Palouse Outdoors:Farewell, Old Friend

Clambering down the rocky California shoreline near Monterey, Finn tugged dramatically on her leash, dragging me as if reaching the surf were a matter of life and death. Granite points jutting into the ocean formed a beachy spot big enough for a pup to run but not escape. The sun was sinking behind the curve of the earth as the skinny white setter with dark orange ticking frolicked in the waves. We explored tide pools with blue sea anemones and orange starfish. Finn poked at the rough-skinned starfish with her coal-black snoot, then winced at the unexpected sensation. She had the time of her life, then barfed kelp chunks in the back seat of the car before succumbing to exhaustion-induced sleep.

A year later, Palouse dust billowed behind Finn as she raced through the wheatfields. It was the pheasant season opener, and I'd cataloged a large rooster hiding in a grassy spot near home. After burning off a little steam, we descended on the secret acre of clattering reed canary grass without moving the bird. Convinced we'd missed it, I guided Finn along the bottom of a sheer hillside, where, at the end of the grass, her nose stopped her cold, like a magnet drawn to steel. She quivered like a struck tuning fork, eyes wide and black, nostrils flaring with each heartbeat.

The rooster erupted from beneath her chin, then fell at the report of Dad's old 16-gauge side-by-side. It was a pivotal moment that launched us both on an upland hunting journey that changed my life. We faked it for two more years, occasionally succeeding when the wind was just right. We finally "made it" when Finn turned three. Her gangly "puppyness" blossomed into live poetry. I was fortunate to follow her gambol against the stunning Palouse backdrop for the next 11 years.

She stood as I shot my first Hungarian partridge in 2017, then tracked down our first limit of roosters in 2019, just days after hunting our first sharp-tailed grouse in Montana and North Dakota. She pinned my coveted gray-phase ruffed grouse and put the moves on wily Columbia River chukar.

Finn once put a limit of pheasants in the bag within 30 minutes. Her first point came at the crest of a hill, where a rooster sheltered beneath Great Basin wildrye. Five minutes later, the next bird fell. Finn ignored the bird and turned downhill as I searched in circles for the crippled bird. Exasperated, I glanced down to see Finn on point, glaring at me with an urgent side-eye. As our third bird fell, she sprinted uphill a couple of hundred yards from where the second bird fell, then slammed back onto point. I scrambled behind, finding Finn standing over our crippled bird, as if she'd telepathically known where it was.

She guided first-timers of all ages and worked best as a brace with her younger cousin, Yuba. She was my only setter to successfully hunt every bird species we pursued. She hunted with passion, running over 200 days and 1,200 miles in her career, and she chose to share every minute of it with me.

Finn was the catalyst for my writing and photography, inspiring 330 tales and thousands of photos. What's more, her stories connected me with bird-hunting friends across the western U.S., wonderful people I never would have met otherwise.

The sage grouse was the only bucket-list bird I'd failed to hunt with Finn, but that changed after an email from a stranger this past July. He and his bird-hunting pals had read my book, "Wingshooting the Palouse," and invited me to join them at their annual sage grouse camp in Wyoming. After a couple of vetting conversations, I agreed.

Camp was set in a beautiful willow-lined creek bottom that wound through a crevasse in the sagebrush hills. Seventy-degree, sunny days cooled into frosty nights, punctuated by lively conversation and exquisite meals, including grilled sage grouse breasts, baked salmon, fresh-baked apple pie and cornbread, and good red wine.

Moose and pronghorn visited camp, and sage grouse flew overhead each morning. The nights were brightly moonlit, except the first, when the Milky Way glowed pink over the river canyon like a Himalayan salt lamp. The sagebrush sea yielded two beautiful male sage grouse – the holy grail of North American grouse, in my opinion. I came away with four new friends and memories of our last upland bird road trip with the whole setter gang – an experience far richer than I could have dreamed.

By the time we left for Wyoming, Finn was beyond tired. She was nearly incontinent and wholly arthritic. Her dementia had progressed to the point that she'd constantly pace around the house or yard, seemingly confused, in pain, or both.

The long travel days and new surroundings were hard. Finn once wandered off while I fed Zeta. I found her 100 yards from camp, plodding along the riverbank. The scene offered a few beautiful, bittersweet moments before she lost her footing and tumbled into the water.

After the creek incident, I carried Finn several times a day between the truck, where she slept, and a pen where she could pace safely. She often protested by bopping my cheek with her muzzle. The adventure sapped her mental and physical energy, but her presence was nonnegotiable. When she buried her muzzle in the unfamiliar grouse's rump feathers, she became lucid and lit up like a pup. The moment lasted less than a minute of the entire week, but I'll cherish it forever. 

Finn left us on a beautifully warm, windy October day, just 12 days after returning from Wyoming. Our valley quail covey called in the dawn's alpenglow, a moment reminiscent of many past hunts. A special chicken breakfast topped with freshly whipped cream, followed by quiet time with her people, made for a restful morning and a peaceful passing. It was her best day in over a year.

She rests on the hill overlooking the homestead, with a gray rabbitbrush marking the site. A fitting memorial, given the plant's ubiquitous presence in the western shrub-steppe and its vibrant yellow autumn bloom. It'll light up like a beacon during our favorite month of the year, conjuring memories of the wonderful life we shared.

Farewell, old friend. For now. We'll meet again when the time is right. I'll find you holding down a rooster pheasant or quail covey. You'll cock your head a little as I approach, casting your notorious side-eye that asks, "What took you so long?"