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Fishing dogs . . .
I've never had a fishing dog. We've had mutts, a purebred coon dog (a plothound) and over the last decade or so, bird dogs - English setters. I tried to turn my first setter, Freckles, into a fishing dog but quickly discovered the folly of it. We got him just before Christmas in '97. Grouse season in Colorado had passed and Freckles wasn't ready for the birds that waited for us elsewhere. It was the slowest part of the fishing year. It was also, you likely remember, the middle of nearly a decade of drought in the San Juans and the ground was mostly free of snow. Bad for well water. Bad for the big fires that would come a few years later. But good for training a bird dog during the cold months, and train him we did - in the open fields of Hidden Valley and out in Ridges Basin where Lake Nighthorse is now burying what used to be one of the prettiest pieces of wide open land in the county. On those early walks we encouraged him to work out in front of us, gradually teaching him to quarter - moving left and right, searching the air for scent.
I realized how unreasonable it was to take a dog bred for field trials and trained to range in front of his handler and try to turn him into a stay-by-your-side, keep-out-of-the-trout-water, don't-spook-the-fish fishing dog the first time I took him fishing. Spring had arrived, which here means big water, turbulent water, cold water. It also usually means tough fishing in free-flowing rivers and streams. Spring is a good time to do a little lake and pond fishing, to check out a New Mexico tailwater before the big releases. Freckles' first, and last, fishing trip was to the Florida River just below Lemon Dam. Unlike the larger Navajo dam to the south which had not yet begun to spill, Lemon was wide open, dumping lake water into the Florida River , making room for the snowmelt to come. The Florida was roaring.
Without much expectation of finding fish but hoping to turn Freckles into a fishing dog as well as a bird dog, I wadered up, rigged my rod, released him and headed toward the river. Freckles took off in front of me, the way he'd been trained to, and I found myself constantly yelling, "Back!" - not a command you want to be constantly giving a wide-ranging pointing dog. Freckles quickly found the swollen river and jumped in. I feared for his life, but I needn't have. Paddling furiously, head held high above the froth, he maneuvered like an experienced kayaker, tucking in behind boulders to rest in the eddies, eddying out to glide downstream and finally clambering up the bank to join me again, announcing both his arrival and his delight (as wet dogs always do) by furiously shaking and spraying water all over me.
I never took him fishing again. Didn't want to confuse him. Who wants a bird dog who holds back in the uplands?
But that's not to say I haven't fished with more than a few fishing dogs. My best fishing buddies have almost always had them, and each of them was special. The two I fished with most were Bud's constant companion, a blue healer named Lert, and Duke's big, blocky, wonderful, chocolate Lab, Stormy. Their gifts were decidedly different; as different as the anglers who owned them.
Lert fished by Bud's side, wading with him where his paws could grab bottom, paddling alongside when the water got too deep, but never lagging behind or moving ahead where he might make the trout nervous. Lert watched the water for rising trout as attentively as Bud, and often saw them before Bud did. When he did, he would stop and stare at the place where he'd seen them. It was almost as if he were pointing fish. When Bud would catch one, he'd often set it in Lert's open, soft, moist mouth for release - not a tawdry trick to impress fishing buddies, but a well-deserved reward for Lert's having spotted the fish. The dog's name came from a bumper sticker that used to be kind of common around here. I haven't seen one in years and suspect many who read this have never seen one. It read, BE ALERT! Colorado needs more Lerts! Maybe, not so terribly funny in retrospect, but the phrase seemed positively brilliant in an era more dominated by pot and paisley than single-malts and BMWs.
Stormy was as solid, easy going and real as his owner. His owner, Duke, was not one to rush into a river, nor one to flail about thrashing the water needlessly with his line. I've never seen a better fisherman, nor one as economical in his movement. Stormy was the kind of companion Duke is. Trustworthy, honest, loyal - but never cloyingly so. He'd amble along with us until we got to the water, then settle down to watch from a comfortable place-a soft, leaf-strewn patch in the sun if it was winter, a shady spot of cool exposed soil if it was summer. He was always there, nearby, but never in your way. Just knowing he was there made you feel that the world was an okay place.
Freckles turned out to be the best bird dog I'd ever known, let alone shared a home with. His nose was legendary. His points were stylish; likewise, his retrieves. I can still see him struggling up a long, steep mountain slope with a heavy grouse hanging from his jowls, his eyes proudly glued to mine during the long climb he was making after retrieving a bird that had glided in death so far down the slope I'd have given it up for lost if I'd been with any other dog. I'd simply pointed my arm downhill and commanded, "Dead bird. Fetch." And Freckles did.
I have a thousand memories of brilliant moments, and just as many that were comical - like the day the humidity was low, quail were scarce, and the wind absolutely dead calm, a day when we walked into the middle of a covey before realizing we were standing on top of them. Freckles pointed that covey with his asshole.
Freckles was special.
But he didn't fish.
I've forgiven many others this minor character flaw, why not Freckles? Freckles is 12 now. That first winter is long gone, so too, his puppy days. This week he was diagnosed with lymphosarcoma, a disease that will likely take him from us in a month or two.
It is winter. A good time for remembering.
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