In memory of Winchester, a dynamo of the high country who taught us to live in the moment

Perhaps the stark clear air of the mountains and the lack of distraction from the human condition made it possible to see the animated white speck a half-mile distant. Had I not known, the speck could have been a Dall sheep or a mountain goat climbing the lichen and shale abutment bisected by a clear stream. But there was no mistaking Winchester’s movement, his point would come soon after he made the sweeping curve to the east at the head of the valley where an ancient glacier fed the lush valley below.

The morning started with aromatic downdrafts from the Kenai Mountains and the promise of light-shifting winds to stir the scent of the whitetail ptarmigan that would flow to the nostrils of the three bird dogs anxious for the coming adventure.

“Is your setter a big-running dog?” I asked the fellow who had come to Alaska from the Midwest with a Labrador retriever and an English setter. In retrospect, and in fairness, it seems likely he didn’t understand the question when he said she was. He explained that his setter would run big and his Lab would stay close until birds were pointed, and if taken, the Lab would retrieve them. A combination that is extraordinary when it works. It is also rare. OK, I told him, that would work.

The place we headed involved a 2,000-foot climb through alder and willow to get to the alpine where the hunting would begin. The dogs would be kept at the heel to conserve energy for the enormous effort it takes to cover the big country.

When we arrived at the jump-off point, the base of a valley followed a stream west and then curved to the south and then back east to the glacier. A half-mile wide, the valley was bordered by steep granite slopes to the east and not as steep, willow and lichen-covered slopes to the west. A mile and a half with another 1,500 feet of elevation would take us to the termination at the glacier.

The Midwest hunter wanted to take his dogs and work along the west side, and Winchester and I would work the east slopes of granite. OK, I agreed while thinking to myself, Winchester has no boundaries, and any intervention would cripple his style.

When we split, I knelt and whispered to Winchester, “Find the birds.” When he heard that, the fire in his belly accelerated to an inferno, and he launched as if shot from a howitzer. Within a few minutes, he had covered the first few hundred yards on our side of the valley and crossed the stream 200 yards ahead of the other setter.

My heart swelled, as it always has when Winchester begins the opening act to perform on the biggest stage on earth, while I felt some sympathy for my companion, whose setter was no more than a couple hundred yards ahead of him. According to his GPS tracking collar, when he made the turn south and disappeared from my view, he was a little over a half-mile distant and had covered both sides of the valley, gaining and losing 1,000 feet of elevation with each pass.

While hastening to climb fast and try to stay with Winchester, I imagined the view from the other side of the valley where my hunting companion had a better view and could see Winchester covering the ground his setter was supposed to cover. Nothing to be done about it.

Making the corner where the valley turned south, Winchester was still over a half-mile away, his relentless pace never wavering until he neared the valley’s turn back to the east. From a distance, most of the country he hunted appeared to be nothing but shale and granite. But closer inspection reveals the lichen fueled by snow and glacial melt that whitetail ptarmigans make their living on.

At the base of the steep climb that would take us to the east and the glacier, Winchester’s movement illustrated he had confirmed a scent cone, and it was getting hot. I watched him go out of sight and expected the GPS would announce a point soon, so I quickened my pace. Even so, he would have to hold the birds for at least 25 minutes before I arrived.

My companion was far to the west midway up the slope, his Lab beside him and his setter out a couple hundred yards ahead. I waived my arms and tried to get his attention. I pointed to where Winchester had gone out of sight, hoping he would see what was happening and head that way.

When the GPS buzzed, announcing Winchester’s point, I drove my legs to respond and get there as quickly as possible. Cresting the top of the bench, there he was, 200 yards east, pointing what would seem to be a pile of rocks. But, there was never a doubt — if Winchester said there were birds there, there were.

When I started working toward Winchester for the flush, I looked around for my companions, hoping maybe they had seen my waving. But they weren’t coming.

Whitetail ptarmigan will most often flush to gain elevation unless near the top, at which point they will often go left or right and circle for another slope of similar elevation. True to form, on the flush, the six whitetails flew right, and I took two. When my companions caught up, I felt a bit bad, as there would be no more birds in that valley that day.

But my Midwest friend explained that he could go a lifetime and not see a bird dog do what Winchester does, and he felt grateful to be witness to it.

There is no magic to picking a dog. Sure, you can look at bloodlines, look at the parents and siblings, and make a somewhat educated guess, but it is still a crapshoot. I’ve never won anything in raffles or other such things. But, with Winchester, Christine and I won the lottery. His presence in our lives for 14 years, the gift he gave us while teaching us how to live in the moment and how to fall hopelessly in love with the country he lived for is as good as it gets.

His struggles over the past 18 months have broken our hearts. Caring for him brought us closer, and as the wild part of Winchester seeped away, his love for us was never more evident, and we learned to make our time left together precious. When the time came for that moment that every dog lover dreads, and we held him as his eyes closed in peace, we all know we will always be together in spirit. We will honor his life by continuing to embrace the high country he loved.

When we are up there, and when a distant Goshawk cries and swoops past, his spirit will be riding those wings, and someday, we’ll be there with him.

The mountains will never stop calling for Roosevelt Winchester, April 11, 2010-June 12, 2024. We love you, Bubs.