Friends
One beautiful Fall day I was working with my dogs along the Snake River in Idaho. When I could find access to public land, I would hunt down to the water’s edge. Valley Quail and Hungarian Partridge were having a great season that year. The issue wasn’t finding numerous coveys but finding them on accessible land. Generally, we hunted between the Snake River and the access roads or canals that followed alongside the big river. I love the Snake. There was occasional ice in it, due to a cold snap, and the big, deep river was impressive. My dog, Ace, flushed a covey of Huns off the bank and watched them fly across the river. I watched as he hit the water and started after them, pushing little chunks of ice out of the way. He was a few yards out when I called him back. He gave the covey one last look as he came back to the shore begrudgingly.
I knew a few people out there and gave them a call inviting them to come down and hunt with us. I never wanted to be the guy that only called to find places to hunt, so they were always invited to come hunt with me. That year a few did come down to run their dogs. We had a blast. One friend took us to Chukar country. I shot my first Chukar over my year-old Brit, Cap, on the side of a lava boulder over a roaring creek. It snowed the day before we arrived and the sunny days after the snow caused all the creeks to swell. Before Cap and I found the Chukar covey, we had to drop into a deep ditch and get over that roaring creek. I ended up tossing him over, while I waded through it holding on to Alder branches- just accepting the wet feet. We climbed up the other side of the ditch, and we were on our way to Chukar heaven.
 |
| Ace Photo by Nancy Whitehead |
We drove North into the mountains to socialize with a few more friends. We ate Mexican food, of all things, near a ski resort in the Idaho mountains. The food was pretty good and the company better. The next morning, we awoke to nearly two feet of fresh snow. The powder was over the running board and up against the doors of my 6-hole Jones dog trailer. It was a blast watching the Brits jump out of their boxes and get swallowed up by the new powder. Our hosts said it would be no problem getting back to quail country, as the snowplow was driven by their son. It’s nice to know people.
The mountain friends came down to hunt some Valley Quail and we moved farther west along the Snake. We hunted between two high walls of lava rock with the powerful river moving between. There was enough land on either side of the river to have a road on both sides with occasional irrigated farmland and canals. We hunted up the base of the cliffs and found old rock walls and stone structures. The dogs did well finding birds. Ace, my Brit, and my friend’s big setter worked well together pointing and backing each other. They didn’t miss many birds between them. We had a great time walking along the river in amazingly beautiful country.
 |
| Ace |
As the sun began to drop below the canyon walls, we worked back to the trucks. I gave a blast on the whistle a few minutes earlier and checked my early model GPS tracker to make sure Ace turned and started back. I wasn’t paying close attention to him as he was my best bird dog, very experienced and reliable. As we arrived at the parked trucks, I checked the tracker again and saw he was over a mile away and going in the wrong direction. The sun was below the rim of the cliffs of the river, the temperature was dropping rapidly, the breeze picked up, and just about then the wolves started yipping. I assumed they were coyotes, but my hunting partner corrected me. Calling and whistling caused Ace to stop and circle, but then he would move away from us again. I was becoming pretty concerned for my dog. My imagination took over and I said to the group, “I’ll bet the wolves have him, and they’re running away!” My friend Bob, said, “They aren’t that brave or bold. It takes them a while circling and pondering before they move in. I think he’s fine. Get in my truck. Let’s go get him.” It was black as ink by then. There was no moon, only the stars. I jumped in his brand-new pickup, and he tore off down the two-track in the direction of my lost dog. Thankfully, I still had a GPS lock on him-nearly two miles now down the river valley. The track opened to some crop land, and we saw another truck coming. Bob flashed his lights and stopped him. “Have you seen a dog around here?” No response. Finally, Bob said “Perro?” “No, Senor, no perro.” We looked at Ace’s track and Bob said, “Hang on!” He turned off the road with that new F-150 and we cut across fields and sage flats keeping an eye on the tracker and up ahead in the high beams. We reached a ditch we couldn’t drive across. Bob said he would follow along the ditch with his truck until he could find a way across. I said I’d take his flashlight, shotgun, and a pocket of shells, jump the ditch and follow Ace’s GPS track until I found him. Off we went, me on the ground and Bob driving off along the ditch. I still remember the sinking feeling I got as his taillights disappeared and I was looking at the stars and big blank areas that were the canyon walls. It wasn’t long before I stumbled onto a two-track we didn’t know was there. It became clear then that Ace was running the road confused by the sounds, calls, and whistles bouncing off the valley walls. I shot up in the air in his direction and I watched him on my GPS stop then circle. One more shotgun blast and the distance started decreasing. He was on his way back. I watched the distance count down while I stood in the middle of the two-track and flashed my light up the road. A few minutes later, my big, concerned-but-happy Brit trotted around the corner. I set Bob’s gun down and sat down with my dog for a grateful prayer. Both of us were happy to just sit together in the dark. We listened to the wolves yipping and howling while the river hissed by, and I told him he was on probation. Again. Finally, headlights appeared, and Bob’s not-so-new-anymore truck came around the corner. He was as happy as me. I don’t think there is anything more concerning to a bird hunter than a lost dog, or anything more joyful as one found.
Those Idaho friends are a special lot to me. I appreciate every one of them, and most of all, one that would say, “Get in. Let’s go get him!” A good wife, some good friends, and a few good bird dogs make a good life all that much better.
