Legend

50 miles from home, I realized that I forgot to pack my extra shells for our hunting and camping trip. I sat there for a few minutes in the passenger seat in silence and mad at myself at my unthinkable mistake and embarrassed to say anything to Bob. I wanted to run off and hide.

It wasn’t totally unthinkable. It wasn’t like we forgot the shotguns or our boots this time. A couple of years ago, heading down the road for an out-of-town hunting trip we were about 45 minutes from home when I realized that both of our hunting boots were still on the boot warmers in the garage. We immediately turned around and went back to get the boots which made for a very uncomfortable and quiet detour back home. We swore from that moment on that we’d always have a check-off list for packing.

I fessed up about my stupid forgetfulness just before crossing the border into Oregon and the big to city to us, Ontario. We exited into the parking lot of the Walmart, parked and headed into the far back corner of the store to shop for shells and to also look for a cheap dog-proof cooler (or in our case Peat proof cooler without zippers like the soft sided ones have). The Walmart Superstore wasn’t so super when we discovered they didn’t sell ammo anymore and the cooler selection wasn’t very impressive. We left empty handed.

We then drove all the way across town to a couple of other stores that were open but their selection of 20 gauge shells for upland was pretty dismal or non-existent, focusing mostly on waterfowl shot. On the bright side, at least we found a small Igloo Playmate plastic cooler at Bi-Mart and were fairly confident Peat shouldn’t be able to figure out how to open it.

We forged ahead and originally wanted to stop for a quick hunt somewhere in the desert along the way but it started snowing sideways and then it rained. Not the best hunting weather for us or the dogs. Once we headed south the clouds opened up and we could see blue skies.

Arriving to the campground in the late afternoon we set up camp. I pulled out my pack from the pickup and opened up the shell pouch to see what exactly was in there and analyzed the situation in my head. Okay, I rarely shoot more than once on a covey and I’ve got 12 shells so that would last maybe four hunts if I only shot three times per hunt. Of those shells three of them were Angus shells that Bob hand-loaded four years ago and they’re filled with some ashes from our Brittany named Angus who died four years ago. I’ve been carrying them around for good luck ever since.

It wasn’t going to be the end of the world to only have 12 shells but I’d definitely have to be discretionary in my shooting and not waste any shots unless it seemed like it was a sure thing which in the chukar hunting world is totally laughable.

Just before dinner, we met a fellow hunter in the campground who had been out the previous two days and according to him, the hunting was terrible and he hadn’t seen many birds. It was ridiculous but I was actually relieved to think that chances of shooting would be limited.

The opposite turned out on our first two days of hunting. It was really good, and the dogs found plenty of birds. We were pleased. Thrilled.

On our third day of hunting we found an area to hunt that looked good on the maps but in person it wasn’t very promising and no visible water sources were nearby for miles even though the map showed what looked like a small pond which was now drier than a bone.

Bob and I decided to stay together since I was down to my last three shells, all of which were Angus shells. Not very long after we started our hike from the pickup the dogs started finding birds but I couldn’t get a good shot and passed on ones that were borderline too far away. Towards the end of the day the dogs found and pointed one last covey of chukar up in the rocks above us. Bob got up to them first and they erupted and flew downhill towards me. I quickly mounted my gun, shot, and hit one on a crossing overhead shot. Bloom hauled down the hill past me to retrieve it and beat Peat to it. On the way up heading towards me with the chukar in his mouth, Peat snatched it away from him and continued to run past me taking my chukar to Bob as if I didn’t exist.

The only other times (yes, plural) Peat stole a bird from another dog was back in 2015 when he was eight months old. Instead of simply attempting to retrieve them, he watched Angus do all the work of finding, pointing, and holding the birds and then would take the bird Bob shot from Angus’s mouth on the retrieve and go off and eat it. He did this for the first 6 birds Bob shot that season. Angus, gentlemanly at the wrong time, didn’t put up much of a fight. Bloom, like his blood relative Angus, didn’t either.

Peat’s first season was frustrating, legendary, but epic in its own twisted way. Luckily after the sixth time stealing a bird from Angus, a switch turned off or maybe on in his brain and he started retrieving them directly to us and didn’t stop to eat them.

On the morning of what would have been our fourth hunt in Oregon, we woke up early and noticed a flat tire on the pickup. It was no surprise with all the rocky backroads we’d been driving on the day before. It was 10 degrees outside but at least it we were parked on a flat piece of ground and not pulled off on a shoulder of a busy highway. Bob changed it but now without a spare tire and with the nearest tire repair shop 60 miles away we decided pack up instead of hunting and head home rather than risk being stranded out on some remote rocky and gravel road without cell phone coverage.

A couple of days after arriving home and anxious to head out again, I went for a solo hunt with Bloom at a place where I’d been before. 20 minutes into the hunt Bloom went on point below me and held them until I arrived. The covey of maybe 15 birds busted and flew downhill. I shot one chukar, it tumbled to the earth, and Bloom retrieved it right to my hand. I was elated! I searched around and found my bright yellow shell on the ground and picked it up and looked at Angus’s name on it. It was an emotional moment. The place where this happened was almost the exact spot where I shot my first chukar back in 2016 that was pointed and retrieved by Angus.

Divine Intervention?

Bloom with his super sensitive nose is still figuring out this game but with each hunt he’s getting better. Yesterday, hunting solo with him in a new spot, I thought it would be too windy to find anything but I remembered my friend and longtime hunter Sam telling me years ago, “Birds are on the ground and their world is much calmer; it’s not as windy down there.” Bloom tracked down birds just below tops of ridges in the frigid and howling wind and went on point on at least 6 different coveys and a couple of solos. I didn’t think that I would be able to shoot with my fingers being bitter cold to the bone but it’s funny how you forget the coldness when your dog goes on point.

Bloom has a lot to live up to with his legendary genetics and with our high expectations but after the last few hunts and seeing him work, he’s going to be fine.