It rained on the hunt again today. Just a drizzle. With bird hunting – which refers, of course, specifically to the pursuit of Colinus virginianus, the bobwhite quail – that’s not all bad. The low pressure that accompanies rain keeps the birds’ scent close to the ground in reach of the dogs, and moisture helps the dogs smell as long as it isn’t excessive. This morning the raindrops didn’t even drum on a hat brim. Just big enough to speckle a mud muddle.
This bird season is still new, and we’re still finding our rhythms. The dogs did well but bumped a few birds. My horse had trouble finding his rack. Dad and I missed more birds than we hit. But the birds were out there, and that’s what you look for early in the season. There were a few moments when the symphony of dogs, horses, humans and birds hit perfect pitch. On one covey rise when one dog pointed, the other backed and the horses ground tied I fired both barrels and dropped two birds. When I went to pick them up they were lying within four feet of each other, stone dead in the underbrush. One male and one female. Hunting is not without its sadness. It often lies alongside pleasure.
A bobwhite quail’s feather pattern balances function and form. It hides him well, so that hunters normally require the assistance of their dogs to pick up dead birds. Commercial camouflage patterns have been computer-designed on the basis of bobwhite coloration. But a bobwhite’s garb is undoubtedly stylish. His upper back is a resonant chestnut, trending into a bluish gray toward the wings and tail, where the feathers are edged with a light brown or dull yellow. His underside is lighter, with the whitish feathers tipped in black. The chestnut of the bobwhite’s upper back stops thins at the neck, where a narrow stripe of brown protrudes forward atop his neck and covers the very top of his head. A jet black band of feathers begins the base of the neck and runs forward, touching the underside of the eye, to the bobwhite’s beak. Between that band and the bobwhite’s chestnut-brown cap, the color of the sexes differs. In that area – the forehead to temple, if you will – the hens wear the same golden brown that outlines the wing and tail feathers. But the males – the bobs – wear pure white, a touch of flashiness at the expense of practicality.
With bobwhite quail, as with almost all vertebrates among which the sexes can be readily differentiated, the sex that is more active in the rituals of mating is the dressier sex. Northern cardinals and wild turkeys are the same way. So are mallards and wood ducks. Among the societies of frogs equipped with inflatable colored membranes at the throat, such membranes are distributed exclusively to males, and among whitetail deer, bucks grow antlers for the rut while does forsake the nutrient-demanding appendages altogether. Other species beautify themselves exclusively for the mating season. The legs and beaks of some species of gulls, brown or black during most of the year, turn yellow or orange when the season for loving arrives.
What of humans? Traditionally, the male has filled more aggressive role. The male asks the female to his high school prom and, later in life, will drop to a knee in suggestion of matrimony. For much of human history, human garb has reflected this ritualistic assignment. In most bands, tribes, chiefdoms and states, the male has taken more pains to ornament himself with paint, beads or clothing. Ever seen a painting of Louis XIV? He wore tights and high heels.
In the latest of centuries, in the most economically complex of cultures, this tendency has begun to change. I wear no makeup or jewelry. In my society, women wear the paint, beads, tights and high heels. The perpetuation of cultural mythos notwithstanding, what does this reversal tell us about the relative activity of the sexes with regard to breeding? Has Homo sapiens diverged from the rule which has described Colinus virginianus and the rest of vertebrate life for as long as we can find records? Or are females more active than males in some modern societies? I enjoy the human mating game immensely. But as I tucked the birds, one hen and one bob, into my game pouch and walked back toward the horses, I harbored a developing suspicion that I’m not as decisive in the mating game as I have sometimes believed myself to be. In breeding, as with any encapsulation of life essences, pleasure and sadness often lie side by side.
No comments:
Post a Comment