Wednesday, May 25, 2022

Just in the Nick of Time!


In the Nick of Time

 

It was Wednesday.  I was due in Great Falls, Montana Thursday night to judge a field trial starting Friday morning. For the last several years, I started my season by hauling my camper to Montana, judging one day, and then running the next two days in a three-day Chukar trial.  After the trial, I would bird hunt for a few weeks in Montana and Wyoming. It was a win-win situation for everyone, and I looked forward every year to meeting up with my friends.  

 

I spent the previous night at a rest area in Wisconsin, and made it to my favorite breakfast restaurant, Norske Nook, right when they opened. Then, I made it through Minnie and traffic was light on I-94 northwest bound.  I was cruising at 70 mph with a tailwind, which makes a huge difference pulling a camper. It was one of those beautiful Fall days in the northern tier- blue sky, slight wind, light traffic.  Life was good.  I happened to glance in my left mirror and saw a tire, 20 feet in the air in the left lane just behind the camper! Instantly, I figured it couldn’t catch me if I maintained my speed, so I rolled along and watched the black tire hit the grass in the median and swerve back onto my side of the freeway and disappear behind my outfit.  I saw no cars behind me or coming the other way, either.  I was on I-94, at two p.m., in the middle of the week, and there were no cars in sight in either direction.  I thought that was very lucky for someone since the tire bouncing along down the road could have easily hit another car.  “Some guy just lost his spare tire,” I thought.  My rig was rolling fine.  Maybe it was my spare tire?  I slowed and pulled off to check my camper just prior to an exit.  Braking was good, and nothing pulled as I eased onto the shoulder.  I jumped out to check my spare, but the mystery was solved the instant I looked at the axles on the driver’s side of the camper. The front tire was missing. As I walked down the side of the camper, I saw the entire wheel assembly was gone.  Only the end of the axle was left.  I looked back for the tire and saw a guy walking along the edge of the freeway, rolling a tire ahead of him.  I walked back to him and thanked him for rescuing my errant tire. He laughed and said he saw a tire in the air and slowed down to see where it would go.  After it crossed behind me, it hit the cable along the edge of the road and stopped.  I told my story, and then asked where the nearest town was to take the camper in for repair.  He pointed at the exit and said, “That’s the exit to Fergus Falls.  There’s an RV place in town.  I don’t know if they are still in business though.”  “Can I drive it like that?” “Sure,” he said, “Just go slow and take it easy on the bumps.”   So, off I went up the exit ramp to Fergus Falls. 

 

At the top of the exit, I pulled off the road and grabbed my phone.  I dialed four different auto repair places, two service centers, three bait shops, and a motel. This was during the heart of Covid, and the story was the same everywhere.  “We are backed up two to three WEEKS. Sorry!”  No one answered the phone at the RV place. I figured I’d slowly pull the rig to the facility and see if anyone was home.  Not knowing if I would break the remaining axle or blow the remaining tire, I drove through the business district of Fergus Falls, Minnesota with three tires on my four-tire camper.  Oddly, no one gave me a second look as I pulled up to the RV store. It looked closed.  

 

I parked in the shade and walked to the door to check their hours.  The door was unlocked, and I eased into a room piled high with parts. I could hear men talking around the corner. So, I casually browsed through the isles as I determined which guy was the owner and which was the customer.  Finally, the part was ordered for the customer, and I learned Aunt Betty’s health was OK, Rotary’s speaker for the week cancelled, and the odds of the Vikings going all the way that year was zero. Then it was my turn.  I said, “Well, I have a problem.  My tire departed the camper out on the freeway, and I have absolutely no idea how to fix it!”  I basically threw myself on the mercy of the parts man at the RV repair place.  

 

He said, “Let’s take a look,” which was encouraging.  I thought laughter and “See you tomorrow, bud”, was more likely.  But we went out to the camper, and he closely inspected the damage.  He jacked up the axle and put a wood block in the springs, so the good axle could support the camper better.  Then, he pronounced the most likely cause was a failed bearing that finally melted the axle and the entire wheel departed.  “It’ll take a new axle, bearing, tire, and other minor stuff,” he said. “Let’s see what I have.”  I said, “If you have the parts, can you fix it?”  (It’s about 5 p.m.)  “Sure, if I have the parts, but I don’t have an axle that will fit.  So, let’s see if we can find one.”    While I checked on the dogs, he started Google searches for RV axles based on the picture I took of the information plate welded on the damaged axle.  An hour later, he looked up from his fourth phone call with a smile, and said, “I found one!  But you need to be in Becker, MN at 7:30 a.m. tomorrow, at this address.  This guy will fix you up.  He has an axle.  But, he wants to know, right now, if you can make it.”   “Absolutely!” I said, having no idea how I would get a three-wheeled camper back 130 miles the way I just came.  He hung up after getting the address, phone number, and name of the shop.  “Uh, John? How can I get my camper 130 miles back the way I came?” I said.  “Randy, I see this type of thing all the time.  You have 3 good tires. You have two 5300# axles, so you can support over 7000# easily.  The max gross on your rig is 8000# and you aren’t packed full of stuff.  You probably don’t weigh more than 6000#.  I had one customer drive all the way to Pennsylvania on three tires.  Just take it easy, go slow, and take your time.  You can do it.”  I tried to pay him for his time, but he said, “I never did anything but give some moral support.  You don’t owe me anything.  I need to closeup and head over to the church.  It’s fried chicken tonight!  Good luck!”, and he was off. 

 

I found the address on the map.  Luckily, there was a rest area on I-94 just ten miles from the shop. The adventure just kept on keeping on. 

 

I arrived at the rest area several stressful hours later. I fed the dogs, ate a sandwich, and went to bed.  It was 11 p.m.

 

The next morning, I was up at 5:30 a.m. and on the road by 6.  I was gaining confidence driving my three-wheeled camper around but was still taking it easy on the bumps.  The directions were not to a business district.  In fact, I was on the outside of town.  It looked more like grouse hunting country.  I turned off the paved road on to a rural gravel road, then on to a more rural gravel road.  I was in the grouse woods, but I couldn’t really enjoy them because I was worried about turning this train around should I arrive at the wrong address.  Finally, I saw a small sign nailed to a fir tree advertising trailers and trailer repair.  Below the sign, an arrow pointed to a two-track snaking off into the woods.  Below the arrow was a phone number.  It was the same number I had for the shop.  Encouraged, I turned on to the two-track and checked my watch.  It was 7:15 a.m.

 

After a few hundred yards, with the road turning slightly left then right, I flushed a Ruffed Grouse off the road.  Smiling, I turned another corner and the woods opened into a very large clearing with a well-kept house, lined up trailers, and a huge shop at the far end.  The rollup door of the shop was open, and I saw a man sitting in a chair drinking coffee.  I pulled up, rolled down my passenger window, and said, “I’m Randy.  I sure do hope you are expecting me.  Can you fix my axle?”  It was 7:30 a.m. on Thursday. 

 

“Back that thing in here,” he said.  Two more men appeared out of the back, as I unhooked the trailer.  “Why don’t you head to Rebecca’s CafĂ© in Becker and get some breakfast, “he said.  “We got this.  I’ll see you in an hour or so.”  Before I left, they had all three tires off the ground, the wheels off, and I didn’t want to get in the way. I left the high-flying wheel with them and left to get some breakfast. 

 

By the time I returned, a new 7500# axle was exactly fitted and mounted, with new brakes, new bearings, and one new tire.  Also, the other axle’s bearings were checked and the bushings that linked the axles were all replaced.  By 11 a.m., they finished up and I said, “I owe you some money.  You have no idea how much I appreciate you and your crew.  Thank you!”  “Randy,” he said, “I’m glad to have the work.  We need it.  This Covid thing has our entire state about shut down.  We are happy to help.  How does $1100 sound? I only charged you labor for one guy, even though all three of us worked on it.”  He said he’s thankful for the work.  He had orders for over 100 ice-fishing houses but couldn’t get the aluminum to build them with Covid shipping problems.  Every day he wrestled keeping the business open.  So, we thanked each other. Him for the work.  Me for his work. He will never know how close he came to a bro-hug.

 

Wednesday afternoon, I never thought I’d be back on the road the next morning. It was 11:15 a.m. on Thursday.  I was rolling up the freeway, just past St Cloud, MN, and I was due in Great Falls, MT at 7 a.m. the next morning (Friday) to judge.  I figured I could make it if I drove through the night with a 2-hour nap thrown in there.  I texted the trial chairman and told him what happened, and I would be there for the first brace.  He expressed some skepticism. I headed west. 

 

The rest of the tale is uneventful, if exiting the freeway onto a narrow two-lane county highway in pitch black Montana, headed to Roundup, in the RAIN, at 1 a.m. on a Friday morning is uneventful.  In addition to the rain and dodging deer, there was a serious coffee emergency underway.  When I drove through Glendive, then Miles City looking at a beautiful sunset and dry highway, I really wasn’t thinking ahead about coffee for the all-nighter.  I assumed I’d be able to find some- somewhere.  There is no “somewhere” along that route.  Later, after a two-hour nap, I didn’t want to stop and crank up the generators to brew some, since I was already cutting my arrival close.  I had no coffee, the rain was steady, and I was pretty sure the deer were out.  I rolled into Roundup, MT at 2:30 a.m. looking for coffee. The town was closed.  I spotted a deputy idling his car, so I stopped and walked over to him.  He rolled down his window.  “Hey, Deputy, what did you do to earn the midnight shift?” I laughed. He chuckled and asked where I was headed.  “To the nearest coffee in Roundup,” I said. “I need to be in Great Falls by 7.”  “Well, there’s good news and bad news. The bad news is there is no coffee here.  The worse news is the closest coffee is in Lewistown, an hour and change up the road at the Town Pump,” he said.  “What’s the good news?” I asked.  “I get off work in 4 hours,” he said, laughing.   

 

At least the rain backed off to a drizzle.  

 

When I hit Lewistown, it was still dark, still raining, and my “caffeine low” light was flashing red.  I stopped at the Town Pump and filled a giant Yeti cup with their finest, organic, sustainably grown, family-farmed, farmer-harvested, eco-friendly, gently roasted gas station coffee. It was so strong it was doing pushups in the cup.  It reminded me, a little, of Ready Room coffee in the Navy, but marginally more refined.  Perfect.

 

At 7 a.m., the Beast, the camper, me, and 5 bird dogs rolled onto the trial grounds off the end of the runway in Great Falls, MT.  I staked the dogs out, watered them, and climbed on to a 4-wheeler to judge.  I drove quickly to the start line, saw another judge, two dogs, and two handlers.   I checked my watch, waited ten seconds, and yelled, “Turn ‘em loose!” at exactly 7:30 a.m.  

 

In less than 24 hours, I went from a broken axle/lost tire on the side of the freeway, hundreds of miles from my destination, where I didn’t know anyone, to cruising down the road, whole and healthy, and on the way to fulfill a promise, on time.  Everything just fell into place.

 

Yep. Livin’ the life.

 

 

 

Randy is a member of the Georgia Region NSTRA (#8381).  This article is an excerpt from his next book. Both his published books, Endless October and Endless October- Season 2, are available on Amazon in paperback, Kindle, and Audible Book formats.  Check out his BLOG: www.abirdhuntersthoughts.com, Podcast: A Bird Hunter’s Thoughts-Turn ‘em Loose, and YouTube Channel: A Bird Hunter’s Thoughts.  Contactendlessoctoberbook@gmail.com.

 

 

 

Tuesday, May 10, 2022

Dr Vaughn, DVM does Acupuncture on my 12 y.o. Brittany, Ruby.




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Thursday, April 21, 2022

Dog Pain Management- Taking care of the old guys!

Blog Post



Ace and Limit

Thursday, March 10, 2022

Training, Trialing, Hunting- It's so much easier to start early!






My friend and I worked a trail in the grouse woods of Wisconsin. We left the trucks a mile back, and walked along the two-track while the dogs worked either side of the former logging road. The day was pleasant, but a bit too warm for the dogs. Temperatures in the 70’s were nice for hiking or swilling margaritas on a beach, but for working dogs, it bordered on hot. October in Wisconsin brought warm and humid, or thunderstorms, or snow and sleet- or all the above, on any given day. The combination of Ruffed Grouse, thick forest, abundant hunting land, and good friends kept me coming back year after year in October- the finest month of the year. I had Shack (NSTRA CH/GA REG. CH Flyboy Ace’s Bullseye (Brit/M)) on the ground, and he worked either side of the trail while we walked and talked. Grouse hunting consisted of a long nature walk interrupted by the frantic rush getting to a dog on point, followed shortly by the roar of wings as a brown or gray bomber launched off the forest floor headed for safety. Today was no different, and as Shack crossed the trail, I gave him a blast from the whistle and extended my arm, pointing at a stand of trees 100 yards off the trail. He glanced up and took off in the direction I pointed, as we returned to our captivating discussion about the merits of ejectors versus extractors. A minute later, my gps pager beeped, and I knew Shack was pointed. I turned and started walking with intention to the stand of trees, while checking my watch for his position. Sure enough, the dog was 67 yards away, on point. I learned, long ago, to move quickly to a dog pointing a Ruffed Grouse. Those birds will many times walk off under a point, until they reached a comfortable distance, and then the bird would flush away. We split up slightly as we approached, and my friend saw Shack first. He set himself up, said he was ready, and I walked toward the pointed dog, aiming for a point about 20 yards in front. The gray bird launched from behind a tree away from me, but it put him directly in front of my partner. It was a deadly mistake, as both our 28 ga. doubles barked at the same time. The bird tumbled onto the soft lichen floor under the planted pines. Shack was on the dead bird immediately, and made a good retrieve to my hand. I pondered the situation, and glanced up and my partner, “Nice shot!” I said, and I tossed the bird to him. “I’m pretty sure I was behind him. Besides, you shot just a split second in front of me. Your bird.” He agreed. And so it went throughout the day.

Shack in New Mexico

The big Brit was near perfect that day, and my partner commented on it. “Thank you,” I said. “He did have a pretty good day.” Shack, as an adult, was the culmination of years of learning from past mistakes. I learned to start training a puppy while still young with the end result always in mind. When they were just little puppies, fighting for the wet food, just weaned from momma, I would start quietly clapping my hands, and build up to louder noises over the weeks. They would associate loud noise with pleasure. I taught them obedience, whistle and voice commands, to recognize objectives, to retrieve with speed and style to hand (no dropping the bird early in the excitement), and steadiness on point regardless of shots, yelling, or ATVs roaring by. I taught them to back, and all the other little things that enabled a dog to compete in field trials. And, after all that, many trials, and a few hundred dead quail, perhaps by the age of two, I would load them in the back of the truck and we would head to Montana, South Dakota, Idaho, Oklahoma, or any number of other western states, and I would show them what a bird dog was born, bred, and trained to do. By the time Shack smelled his first wild bird, he already had a solid base of what it meant to be a bird dog. It wasn’t a stressful time at all. I already knew how he would do, because for two years I trained him with the end in sight. It wasn’t always that way. My first dogs were a Brit male and a female Setter. I was learning about bird hunting. It was an obsession with me. I had 2000 acres of Georgia clear cut to hunt. The land held numerous coveys of Bobwhite Quail, and any given day, the dogs would find four or five coveys. Those two dogs and I would hunt from dawn ’til dusk 50-60 days every year. After a few years, we had the coveys named. I was the only bird hunter on the property. Life was good. Then, I read an ad in the Georgia Market Bulletin about “Have Fun With Your Bird Dog!”, and “More Action per Acre!”. The next weekend, I was in the north Georgia mountains, looking up a gently sloping field as a man rode a horse around the field dropping quail in the grass. I remember thinking, “How tough can it be? You have 30 minutes to find just five birds? And, they are all right there?” It did not go well for us. Rocket (Brit) found three birds pretty quick. I shot at and missed all three. He chased the last one into the woods, and I could hear him in there flushing that bird over and over again, as time ran out. The judge (on horseback, as well) said, “Don’t worry, it’ll get better!” I appreciated, but didn’t need, his encouragement. I was hooked! That was in 1992.

Cap in Georgia

Because my dogs were primarily hunting dogs, they were accustomed to near total freedom when I turned them loose. That was the crux of my problem- now, after all that freedom, the bird dogs had to learn a few things. For example, Ruby, the Setter, learned to back on her own. Rocket, on the other hand, didn’t much care for the backing thing, so I fought to keep him on the other side of the field during a trial. Many a time, I did the “walk of shame” with my leashed Brit as we were summarily ejected for interference. When a bird flew out of bounds, they both would chase it. Then, I chased them into the woods and pulled them back into the field, reminding them all the while to stay in bounds. It was a constant battle. One I lost nearly every time. One opposing handler immediately understood the situation, and she would wait until Rocket saw her dog on point. Then, she would kick the bird near the judge, call safety, and watch my dog chase it out of bounds, while hers held steady. Then, she had the field to herself for at least ten minutes! It would have been easy to get frustrated and blame the judges, other handlers, the rules, everyone but myself. But, I knew it was me and my dog training. Over time, those two dogs were replaced by others and things got marginally better. Many dogs later, I conceived the plan to raise a field trial dog from the start. I would teach them the basics to be successful in a trial when they were young, when it was easy. All bird dogs, trial dogs or not, can benefit from field trial discipline. Field Trialing is not hunting. It’s a game. But, it's a game that teaches a dog fundamentals, boundaries, limits, and obedience. It teaches them to quarter, to watch for other dogs, other handlers, to ignore outside influences, and to put a maximum effort into finding birds right off the line. In deference to the handler who would have my dog chase a bird out of bounds, my dogs are also taught what “leave it” means, and a low, guttural “Anch! Anch!” sound means “you’d better turn around RIGHT NOW!” Every single command I teach for trialing is applicable to bird hunting. Yes, there are other things they need to know (leave the Javelina, cows, porcupines, and skunks alone, and don’t jump off 30’ rock cliffs), but a trial-trained dog can easily transition into bird hunting. The reverse is often, frustratingly, not the case. We have all seen it. My chosen field trial venue (The National Shoot to Retrieve Field Trial Association) is somewhat unique in that regard. It can be a life-long dedication to making a better bird dog. The result can be a multi-purpose dog, that can successfully field trial one day, and point Bobwhites and Pheasant in a Kansas wheat field the next. Visualizing what you want the dog to be and training for the field trial is a great way to start a dog on a lifetime of success in the field, whether on the trial grounds or on the prairie.