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| Horn Peak from across the Wet Mountain Valley (Wikimedia Commons). |
It was the early 1980s, I had my grandfather's Winchester Model 12 shotgun, and my friend Galen Geer, who worked as a deputy sheriff in Custer County, Colorado while developing his skills as an outdoor writer, invited me to go mourning dove hunting in the Wet Mountain Valley, which makes up the western part of the county, bounded by the Sangre de Cristo Range.
The party consisted of him, me, another off-duty deputy, and a man I will call "Charlie." Charlie was an independent operator, a bit of a trickster. He was somewhere on the spectrum between professional hunting guide and poacher, but I was never sure where.
Among other things, he taught me to blow a predator call properly, enough that I was able to impress another pro guide one time.
So we were going dove-hunting, but we had no dog. No problem. Charlie had it covered.
We stopped at a house in the little town of Silver Cliff.
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| A hunting-line golden retriever. |
"It's OK," he said, "I have permission."
The dog was a total professional. He was the Swiss mountain guide of hunting dogs.
"You are my clients for today? Sehr gut. Let us begin."
We moved from spot to spot, mostly pass-shooting over stock tanks at ranch windmills.
If a dove was hit, he trotted out, found it, picked it up — and always returned it to the shooter who had hit it.
If you missed a shot, he might turn from where he sat in in front of the guns, curl his lip, and give you a significant look, as though to say, "I am a professional. Please do not waste my time. Do better."
We paid him in head-scratches and bits of sandwich. At the end of the day, Charlie returned him to the back yard in Silver Cliff. I never saw his owner.
I wanted a dog like that.
Of course, I did not get one.
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