Children across the South are embracing a love of the land, fostered by the Youth Trial Alliance, a non-profit that bonds children with the outdoors.
Story by Allison Ramirez, Photos by Chris Mathan
On a cool morning in quail country, you might see a child barely tall enough for the saddle leaning forward, voice low and steady as she calls to her dog. It’s referred to as music, though it’s really more a rhythm — something handlers use to stay connected across tall grass and long sight lines. A pointing dog, bred for distance and focus, may answer in kind: tail still, nose lifted, attention fixed. For a moment, the field seems to hold its breath. Nearby, adults — parents, grandparents, judges, friends — watch from horseback or on foot, hands loose, stepping in only if asked.
At youth field trials across the American South — and increasingly beyond it — children are trusted — really trusted — with animals, land, and responsibility. They are not spectators or mascots. They are handlers, and they love their dogs.
“These kids aren’t afraid to try,” says Chris Mathan of Southwest Georgia, one of the driving forces behind the Youth Field Trial Alliance. “We underestimate how determined they are.”
Youth field trials are non-sanctioned bird-dog competitions designed for kids under 17. At first glance, they resemble a smaller version of traditional field trials: pointing dogs working quail, judges tracking movement, handlers guiding from horseback or on foot. But the spirit is different.
Any pointing dog is welcome — registered or not, polished or green. If a child doesn’t own a dog, someone finds one. If they don’t have a horse, there are safe guest mounts, walking trials, or an adult they can ride with. The goal isn’t winning, exactly. It’s learning how to show up.
That ethos is most evident in the way kids talk about the sport themselves. Addison McDuffie, an Alabama handler who began riding at just three years old and has since become a fixture at trials, puts it plainly.
“To me, the competition is less important than the camaraderie,” she says. “Doing my best to help my friends succeed makes me happier than any award ever could.”
Another Alabama youth handler, Reese Green, echoes the same values from a slightly different angle.
“I love and value the outdoors,” she says, “and I love the sweet community of people that surround and support the trials.”
Chris has been part of the field trial world for more than 25 years, though her path there was anything but linear. She grew up in Montreal, riding horses from the age of six and orbiting the Canadian equestrian team. By her early twenties, a series of horse-related tragedies forced her to step away. She moved to Maine, lived on a farm, studied art and photography in Nova Scotia, and later worked in the music industry in London. It was when she welcomed a Weimaraner into her life and took it to places where pheasants were released that inner instincts emerged — feelings she hadn’t yet learned to name. That curiosity led her to AKC hunt tests, then to Texas — where she saw her first pointers working at full extension — and eventually to grouse hunting in Maine and the deeper world of American field trials. What struck her most, especially as she began watching children in the field, was how naturally responsibility settled on them, and how little spectacle was required to make it meaningful.
As a designer and trained photographer, Chris began documenting trials across the country, often becoming the first person to visually archive youth handlers in the field. When clubs in Alabama — some of which had been quietly running youth trials since the late 1970s — began expanding their programs, she recognized both the opportunity and the problem.
“This was incredible,” she says. “And nobody knew about it.”
With a background in marketing and a growing conviction that the outdoors could offer kids something increasingly rare — focus, responsibility, belonging — Chris helped form what would become the Youth Field Trial Alliance, a nonprofit designed to support clubs, share resources, and remove barriers to entry. Alongside fellow directors Claudia McNamee and Allison Daniels, the organization has grown quickly but deliberately. In one recent Sunday trial near Albany, Georgia, there were 28 entries, the largest youth event the club had ever hosted. Today, youth trials run across Georgia, North Carolina, North Florida, Tennessee, Connecticut, and New Jersey, with Michigan, Minnesota, Oklahoma, and Oregon coming on board soon.
What draws kids in is not just the dogs, though that bond is immediate. In the field, children are responsible for animals that outweigh their backpacks — and sometimes themselves. They learn to read wind, land, and behavior. Dogs wear tracking collars; judges carry handheld devices, a quiet safety net. Adults remain close enough to help, but far enough away to let kids lead.
“The dogs respond to them,” Chris says.
That trust matters, especially at an age when so many decisions are made for kids. Field trials offer something rare: meaningful responsibility shared across generations. Children ride with parents or grandparents when they’re too small to ride alone, then move onto their own horses. Teenagers handle dogs alongside competitors in their eighties. Everyone is a teammate, a colleague. It’s one of the few sports Chris knows where age dissolves so completely.
Alabama and Georgia sit at the heart of this work, not just because of the landscape — longleaf pine, rolling fields, healthy quail populations — but because of continuity. Kids who started in youth trials decades ago are now professional handlers, trainers, and mentors. The culture knows how to pass things down. But the future doesn’t look exactly like the past. Roughly half the participants today are girls, in a sport that was once overwhelmingly male. And more kids from a broader range of racial and cultural backgrounds are entering the field, many of whom arrive having never seen a pointing dog before.
“They get into it so fast,” Chris says, “and they’re not intimidated.”
Chris often speaks about a family from North Florida whose daughter was diagnosed with bone cancer a few years ago. She lost a leg, yet hunts turkey, plays games, and travels with her family — experiencing all the natural world has to offer. Animals here act as a kind of therapy, not because they fix anything, but because they provide partnership rather than pity. Another child, now in her third year of trials, is among the youngest Chris has seen. She rides with her grandfather and will likely be on her own horse next season. Her age matters less than her presence.
For Chris, that sense of belonging is the point. Not every child will grow up to train dogs or ride horses. Some may become biologists, conservationists, or simply adults who know how to care for something beyond themselves. She remembers a boy who once carried a quail gently in his hands all day, reluctant to put it down. The lesson didn’t need explaining.
The challenges ahead are real. Horses cost more than ever. Veterinary care is expensive. Access to land is fragile. The sport itself can feel precarious. But Chris remains focused on what’s within reach. What youth field trials offer is not nostalgia. It’s continuity, built quietly — one child at a time — in wide-open spaces where trust still matters, and responsibility is something you earn young.
“Our life is here,” she says. “And we don’t want to see it go away.”
