The alarm buzzes long before first light. Already dusty from the drive, my Toyota 4Runner is parked off a forgotten two-track in the middle of nowhere, West Texas. There are no fence lines, just miles of wind-carved mesquite, ankle-twisting rocks and the kind of sunrise that turns the sky into a watercolor firestorm. My English setter, Sage, shakes out her nerves in the front seat while I lace up my boots. In 20 minutes, we’ll be pushing brush, with our eyes peeled for the first covey rise of the day.
Unlike most quail hunters, I choose to camp instead of heading back to a lodge or hotel when the sun goes down. That means everything, including food, water, dog gear, gun oil, headlamps, med kits, etc., rides with me. When…