Dukats Journal of Hunting

His name was Dawson.  We met by chance in a bird dog's paradise.  I had recently moved from a project in the low country of South Carolina to the middle of nowhere northern Nevada.  My employer was building a gold mine near the tiny town of Battle Mountain and I found a spot to live 20 miles outside of town.  My soon to be bride, Susan, had stayed in South Carolina to finish up loose ends and help her company find a replacement before joing me in Nevada. 

The place I found was through my cousin Shawn, the cow boss on a 500,000 acre cattle ranch.  The only open spot was a run down, rat infested trailer, but the ranch manager said I could stay for free if I did a little work on the place to make it liveable again.  It was March and he had ranch hands showing up in a month or two to work cattle that needed a place to sleep when they weren't camped out on the ranch. 

The place had frozen up over the winter so the pipes were cracked throughout and the heater ducts were clogged with pack rats and all they bring with them.  The master bathroom had a 1' diameter hole in the floor and the place smelled like a moldy wet sock.  I unloaded my U-Haul and the few necessities my fiancee let me take, and spent the first few weekends getting things working. 

I didn't have a TV or even a DVD player, so I ordered a few books and spent the evenings reading until I feel asleep.  The house didn't have a phone and I didn't have cell service, so I would call Susan in Battle Mountain before heading to the ranch.  Needless to say, once I got things liveable in the house, it didn't take me long to get bored. 

I had long had a hunting buddy name Josey, a Vizsla who loved to get out and chase birds.  We lived in Arizona for several years and he had picked up Valley Fever while we were there.  He slowly wasted away after we left Arizona while the veterinarians were trying to sort out what was wrong with him.  He had won Susan's heart, so he wasn't allowed to make the trip with me to Nevada.  His hunting days were over anyhow, but I missed his companionship.  I was working with a few old friends who lived in the area and by chance, one happened to have some bird dog pups. 

Joe said they had sold most of the litter, but had one runt pup that was now  about seven month old they were still trying to sell.  I made the suggestion that I could "train him" while I was waiting for Susan to arrive and maybe they could get a little more money for him.  At least that's what I told Susan, but Joe knew  better and brought the dog to Battle Mountain with him after a long weekend.  He said I could have him, I just had to promise to bring him back if we ever wanted to get rid of him.

For the next three months, Dawson and I hiked the mountains of Nevada near and far, every night after work and on the weekends.  He wasn't trained in any way, so we started with potty training and coming to my call.  He eventually learned the potty training, but never did quite master the "come" command.  Only when he wasn't hunting would he really listen, which wasn't often.  I let him sleep in the bed those first few months because that's where he slept with his old master and I hated to stress him out too bad.  Again my excuse for Susan, but it was nice to have a buddy around again.  I soon learned he was a master of escape, so he spent many days chained or in the kennel and to say he was beside himself when I returned to the ranch to take him out for his run would be an understatement.

 We didn't hike totally without purpose and soon found a few spots that held the most challenging upland bird there is, the chukkar.  For those of you who disagree, you've never hunted chukkar in the mountains of Nevada.  The country is steep and the birds know exactly how to keep you out of breath all day long.  They run up the hills and as soon as you get to the top, they disappear at mach 5 down the mountain.  Dawson's first encounter with a chukkar, was something to behold as he knew something was there and when they flushed in front of his nose, he nearly jumped out of his skin.  I gave him heaps of praise and it didn't take him long to figure out that we were hiking for a reason.  A reason he never forgot and lived for the rest of his life.

I decided on the name Dawson based on my first guided hunt.  I had purchased a caribou trip at an auction for a great price and flew into Dawson City, Yukon.  The outfitter picked me up and I was awestruck by the remote beauty of that part of Canada.  The trip had many fond memories including a beautiful caribou bull and true wilderness hunting in a land with no fences.  The name fit him well as he was impossible to fence in and loved the wide open spaces of the Nevada high country.

Susan eventually made it out with Josey and her dog, Kailah, just before our wedding.  We left the dogs with a friend and when we returned from our honeymoon, Josey had left us.  He had made one final trip to see his dad and headed to chase roosters in the CRP fields in the sky.  It was a sad time, but Dawson helped us get through the tough times by chewing on the couch or pestering Kailah.  That fall, he grew into his purpose in life. 

There isn't a lot to do in Battle Mountain, but if you enjoy hunting chukkars, you'll never be bored.  Dawson soon learned to point and hold birds and loved to range out a half mile or more and lock up on those sneaky birds.  He saved us many miles searching for chukkars and loved every minute of it.  One of my proudest moments, was coming home from work one day and finding the house empty, no wife, no dogs, no nothing.  I sulked around for a while wondering where everyone was, when in they drove, Susan in her hunting vest and the dogs with their tongues hanging down to their toes.  They had chased a few chukkars without me, and I was one proud husband and dad.

Over the years Dawson hunted pheasant, quail, grouse, doves, ducks and more and spent every day of his life waiting for his next hunting trip.  He never lost his focus, and kept the back yard free of any wildlife and provided plenty of entertainment for Susan and I, locking up on lizards on a daily basis.  When our daughter arrived, although it took some time to accept the dog piling and ear pulling, he eventually enjoyed playing ball with her and chasing her around picking up scraps.

He was always a hunting dog.  He won the respect of most hunters who got the chance to hunt with him (except a few in his younger years) and did his best as a companion at home.  About a week ago, he joined Josey in the chukkar mountains in the sky.  He was only three and a half years old and missed the prime years of his hunting life, but he will long be on our minds.  It's tough to lose a friend, especially when he's in his prime, but when I see that covey of chukkars explode from the rock strewn sagebrush, he won't be gone.  He'll still be with me watching that lead bird fall.