A THREE RING CICRUS: THE HAWKERS WERE DIGGING THE RATS NEST FOR A REFLUSH

There was a kid, two horses, three dogs, four falcons, two falconers and a quest. When a quail was cornered all were part of the spectacle. The Harris hawks lifted together each taking a perch on top of the cactus. Harry on horse followed on trot the fights that lasted a hundred yards until his hawk shot across the open space. His trot became gallop and kept going for a quarter mile until the Harris lit. Somehow Harry knew the flight was after quail. Jamaica's Harris followed behind Harry's passage and before I arrived both falconers had hoes out standing in then middle of a kangaroo nest surrounded by cactus excavating the rat hole. Harry took one side of the nest while Jamaica began digging furiously hoping to force the trapped quail to reflush

Both Hawks were perched 5 paces away on top of the cactus waiting. They had been here before and were waiting for the quail to scatter. The dogs were on point. One had a cholla embedded in his snot but he didn't care. Harry dug at least a foot then the quail flushed in a buzz and a second later the Harris had the quail impaled in its talons.

Harry told in me in his subtle way that healthy habitat was excessive desert rats nest. I mentioned some of my colleagues were working the deadly hantavirus carried in the kangaroo's rat feces. Harry laughed saying, "Not as deadly as the rattlers that live down these holes."

THE ULTIMATE QUAIL HUNTER

Desert Hawking by horse takes quail hunting to a new level. I came to visit the Zen Master, Harry McElroy, a Hemingway lookish male who at 82 has the energy and drive of a 40 year old. He is from a cast of Tucson character I've known from Margaret Sanger, to Joe "The Godfather" Bonano, and Norm Borlaug, father of the Green Revolution. I knew Harry as an apprentice astringer in the incredible 60's. He is renown sportsman, an author on Hawking, earned a Ph.D. in behavioral psychology, a Texas bred democrat, and above all a gentleman of the "Old School," with a slight drawl that makes you instinctively listen. Harry was a Kellogg Fellow trained as an educational Psychologist but left to peruse his dreams that he practices each day. He discovered, it was the teacher not students that required intervention with behavioral issues.

And so Harry is my oldest living teacher who took the route of an obsessed human, a life without hesitation, inventing desert quail hunting with with Gos Hawks, Coopers, Sharp Shinned the Harris Hawk ,a parabuteos and aplomado longwings. His summary: Coopers can get the quail, Gos fly faster and Harris's are hunting machines. Harry always loved speed in flight. Harry added horses to his team and moved his attack methods up a notch. He refined hooding, compelling techniques in daily eight control and modern telemetry. Harry, the professor, changes the wild raptors fundamental hunting instinct of simple killing to eat. Instead he modifies them into a quasi-domestic predator, akin to walking the T.Rex on leash through downtown Manhattan.

Harry is as agile and fit as a man in his late 40's. I feel young and hopeful watching him saddle the horse, weigh the hawks and plan the attack. He is slow, a deliberate man much like a desert tortoise until the hunt begins; He morphs to a Mr. Hyde. I learned under Harry back in then 1960's and early 1970's but had too choose grad school over hawking life thanks to the glorious 60's and Woodstock generation. I often wonder where I'd be if I choose the falconers life. I made the good choice but I long for the splendor and happiness that hawking gave me.

I enjoy my visits with Harry and his wife Beth a well traveled patient educator. Today's hunting group was, two Peruvian Paso horses, two pointers who can barely walk due to their cactus impaled paws and of course the stars; an imprinted male Northern Goshawk and a passage Harris Hawk. Each species is fined tuned to this high energy quail hunting. The Goshawk an accipiter, from old English, gōshafoc, meaning goose hawk, is Harry's secret love although he craves the para buteo wolf pack social hunting skills of the Harris Hawks.

I hadn't seen Harry for awhile. And after three weeks in the Sonoran desert camping, hunting riding dual sport KLR 650 and pass shooting, I promised myself to reconnect with this legendary man and his hunting style. Being with Harry floods my memory banks with warmth and joyous times before the crush of adult survival. As a teen housed in a Catholic minor-seminary, Harry gave me advice on bonding skills learned with with raptors. Catholic minor-seminaries were designed to preclude human bonding, women in particular, which I soon discovered was the best route toward recovery and 1960's enlightenment. I was fortunate to get exposure to highly educated men like Harry, learned but demanding priests and teachers who imparted an obsession for knowledge. But, it was not enough for curing the hormone rage. I was homesick for the passions of my father; The hunting dogs, fine guns, camping, fishing, skiing, horses, music and family and on. I had no bonding skill until I meant Harry and learned the essence of life bonding thru falconry.

My father was a persuasive man who gave the seminary priests many perks from golf course passes to hunting trips. He convinced them to let me train hawks while attending seminary school located in the desert. I think he knew where that might led. I learned the bliss on bonding that quickly reveal those forbidden items like 60's music secret radio we heard on a handmade made with copper wire and a crystal set that we listened to in the Hawk Mew with a Coopers Hawks inside. Then best bonding experience of all- girls, a candy stripper to be exact. I my confessions on Friday before mass were legendary. I LEFT THE SEMINARY SOON AFTER. I thank Harry and my hawks for what I am today.

At 2:30, Harry handed me his portable cadge that housed the hooded Harris Hawk.

"Keep him on your lap, tight."

"Sure Harry." I mumbled concerned such a killing machine perched over my jewels

I was amazed how light the bird weighed and grinned how heavy my 20 bore Holland and Holland was. We gathered the dogs and drove down the steep hill to the stable. The horse were at the gate ready to be saddled A fellow falconer, Jamaica and her young daughter joined us flying their aplomado peregrine. Within 15 minuted we had the horses cinched, stirrups adjusted, we mounted and were ready to ride. Quxiote, Harry's name for the Gos, the first to fly was at 590 grams,

" A little lite but within the margin of error," according to Harry.

Just over a pound, I calculated.

"How do you like my happy hunting grounds? Its my heaven and there are many quail," Harry said with sublime certainty. He was right..

We were off in a quick trot. Harry led the way. My horse 14 hands had a smooth trot. He followed the dogs . I didn't have chaps on and he came too close to the cholla cactus and so I would give him a ear twist after removing two cacti from my thigh. He nodded he was going to listen. Straight ahead I saw a thrasher flush to a cactus. Seconds later a pile of dickey birds. Harry had his Goshawk on fist and that sight of a raptor in the field scattered everything in complete terror. Within seconds, the Goshawk exploded from the fist. His horse didn't move at the comporting and dogs gave chase after hawk. Harry shouted, "Whoa, whoa." The accipiter beat its wings several times and was to the horizon. The hawk was onto to something. At a three hundred yards I couldn't tell. Harry knew from the flight pattern he was into quail and the hoot shouts alerted the dogs. Suddenly the Goshawk veered sharp right lifted up and crashed to the ground. Harry said he wanted the dogs alerted to stay with the Gos to prevent other raptor from killing his bird. He had lost several hawks to Red Tails and Golden Eagles.

NEXT THE HUNT

THE ADULTS ONLY WINTER HUNTING CAMP

Empty nest, thank God this year. Don't think ill of me for wanting be separate from my independent children. Without dependents, the dynamics of our winter campaign would be different my not having to do the 10 a.m. bugle call. I wouldn't invite those that could not camp anymore. We wanted to hunt solo with dogs, keep it simple enjoying the splendor, sights and sounds of late season doves without the call for, "what's for diner Mom."

I have a friend who fly fish with us in the Sierras and Montana and is game for adventure. He was invited with his single Brittany to join us. He is a self sufficient guy and never had to hover. In fact, he pitches in without ever being asked. I like that and being the son of a devout preacher man from the old school, he brings much humor to camp. He loves his simple camping style and enjoys the field with his dogs.

Doves were still up north so we had to find flights that were stable. We could shoot a fair bit but the roost or fields wouldn't hold much pressure. It was a just one shoot and had to find other roost. My young retriever was in training to mark and stay on heel until sent. She behave so valiantly always in command and her name was coined back in North Dakota when she managed to recover a double on grouse. I called her super dog because as she is the happiest dog I ever have trained although I have not collar conditioned her. Her disposition in part is due to her older companion Fe a German Wirehair who was imprinted by a famous lab mother daughter relationship.

I began shooting these high flyer with a 1872 Damascus 30 in bar action I. Hollis and Sons stunning wood/timber with high profile rebounding hammers. It is a pigeon grade/ weight and so I shoot 2 3/4 inch, 7/8 oz, 7 1/2. I restored after I discovered it in New Zealand. It has a deadly pattern. Next, I moved up an era and across the channel to a 1892 French bespoke FAVURE LePAGE y FILS PARIS MAKER with gold washed locks, ejectors and the finest rose and scroll engraving . This is the finest double made in the era under the tillage of Napoleon III. It is a finer constructed weapon than my Holland and Holland Royal and equal or exceeds in some feature my Purdey.

We were starting to devour many doves so I switched to my Browning O/U superposed to improve their odds, cheating but it was a gift from my wife. Soon we were in dove heaven and my 8 shot was bringing the high flyers down from 50 yard. I ended the season with my Hollands 20 bore royal but my last shot was with my 1876 WC Scott and Sons Premiere hammer.

We were broiling fine grain fed doves with a Chilean red with brown and wild rice and a garlic bread. Hard to beat camp food made in a slow cooking dutch oven. To finish it off we delighted in a homemade fruit cake.

IRONWOOD CAMPFIRES, PASS SHOOTING WITH ENGLISH SIDE BY SIDES AND ANCIENT PEOPLE

Not much English is spoken here. I checked in with my Mexican friends who farm the vast acreage where we have shooting rights. Luis is already drunk on Christmas Eve busy enjoying his beer and mescal chaser. I decline his offer for the worm but will take a beer. "There are a few cordoniz (desert quail) this year," Luis says, "and the Paloma (doves) still winter up north but still there are some. You will have to hunt for them. "HaHa!" he laughs and goes back to check his mesquite fire. Luis along with the ten families are making carnitas a holiday mainstay in these Mexican farm camps. Luis's wife is busy holding her new grandson and wants nothing to do with the men who are drinking and will continue well past midnight. They will be ready after several hours of sleep enjoying their day off one of the few they have off.

Our camp site is well isolated and so we will have clear night skies. The moon is waxing almost waning. Our first order of business is to locate wood for the fire. Arizona is dry and there is much dead wood and so I chain a limb for the night fire. Besides, in several days, a friend with a varied camping, rafting and bloodsport experiences will join us for a couple of days. He will enjoy my wood collecting madness.