Quiet Afternoon

On Saturday afternoon, Annie went for a hike while Sage and I fished. We had a quiet, contemplative afternoon. But it is hard for her to be separated from her pup, now...she is such a pack dog.

Murphy's day.

Training a Pup

I've been working on the basics. Sit, lie down, come (oh, it's so hard for a lab to come when there are distractions!). But I am leaving it to Sage to train Annie on how to be a lab. And I have to say Sage is doing a fabulous job. Annie knows how to play tug o' war, chase, retrieve, and most importantly, beg for biscuits!

Murphy did a great job for Sage, so the legacy continues.

Murphy's day.

Never Embarrassed

Labs are never embarrassed. If a picture like this was posted of me...but Annie, she thinks she is looking pretty darn cool. She has the tug toy, is getting attention...life is sweet!

Murphy's day.

Bird Dogs?

This weekend we encountered a covey of pheasants. Quite cool, really. But my so-called bird dogs? Slept through it all. Not a peep from them.

I read an interesting article in Just Labs about field dogs versus conformation. There is a lot of discussion among lab people about the differences. Murphy was a field lab through and through. To retrieve was her destiny. Annie has lots of field lab traits in her, particularly her size, which is smaller, leaner. Sage is gorgeous, the perfect show dog but is indifferent to retrieving. She likes to swim, to dive into the water, but only for her own enjoyment, not to chase anything.

So I guess I shouldn't have been too surprised that they didn't even wake when I snapped these pictures of the pheasants. Annie isn't trained to sniff them out and Sage really couldn't care.

Murphy's day.

Funniest Toys

One of Murphy's favorite toys was a dead volley ball. It had to travel all the way across country and in fact still sits in her toy box in the basement. She loved that thing. Sage has always been destruct-o dog when it came to toys, except for a yellow plastic monkey. Which then became Annie's favorite toy until, well, an excited tug 'o war game between the two of them.

After last rites for the toy, the dogs realized there was still life in the beheaded thing. This is both of them wrestling over the monkey's head. The body looks like a left-over from a French Revolution guillotine!

I've learned over the years that the most loved toys are usually the most destroyed. Well used and well loved.

Murphy's day.

Picture Perfect

Sage being picture perfect. Patiently waiting for her pack, hanging out by the river. Sweet girl (unless you're near her car or back door).

Murphy's day.

Fire in the Canyon

Oops, I forgot to describe what happened last weekend. There as a fire in the canyon, about a mile away from the property. Pretty exciting.

But I have to say all the firefighters, sheriffs, and neighbors were fantastic. And the girls, well, they stayed calm. Of course, chewies helped!

We'll go back this weekend to check on the fire, which apparently is out. It will be interesting to see the burn (the ecologist in me gets a little excited about these things). And, of course, the girls will spend a fair amount of time in water.

Murphy's day.

Nothing Better Part Two

For girl and dogs. Nothing. A nice stream, beautiful day, fish interested in fly. Nothing better.

Murphy loved this. In her last few years she found a spot underneath a cottonwood and slept, occasionally getting up to cool off in the water. But she would watch, waiting for me to exhaust the area, to move on toward dinner. Patient. As if vicariously she would enjoy my whoops and smiles as I caught (and released fish).

It seems Annie is getting into it, too.

Murphy's day.

Nothing Better

Nothing better than sticks. Nothing. And really, nothing better than stick tug 'o war. Ok, maybe stick tug 'o war standing in water. That's pretty darn sweet.

Murphy's day.

Sisters

I had an older brother, which is a whole other can of worms. But I hear that two sisters in the back of a car during a family vacation...well, here are my two. Sage seems to think Annie is a great pillow. And I think they are adorable.

Beats having them wrestle when I am trying to drive!

Murphy's day.

Summer!

It was a pretty exciting weekend, which we'll share more later, but Annie was enjoying some respite from worrying about whether a fire was going to hit the property! Yikes!

This is her lab action shot. The Wenatchee is running at about 1000 cfs, that's pretty low, so we have to really scout out some holes and deep water, now, for the girls to get totally drenched when they swim.

Summer.

Murphy's day.

Off Leash

There is a park in Leavenworth where no one seems to care whether the dogs are off leash. So sometimes on Sunday mornings we walk there. It's lab heaven. The Wenatchee River parallels the park, so the girls make many mad dashes into the water, then romp along the banks. And the smells, well it must make a lab nose go into overdrive: deer, bears, fish, otters, humans, other dogs...

When I walk there I imagine this is where Murphy is, lab heaven. A river, the willows and poplars, wide walking paths, lots of sticks, other labs. I wonder if she looks up, waiting for me to walk around the bend, calling her name. Sweet girl.

Murphy's day.

Playtime!

There is nothing better than an open field. Annie positions herself to leap at Sage and the play is on. Sage chases the pup, Annie turns to wrestle, dogs rolling in the grass, then running. Playtime.

Wouldn't it be great if every time we saw fields of grass we started romping?

Murphy's day.

Morning Swim

Labs are meant for swimming. Get them anywhere near water, turn your back, and they'll be in it.

On this particular morning it was a swim across a channel of the Wenatchee River. Sage was doing her best Michael Phelps imitation (sans high tech swim suit).

Murphy's day.

Dave Lewis Memorial Fishing Trip

Several years ago my beloved Uncle Don died. He was an amazing man. Much can be said about him, but to me, the interesting thing about my uncle was his relationship with land. He spent much of his life being defined by and defining land. It shaped him as much as he shaped it. The same can be said of Dave Lewis. Like my uncle, there are many ways to describe Dave: husband, fly rod maker, fly fisherman, photographer, memoirist, motorcyclist, teacher, explorer. But the essence of Dave, I think, was his passionate love of the land and the curiosity of knowing the people who appreciate the same landscapes he dwelled in every day, whether it was Montana, Pennsylvania, or Virginia.

Many of Dave's friends and admirers came to him through fly fishing. And it is tempting to think his life's work was centered around the creation of fly rods and spending as many days as he could in his to-this-day-remain-a-secret streams, creeks, and rivers. But in re-reading Dave's fly fishing journals I was struck with how much of his explorations were about the soul of fly fishing. The sense of place where he fished, whether it was waters in Yellowstone or in the middle of a Montana rancher's pasture. Fishing, I think for Dave, was a means. The end was learning more about himself through the place he was standing, casting.

Several days after Dave died, I got a chance to fish. It's been a long summer for me, with no opportunities to get out and stand in moving water. As I drove to eastern Washington, I was so very aware of the little things that Dave would notice: the Osprey hovering over the Yakima River, the rotting cedar fence post, leaning heavy with rusted barbed wire, the straw, flattened in the field from deers, bedding down. Mark Twain once said what makes a really good writer is being a "noticer." Noticing things, details, about life, that make life, essentially, full and rich. Dave was a noticer. And because he saw things I normally ignored on my way to a stream or river, his descriptions made me open my eyes, even my heart, to the landscapes he loved.

So it was as I drove from the red trailer to my creek. The Red-tailed hawk's piercing cry followed me down the canyon toward the stream. The breeze as I walked from parked car provided a whiff of willow and poplar. The dogs scampered ahead, trying to reach the cool river before I made my first cast.

Then I had the classic Dave Lewis moment. I've been fishing this spot for years. Never seen another fisherman. Ever. But as I got to my turn off, there was a guy, vest, t-shirt, sandals, shorts, and fly rod. I made a joke about never seeing anyone, he kept walking, and I turned off, walked to my spot, set my gear down, and here he comes, muttering under his breath that he missed "the turn." Not only that, he steps in the water and lets his line out! I almost erupted. But, I sat down, stared at him, watching him catch a couple of dinks. Satisfied, he left.

The dogs settled down to their usual insect collecting, and I waded a little further down stream from where this guy had caught his dinks. I cast, got a nibble, cast again, and a nice red-band rainbow took my fly, leaping in the air, then diving into the pool. Not a large fish by most standards, but gorgeous coloring, and a magnificent display of fight. I almost cried. I looked up toward the mountains that surround this stream, soaking in the last light of the early evening. Fish released, I tried again and caught another. I spent a few hours happily catching, releasing, watching the sun begin to set on the mountains, giggling at the dogs, relishing a little bit of time on the river.

Where my uncle and Dave differ is in how they lived their lives. My uncle's greatest loss was when the extended family sold the cattle ranch. It was his passion, his greatest accomplishment. He was in his mid-40s when it happened and he never found his footing. He wandered the West, attending cattle and horse auctions, driving through Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, eastern Washington and Oregon, stopping his truck to look at ranches, the windshield between him and the smell of hay and cattle. Dave Lewis figured out early on he didn't want to be like that, nose to the glass, wishing he was some place else. He figured out how live within the soul of fly fishing. If for nothing else, you have got to admire a man who figured out how to do that. And because of that, he will be missed.

Fishin' Dog

I finally got out fishing this weekend. I was a little worried about Annie, given how gregarious she is, whether she would be ok hanging around while I fished.

Indeed, she is a fishin' dog. She enjoyed playing with sticks, examining the bugs (use a mayfly mommie) and getting in the water when she wanted to cool off. It was perfect for her.

But best of all she had to bless each fish I caught (and released). She would peer into the water, her nose gently touching it. Way too cute.

Murphy's day.

Lost a Friend

This has been one tough 12 months. Yesterday I learned a good friend, a fly fishing mentor, Dave Lewis, died after a heroic battle with cancer.

Another member of the tribe gone.

Murphy's day.

Finding Her Calling

Well, I think Annie has found her calling: hiking. She absolutely loved the hike. She romped through the meadows, swam in the cool mountain stream, thought about going to the lake, and reveled in the cheese she got for lunch! Even though she corked on the drive home, she bounced right back up the next day.

She's an outdoor dog, that is for sure.

Murphy's day.

Christmas in August

For labs, snow in August is like Christmas. Particularly after hiking 4 miles to find this patch. It was the perfect ya-hoo moment!

Murphy's Day.

Sound of Labs

On Saturday, Sage did her best Maria von Trapp imitation, walking through the mountain meadows. No singing, though. It was a glorious day, and I was proud and impressed with Sage's endurance over a rather rough hike. She was slightly stiff Saturday evening, but seems to have regained her movement fairly quickly.

Of course, it was hot (have I mentioned it is hot here?) so when we hit the few remaining snow patches, Sage went crazy, leaping and sliding, trying to absorb as much of the coolness as possible. Her sighs and snorts, perhaps, are the sound of labs.

Murphy's Day.

After A Long Hike

On Saturday, we took a long hike. Or long for us. We visited Lake Ann which is the take off point to climb Mt. Shucksan. 30 years ago this month my husband, Doug, died there. So we went.

Stunningly gorgeous hike on a hot day. Lots of water, fortunately. I'll share many of the pictures. But this was the drive home. Two tired pups. I was most impressed with Sage, who a year after her knee surgery, did 8.2 miles of uphill, high altitude hiking over large rocks for a long hot stretch. She is a trooper.

Annie, of course, did at least 16 miles!

Murphy's day,