Being in the eastern Mojave Desert of California is always a beautiful experience. A land so calm and serene it veneers the brainsick policies and turmoil the government agencies and environmental groups have created. The cattle rancher and the miner, the hunter and outdoor recreationist, the rock hound, the private landowner and others are being systematically squeezed out of the eastern Mojave Desert.

It was the 25th day of October as I deer hunted the east slope of the Providence Mountains and marveled at the stark beauty of God’s handiwork. Below this basaltic and limestone mountain range I worked my way through deep canyons and across high ridges looking for the elusive mule deer. Weaving through the catclaw, the cholla and the Spanish dagger, I felt blessed to be able to walk through and be in HIS creation.

With the conception of the Mojave National Preserve and the passing of the Desert Protection Act, only the strong of body can enjoy what I was doing. The BLM and the National Park Service are shutting down access to many of the hidden and treasured out-of-way spots. Many existing roads and trails into our "Public Lands" now have stakes driven across them prohibiting travel. The physically disabled have been told not to come this way and not to expect to see the total beauty of our public land. If you cannot get out and hike miles into rugged country, some of it along an existing road that has been closed down, you are out of luck. The reason given for road closures and removing the cattle is the desert tortoise. If that were true, laws would be changed to reduce the ever-increasing number of ravens that forage on young tortoises. The BLM and Park Service do not want that to happen. They want the tortoise to remain on the "endangered species" list and use them as a tool to keep the public and the cattle out of their private playground.

Struggling up a steep ridge my heart beat desperately as I climbed to a high vista. Sitting down with my binoculars I scanned the deep draws and long ridges, admiring God’s work. Turning to my right I studied the raw, rugged beauty of the grand mountain as it erupted out of the desert floor racing skyward. It forms a barrier that only the strong can endure, and only a chosen few call this rugged landscape home. Probing the high ridges and crevices I hoped to see one of the few animals that has conformed to this forbidden terrain, the majestic desert bighorn sheep.

The "Preserve," operating under the direction of the National Park Service and the BLM, is making it more and more difficult for cattlemen to operate their ranches. Eventually the cattlemen succumb to the duress and the many obstacles placed before them and with the help of the environmental extremists, the National Park Service wins out. One of the mandates in the "buy out" should be treated as a criminal act. It requires that all "man-made" structures be removed. Among other things, this edict would impact approximately 27 man-made wells on the range I was hunting. Not only would the windmills be removed, the well casings will be filled with cement. The underground pipelines that run downhill across the arid desert to stock and game water tanks will be dug up and removed. This is the water and the lifeblood which supports the desert bighorn sheep, the deer, the quail, the chukar, and many other small game animals in this vast country.

It was time to turn and hunt back toward camp. Trying to keep the gentle breeze in my favor, I took in all of the beauty that was there to see. I made my way to the top of a long ridge and checked for deer sign as I walked on. Suddenly to my left and in front of me, several Gambel's quail ran across a small opening. I stopped to admire them as they strung out through the heavy brush.

"What in the world!" I said as the last one appeared.

The first thing that came to mind was "pigeon" as it raced to keep up with the covey. Before moving out of sight, I could see it was an albino quail with mottled spots of gray on it. I was wishing I had my shotgun with me, as it was quail season. After getting back to camp I told my good friend, Rob Blair, about my encounter with the albino quail

As he looked quizzically at me I commented, "You know it could be the red wine I drink." Laughing out loud, Rob said he was thinking I just might have a bottle hidden on the mountain.



It was Monday, the 3rd of November, when I called my longtime buddy Gerald Bruce. Earlier I had told him the story of the albino quail. I asked him if he would be interested in leaving later in the week to go quail hunting in the east Mojave Desert. We left early Friday morning and later that evening came across several nice coveys of quail. As the sun gave way to the tall Providences, we met Rob and Kate Blair and their beautiful family. After cordial conversation, I sustained a good ribbing about the "albino" quail.

The next morning we decided to hunt the general area where I had seen the bird. Rob’s son Cody was with us and as we left, Rob, still needling me, hollered, "I want you guys to bring back that phantom albino quail."

I had given some thought of seeing him again but I knew my chances were miniscule. The covey he was in worked in a range of at least three square miles. Because of good weather and timely rains, there was an exceptional hatch of quail this year and I would estimate upwards of 1,000 birds were in the area. Turning back to Rob I told him I would have a better chance of finding the proverbial "needle in the haystack" than ever seeing the albino again, much less shooting him.

Cody stayed with me as we hunted north of one of the wells that thousands of animals rely on. Later we met Gerald back at the windmill and decided to hunt uphill, southwest through a large, brushy wash. After moving into steep country, Cody in front of us flushed out a small covey of quail that flew high and to our left. Instantly I saw a flash of white as they banked around the hill and landed out of sight.

I shouted, "There goes the albino quail!"

Gerald at my side said, "Where is he? I didn’t see him."

Running up the grade as fast as I could go, I raced by Cody telling him I had seen the white quail. Just before reaching a saddle in the apex of the ridge I spotted the covey high to my left as they ran uphill and away from me through the brushy terrain. The main bunch of birds was at 45 yards and moving fast, and I had to hurry.

If you have ever hunted the desert Gambel's quail, you know how fast they can run. Many times I have thought of placing a tachometer on one of their legs and seeing how many RPMs it turns. I guess a mathematician could come close to calculating it. The information needed would be the stride and the top speed. Earlier in the hunt I clocked a covey running down the main road in front of me at 9 miles per hour. Stopping in the soft dirt I measured their stride at 12 inches. I’ll leave that up to someone else; all I know is Nike should consider sponsoring a team of them.

Gathering up all of my energy I charged up the side of the steep hill, looking hard left and right. Stopping in a small opening I saw several quail rushing through the heavy cover out of shotgun range. Scanning to the left I caught a glimpse of white flashing through the brush. At 35 yards I readied myself as the bird broke through a small opening. I shot as it lifted off the ground and the little white rocket crashed back to earth.

I turned to Gerald on the trail behind me, and full of adrenaline and emotion shouted, "I got the albino quail!"

After bringing the bird off of the hill I met Gerald and Cody and they both examined him. Sixty-five percent of his body was pure ivory white along with one-half of his topnotch. His legs, feet and toenails as well as his beak were white. We talked about how timing and ultimately a higher power were the source of our good fortune.



Gerald and Cody both said they never saw the albino and couldn’t believe I had spotted him.

Then the thought hit me; "Right, boys," I said, "I can picture it now. If he had gotten away without you seeing him and we returned to camp I can hear Rob say, ‘How’d you guys do and did you see the albino?’ Cody would answer, 'No I didn’t Dad, but John did!' Then he would ask Gerald if he saw the albino. 'No, I sure didn’t Rob, but John did!’ " Wouldn’t that have been nice? It would have convinced everyone that indeed I did have a bottle hidden on the mountain.

We made our way back to camp as Rob met us with that contagious smile of his. Opening up my game bag I gently unwrapped the quail and showed him our gift from God.

I would venture to say that Rob Blair and his father Howard have seen more wild desert quail than any two men alive. Neither one of them has ever seen or heard of an albino quail. Mother Nature normally prohibits the weak from entering the gene pool. If there is a genetic flaw in the bird family, the chick will not have what it takes to saw his way out of the egg.

As Gerald and I said goodbye to the Blair family, I wondered what God had in store for them. Through prayer and long, hard work they have sustained the onslaught of federal agencies using our tax dollars to force them out. They are one of the last bastions of what is right in our country — God-fearing family that is hard-working and self-supporting. Through draught, low market prices, governmental intimidation, taxes and regulations, somehow they have prevailed.

As we jumped onto the busy interstate, a light sprinkle of rain began to fall. It was Sunday afternoon and the "big rigs" laden with freight were lined up as they charged toward the coast. With turbos whistling, the Peterbilts, the Kenworths and the Freightliners thundered west past the Clipper Mountains rushing to make their Monday morning deliveries. Looking back to the north I could see the Providence Mountain range. With moisture in my eyes I said a short prayer for God’s wild animals and bid adieu to the wholesome beauty of the Blairs at the 7IL Ranch and to the country of the albino quail.