oarfrost is what they call it. You know, the frost that forms when it is so bitter cold that the humidity from the fog rising off the river freezes and causes the air to appear as if it's filled with snow. You don't dare touch your gun barrel with a wet finger or frosty glove; it would likely stick - frozen tight.

    These are the kinds of mornings when the sun doesn't show itself until the fog burns off; sometimes it never shows. These are the kinds of mornings when the fog is so thick that you hear the geese and ducks but only get an overhead glimpse at them against an intermittent patch of blue. Or as they drop through at the sound of your call and then scramble to escape upon finding only decoys awaiting them. These are the kinds of mornings when a bird can suddenly appear, swimming silently among your decoys, where you had been looking only a split second before. These are the kinds of mornings that the geese are plentiful on the Colorado River and most hunters are still snug in their beds.

    The river flows out of Rocky Mountain National Park near Granby, Colorado. It meanders through high-country meadows and picks up power from feeder streams and smaller rivers until it meets up with the Eagle River near the town of Dotsero, Colorado. By the time it reaches the area near Rifle, it is a full-fledged river cutting its way west, heading out of the mountains toward the great canyons of southern Utah and on to meet the Green River and form Lake Powell.

    To look at this scene during the warmer months, it would appear as a great trout-fishing river, some of the best drift-boat fishing in the West. However, during the coldest days of winter when the goose hunting is at its best, the Colorado can be lethal. No place for the unprepared. A hunter has to have the right equipment and clothing and be able to get his shot birds out of the river. One step too far or a slip in the river means sure death from hypothermia.

    Occasional hunters try to brave these conditions with a springer spaniel or a golden retriever, but they soon find that the ice forms so quickly and so solidly in their dogs' coats that they are miserable. The Labradors, the retrievers of choice throughout most of the country are perhaps better off because of their slick coats, but they would rather stay on shore if they had a choice.

    Many of the hunters use Chesapeake Bay retrievers.

    Bomber was one tough Chesapeake. He didn't have any fancy titles. The American Chesapeake Club gave him a working dog Excellent certificate and title for being the only dog to pass their test that summer day when the water and the air were warm, but he wasn't trained to do the stuff that the sleek field trial competitors were expected to do. With a head reminiscent of a basketball and a neck to match his tremendous shoulder mass, his body tapered off into heavily muscled hindquarters; this stoic and intrepid ninety-pounder was built more like he should have been parked at a truck stop.

    A friend once remarked that Bomber reminded him of "the Sonny Liston of retrievers." Bomber picked up lots of ducks and pheasants in his life but his Ph.D. was in river hunting for Canada geese.

anada Geese were easy to fool when they cruised the clear skies but couldn't see the river because of the fog. A few floating goose decoys and a limited knowledge of how to blow a call were all that it took - that is, when the call wasn't frozen. We rarely shot the ducks. Ducks would land in the goose decoys, but geese wouldn't give duck decoys a second glance. Why shoot ducks when the geese might be unseen, quietly moving just overhead or around the next bend in the river?

    Often we could hear them honking, moving, up and down the river above the fog but not liking the sound of our greetings. Sometimes the geese would suddenly and silently drop out of the fog, black legs extended and wings set, looking for a little companionship. This always happened when you were never quite ready, shotgun leaning against the side of the blind, shivering with a coffee cup in hand. Geese always seem to have their own agenda.

    Who knows where the five Canadas came from that morning? Suddenly and without so much as a flutter or honk, they were on top of us and settling directly into our decoys. Normally, the geese would instinctively land more toward the center of the river where you could barely see them and, if everything looked and sounded safe and attractive, swim over toward the decoys. Today was not starting off as a normal day. It was still and eerily quiet inside the fog, which appeared thicker than usual. The decoys were already covered in the frost that had been falling on them like snow for the thirty minutes since I'd placed them in the river. It seemed darker than the previous mornings, and it took a flashlight to see my watch and be assured that the half-hour before sunrise legal shooting time had arrived only moments before.

    We were alone that morning, and both Bomber and 1 saw the geese settling into the decoys. Not being at all ready for such a sight, l had to drop a shell into the Browning and push the button to release the bolt. As it slammed closed, the geese figured that they had made a wrong turn. Their huge wings pumped for all they were worth to try to gain altitude and disappear into the fog. The first shot took one of the birds out of the air with a resounding thump. The big bird skidded across the ice on the end of the little island and came to rest against a frozen rock. I dropped another shell into the action and, all in one movement, thumbed the button. The second shot, more instinct than practice, was at a trailing goose rapidly climbing and all but out of sight in the fog.

    This second goose was the cause of the problem that morning. Perhaps I never should have considered taking the shot. The rapidly climbing Canada went down, very much alive, and swam directly for the current in the center of the river, head up and swimming strongly but unable to fly.

    I've watched many crippled ducks and geese go down in a river or a pond and drive a dog to the point of exhaustion diving, swimming, and circling, trying to escape. An experienced dog will raise his head and shoulders completely out of the water and tread water while swimming in circles looking for a diving cripple and, upon spotting the bird, get after it as quickly as possible. The bird invariably dives again and the dog resumes his circling until after several tries he closes the gap. Usually with one mighty lunge and a dive under the water, the dog grabs the bird and heads back to the hunter.

    This goose had no intention of diving. He was headed for the center of the river, and even after a misdirected sluicing shot, he was still alive enough for a fight.

    The old time waterfowl hunting and gun dog books talk about the uncanny abilities of the Chesapeake Bay Ducking Dogs, as they called them, to understand the necessity of chasing down the cripples first and retrieving the shot dead birds after the cripples were gathered up. I don't know if it was this supposed inherent trait or the spray from the sluicing shot, but the big Chesapeake zeroed in on the swimming goose and ran right past the first goose lying belly up, thrashing on the ice, and exploded into the river with a mighty leap, churning the water after the retreating goose.

    It has been my experience that when hunting a fast-moving river, dogs that are taught to go directly into the water and not to run the bank are at a definite disadvantage. An experienced river dog will run the bank until below where the shot bird is floating and then dive in and continue his downstream angle of trajectory out into the current until he meets up with the bird. As soon as the dog gains control of the bird, he will usually allow the current to carry him downstream, all the time pumping his body toward the shore to return by way of the bank. A dog that goes directly into the current rather than down the shore and tries to catch up to a floating bird will usually lose the bird if there is any chop or wave action whatsoever. Not to mention the fact that spending, the added time in the water is more physically exhausting than going by way of land.

    Theory is fine when the bird is dead and floating, but when it is alive and capable of swimming, diving, and fighting, coupled with the most treacherous of river conditions, theory goes out the window. It takes a tough, physically fit dog with experience, desire, and exceptional stamina just to survive the conditions. Considering the fact that this Canada goose was not going to be happy about having a dog trying to grab it coupled with the single-digit conditions, I couldn't have thought of a more potentially disastrous set of circumstances.

    Disappearing into the fog and snow and being rapidly carried away by the river's current was a massive Chesapeake Bay retriever closing fast on the great bird with which the breed is, perhaps, most closely associated. Both were motivated by a wild, untamed fire and drive, both with a look in their eyes that was more instinct than reason, both ready for the fight and willing to do anything necessary to survive.

    The last thing that I saw before the two disappeared into the snow and fog and around a bend in the river was Bomber's great lunge in the current toward the bird. The goose responded rapidly by striking at the dog's head. This was followed by a fierce and noisy thrashing of wings that sounded like someone beating a far away bass drum. For an instant after the initial clash, there was a space between them as both seemed to back off, look each other over, and try to regain their Composure.

    Suddenly they were gone, carried away into the fog by the river. I could hear and feel the sound and the fury of the battle raging just in front of me, but I could see nothing. The goose's honking was loud and had an alarming and aggressive ring to it. The growling coming from the Chesapeake was unrelenting and bordering on a bark. This went on for several minutes. Too rapidly, the ongoing sounds of the skirmish faded off in the distance, muffled by the fog, the frost filling the air like snow, and the roar of the river.

    Eventually, all seemed silent except for the river and the pounding of my heart. Not more than a hundred yards downstream from me, unseen and unheard, the battle raged on.

aiting to hear or see anything seemed like an eternity, but there was nothing but silence and the endless, muffled rumble of the river. Maybe it was best if I tried to get the dog back. Is retrieving a bird worth the life of a dog? The last thing on my mind throughout this ordeal had been the calls and the whistle hanging outside of my hunting coat and covered with frost; the pea in the whistle was frozen solid. Warm breath from a few unsuccessful attempts to blow through the whistle resulted in the pea breaking loose. I blew the "come-in" series of blasts as loud as I possibly could. It was futile. If I couldn't hear what was going on downriver, how could I expect Bomber to be able to hear my whistle? Time seemed to creep along, and I felt the pounding inside even louder. There was absolutely nothing to do except keep a vigil by watching the fog for any sign of the dog, I feared that he was lost.

    Gathering up the decoys didn't help to pass the time, and I even considered getting in my truck and looking for him. It was about a hundred-yard wade to the shore and up a steep hill to the truck. If Bomber wasn't back by the time I got the decoys into the bag, I had decided to go looking. This decision made sense at the time, but in retrospect, I couldn't have seen him anyhow in the fog. By my watch, it had been about forty minutes; it seemed much longer.

    Someone was approaching from the hill where the truck was parked. He was making his way down toward the river along the very same trail that we used so often. The vehicle approach must have been muffled by the noise from the river. Perhaps it was someone that I knew, and together we could formulate a plan to try to find the dog. Just the fact that someone else was around had a calming effect; if nothing, else, it was someone to talk to. Calling out to the unknown person to let him know my whereabouts and to warn him not to attempt to cross to the island without chest waders. There was no answer. I forgot the bag of decoys and headed across the channel to the shore.

    A rock rolled down the hill and bounced noisily into the river. Looking in the direction from which the sound had come, I saw Bomber ease his way into the river with the goose clutched in his jaws. The weight of the world seemed lifted off of my shoulders. Somehow he had managed to subdue the goose and find his way back.

    Bomber passed me in the channel as if I didn't even exist and swam for the island. One of the wings of the goose nearly covered his face and eyes, partially obscuring his view. He must have been on autopilot and knew where he was going; nothing was going to distract him. Ice balls and flecks of blood hanging from his coat, tail, and whiskers glistened like tinsel on a Christmas tree. Dropping the goose on the ice in front of the blind and following a mighty water and ice-spraying shake, Bomber returned to his spot next to the blind, ready for another goose. All in a day's work, you know!

    A trail of blood drops and the dead goose lying on the ice told a story of the fury that must have taken place, unseen and unheard, on the river that day. The goose's neck was broken and many feathers were missing from one wing. Patches of feathers were missing from the goose's head and neck. Bomber didn't come out of the battle unscathed either. A pad on one foot was nearly ripped off; the end of his ear flap was dripping blood from a tear, and the skin in corner of a lower eyelid was torn loose. Even after an immediate trip to the vet for a little repair work and a few stitches, the scars on his ear and eyelid were obvious for the rest of his life.

or ten of his fourteen years, Bomber and I hunted nearly every day during the season. Bomber and others like him are true champions and masters of the field. Stories of the exploits of dogs such as this are what have made the Chesapeake Bay retriever an American hunting legend.

    I recall the last chapter of William F. Brown's great 1945 book, Retriever Gun Dogs, published by The Countryman Press. In this chapter entitled "Chesapeake Bay Dogs - As I have Known Them For More Than Half A Century," Mr. Brown's father, Dr. George V. I. Brown, writes of his association with the Chesapeake breed since the 1870s. The last two paragraphs in the book read as follows:

   Knowing as I do the great retrieves that a good Cheasapeake is capable of, it is disappointing to see him judged for events that less-competent dogs can do as well when, if given the opportunity, he could do much that any of the other contestants could not do at all.
   I am still hoping for the time to come when there will be a field trial of champion retrievers in some such place as I have described previously in this article. Then the champion of champions will surely be a real dog.

    Obviously, Dr. Brown knew real hunting dogs. He knew the Chesapeakes.