The Hunt That Didn’t Happen
t was Monday, January 17, 1994, nearing the end of California’s game-bird hunting season. It was Martin Luther King Jr. Day, on which our flexibly constituted little group traditionally headed north to hunt chukars in the Mojave Desert’s El Paso Mountains. I was nearing the end of my 35-yearlong stay in California. Travelling with me this trip were my good friend Merle Wright, my oldest son, Chris, and Doc, my German Wirehaired Pointer. I was mentally thumbing my beads, praying the young dog wouldn’t embarrass me again this trip by taking
