by Vince Milam
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three . . . a swirl, a take. I lifted the rod and retrieved the line with my left hand, met resistance, and connected with the coursing vibration of a big rainbow, hooked. It skyrocketed, somersaulted through the air, crashed down, and ripped downstream. Big fish. Line screamed from my reel, the rod held high. Another leap, then another, each time spinning and flipping like a gymnast, throwing spray. No point trying to turn it, or reel it in. The almost invisible nine-foot leader connecting the fly to the fly line had a breaking point of four pounds. The ball of silver energy I’d hooked would weigh three and a half pounds, and combined with the river current would apply line-breaking pressure.
I walked, skidded downstream and followed the trout, began recovering line. Twice more it made serious runs downstream, each with less power. It eventually succumbed, and with a final rod lift it drifted into my small wooden-handled net. Twenty inches long, fat, a football. A fine fish.
I knelt in the shallows, net submerged, and pulled the tiny fly from the cragged jaws. The trout’s back was dark, oily—protective camouflage from ospreys and other overhead hunters. But its sides, electric, lit, brilliant silver with a red band and dark spots intermingled. Bright, charged, alive.
The fish recovered from its battle, trapped within the net. The crunch of wading boots along the shore alerted me to Marcus, passing.
“Thought for a minute he was going to drag you to Wyoming,” he said.
“A beauty.”
“It’s every bit of that.” He passed on.
The net lowered below the recovered fish, its tail worked the water. It hung, suspended, above the rim of the small net and below the surface, assessing. Then it cruised, spent but able, and disappeared among the submerged rocks and moving water.
The day warmed, the midge hatch continued. We leapfrogged each other, fished our own private stretches and exchanged commentary as one or the other passed. Copses of aspen, nestled among the foothill creases, showed yellow. Their leaves shimmered, quaking. There were no other fishermen, this whole stretch of river isolated. A fine day—the lone cloud an occasional glimpse of Catch on the rim. Our lookout, protector.
A mile downstream, we turned and fished our way back. We each caught and released another half dozen fat trout, each a treat, vibrant, coursing with life. Before we left the river and climbed the hill for a field lunch, we paused.
“You feel Bo?” Marcus asked, out of the blue.
A small herd of mule deer watched us from a quarter mile away. A pair of golden eagles soared overhead, rode their own currents.
“Yeah. Yeah I do.”
We stood still, silent, and absorbed the moment.
“Perched squatting on one of the large boulders in the middle of the river, red hair flying, smiling, watching,” I added.
“Fishing with a sharpened stick. Naked.”
We laughed together.
“Yeah, I feel him,” I said, and paused. “With me. Joy. Wonder. Love.”
A trout rose nearby and sipped midges from the surface.
“Wonder if it all works like that?” Marcus asked.
“Don’t know. Hope so.”
River sounds, water moving. Timeless, yet finite.
“Anyway,” I said, “this is church. Here. Now. Surrounded with this glory. Why wouldn’t he be with us?”
Tears welled. Marcus squeezed my shoulder, gave it a light pat, and headed up the hill. The moment flooded with real, bright and enveloping. I thought of Mom, CC. And Bo. And how lucky I was, a part of this magic moment.
Chapter 32
From our hilltop perch, we could see forever, the sky vast, grass leaning with the wind. We’d released Jake from his vehicular imprisonment, and he’d taken the opportunity to pee on a tire of the Suburban before wandering in tight circles, watchful for signs of shotguns and game bags. Catch wandered up, scanning even as he sat to join us. Marcus produced the liverwurst sandwiches, and we sat on the lee side of the Suburban.
“Rough life,” Marcus said.
“Can barely stand it.”
“So are you two through with your little dances-with-fish exercise?” Catch asked.
Jake smelled food and sat near Marcus and his sandwich. The breeze blew stronger above the protection of the riverbed, the knee-high grass dancing. It wasn’t hard visualizing buffalo herds by the millions grazing through this area.
The raw onion slices crunched; the soft liverwurst was smooth, rich. Marcus passed me a water bottle and asked, “You miss Rae?”
Only the closest of friends could lay it out that way. He stared off at the horizon and gave me room to answer.
“Every day.”
“How’s that affect the dating world?”
“Comparisons. Touch of guilt.”
“Not easy,” he said and crunched a bite of crisp apple and cheese.
“Part of the deal.”
“I know a few Portland women you’d like,” Catch said. “They might even like you. If I lied enough before they met you.”
“A recurring theme. Dating consultants. What is the deal with you and Marcus?”
“Your happiness. That’s the deal,” Catch said and wiped his beard with the sleeve of his jacket. “You were the first of us to take the plunge into a normal life. Marriage. Potlucks. Rotary Club.”
“Didn’t last long.”
“Not the damn point,” Catch continued. “It fit you. You were happy. Do it again.”
“So speaks the oracle.”
“Catch is right,” Marcus said. “And I believe a part of your happiness, or the possibility of being happy, will come from a location change.”
“And quit living on a stupid boat,” Catch added.
“Didn’t know Dr. Phil had two assistants. What soothing approach should I take with bounty hunters?”
“You really worried?” Catch asked. “I mean, look around. Over the last few hours, I’ve seen fifty pronghorns and a dozen deer. Pass the cheese and an apple.”
“The point is, you don’t have to travel around the world to make a buck,” Marcus said. “Start there. Find a spot, get a job. Let things coalesce around normalcy.”
“And maybe we should consider the current situation. Nothing normal about that.” I brushed my hands clean, stood.
Catch took another bite of apple and spoke while he chewed. “Look, I may not see it, and Marcus is skeptical as hell, but you made the call. Right or wrong, you rang the bell.”
“I feel it. Sense it.”
“Fair enough,” Catch said. “And we responded. That’s the whole point. We’re here for each other.”
“And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. How much it means. Whatever the possibility the bad guys are coming.”
Catch stood, shook food debris from his beard. “So we going hunting, or play grab-ass with possibilities?”
Marcus and I shared a smile over Catch’s worldview. Possibilities always existed. Fine. Expect the unexpected. Be prepared. Shoot first.
No human structures, no people for miles in any direction. Rolling grass hills, interspersed with coulees—draws or depressions—often brush-filled. The wild grasslands of Montana. Home to sharp-tailed grouse and Hungarian partridges. Thirty minutes later we pulled off the gravel road, middle of nowhere.
“We’ll hunt two spots. Here, and one near the ranch. Both have lots of birds.”
I’d learned a long time ago that “lots of birds” didn’t take into account bird density. Lots of birds meant lots of country, miles of walking. It was a good thing, the day bright and clean. Striding with friends I’d been with through hell and back. A bird dog unleashed, doing what it was bred to do.
Released, Jake whined and quivered with anticipation as we strapped game bags around our waists and loaded the shotguns. Catch shouldered his sniper rifle, draped binoculars over his neck, donned sunglasses, and smiled.
“I’ll hang back. Quarter mile. Work the perimeter,” he said.
Nods all around and a final
radio check. We’d wear earbuds, stay in contact as we spread out.
There are, regardless of breed, only two kinds of bird dogs, two types that point feathered game. The vast lion’s share fell in the first category. The canine DNA took over, hardwired, and the dog hunted. With fierce intensity, all-consuming, and if trained well, it stayed somewhat within eyesight. Pure instinct, tempered with training, compelled the dog—seek, smell, find. When the scent of game birds carried close, lock. Freeze. Point. As a hunter, you find the dog, walk toward it, the birds flush, and you shoot. The cycle repeats.
A fine experience, but one of separation. The majority of high-octane pointers don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re there or not. They hunt for themselves, hardwired. You are along for the ride. They may make fine family pets, loving, great with kids. But afield, these pointing machines are oblivious to your presence. The owner was welcome to come along. Or not. It doesn’t matter with those bird dogs.
Owners often equip these high-strung and high-priced animals with shock collars and small GPS antennas. The shock collar reminds the dog to stay within a semblance of range of the hunter. The GPS used for locating the dog after it disappears over the hill, finds a covey of birds, and locks on point—in what may be the next county. Beeps, electronics, yelps when the shock collar pops. The dog becomes a tool, utilized for the experience of a bird hunt. A tool so focused and so intent, it no longer cares about the owner, the master.
Then there’s the rare category of bird dog, few and far between. Dogs that hunt for you, with you. These jewels pause often, check your location, hesitate for affirmation you are together, as one. In open fields, they range within a couple hundred yards, visible, confirm you’re with them.
Hunting thick brush with hindered visibility, they move tight, nearby. They ensure their partner, their teammate, is close. These hunters don’t require collared electronic gizmos or harsh words of frustration as they ignore you and head off for themselves. Rare and relished, these dogs team. Partner. Hunt together. No longer a master-servant relationship. Transformed into a field partnership. Jake was one of those special types.
Now the magic moment separating the best bird dogs from the revved-up knotheads hunting for themselves. Vehicle doors slammed shut. A fine bird dog thirty feet ahead, body toward open prairie but head turned back toward its partner, teammate. Waiting for the command, quivering. The snick of a chambered shotgun round signaled the all-set. I dropped worry and concern, lived in the here.
And so Marcus delivered those wondrous words, the signal for the transformation. Issued from partner to partner, man to dog.
“Hunt ’em up.”
And so we did.
Chapter 33
Jake ranged, nose windward, two hundred yards ahead. He cut swaths across our walking direction, covered wide areas, tasted the air. He cast glances at Marcus, connected. Catch followed us, dipped into coulees, ranged our flanks. We seldom spotted him. A half mile passed, and Jake became birdy, more excited, his cropped tail frantic. He froze, pointed.
“Huns.”
Marcus knew his dog, and whatever birdy indications poured from of his hunting partner indicated the species of bird. Hungarian partridges. Clustered birds, gathered in coveys of ten or twenty. Imported during the 1800s, they had spread across the West.
“Don’t wait,” Marcus said as we marched toward a rock-still Jake. Huns often flushed far, required a quick shot. We walked past Jake, who held his point, and flicked the safety off on our shotguns. When Huns busted, flew, they often did so as a flock, at once, all of them. And far away.
I couldn’t see the covey, hidden in the grass, but at twenty yards they busted. An uproar of wings, the gray-and-rust-colored birds exited the scene at full roar, headed away from us. Typical of Huns. We both picked a single bird, fought against the tendency to flock shoot, and each slapped the trigger once. Two birds fell.
At the sound of the gunshots, Jake flew past, intent on the retrieve. He brought both back for Marcus, his partner. Gray underbodies, mottled-brown back and wings, a rusty head color extending into the brown. A fine bird, about twice the size of a quail. Both destined for a pot of gumbo or stuffed and baked. Neither bird was shoved unceremoniously into the game bags around our waists, but rather admired, touched, appreciated. Then slid into the protective pockets while Jake jumped and danced around us, remnant feathers caught in his beard.
“Nice shooting” came over the earbuds. Catch.
The covey had flown a good quarter mile away, and Marcus declined pursuit. “They’re liable to flush even farther next time.”
So we continued, covered turf, relaxed, in concert with the dog. We dropped into a coulee, followed Jake as he climbed the other side. The sky bright, vast, except for a thin black line at the northern horizon. A front, dark and full of ugly weather, rolled across the Great Plains toward us.
“Won’t hit until late today,” Marcus said as we tromped along. He’d know, and I dropped any concern about working through wind, rain, snow, and sleet on the way back.
A couple of miles passed, comfortable, anticipatory. The land rose and dipped, swells on an ocean of grass. Mountain ranges both close and a hundred miles away stood as sentinels, boundaries wild and untouched. The foreboding line of weather moved closer, stretched across the horizon, still far distant.
Jake dropped into a wide high-grass coulee and we followed. Chokecherry bushes bunched in the center of the draw, and the dog, after trotting past the bushes, slammed the brakes. Head turned, nose in the air. He reversed direction and quartered toward the thick cover, froze.
“Jake’s on point,” Marcus said. We had both walked past the dog, began scaling the opposite side of the coulee. “Sharp-tails.”
He’d know. About twice the size of Huns, sharp-tailed grouse held better, allowed us a closer opportunity. We approached the quivering statue of a dog. Jake moved, broke point, crept forward. The covey was moving, walking or running away. We stayed behind Jake and followed his lead. Neither of us could see the birds, hidden, camouflaged.
Jake locked up again and once more moved, stalked forward, deliberate and quiet. He froze for good, a front leg suspended, static. Somewhere ahead of his nose were grouse. Ten feet. Twenty yards. Hard to say as nature had provided remarkable camouflage coloring for the sharp-tails.
We moved past Jake, cautious, and flicked our weapons’ safeties off. The breeze had increased, swirled. The chokecherry bushes and tall prairie grass swayed around us, each slow step closer to a flush of wild birds.
Two, three grouse erupted from the cover, wings pounding air. Two shots, two birds, and the popcorn flush began. Another single popped from cover, and Marcus downed it. Another flushed and passed behind Marcus, negating any chance I had of a safe shot. Two more popped up at my feet. One shot and another bird for the bag. Four shots between the two of us. Four birds.
Marcus directed Jake in the general direction of each dead grouse, and the dog retrieved them, one after the other. As Marcus collected them, he handed over two for my game bag. Speckled brown with the feathers extended along the legs to the feet. Fat, healthy, beautiful birds. They would make a fine dinner.
Such moments inspire stillness and reflection. There was no urgent movement forward seeking more birds. A respite—respect for the kill and the glory of the surroundings. Another magic moment, washed by comradeship and unity with the canine teammate and appreciation for the wonders at hand and those extending to the horizon. Catch, hidden above us, again acknowledged our marksmanship.
We worked our way back toward the Suburban. Jake found another covey of Huns. They flushed at forty yards, and while Marcus and I both shouldered shotguns, neither of us fired. Too far. Too much chance of a wounded bird. A matter of discernment, appreciation for the opportunity.
The Chevy rolled through miles of undulating land, the day still bright, the storm line still distant. We would hunt a stretch of land on Marcus’s ranch. A set of tight dips and rises that held sharp-tails. He mentio
ned the outside world again.
“Any thoughts about going after the funding source?”
It came as a bit of a surprise given Marcus’s nonchalance toward the subject. He’d always back-burnered the entire bounty component of his life, unconcerned.
“Plenty,” I said. “The Clubhouse is on it. Has been for a while.”
“The Clubhouse,” Marcus said, shaking his head.
“Yeah. And someone in the Company. An inside source.”
Another headshake. “We take care of our own business,” Marcus said, ending the Company train of discussion.
Miles rolled past. Jake, tired, stretched across the back seat, head on Catch’s lap. Still alert, ready for more. We rolled the windows halfway, the air more brisk, our heated bodies cooling off. I poured us coffee from the stainless-steel thermos, half-full cups so the road dips and washboards wouldn’t cause the liquid to spill.
“My money’s on a Yemeni sheik,” Catch said. “We were more than a little effective over there. Plus, they’ve got the dinero.”
“Bo offered to go back over there. Fix the issue. Travel incognito.”
“Right. Incognito. He would’ve blended right in,” Marcus said.
We laughed, remembered, swapped Bo stories, and rolled through miles of grassland.
“Well, we know why he volunteered. Of all of us, he’s the one who’d charge hell with a bucket of ice water,” I said, and we nodded, fell silent.
We stopped as the road terminated at Marcus’s ranch entrance, and I opened the gate. Jake bolted up, ready for round two. We drove a mile and parked, donned the game bags, loaded the shotguns. Catch again carried his sniper rifle and followed. More walking, striding, content to focus on the undulating terrain and Jake’s intensity. He found another covey of sharp-tails, we each added another bird to the day’s harvest, and time flowed, eased past.
