Jan 16, 2024 6 min read

It has been about a year since our unfortunate incident. I believe I am ready to share our tale although I still become a bit shaken when talking about it.

On Jan. 4, 2023, I passed my brother in the parking lot of State Game Lands 223. Glenn was on his way home and I was heading out after school for an hour-long forray with Gertrude the Wonder Shorthair. We exchanged a few words but he didn’t have much good to say about his hunt. No birds. No shots. No opportunities. Pretty much what we’ve come to expect at the end of pheasant season and the late stocking, if you can even call it that. Not many birds during the late season and it seems to get worse as the final stocking draws nigh.

It had rained heavily for several days and I should have known the water would be at flood stage. It didn’t occur to me. As Glenn pulled out of the lot I figured Gert and I had to give it the old college try since we were already geared up. She agreed. We scarcely walked a hundred yards from the truck when my pup went on point. By pup, I mean 10-year-old, grizzled, battle-scarred spayed female. The bird did not hold and got up 30-40 yards in front of the pointing dog. Things were so sopping wet that I was not surprised the scenting conditions figured less than ideal.

We continued down the hedgerow until Gertrude locked up a second time. I kicked around in the brush and the pheasant, having read the playbook, took to the air directly behind me proceeding over the stream. The shot was an admittedly long one but the bird went down with the second barrel, unfortunately disappearing on the other side of Whitely Creek. Up to this point, I hadn’t actually seen the stream body, running at flood stage.

The pheasant looked to be dead in the air, angling at the ground away from me. Gert, doing her bird dog thing, disappeared over the edge of the stream bank to make the retrieve. I calculated a quick retrieve and maybe time for a second pheasant. Gertrude is a solid retriever and swimmer, even if her pointing skills leave a little to be desired. I could hear the creek gurgling but had not seen the water level as of yet, nor had I put two and two together. I was about to come up with four.

What probably couldn’t have been more than a minute or two seemed an awfully long time. I blew my whistle to locate Gert but she did not respond. I moved in the direction of the stream and as I crested a small knoll, I was horrified to find my Gert, spinning in a hydraulic below me, wide eyed with terror.

If you have never read the Wilson Rawls story, Where the Red Fern Grows, please do so. It does a much better job than I can manage to convey the gut-wrenching suspense.

At the spot where the stream makes a dogleg left turn, a large pile of floating debris had gathered in the spinning current. Gert was trapped. The adjacent hillside was too steep and slick for her to climb and she could not swim out of the swift current and ensuing debris. After dropping my shotgun on a sandbar, I piled into the water, working my way toward my drowning girl. I was able to make it to within two or three feet of the dog, just out of arm’s reach. The stream bank dropped off steeply and I was immediately swept downstream with the current. Exiting the water in a hurry, sputtering and gulping for air because of the icy conditions, I made my way back upstream.

On the second try I got a bit closer but was forced under the floating brush pile. I could feel the current sucking me under and was lucky to kick away from the bank, out into the stream, washing away a second time. Beginning to tire I guessed I had one more shot at this thing. I caught a glimpse of an overhanging branch that had previously gone unnoticed and climbed hand over hand towards my fading Gert. While I had a solid grip on the limb, my feet were being dragged down stream with the current. It was everything I could do to hold on. Lunging for Gert, I managed to get a finger hooked under her collar and was able to lift the full weight of my 70-pound dog up onto my shoulder, flipping her out into the current. She swam free of the undertow and made it to shore. I was not quite finished.

As I released my hold on the branch, back under the floating pile of debris I sank, this time farther under. Again, I pushed against the bank for a boost and struggled to the surface. I swam with everything I had, which was not much. I’m not a particularly strong swimmer but the lifting of the full weight of the dog with one hand had left me with a wrenched shoulder. I washed up downstream some distance from where I began, got a hold of Gert, dumped several gallons of water from my boots and headed for the truck. And the heater. All I wanted was to sit down and go to sleep. I now know that this was the effects of hypothermia. Looking back, I’m fortunate I did not.

I’m not sure why I waited this long to share this harrowing tale.

Do I know that it’s safer to hunt with a partner? Sure. Common sense dictates.

Do I continue to hunt by myself from time to time? Yes, I do, and probably always will.

I guess God was not quite ready for me yet? But you can be sure I’ll be a bit more cautious from now on.

Dave Bates writes a weekly outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter. He can be reached at alphaomegashootingsolutions@gmail.com