Richard LeRoy DeChambeau

I remember the first time I met Richard.  I was thirteen years old and my parents and I were taking a tour of Goose Hill Gun Club.  But let me go back a little further.  I wanted a dog.  Mom was on my side and she wanted a dog as well, but Dad didn’t want to be picking up poop in the yard and having to deal with some ‘pet’.  So he said we could have a dog on one condition.  He had seen an episode of Bell Lange’s Outdoorsman several years before on television where they were bird hunting over a dog called a Pudelpointer.  If mom and I could find a Pudelpointer, we could have a dog.  Mom tracked down Bell Lange, who told us about Goose Hill Gun Club where they had filmed that hunt.  We got the number and Dad called that night and spoke to Richard for well over an hour.  I even spoke to him for a few awkward moments while Dad went to the other room to get something.  We were at Goose Hill the next weekend and took a long tour of the ranch with Richard driving Michaels jeep (which I thought was the coolest jeep ever!) before joining that day.  I remember meeting both Michael and Richard that day.  I remember thinking Richard was the serious businessman and Michael was the fun one, but they were both  people I wanted to be around.  Little did I know the kind of friendship I eventually build with both of them.

The next time I remember seeing Richard was my first night of High school.  Fish and Game was going to test the Trout at Goose Hill for Whirlings Disease.  A disease my father had done a great deal of study on, so Richard wanted Dad there to help question the DFG Biologists.  I remember being very impressed with the way Richard would ask questions and lull the DFG guys into giving more information than they wanted to.  I also remember not feeling very well and getting sick with the stomach flu that night.

Over the next 12 years at Goose Hill, Richard became more than just a friend, he became a hunting mentor, and an older brother.  Someone I would go to many times in my life for advice and friendship.  Richard always found ways to get me involved in things I wanted to do.    Like the time they were filming a Turkey hunting video.  I don’t even remember what he came up with for me to do, but I got to be there.   That was big stuff for a 15 year old kid back then.    Richard presented me with many opportunities to be involved in many organizations and events which helped to shape my life and who I am. 

There are many stories I could tell, and even some I shouldn’t!  Like the time he tried to use a brand new rental car as a drift boat on Little Walker Creek outside Bridgeport while fishing with the family.  Or the time he shot a really nice buck on Goose Hill with a shotgun while quail hunting.  Or the time in Washington DC when Michael, Richard and I were betting on the exact  time it would be when we heard the first gunshots in the streets. Then there was the time at the Safari Club Picnic where I won the high overall shooter.  Some people didn’t think I should be allowed to win because I was only 16.  Richard, Michael and my father took a stand for me.  I also remember that he owed me a 6 bird chucker hunt for some favor I had done.  I don’t remember the favor any more, but I always teased him about the interest.  It went from 6 Chuckar to a Salmon trip, to an Elk hunt the last time we talked on the phone.  20 plus years has a lot of interest!  Some day, when I get to hunters heaven, I will collect.

I was always amazed by the way he could relate to people and have tried to emulate that in my life as well, but I don’t have the talent Richard had.  Many times I can remember him being the ultimate ‘politician’  dealing with Senators or executives in the NRA or other organizations, and then moments later talking with and relating just as well with a hunter in overalls and muddy boots.  Both felt completely at ease and understood by him.  And they both were right.  Richard could relate to and with almost anyone.  He was a friend to paupers and millionaires.

I think that is part of the reason he was so successful as an NRA Board Director and later as the Head of Hunter Services, and then as a radio host.

He had many great accomplishments in his life.  Most people I know would have been happy with just founding one of the greatest hunting clubs in North America – Goose Hill Gun Club.  But Richard was destined to bigger and greater things.  It is a great loss to the entire hunting industry that Richard was taken so soon. He left our hunting grounds on earth for the fields of Heaven in December of 2010, he was 62.  I imagine he is now hunting with some of the greats who have gone before him, among them both of our fathers, and still arguing politics!

I think of you daily and I will never forget you my brother.

A Camp Fire

 High Sierras, Sept 2016

 

The alarm goes off and I crack open my eyes at first, then strain slightly to see in the dark.  I can make out the grey outside the windows surrounding me, but don’t see any lights or sounds of movement. I listen carefully; nope, no one else is up yet.  It is cold, but I am eager to get out of my sleeping bag, get dressed quickly and be up.  Partly because I have to pee, but mostly because we have drawn coveted X zone tags in the California High Sierras and there are big deer not far away! The big challenge now tho is getting dressed quickly, the need for speed increases with each movement, while inside the camper shell, with only the light from a small flashlight.  I am alone in my truck, but surrounded by all my gear and clothing, it is tough to find what you want when it all looks the same in the half-light!

            There is still an hour before sunrise. Once I am up and out, I can hear Shane moving around inside his truck/camper/tent contraption, Adrian and Visilli are still snoring softly in their tent.    I move over to the fire pit and pick up a stick and begin to stir the coals.  It is in the low 30’s here at 8500 feet elevation and there is moisture in the air, the meadow next to camp is cloaked in a dark and heavy fog. The long meadow is ringed by ridges reaching up to 10,000 feet, and in the daylight, I feel as though I am in one of Gods great cathedrals.   The coals quickly become visible, glowing red in the grey and black of the ashes from last nights fire.  I find some little sticks and begin to feed it back to life, hearing the cracks, pops and hisses of the little fire.

            As I stand there by my little fire, alone for the moment, in the cold pre dawn light I remember a hundred other campfires, and million memories swirl through my mind at once as the smoke moves around me and the little flames begin to spread their warmth. I am 48 years old now, though I don’t always feel like it, and started camping in the Sierras when I was 6 months old with my family.  A campfire brings so much to life’s experience.  Some of my best memories involve campfires, and some scary ones, and even an expensive one!   I remember when my grandfather gave me the nickname Dusty when I was 6 years old because I was shuffling my feet around the fire pit and kicking up dust.  I remember the time my Dad was filling the lantern that had a leak in the bottom he didn’t know about and it almost started a forest fire as the flames raced across our campsite, and I remember the ticket I got once too while camping with my nephew.

            There is such a connection with the mountains and the wild when you sit by a campfire.  I think of my ancestors on my Cherokee grandmother’s side and other natives who were here in these same mountains a hundred or so years ago, when a fire meant staying alive during the freezing winter nights, the Hunters and explorers who crossed this land and cooked their meals and told stories around a campfire.  The giant trees around me now may have witnessed some of these occurrences first hand.  I think of my grandfather and my parents who are now gone, but feel as though they are still here with me when I am alone at a campfire in the dark.  I can still see the sparkle of light in my grandfathers eyes from the dancing flames of the fire as he talked about the days fishing and what Yosemite was like before the tourists came.  I think of past hunts and trips with close friends who have passed and gone on to the campfires in the sky, they are here too in the smoke and warmth.  And I think of the friends I haven’t shared a campfire with yet and hope it will mean as much to them as it will to me.  I love to be by a fire.

            The fire is going good now and I can feel the warmth penetrating into me, my memories and friends in the smoke are helping with that. There is something magical about poking a fire with a stick.

   I hear Shane throw open the flap on the back of his truck/camper/tent and holler ‘Praise the lord for another blessed day!”  And so another great day of memories begins, with a campfire.

The Turkey that didn't want to go

 

The Turkey that didn’t want to go.

Many years ago, in my youth, I lived and worked on a 2000 acre hunting club in the Sierra Foothills.  Historically, there were no Turkeys in this area.  For wild birds we had Valley Quail,  there was good Dove, duck and goose hunting as well, but no Turkeys.  We planted Bob White Quail, Pheasants and Chuckar for hunting and we had a Flighted Mallard program as well, which was much more difficult than one would think, but that is a story for another time.

 We worked with the Dept of Fish and Game, and were approved to buy and raise Rio Grande Turkeys.  I think we got 200 eggs, to incubate and hatch after all the paperwork was done to satisfy the State.  We had large pens that we held pheasants in, and tons of incubators for the ducks we raised, so we were pretty well set up.

 A good hatch produced what seemed like a million little poults!  They grew fairly quickly in the hatching building and were soon moved out to the pheasant pens.  While they were in those pens, we constructed a large pen out on the property to move them into at the head of a nice valley backed up to some timber and near a spring.

Finally the day came to move them out to the pen.  Several plans were made and lots of help was coordinated.  We had a custom trailer we had built for hauling the ducks around and chose to use that to shuttle the turkeys out to their new pen.  It was only about 4 feet wide and about 15 feet long, so it was going to take several trips. 

We used various methods to create a funnel leading them from the pens to the ramp and into the trailer.  The first couple loads went fairly easily but as the numbers slowly dwindled, the birds became more reluctant to leave their pen and go in the chute to the trailer.  It was a chore to herd them in right direction.  These birds were in the 10- 15 pound range at this point for reference, and some were flying fairly well, but they had never had reason to fly more than a few feet.

One young jake, decided he was not going in that contraption, and wanted back to his pen.  The only thing blocking his escape was me.  Much to my surprise, me waving my arms and yelling at him was not a deterrent in any shape or form.  He hit me square in the chest at full flight and knocked me flat on my butt!

He was finally corralled and forced into the trailer and moved to his new pen in the hills, but I will never forget what a 10 pound ball of angry feathers feels like!

We took down the pen once the birds were settled and all big enough to survive on their own and there is now a huge population of turkeys all over the county there now even tho the club is long gone.