I’m in my hunting-gear and kennel building lacing up my boots with mother, Petunia, daughter, Merri-Merri—both Brittanys—and Misty, a sleek little English pointer. The three are hurrying me along with woofs and groans. The kennel dogs recognize the ruckus and sound off in a coyote-cadence concert, pleading to join us. After I load the hunting gear, I release the dogs and with cries of victory they scrabble out and race for the truck. Like rodeo clowns circling a mean bull, they run around the pickup begging to be loaded in. What a bright, sunny September Montana morning!

It’s almost 11 o’clock when I turn off the engine and step out of the pickup; I’m surrounded by distant mountains that glisten from last night’s fresh snowfall. The ranchers have collected the cattle from the high hills, so the land now belongs to the dogs and me. All is quiet—until the dogs start clamoring in their truck kennel compartments, each one anticipating being first out.

The best thing you can do for that wild pup is get her on wild birds,” dog trainer Rod Rist told me about my nine-month-old pudelpointer. One day it was summer and the next it was September, and ruffed grouse and mountain quail seasons were open. Valley quail and chukar seasons were more than a month away, so we headed west toward the sunset and the available birds.

On a Sunday afternoon, my dog Liesl leaped into her customary place in the back of our SUV and stuck her nose out the window. (I wrote about Liesl in this column in the August-September 2014 issue.) I’m sure she smelled my old bird-hunting vest and saw the shotgun case.

Fifteen miles down the side of the Cascade Mountains, I turned off the highway, let out the pup so she could run around and get a drink, and then we started off again. Soon after we crossed the creek, the road turned to gravel and we turned on a secondary road and parked in a grove of rhododendrons, mature pine trees, and firs. Sometimes the forest yields ruffed grouse in such places, sometimes mountain quail, sometimes a dropped antler, but usually I’m not disappointed.

There, in the trail, I saw two quail. Liesl was on the lead and I unclipped her. “Find the birds,” I said.

The sun began its steady decline as we arrived at Greystone Castle Sporting Club in Mingus, Texas. Before settling in to our beautifully appointed suite, our group from Covey Rise climbed the spiraling turrets to watch the light flicker on the horizon. It was a remarkable sight, matched only be the accommodations at the castle.

Our rooms were part of an entire wing of the castle, one of five separate lodges located within its walls. The suite consisted of five bedrooms, four bathrooms, a living room and a fully stocked kitchen with a bar. Masculine, dark wood furnishing and oversize leather chairs decorated the suite. The bookshelves were lined with classic hunting literature; the walls displayed wildlife art and taxidermy mounts of birds taken on the ranch…