"Jackpot"

written by Butch Goodwin
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Northern Flight Retrievers  

When I was a teenager, waterfowl hunting seemed much simpler. The Herter's catalog was the only real "wish book" that I cared much about; now it seems several new catalogs arrive each week. (By the way, for the youngsters in the crowd, if it hadn't been for George Leonard Herter's vision of developing a hunting and fishing catalog business, there probably wouldn't be a Cabela's today.) Sears and Montgomery Ward sold guns and ammunition, and, if your story was sufficiently convincing, you could probably talk your parents into getting you a shotgun by trading-in their S&H Green Stamps. No kidding - that's how I got my first single shot Winchester shotgun: with S&H Green Stamps! 

In those days, one of my two best buddies was a son of a patent attorney, and the other was the son of a U.S. Congressman. The attorney's family had a second home along the Chop tank River on Maryland's Eastern Shore, and the three of us made frequent use of their permanent concrete duck blind, which, other than being heated and including some other comforts of home, resembled many of the pictures I've seen of World War II bunkers. All of the decoys were there waiting for us, and they owned a couple of self-trained Labradors to retrieve any ducks or geese that might make a wrong turn and happen into our decoys. 

There wasn't much to know in those days: just show up with a gun; some shotgun shells; a black, hard rubber  Olt goose or duck call; and go hunting. Yes, duck hunting was simpler - maybe "unencumbered" is a more accurate term. 

Fast forward more than a dozen years to the Colorado Mountains and hunting the icy and treacherous Colorado River with my own retriever, a Chesapeake named Bomber. No longer were the blinds heated; usually, at best, they were a stack of driftwood gathered along the river to huddle behind. At worst, we had no blind at all - we sat among the willows on overturned plastic buckets and covered ourselves with white bed sheets to blend in with the snow. And no longer were decoys ready and waiting; now they had to be packed down the frozen hills and across the ice on our backs. 

Over the years, Bomber and I shared many adventures, along with some extremely harrowing moments. More than a decade ago, I wrote about one of those times in RJ ("All in a Day's Work,"  Dec. /Jan. 1997/98). Bomber was a really tough guy, but if it hadn't been for someone watching over us, he would have been no match for an adversary encountered during another of out hunting trips.

Bomber

Along many of the southern reaches of the Colorado River is 1-70. The old two-lane highway rambles along the north side of the river, allowing access to much of the land and islands that aren't privately owned. A railroad also follows the river, and the company owned the corridor of property on both sides of the tracks. To access the river from the old highway on the north side, it was necessary to park along the road and walk down the often-steep hills, cross the tracks, and then select a game trail that dropped down to the edge of the river. The hills above the river were covered in sagebrush, and, during hunting season, if not covered in snow, they were almost always a fusion of frozen earth and golf ball - to softballl sized round river rocks. 

1 had an afternoon with nothing to do and thought 1 would try to get another Canada goose or two. Bomber and 1 had been out a couple of mornings that week, and a couple of geese were already in the smoker. It had warmed up considerably from the overnight temperatures, and the frost on the ground had melted. Afternoon wasn't the best time for hunting geese, but it sure was better than sitting at home. 

We pulled up to my preferred access spot along the old highway, but two trucks were already parked along the shoulder. There were at least a half dozen other pull-offs farther down the road, so we headed on. The next access spot, several miles away wasn't taken, so I pulled off and started to unload my gear. 

I slung a dozen stacked-up goose shells with a strap strung through the neck holes across my chest, bandolier style; six floaters and the heads for the shells were in a framed backpack bag. I carried my 12-gauge Browning A-5 in a soft case, and the pockets of my jacket were stuffed with 3" copper coated lead handloads. I gathered up assorted other stuff, and Bomber and I headed for the river. Looking back at the truck, I noticed that an old canvas bumper had fallen on the ground, and I told Bomber to pick it up and bring it to me. I figured I would bring it and if nothing was flying, I could always toss it through the decoys a few times for him to retrieve. 

The weather had warmed to the point that the previously frozen hilllside down to the river was muddy, the rocks rolling away underfoot. As I approached the railroad tracks, I looked up and down as far as I could see and listened to make sure that no trains were in the vicinity. It appeared safe to cross. 

The drop off down to the tracks was steep, and the railroad workers had plowed a depression on the uphill side along the tracks so falling rocks would drop into the ditch rather than rolling into the path of the trains. This steep hill was never a problem when the ground was frozen, but the thaw had made this short stretch of the climb particularly unstable. 

About 10 feet above the tracks, my feet went out from under me. A small avalanche of rocks rolled into the ditch as I slid the last few feet down the hill on my back. I regained my footing at the bottom and made sure everything was intact, but I noticed that Bomber was heading for the tracks. The canvas bumper had tumbled down the hill and bounced onto the tracks, and he thought he should retrieve it. 

I called for him to come, but he was already on the tracks and, for some reason, having trouble getting the bumper in his mouth. It was at about this time that I heard the unmistakable high-pitched horn to my right. It was Amtrak silently moving at full speed less than 400 yards away and bearing down on my dog. 

Without waiting for a response to my call, I grabbed for his collar. Someone must have been watching out for us because my fingers slid under his collar just as I jerked and propelled both of us backward, falling across the ditch and landing against the hill. He could have ducked away and possibly pulled out of the collar, or I could have missed grabbing it entirely; the extra weight from the decoys slung over my shoulder and back could have caused me to topple forward onto the tracks. when I lunged for him ... who knows? The Amtrak was on top of us in a heartbeat. I held his collar tight, my other hand holding a big chunk of fur and skin as we both lay there watching the bumper bounce around under the train and then fall silently between the railroad ties. 

After the train had passed, and with my heart and breathing still racing, I decided to forget hunting for that day and climb back up to the truck. Just as we reached the truck, an old pickup rolled up beside me. The driver was a grizzled old rancher who, it turns out, had been parked on one of the adjacent hills watching with his binoculars. He lived a half-mile or so away across the highway and was looking for a couple of cows that had slipped through his fence, and he thought maybe they had wandered toward the river. He rolled down the window, and the first words he said were, "Son, you damn near got yourself into one helluva jackpot down there." 

All I could do was let out a sigh and shake my head. "Whew, one helluva jackpot!" 

Clipper and Bomber were cut from the same tough, never give-up cloth. Bomber was trained to retrieve ducks and geese out of the river under the harshest of conditions, and he excelled at it; Clipper had the sophisticated training of a field trial dog, and he excelled at that. I didn't meet Clipper until later in his life; by then he was at the top of his game - he was unquestionably the top Chesapeake at that time. Although he was on the backside of life, the fire for retrieving birds still burned as intensely in old Clipper's genes as they had when he was a young campaigner. By this time, Clipper was actually Dual CH-AFC Coot's Gypsy Clipper MH, and I was lucky enough to be able to have him as my hunting partner on many occasions. Owned by Dr. Tom Ivey and tirelessly trained by Linda Harger, Clipper came to my kennel in the later seasons of his life each year for a few weeks of hunting. 

Clipper

When she sent Clipper to me, Linda had asked not to put an e-collar on him at his age - he was well-trained, and since he was retired, he didn't need correction for the minor mistakes he might make while out hunting. Clipper and I hunted the river often, but when my schedule didn't allow the time to go through a fullscale production of setting out decoys and sitting in a blind, we'd take a walk to jumpshoot a few ducks from my neighbors' ditches. 

I knew that Clipper was getting deaf because when I would call his name while he was lying around the house, he'd continue to stare, showing little or no indication that he had heard me. But this had never presented a problem when I took him hunting: The river we hunted wasn't fast or difficult, and shooting ducks out of the ditches simply required watching where they fell and bringing them back. 

There was a particularly nice wide spot in one of the ditches where ducks were almost always certain to be sitting. We approached it cautiously, and I had Clipper sit down and remain steady while I continued closer to peek over the edge. As I closed in, about a half-dozen mallards sprang, and I doubled and marked where both fell - one dead in the field just beyond the ditch, and the other down on the ditch bank, obviously crippled and still very much alive. Clipper was still sitting where I had left him but was chomping at the bit to go. I sent him, and he was off toward the cripple, which by now had flopped a few times and rolled down into the water. 

The bird couldn't fly but was swimming and diving with Clipper in hot pursuit. The bird went through a four-foot-diameter culvert under the farm road, and Clipper followed. It was about this time that I thought I should call him off the chase, bring him back to my side, sluice the bird when he showed himself, and then let the old dog retrieve it. So I blew my whistle to call Clipper back - and got no reaction. I hollered and blew my whistle some more, and he never broke stride. I thought he might have been having trouble hearing, but Clipper proved to be deaf as a post! And this bird was following the ditch upstream, directly toward the bridge where it flowed under a 55 mile-per-hour highway with cars and logging trucks flying past. 

Now about 150 yards ahead of me - and running with all I had - I thought it was something short of a miracle when Clipper came out of the ditch about 30 yards before reaching the highway. But he seemed to be hunting in the field along the ditch. Had the bird crawled out and hidden in the weeds? Although my lungs were burning and heart was racing, I didn't slow my pace to wait and find out. 

My question was answered when a rooster pheasant got up right where Clipper was searching and flew directly across the highway. A five-strand barbed wire fence only slowed Clipper down slightly, and now he was headed directly toward the highway - and couldn't hear my whistle or my hollering. 

Again, I guess someone was watching over us. Clipper stopped in the ditch that ran along the highway and turned to come back. I have no idea what stopped him from heading on across the road, but as soon as I got my hands on him, I snapped a rope on his collar and, still sucking for air, led him down to pick up the dead bird still lying along the ditch bank. I retrieved my shotgun where I had dropped it in the weeds, and we headed for home. 

That night after my heart rate got back to somewhat normal, I called Linda and told her that I had no choice but to put an e-collar on Clipper if I was going to continue to hunt with him - if for no other reason than to be able get his attention because he was getting so deaf. I couldn't have a dog that valuable - the top dog in the Chesapeake breed - getting killed on my watch! 

But what kept rolling over in my mind was what that old rancher had said to me many years before: "Son, you damn near got yourself into one helluva jackpot." _•