After a two-week hiatus following the hot, dry, smoky weather of the first week of chukar season in Idaho, we made it out yesterday. I’d been worried since the big early-June storms that bird numbers would be very low in Hells Canyon. One of the biologists at the Andrus Center indicated to a friend of ours that chukar numbers were in fact down a lot because of the storm-related mortality on the chicks that had hatched then.
I’m not sure where he got his data, but we observed excellent bird numbers yesterday, to our great delight. They were high, at ridge tops, not hunkering down, moving steadily on approach. Peat either wasn’t stealthy enough to hold them or they just weren’t having it, but he never held a single point. Instead, right from the beginning, Peat did his best imitation of Angus’s creeping point, the first of which started about halfway up the ridge and went steadily to the top; I could barely see Peat’s little head above the bunchgrass as he stayed at least 120 yards from us until he crossed over and we got a glimpse of the birds busting every which way. A nice welcome-back to the lung-busting, heart-pounding, quad-killing pursuit. I look forward to getting back into chukar hunting shape, but definitely felt old and fat yesterday. Peat seemed to be in a similar boat (he’s never done well in the heat anyway), which is understandable since this was only the second “real” chukar hunt we’ve done this year.
I was able to kill two birds, both busting wild, and felt it was a good day in the field, considering the conditions, which were still quite hot and dry. We’re glad to see that this weekend calls for cooler, wetter weather.
Speaking of which, after selling a crap-ton of Bucking Chukar t-shirts, we’ve still got a couple left (and some beanies and Dri-Duck hats) but are thinking of ordering hoodies. Anyone interested in a hoody, please let me know (we’re trying to figure out how many to order). We’re not planning on ordering more t-shirts unless we hear otherwise.
Anyway, it’s good to be back at it. Stay tuned for more.
Hart Crane’s incredible poem “Repose of Rivers” shows how memory makes up knowing and how we can’t know what something really means until it’s run its course, and even then it could go anywhere. As rapper Shock G so eloquently puts it in “The Humpty Dance,” staring and glaring at and constantly comparing things still probably misses the essence of the comparable.
About a year ago, Angus was diagnosed with bladder cancer. What I remember about that moment when the vet told us he had a month or so to live was just praying he’d live long enough for one last chukar hunt with us. He lived through — and well past — one of his best seasons ever.
Since Angus died on June 12 I’ve been trying to understand lots of things and it seems that the harder I try or the more I think about them the more elusive these things become and maybe it’s because they (or I?) haven’t run their course. Angus has, but — news flash — I’m not him. I’m left without him to help me understand what he meant to me. It feels strange not to understand, but that’s where I am with it. I’ve barely grieved in the three months since we put him out of his pain. How can you grieve something you don’t know yet? I’m feeling old, but age, I guess, hasn’t yet deposited me beyond the dykes. I’m grateful but uncomfortable with the process.
Being left with Peat naturally encourages the comparisons. When Peat came on the scene five years ago, my relationship with Angus permanently diminished. Peat was a cross between Ray Liotta and Pee Wee Herman, while Angus was Olivier. Peat was a Saturday morning cartoon, and Angus a Vermeer or Van Gogh. Peat was a riddle on the back of a Cheerios box and Angus Keats. Peat was “Jimmy Cracked Corn” and Angus was Mahler’s “Das Lied von der Erde.” There’s a photo in the video (see below) of me and Angus sleeping, with his head on my neck just after my hernia surgery; when Peat came, Angus never struck that pose again. Thinking about this reminds me that I began grieving Angus’s death the day we got him, and Peat added a new dimension to the loss-that-was-to-come.
But the wedge Peat drove between Angus and me opened the door for Leslie and Angus to grow closer, and they did. He’d follow her around the house and in the field: he pointed and retrieved her first two chukar, which the video shows. Balance matters.
I miss him terribly, and I feel remorse for how I allowed Peat to come between us. I adore the little bastard, and I’m sure when he passes — if I’m lucky enough to outlive him — I’ll regret feeling anything but sheer joy at the grace he’s bombed us with, but I still struggle with how Angus took the foot of the bed after Peat came. What will Bloom, our next puppy, do to my bond with Peat? We all compare our dogs to one another, don’t we? Don’t we?
Enjoy the video. I know it’s long. Angus outlived several camcorders and cameras, a few computers, and it was agonizing going through hundreds of hours of videos and thousands of photos; I had to leave so many things out.
How much I would have bartered! The black gorge And all the singular nestings in the hills Where beavers learn stitch and tooth…
“Her name is Rosie”, the old man that was camped near us with Florida license plates told me as his dog walked over to me. Rosie was an overweight black lab with gray on her face and eyes clouded over with glaucoma. “Come on Rosie, don’t bother her,” he yelled in her direction.
I yelled back. “She’s okay, I like dogs.” He still walked over in my direction to fetch her.
“I’ve been coming to the Madison every year with her for the past 7 years,” he told me. “This year she’s had a hard time jumping up into the camper. She just turned 12.” I bent down to pet her. “I don’t know what I’ll do when she dies, I love this dog and I’m already dreading the day I have to put her down,” he sighed.
“My husband and I just had to put our 13-year-old Brittany down last month; he had cancer.” I tried not to let him see that my eyes were starting to tear up as I told him about Angus. “He didn’t suffer; he went downhill pretty fast.”
“I camped here with my son years ago, we used to ride motorcycles together, but I don’t ride anymore,” he said. “I like going back to the places that we used to go together.” He paused for a moment, “He died a few years ago.”
I hesitated responding, remembering how my own dad used to ride motorcycles and go on trips with my older brother. On a gorgeous fall day in September, 16 years ago, my brother took his own life only a couple of days after he’d spent the weekend going on a motorcycle road trip with my dad. “I’m sorry to hear about your son, that’s tough,” I told him. I don’t know why, but I didn’t ask him how his son died. I just remember telling him, “Yeah, it’s nice to go back to those places that you shared with someone you loved, it makes you feel closer to them.”
As he walked away with Rosie, he said “I’m sorry for your loss.” I appreciated the words of condolence from this total stranger who reminded me of my own dad.
To get to this place on the Madison River was a long drive in stormy weather on hundreds of miles of winding roads. Bob and I drove in separate vehicles bringing the extra one to use for longer shuttles on the days we fished out of our drift boat. I’d been listening to music along the way, but somewhere between Grangeville and Lolo Pass, a song called “Mercy Street” by Peter Gabriel started playing on my Bluetooth shuffle and it touched a nerve. It caused me an overwhelming sense of emptiness and panic, and I felt like we’d left Angus behind. Teardrops followed like the rain falling heavily on the windshield. Peat was in the cab of the pickup with me; he’d been sleeping soundly but was awakened by my loud wailing over the music. Not wanting to upset him, I made myself stop crying and focused on the curves in the road. I’d been forcing myself to forget about it but I vividly remembered that dreadful day, that day we drove Angus to our vet in Council in the back of our old Jeep that we parked out front next to the curb and we ended this life. I remember trying to be strong and comforting for him and not let his last moments of life be watching me crying and being so upset. He knew what was happening, he was ready, he was the strong one, the stoic one. When I think back and remember life with Angus it isn’t just those memories on the chukar hills but those days in-between because he had a calm presence that just made everything seem right in the world.
I called my father immediately after Angus died to let him know Angus had just died. Angus had been my loyal companion from the time when he was small enough to fit in my hands. I thought my dad should know, but he didn’t answer the phone and never called me back. It’s complicated, thorny, and complex, but I’ve got a non-existent relationship with my dad and it’s been that way for years and I’ve learned to accept it.
After talking to the old man from Florida, I sat in my camp chair and stared at Peat and wondered if he remembers being on the Madison with Angus and running in the golden fields near our campground and if he’s sad because he’s gone. I wanted to come back to this campground on the Madison to remind me of happier times from the previous summer when life wasn’t so strange, surreal, uncertain. The time before lost lives, broken friendships and when people used to be kind to each other, the days before we knew Angus had cancer even though it was already growing inside him.
Innocent times
As we drove away from the campground to head home, the old man from Florida was still there alone in his camper with Rosie. We headed west and through the rolling hills, mountains, and ranches near Dillon and Wisdom that reminded me of home but on a much larger scale. On our last night on the road we camped in a National Forest campground high up on the Idaho/Montana border that we’d visited two years before with Peat and Angus. After setting up camp, Bob, Peat, and I walked along a beautiful little creek where we went the last time we were there. I watched this funny dog that makes me laugh constantly, this little dog that loves life and play and that I adore and that I’ve raised since he was 7-weeks old explore the world without Angus. I remember Bob saying, “I think he’ll be okay.”
I love Peat but we have a complex relationship. At home Peat has replaced Angus as my constant shadow but sadly the last three years he didn’t want to hunt with me in the field when Bob and I were hunting together. Peat prefers Bob, and it is as if I don’t exist. It’s weird but I’m okay that Bob is the alpha. When it’s just Peat and me out together, he’s fine and he hunts hard for me but just like humans relating to one another, relationships with our dogs can sometimes be complicated, intricate, and painful. Angus is missed terribly and I’ll miss having him be my hunting partner on chukar opening day but I’m looking forward to having some quality days with Peat this coming season.
We had to let him go yesterday. He went quickly and didn’t suffer long.
I began this blog 10 years ago because I couldn’t contain my enthusiasm for his wonderfulness. It had to be shared. So now I’m sharing our sorrow at his passing.
This is my second bout. Most of you have more than that, so you know the pain and residue of such loss. I have nothing unique to add, but only wanted to connect.
Give your dogs a hug and look them in the eye for longer than usual.
I hope soon to have an Angus retrospective video. In the meantime, here’s the video my students always ask me to show them.
If your only hobby is chukar hunting, chances are you’ve been bored these past several months. My guess, though, is that most of you have figured out what to do in the 8-month hell known as the “Off-Season” (isn’t “off” such a loaded word?). I know lots of chukar hunters fish during the summer, some mountain bike, scout for big game, work on their chess game or post-up or post-op moves, maybe do a little yard work or fix stuff you blame other people for breaking even though — let’s be honest — you screwed it up a long time ago and either forgot or were just too ashamed to admit it.
I’m either blessed with or a victim of my too many hobbies (it’s a sort of fluid state of being). These past several months, I’ve become pretty re-obsessed with a hobby I embarked on about 38 years ago when I did some basic math and realized I could circumvent the law and save money. Home brewing. It’s one of those things that can get out of control fast. I’m over that, although surprises wait around every corner. In this latest rupture, I’ve learned a lot of new stuff, including a new version of the same lesson I always seem to face: the rediscovery that I had no idea how much I never imagined I didn’t know.
Anyway, I thought I’d share a little of my off-season pursuit, especially since I conned Leslie into making a video of a recent brew day (my ulterior motive was to have some company in what is usually a pretty solitary endeavor). Enjoy the video!
P.S. If you like the bucking chukar logo, we hope to have hats and shirts by the beginning of chukar season…
