Cle-cle-cle. The sound was unmistakable—mountain quail. I hadn’t guessed I could find them this close to home. We saw their three-toed tracks in new-fallen snow. When we bounced a covey and saw them buzz away into the rhododendron, I marked the spot in my memory. It was elk season, but next time I would bring the shotgun.

A fresh blanket of white carpeted the Cascades. I shifted out of four-wheel-drive when I passed the 4,000-foot mark and turned off the highway onto a smooth, graveled road. Secondary roads pulled me deeper into the timber and then a familiar two-track beckoned. Where the brush touched the rig on both sides, I parked.