Matt’s father had taught him early on that his greatest
strength would come im8 when life was at its worst.He told him it was the most por ta nt le sson he co ul t
d eac h.
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moaning again, the occasional yelp of the pups rising above the
monotone. He turned toward the windows and looked out to
the neat, orderly kennels, six across. The setters were standing
balanced on the front gates, ears perked, eyes staring, waiting.
Training and working the setters had been a treasured part of
his father’s life, and as he watched them Matt knew that some-how,
he and the dogs would not be alone that day.
Matt’s father had been a devoted quail hunter, and although
some chose to call bird hunting a sport, he held it in much
higher regard. Quail hunting was more than an opportunity in
the field with his dogs. It was a source of joy — a time to cher-ish.
He taught Matt to respect the land, to be part of it, to use it
as a precious gift and never to leave a sign of harmful interven-tion.
Their farm was actively managed for small game, and quail
were abundant.
His father always walked bird hunting, was never in a hurry,
and trained his dogs to hunt at close range. From the time Matt
was just a boy, his days were spent with the setters. They were
large dogs, square-jawed with white and blue-ticked coats. Their
big setter eyes flashed the singular desire to hunt and find birds.
Matt’s father took great pleasure in watching his dogs work
quail. An excellent shot, he could and did shoot his limit from
time to time. His greatest joy, however, was not with the gun, but
rather in watching Matt as his son’s love for the outdoors grew.
As a boy, Matt walked short hunts, first with a cap gun, then
a cork rifle. In time, the hunts were longer, and eventually his
father taught him to hold the cork rifle steady at port arms
over the rigid setters, pull it smoothly to his shoulder, pick out
a bird on the covey rise, swing precisely at the right time, and
squeeze the trigger. The reward for his discipline was a short-stocked
single-barreled .410-gauge shotgun given to him on his
10th birthday. It wasn’t long after receiving it that he tucked
away his first bobwhite.
Matt’s father had a simple but powerful philosophy. He loved
life, and he believed in people. Though no more immune to the
vagaries of fate than any other man, where there was hope he
found it. The positive forever outweighed the negative. Quiet
and strong, he was to Matt, quite invincible.
He had taught Matt early on that his greatest strength would
come when life was at its worst. He told him it was the most
important lesson he could teach. For years, filled with the restless
energy of youth, Matt had no idea what he meant. In the course
of time, however, the lesson came to bear, and had no doubt
saved his life in Vietnam and since.
Years after he came back from the army, Matt slipped from
a thin, ice-slick ledge while hunting big-horned sheep in the
Bitterroot Mountains. He fell 30 feet into a jagged rock ravine,
taking the fall on his right side, crushing his ankle, leg and hip,
and rolling onto his shoulder. His guide was far above, the two
having hiked in earlier from a base camp hours away.