Back in October of my sophomore year, my typical routine began with school from 8 a.m. until 3 p.m., followed by football practice from 4 to 6 p.m., and then a couple of evening shifts at the gas station.
Fridays were particularly exciting. I’d come home to find my dad preparing for the weekend hunting trip.
This was the ultimate adventure every dog longed for—the thrilling duty they had been bred for over the ages!
Sometimes, my dad’s doctor friends would join us, bringing their kids who were around the same age as me. Together, we formed a caravan, driving three hours from Portland into the high desert, eventually reaching the land of a rancher buddy of ours.
Into the wild
We’d usually arrive late at night, continuing on for several miles into a canyon dotted with sagebrush and rimrock. The vehicles bounced around on the rugged road, and often all we could see were the dust clouds illuminated by our headlights.
Our campsite was near a small stream, nestled under some trees. Once we arrived, my friends and I—and we were a bunch of around twelve to fifteen years old—were pushed into the chilly night to help set up camp. It felt nearly impossible; our hands went numb, and the darkness seemed impenetrable.
Despite that, we managed to get things done, under close supervision from our dads. We gathered tent stakes, rolled out the canvases, and unpacked tables and chairs.
The moment I let the dogs out of their travel cages, they erupted with energy, racing around the campsite, giddy with joy. They were finally in a place teeming with wild life: fresh smells, new critters, and endless things to discover.
A dog’s life
In the warmth of our activity, we hammered the tent stakes into the ground and set up the tents.
Once the Coleman lantern and the campfire were lit, if the hour was still decent, our dads would enjoy a hot drink, content to be far away from their regular lives, the hospital duties, their schedules, and family obligations.
But the dogs? They were the ones truly reveling in freedom. No more leashes, no kitty litter or treats—just the wild, where they could interact with the primal elements of nature.
Here, they encountered predators and prey—wolves, coyotes, deer, and even rattlesnakes. And the excitement of chasing birds through the brush? Oh, that was the best!
The thrill of the hunt, the adventure itself! This was the stuff every dog dreamed of, their reason for being bred for thousands of years!
Bottom of the bag
When it came time for sleep, I’d set up my cot and lay out my sleeping bag, using the soft glow of a flashlight.
The cold desert night and high altitude always left me feeling a bit fuzzy-headed. By the time I crawled into my sleeping bag, I struggled to keep my eyes open.
My dad, a solid man in his 40s, appeared unfazed by the cold. He stripped down and, almost immediately after getting into his sleeping bag, he was snoring away.
Meanwhile, I was a thin, slight kid, always curling up into a “fetal position at the bottom of my sleeping bag.”
Desert dreams
Once I warmed up and felt slightly comfy, I realized I had neglected to take a bathroom break. This led to a pressing dilemma: should I brave the cold outside or try to last until morning?
Staying put was not an option—I had to be brave! After all, I was on the football team, right? A little bit of cold wouldn’t stop me.
So, I flung open my sleeping bag, rolled off my cot, and pushed through the tent flap, feeling the piercing cold air bite at my nearly naked body.
Stepping carefully on the dirt and sagebrush in my bare feet, I finally relieved myself. Surprisingly, it wasn’t as cold as I thought it would be. And in the moonlight, the desert looked so vivid and inviting, with its stark beauty.
Layers of ice
The next morning promised to be even colder—if that was possible. Frost would cover the ground, and water left outside would be encased in ice.
But throughout the chilly night, I felt myself maturing a bit. I had become a little more resilient than the suburban teen I was the day before.
So, I stepped out of the tent without fear, ready for the day.
The campfire was rekindled, and breakfast was prepared and eaten quietly. Soon, discussions sprang up about logistics, where the birds might be, and options for that morning’s hunt.
The dogs got their share too—extra food, water, and lots of praise and scraps for being the real heroes of the day. They would definitely tire themselves out by evening!
Morning has broken
The first morning hunt was always filled with energy. Everyone was rested and eager to go. The dogs darted eagerly through the brush, instinctively knowing their roles and timing.
Hunting, much like war, involved a lot of waiting, walking, and just contemplating whether anything would actually happen. But then—sudden bursts of excitement erupted when a flock of birds would take off, filling the air with chaos.
Rest and relaxation
After the hunt, we would return to camp for lunch, and if the hunting was successful, we might head out again. If not, perhaps a leisurely afternoon of fishing.
There were days my dad would simply take a nap while I lounged in a camp chair, reading my required English assignments, like “Huckleberry Finn” or “Catcher in the Rye.”
By nightfall, we all gathered back at camp. If anyone had caught anything, it was cleaned on the spot. The camp stove would get fired up, and often, freshly caught trout would be fried up for dinner. If not, there were usually steaks in the cooler.
Of course, the dogs needed attention too: more food, more water, and plenty of pats and meat scraps for their hard work. Their bravery in tackling the thickets, precarious rocks, and chasing birds placed them firmly as the heroes of the day, leading into their exhausted night.
Returning to Portland on a late Sunday night, I would take a long, hot shower and cozy up in my warm suburban bed.
Then, by the next morning, it was back to the routine of suburban high school life. But now, I carried with me a secret: a special experience that most kids rarely encountered.
