Bo and I had worked a depression along the Snake River for more than an hour without much quail sign when she finally busted a running covey along a steep bank. The brush was thicker than a September ruffed grouse bog and the few followup shots I attempted were the kind that you search the shredded leaves for drifting feathers in the hopes that you might have hit what you could not see.
Nope, but we finally reached a small opening on a flat and Bo pushed a single from a green blowdown where I couldn't lean far enough under the branches to get a shot off. But then a second bird took the same route and apparently my first attempt limbered me up enough to get more than a little lead into his tail end to ensure a very dead first Idaho valley quail for Bo. A couple of days later Bo and I got into a nice mess of quail higher up on a plateau and Bo and my Superposed got a healthier workout.