COMMENTARY: Friends, gun dogs and grief

Hunting chukars always holds the potential for something to go amiss.

These members of the partridge family live in some of the roughest terrain bird hunters are likely to encounter — the steep, dry and prickly river canyons of the West.

A misplaced step can lead to tumbles, scrapes and even jabs from prickly pear cacti. A recent hunt of mine had missteps at both ends.

An old pal called me as I was loading up my dog and gear. I talked, or listened, rather — Anthony is a loquacious fellow — as I sorted my stuff. And he had bad news. A mutual friend, Tom Farnam, had died of cancer. Tom used to guide steelhead anglers on the Grande Ronde River near Troy, and he and Anthony were fishing buddies. I had met Tom through Anthony but didn’t know him well. But Anthony did, and I understood he was calling to talk through his grief. So I listened.

It was a nice chat. I heard stories about Tom that were new to me. I learned about his background growing up in La Grande as one of the first teens there daring to sport long hair, his love of rock music and of his later career as a river ranger for the BLM.

The conversation continued as I pulled out of my driveway, but we ended the call before I hit the narrow canyon country where I was likely to lose service.

Once at my destination I hopped out and sprung June from her crate as I gathered my stuff. Vest — check. Earplugs — check. Water — check. Tracking collar — check. Gun — oh no.

Yep. Apparently distracted by the deep conversation, I left it leaning in the corner of my kitchen, right next to the back door.

Mildly chagrined, I grabbed a fetch toy for June and tossed it a few times so she could stretch her legs before we headed back to town. On the third toss, a rig pulled into the parking lot and the driver rolled down his window to ask if I was going to hunt the canyon. I told him of my sad predicament and said the chukar hills were all his.

“Wanna borrow a gun?” he asked. “We can hunt it together.”

I declined at first but accepted when he asked again. Scott’s Benelli Ethos was a fair bit lighter than my old Remmington 870. But the safety was in the same place, meaning I wouldn’t have to fumble to find it.

So the four of us — June and I, plus Scott and his dog Duck, headed out. They live in Seattle and had spent the past few days chasing birds in Asotin County. Duck, a sleek vizsla with a deadly nose, ranged far out in front and pinned four coveys just below rim of the side canyon we were tracing. Two of the groups flushed wild but we got shots at the others. Scott bagged a couple and I whiffed. June proved herself when she found a covey that Duck pointed initially but pulled off after losing the scent.

It was a fun day. We talked about hunting, work and life in general as we side-hilled. Then my foot found a snaggle of old fence obscured in a tuft of bunchgrass and sent me tumbling. Not a bad fall but I apparently twisted my ankle in the process. I say apparently because as rolled ankles go it was pretty mild. So much so that I didn’t notice. But as we neared the point where the side canyon we were working joined another, it was starting to hurt.

We turned around and lucky for me, I was able to hit the top of the ridge and gimp the 4 miles back to our rigs on relatively flat ground. Back at the parking area, I thanked Scott for his generosity and said I hope our paths cross in the future. I’m not sure I would have thought to loan a spare gun to a stranger but I’m glad he did.

Driving home I thought of Anthony and Tom, the gift of friendship and how nice it is to share time outdoors with like-minded people. My ankle is now fat and blue, but it was all worth it.

Barker is the Outdoors Editor of the Lewiston Tribune.