John Dooner
Sep 8, 2018 · 10 min read

From Dirt to Feathers

With a little over 450 acres, we undertook a challenge that would prove to be more about the journey than the destination. My father and I both work as consulting foresters but spend endless hours fine-tuning our little piece of heaven on earth. Located about 25 miles northwest of Tallahassee, Florida, the Flora Dora Farm is only a stone’s throw from the famed Red Hills region comprised of expansive quail plantations dating back a century and more. However close, Gadsden County, Florida has its own unique and compelling history. Gadsden has been called the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains and was once the center of shade tobacco farming in the South. During this era of prosperity, many of the local farmlands were owned and operated by the American Standard Tobacco Company who donned the farms with charming names that stuck with the properties to present-day. Thus is the brief history of our Flora Dora Farm, and although we cannot derive the reasoning behind the name, perhaps this little enigma adds to the allure of the place.


Having dabbled in quail hunting on small portions of the farm since 2000, a planned selective timber harvest in 2016 across a significant portion of the farm provided an opportunity to simultaneously promote a more herbaceous ground cover preferred by bobwhite quail. The increased sunlight reaching the forest floor, coupled with a continued prescribed burning regime and selective winter disking, would naturally foster this transformation. Suitable quail habitat already existed in certain areas, and the upcoming harvesting operation would allow for additional acreage to be incorporated into quail a management program. This would not eliminate the efficient use of the farm for producing a timber crop but would mesh quail habitat with timber revenues. Additionally, fields and openings that had been previously planted for deer and dove would be left fallow, also disked periodically in the winter months, and transformed into feeding and nesting areas made up of native vegetation.


From a forester’s perspective, this was an enthralling proposition, and as a hunter and naturalist the desire to chase little bobwhites around the farm was a no-brainer. So, we pooled our technical, financial, and physical resources and decided to begin the process immediately. This would be a quintessentially Southern experience predicated on hard work and dedication; one that literally and figuratively helped us get back to our roots. With the recruitment of a hunting partner, Taylor, my father, Michael, and I set out with a steely resolve to reach our goal.


By March, the harvesting operation had begun in earnest, and we kept a close eye on residual stocking levels to ensure we had the appropriate number of trees. With dual goals of future revenues and quail habitat, there would naturally be pockets of pines slightly thicker than others and small gap openings scattered throughout like patchwork. This was also visually appealing as the variety mimicked natural timber stands. We also removed the majority of the low-value hardwood scattered throughout the pines allowing even more sunlight to penetrate the canopy. Mother Nature’s cooperation was now all we needed, and for the most part she obliged. Only one interruption stalled the operation from early April into early May, but by late June the last of the loaded trucks meandered from the farm leaving an aromatic trail of pine sap.


​The harvesting operation began on the southern portion of the farm, and by the time the weather intervened the logging crews had already moved north. This facilitated the onset of post-harvesting quail management projects on the south side, mainly recruiting birds. Although a handful of wild coveys existed on Flora Dora, we didn’t have any misgivings about the fact that pen-raised quail would be a necessity, certainly for the first several years. The pen-raised quail program would consist of a combination of birds released prior to the hunting season and those released the day of hunting which would culminate in adequate quail numbers for an all-around enjoyable hunt. The survivors of the early-released coveys would offer challenging shots and quick flushes, but the birds released the day of hunting would ensure the bird dogs had plenty of coveys to work, a satisfactory mixture we felt. On May 24, a warm Tuesday evening, a good friend of Taylor’s delivered a rectangular structure equipped with propane heaters, water tanks, and grain dispensers. This primarily metal object would, in a matter of a few days, become the dwelling for 125 wild quail chicks. The chicks’ introduction to their new home would occur when they were a day old, and there they would remain for five weeks. With limited human interaction but exposure to the natural elements by virtue of the design of the surrogator, the quail were supposed to fly, hide, eat, and survive like quail reared by an actual hen. We were intrigued by tales of success, and the idea of “growing” several coveys of quail from day one was quite exciting. The chicks would have to be monitored once a week to ensure proper water and nutrition were available for their development. Otherwise they were free to mature at their leisure in the comfort and protection of the surrogator. They had access to food on one end but could venture to the other end of the surrogator where mesh lining allowed the chicks to see, smell, and hear the sights and sounds of Mother Nature. Just before high noon the following Saturday, the chicks arrived to the farm and were situated in their new dwelling. The heater, regulated by a thermostat, was set to the proper temperature, the water tank was filled and dripping correctly, and the grain bin was loaded to the brim. We wiped the sweat from our brows, wished the little bobwhites the best of luck, and did our best to keep the distance and allow the chicks to develop “naturally.”


​By late June the sweltering summer heat ushered in the day we had been patiently waiting for as we released the adolescents from their humble abode. They erupted with fervor as they lit in the surrounding vegetation, their instinctual attraction to concealment taking over. The birds’ emergence was a symbolic experience for us spurning us to keep working and developing habitat for these creatures we had nurtured. Prolonged time in a Deep South summer, particularly outdoors, forces tempers to shorten and attitudes to sour as Mother Nature’s heat and sultriness bear down. We had also lost our female pointer, whom we never had the pleasure of hunting, only a week prior, so the flight of the quail provided a needed boost. We had our constant companions, the little Boykin who was now 5.5 months was joined by Buzz, the 8 week-old English Cocker. They frolicked amongst the darting quail with that unique exuberance derived only from the scent of birds; something we will never fully comprehend. Ironically, as the last of the birds left the surrogator, a mature hen emerged from a thicket to investigate these new members of the community. We could only hope she was a fostering soul as the first veil of darkness fell on the quail and their newfound freedom, and we had a drink and toasted our lost Lady and the good days afield to come.


Summer inched along with the usual stifling heat, but our enthusiasm kept our spirits high as we continued to labor around the farm. The occasional field needed mowing, and a few patches of invasive weeds needed treating, but otherwise July came and went uneventfully. August ushered in a new guest to the property in the form of a John Deere bulldozer prepared to re-shape the vast road system crisscrossing the farm. The powerful machine pushed here, scraped there, and like an automated artist painted a new face on the farm. Immensely improved, the bare surfaces were still missing the final touches, and here an opportunity was identified. To stabilize the roadways, we broadcast browntop millet, a quick germinating cover crop whose seeds also happen to be savored by bobwhite quail. The result was an elongated food strip snaking through the farm providing a buffet line for the hearty birds. Now we didn’t want to risk the chance that all this food would go uneaten, so we added the final additions to our bird population a few weeks later. After all, September had arrived bringing the official fall equinox with it, although anyone who has spent time below the Mason-Dixon knows this is just a date on the calendar because September is downright hot. Nevertheless, it reminded us that we were close, that the countdown to hunting season had begun, and that is was time to place the early released birds into their appropriate domains on the farm. Differing from the chicks that matured in the surrogator, these birds were adults when released, generally into prime escape cover with robust food sources and loafing habitat nearby. The final months before hunting season provided the birds an opportunity to develop flight characteristics more closely resembling wild quail than birds released the day of hunting. These new residents required supplemental feeding and needed a bit of nurturing but made the effort worthwhile when they erupted from in front of a steady point. This represented the final project before we took to the field, so we eagerly attached the spreader to the tractor and fed generously for the remainder of the fall, hoping the birds would fulfill our aspirations for them.


​Anyone who does it knows that quail hunting is not about the number of birds harvested, but all the other experiences that culminate from time afield. It’s about a steady dog or a flush and retrieve to hand. It’s about fellowship and the celebratory cocktail that follows. It’s about fine guns, a good pair of briar pants, or the perfect passing shot. At the end of the day, a sack full of birds always lifts the spirits and excites the palate, but that’s not the essence of quail hunting. As those cool breaths from the north begin crisping our October mornings, all of these little things reach the forefront of one’s mind, and the tractor rides get old as we long to hear the broom sedge bristle in the wind. Like children waiting for Christmas morning, we dealt with the seemingly eternal delay by allowing the Boykin and Cocker pup to flush the birds released in September, ensuring they had a little practice. And then in the blink of an eye it was here. The buildup was over. November 19 marked the first outing of the year in pursuit of bobwhites. The energy was electric for all participants, both two and four-legged. The two pointers and the setter hit the ground running like excited children released for recess. Humans clearly cannot attain the adrenalin level which the scent of one little bird can evoke from the pointing breeds. The buildup of the offseason was unleashed this morning and would soon come to fruition when they froze in their stately pose over the first covey. The weather was warm, and the hunt would be short. Everyone, both hunters and dogs, were out of shape. Easy shots were missed, birds were bumped, but at the end of it all the satisfaction was evident. Hunting season was back.


We hunted through the second week of February and harvested 119 bobwhite quail from Flora Dora. The cover was somewhat sparse following the timber harvest, and we had no doubts that the majority of the birds taken were ones set the mornings of the hunts. It was also evident when we stumbled upon an early-released covey as they thundered from the cover. They were survivors, and it was clear that they had developed the necessary techniques to subsist. Most importantly, the dogs got better, the spaniel puppies were flushing and retrieving, good stories were told, and fun was had by all. By mid-February it was time. Time to clean the guns, to put away the vests and chaps, to rest the dogs, to let the birds shift to spring mating rituals. Every ending is bittersweet, but the realization that the end of one season is the only reason we lust for the beginning of the next gets us through. And this makes it mostly sweet. One thing is for sure, when the coolness of the October winds finally blows, we will be back.

John Dooner

Written by

Forester. Outdoor writer. Amateur photographer. "There are some who can live without wild things, and some who cannot." -Aldo Leopold. I'm the latter.

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