By David Gowdey
Copyright 2002 all rights reserved
At first glance it appears relatively flat, but closer examination reveals the optical illusion. In fact it is cut by steep arroyos and gulleys lined with loose rocks and scree. Outcrops of red sandstone push up from the valley floor like the bows of a fleet of submarines emerging simultaneously from the deep. It is for the most part a dry, parched landscape. Here and there a cattle tank at the bottom of an arroyo holds some water, meccas for the hardy wildlife that can scrape a living in this harsh environment.
Like most deserts, it appears uninhabitable and forbidding, but appearances are deceiving. This valley has been inhabited for more than five hundred years, first by the Anasazi and other pueblo dwellers the ruins of whose cities dot the landscape, then by the Apache who hunted throughout the valley, then by cattlemen and soldiers, then by the miners who pulled a billion dollars of copper out of Mingus mountain and left it scarred forever, and finally by the urban refugees who have built retirement communities and golf courses.
Billy and I had driven almost an hour and a half over dirt roads to get to our spot. We could have taken the interstate which, although twice as long, would have taken about the same amount of time � but I prefer dirt roads. You don�t have to worry about idiots driving with their heads in the clouds, rude truck drivers, and the arteriosclerotic RVs chugging along 15 mile per hour under the speed limit. Locals take the dirt -city dwellers clog the paved roads.
I put the girls out in the back yard before I packed up the shotgun and put it in the truck that morning because I knew the sight of the shotgun would make the girls hate me all the more for taking Billy and not them. As it was, once she realized what was happening, Annchen gave me a look that boded ill. I had never before gone hunting without her, and she and I knew that we had both passed a watershed. I had to exercise all of my
Billy was enjoying this boy�s day out. His mom normally sat in the front seat of the Explorer � as befits a queen � and he and his sister rode in the back seat. With the whole car to himself he couldn�t figure out where he wanted to sit, and so spent half the trip in the back seat, and after a rest stop, the remainder of the journey up front. As we bounced along the bumpy dirt roads, he watched everything with an eagle eye. Every so often he would whine pleadingly, as if to say �this looks great boss, let�s stop here.� When we finally turned off the main road onto a little track that ran a � mile from the edge of a shallow arroyo Billy could hardly contain himself. I smiled as we stopped and I opened the back door and let him out. He had been trying so hard to be good when every molecule of his being was exploding with pent up energy � like a little kid trying to be good on the drive to Disneyworld , worried that Dad and Mom might change their minds if he were bad .
Billy ran around and did what dogs do after an hour in the car while I put on my hunting vest, loaded up with a gallon of water, and pulled out the shotgun. After a quick drink of water for both of us, we headed toward the edge of the arroyo. Billy was actually behind on his training because the 1997 season (his second) was the worst quail season for forty years in Arizona, and I had not been able to put him onto many wild birds. The previous year I had introduced him to preserve Pheasant, and at 9 months he was a