the sound of an exploding landmine, something of the rapid belch of an Oerlikon 20 millimeter. It is otherwise indescribable. Small birds burst from the ground. They take off in all directions. They are traveling at more than 40 miles an hour, and they present a target as large as a big orange. If they are to be killed they must be killed before they have traveled 60 yards, and if the cover is heavy they may need to be shot within 20 yards. They may have to be shot from the hip, or off the biceps, or even off the nose. First, though, the gunner must select a bird from the thundering mass of rocketing fowl, because the man who shoots into the brown takes home no meat. A split-second selection must be made. The quail comes into the eye, the gun goes under the eye, the trigger is pressed, and if the man is good the bird drops in a shower of feathers. If the man is very good, he then switches to another bird, which he selects from the speeding gang, and fires again. If he is very, very good, another bird drops. - The Brave Quail By Robert Ruark”

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“Suddenly the scene is frozen for you. The mental camera clicks with Spook mouthin’ his retrieve, and Polly chasin’ a cripple through the blackberry bushes, and Buck tenderly handin’ Pete one of his two kills. And the whole thing is etched on your memory like one of the frames in a slide-projector, full color. Dark green lob-lolly pines, backing golden strawfield, brown blobs of hunters, white setters, sky now dolomite blue, and cottontufts of clouds just touched with slanting sunshine. The day goes on, and there’s a fullness in it. The warmth of good companions, the steady, not-too-perfect dog work, the high excitement of the search, the pleasant lull between the points. - A Letter to My Cousin By David H. Henderson”

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“Why hunt birds? The simple answer is that nothing, absolutely nothing, beats watching a pair of pointers cover a picturesque piece of ground in a workmanlike manner and slamming on brakes to a stylish point. Or an even better answer might be that nothing beats admiring your pointers as they precisely handle a running covey. This tableau, immediately followed by the feel of a fine double shotgun brought into play and accompanied by the thunderous sound of the covey flushing, is an experience without equal. There may be a few things I haven't tried, but nothing I have attempted, seen, or read about even comes close. - Why Hunt Birds? By Dr. Joseph C. Greenfield, Jr”

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