One of the south's largest remaining stands of longleaf pine runs northward from Tallahassee across the Florida border into Georgia, and up into the area around Thomasville and Moultrie. Over 3,000,000 acres in size, this sprawling tract of timber falls largely under the ownership of more than 60 plantations, some of which date back to before the Civil War.

The land contained within this majestic concentration of pine is prime quail country, and is considered by many to be the heart of quail country in the South. Every winter, plantations burn the underbrush in different portions of their own section of the big woods to maintain this ideal quail cover, then plant food plots the following spring consisting mainly of lespedeza, partridge pea, vetch, plums, doveweed, millet and other food sources for the birds. During the course of the summer, a regiment of hunting dogs are whipped into shape, and come fall, an upland tradition that has been carried on for more than a century begins once again, as parties of hunters enter tall, open woods on horseback, in a jeep, or perhaps aboard a mule drawn wagon, following one or more stylish pointers combing the wire grass in search of bobwhite quail.

The hunting on many of these plantations is by invitation only, especially the ones which still hunt wild bird populations, but then again, if you weren't born into certain circles, you needn't bother even fantasizing about such a hunt. For the rest of us who will never see beyond the gates of such plantations, however, there is a wonderful alternative. A number of plantations in the Thomasville area have opened their doors to "northerners" and the like, and provide a quality hunt in the true southern tradition for liberated quail.

Ashburn Hill, located on the out-skirts of Moultrie, is one of these plantations. Purchased over a hundred years ago by William Warren Ashburn, the Ashburn Hill plantation has stayed in the family ever since and is presently owned by Frank Pidcock III, great-grandson of the late William Ashburn. Today, as it has been for many, many years, the main crop at Ashburn Hill is bobwhite quail.

Since 1968, Ashburn Hill has been running a commercial quail hunting operation on over 5,000 acres of longleaf pine and surrounding field edges. Although Frank's operation is indeed commercial by definition, it is in fact, also a very personal one, for every guest at Ashburn Hill is made to feel like family, as he is the consummate host; gracious and eager to please.

Last November, I left the mountains of New Hampshire and traveled south to Ashburn Hill for a few days of quail hunting. Having never shot quail in the deep South before, I was looking forward to both my first covey rise and opportunity to sample upland tradition that goes back to another time, with high anticipation.

Following a morning flight and an hour drive up from Tallahassee, I spent my first afternoon in Georgia hunting quail in the company of Frank, along with one of those close personal friends, a gentleman by the name of Rob, and dog handler Jerry York.

We headed out down a plantation road in the back of a jeep with half a dozen dogs tucked in the kennel under our seat and two lightweight doubles cradled securely in the gun box. In true southern tradition, hunting parties at Ashburn Hill hunt various "courses" or areas on the plantation, areas with names, like Carlton Woods, Carter Woods, Big Woods, Middle Woods and Murphy Woods, with each party having an area entirely to themselves.

The light filtering down through the towering canopy of longleaf pine in Carlton Woods was soft and warm, casting long shadows across the carpet of wiregrass. The jeep stopped momentarily as Jerry got out, set a dog down on the ground, and turned him lose. After marking a nearby pine, the young pointer set out to do his job, quartering ahead of the jeep as we drove slowly down a sandy road leading deeper into the pines.

As I enjoyed the view from the back of the jeep and discussed the various aspects of quail hunting with Frank and Rob, Jerry kept up a constant rapport with the eager dog, calling out, "Come around! Head up! Find a bird!"

About a hundred and fifty yards into the pines, the dog suddenly froze near a clump of thick green vegetation.

"Point! Mr. Tim, Mr. Robbie," barked Jerry as he stopped the vehicle and jumper out. "Best hop down and grab your guns."

Rob and I jumped down and drew our guns from the padded gun box mounted on the side of the jeep. Slipping in a couple of loads on no. 8 shot, I closed the action on my 20 gauge AyA side-by-side, and took up a position on Jerry's right as Rob struck out to the left. Together we moved toward the pointer, which remained frozen like a statue. The best quail dogs never break a point or blink an eye, ever.

"Mr. Tim," Jerry whispered, "The jeep is directly behind us suh, please be careful of the dog, keep moving up on the right."

When Jerry determined that both Rob and I were in good position, he motioned for us to stop and get ready, then rushed headlong into the thicket flailing the brush with his leather flushing stick.

A covey of a dozen birds exploded from the tangle of lespedeza, fanning out in front of us as they took to the air. I quickly snapped an errant shot at one little speed ball quartering off to my right, then missed another brown blur with a rushed, desperate attempt from my second barrel.

"Any birds down over your way, Mr. Tim"" Jerry called over. "No," I replied.

Having played this game many times before, Rob scored a double on the covey rise, and after we'd collected his birds, the three of us headed back to the jeep where Frank was waiting with a big grin on his face.

"It still puzzles me how you Yankees ever won the war," Frank chuckled from his perch in the back of the jeep, adding, "Although, I do suppose you're entitled to one case of the covey jitters, bein' your first time and all." He then proceeded to tell me what I should have already known, pick one bird and forget the rest. A task often easier said than done when confronted with a dozen or so birds bursting into the air at your feet.

Minutes later, we repeated the drill again on another covey point, and this time I was ready and focused when the birds exploded. One of the first bobs to flush flew straight away at eye level and I folded it cleanly with my right barrel at 20 yards. The air was still full of targets so I swung my gun on a second bird quartering off to my right and dumped it as well.

"Damn fine shootin' suh," Frank exclaimed as I returned to the jeep the second time around. "I knew you'd get the hang of it." We spent the rest of the sunny afternoon riding through the Carlton Woods, enjoying the sweet pine air and impressive dog work, and chalked up eight covey finds by day's end.

Upon returning to the lodge, I joined the other guests of Ashburn Hill for cocktails by a roaring fire in the living room, where we settled back into the comfort of overstuffed chairs and sofas to trade stories of shots made and shots missed during the course of our respective hunts. Several fine sporting prints adorned the walls of this cozy room, while volumes of wingshooting literature lined the bookcase shelves and hunting periodicals lay scattered about for our reading enjoyment.

With the announcement of dinner, everyone filed out the backdoor of the lodge and across the lawn to the formal dining hall situated in the old Moultrie Railroad Depot, a building that Frank has saved from destruction and relocated on the plantation. The station, along with two railroad cars and a host of other memorabilia on the property, serve as a tribute to the short-line railroad Frank's grandfather ran into Moultrie back in 1893.

Dinner that evening consisted of deep-fried quail, collard greens, black-eyed peas, rice and wine, topped off with fresh pecan pie and ice cream. After dinner, Frank announced that he had a special treat in store for everyone, so without further ado, we adjourned to the ticket room in the back of the station where cigars, glasses of port or brandy, and the musical delights of a local bluegrass band awaited us.

I was awakened early the next morning by a knock on my door, and offered a freshly squeezed glass of orange juice from one of the staff. After a breakfast of gravy, ham, sausage, eggs, fruit, cornbread, grits and fresh coffee, we headed to the changing room to pick up our guns (which are cleaned daily by the staff) and don our hunting gear (including snake-proof boots or leggings). Outside, a caravan of jeeps, horses and a mule drawn wagon lay waiting under an umbrella of towering oaks and pecan trees to take hunters into the field.

Dawn glistened on the lawn and horses whinnied as hunters paired up for the morning hunt. Down below in the kennel, the dogs started barking, knowing full well what lay ahead today. I shared the back seat of a jeep with Bob MacKay, a longtime friend of Frank's who has been returning to Ashburn Hill to hunt quail each fall for more than 15 years. Our guide and dog handler was Jerry York.

After a quick stop at the kennels to pick up a half a dozen dogs, I found myself once again enjoying the beautiful scenery of Carllton Woods as we followed a wide-nostriled pointer in search of quail. The longleaf pines in Carlton Woods are typical of trees in most managed quail cover, spaced well apart for wide-open shooting and decorated with the charred scars of biannual burnings. The controlled burns don't harm the trees, and are a must to keep down the ground cover and thereby create an ideal environment for bobwhites.

It was only a matter of minutes before the cry of "Point!" echoed through the woods, as Jerry motioned to a white form locked up by the base of a pine. Bob and I stepped down and pulled our smoothbores from the gun box and joined Jerry for the walk to the dog.

You WHOA now!" shouted Jerry, reinforcing the young dog. Personally, I don't think you could have moved that pointer with a bulldozer.

Bob and I were in good positions when the covey broke, and each dropped birds with our first barrel.

"Get ready, Mr. Tim, Mr. Bob," warned Jerry," there's bound to be a few stragglers left behind." And sure enough, just as the words rolled off his lips three more birds sprang into the air and our guns spoke again.

"Mr. Bob, you got another bird down? How bout you Mr. Tim?" After collecting our four birds, Jerry suggested we try walking up a few singles. Our efforts produced three more quail.

In all, there are about 200-plus coveys on the Ashburn Hill Plantation, with each guide being responsible for keeping up the numbers on their own course. As the situation warrants, guides re-stock the existing population by turning out more birds. The quail Frank purchases for Ashburn Hill are top-quality birds. Raised in big flight pens, they are strong flyers and present formidable targets that will impress even a skeptic.

Later on after lunch, Bob and I joined two other guests, John Carlton and Harvey Vereen for an afternoon on the mule drawn wagon and the chance to experience quail hunting in the truest sense of southern tradition. Frank led the procession atop a Tennessee Walker, and after the customary stop to load up on dogs, our entourage which included the wagon with teamster John Pace and two pairs of shooters aboard, headed off for the open woods with three dog handlers on horseback bringing up the rear.

It was an unforgettable afternoon as we wandered leisurely through the tall pines, watching the dogs quartering back and forth, finding covey after covey of quail. When a dog went on point, one of the handlers would hold his hat in the air, a traditional gesture stemming back to the days of hunting wild birds when a shout of "Point!" might spook the covey. We shot in pairs, taking turns on covey rises, and after every volley, John would turn lose Duke, the black Lab that rode at his side, who then proceeded to help pick up the downed birds, bringing every one back and dropping them neatly in the front seat at John's feet. Every time I looked over at Frank, he would be sitting tall in the saddle puffing on a cigar, surveying the scene with an incredible sense of joy on his face. He viewed each of us as his own personal guest, and he was elated that we were having the time of our lives.

Throughout the afternoon, we had a constant supply of birds and plenty of action. By the end of the day, we had moved around 20 coveys and I had collected my limit. I was indeed, firmly hooked on quail hunting. In fact, for a transplanted Yankee grouse hunter, I'd become quite accustomed to this fine southern sport.

I closed out my final day at Ashburn Hill with an afternoon hunt on Ramsey's course in the Middle Woods with Frank and Bob MacKay. What made this hunt so special was the rare opportunity to experience two separate covey rises from wild birds which lived on an outlying area of the plantation.

With the diagonal rays of the late afternoon sun pouring through the trees, Bob and I walked in on a rock solid pointer that had pinned a covey of wild birds under a blow down. Before I had a chance to get set up, the brush exploded with the sounds of beating wings as a dozen brown forms hightailed it like buzz bombs for the sanctuary of a nearby swamp. By some stroke of luck, I managed to scratch one bird out of the air with my sweet little twenty.

Back at the jeep, Ramsey, Bob, Frank, and I admired the cock bird's classic markings and frail features.

"Nothing compares to the beauty of a wild bird," noted Ramsey. "Couldn't agree more," added Frank.

The ride back to the lodge was a long but peaceful one, giving me time to enjoy the sights and smells of the big woods one last time. Frank asked me if I'd like to return to Ashburn Hill to quail hunt again next year.

"Is that a question," I replied with a grin, "or an invitation?"

Wing & Shot Magazine April/May 1996

Photos by the author.