I remember the days when it still got cold in October in those Tennessee hollows. Remember , those less than groomed fence rows and steep hillsides, perfect hideouts for coveys of bobwhite quail. Remember nearly jumping out of your boots walking those same hillside and hollows to your deer stand and a covey of 30 or more birds exploding all around you. Remember those days? I was fortunate to be raised by my cousin Tommy in Lynchburg Tennessee. Our little town is best known for making the finest sipping whiskey in the world. The locals know it more for its hometown hospitality, good people and at one time some really great quail hunting. Tommy was known for training bird dogs and never turned down the chance to train a cull that someone else had given up on. Needless to say, we followed many pointers, setters, droppers and mutts many miles through bean fields and creek bottoms. Some dogs did well, others not so well, but the great thing was that there was enough quail that with enough patience even the bad ones could eventually be trained. At least Tommy thought they could. We were beginning to notice fewer and fewer quail in places where we had always found them and finally the training stopped and Tommy purchased two magnificent bird dogs. Their names were Rusty and Sally. When alone Rusty hunted perfectly, hunting within sight and checking back periodically a trait most of the dogs we tried to train could never develop. There 's nothing quite like watching a bird dog