The Man Who Trained Snakefoot
Right over there is where I picked him up the first time I ever turned him loose," Gary Christensen tells me, gesturing toward a patch of gently waving prairie. "I can even tell you the day: July 15, 1991-the day before his first birthday.
"We'd started 21/2 miles east of here," he said, directing my gaze to a vaguely defined coordinate across this sea of grass. "Mind you, now, he wasn't runnin' off. He was just lookin' over the country. I was singin' to him the whole way-although I finally had to ride him down to get a rope on him."
We're standing along a section line, the September sun high at our backs, the table-flat prairies near Towner, North Dakota, stretching to horizons beyond which you can imagine the world simply falling away. Scattered thickets of popple and wild plum rise bristling from this tawny expanse, shimmering mirage-like at the limits of vision, seeming to float above the earth. Seeking shade, the sharptails go to these places in the heat of the day. The dogs learn to look for them there, as the dogs brought to the prairies for training have been doing since the days of baggage cars, buckboards and telegrams.
Off to the south, a glint of white through a grove of leafy cottonwoods reveals the boxy, two-story house where Gary and his wife, Diane, have spent their summers since the mid-1980s-and where, for a time, Bob Wehle sent the cream of the Elhew Kennels crop to be prepared for the handful of major field trials that Bob felt were the ultimate "proof of the pudding" of his storied breeding program.
The dog that pulled Gary along in his wake for 21/2 miles before he was rounded up was one of three Bob had sent to North Dakota that year and by far the youngest. But when Bob called and asked which was his best dog, the answer, as far as Gary was concerned, was a no-brainer.
The best dog, Gary declared, was the puppy. The one Bob had named after a character in the movie "Dances With Wolves." The one called Elhew Snakefoot.
"Highly intelligent and nat-urally gifted, Snake stood out early... He loved to run, and his robust Elhew conformation, fine-tuned over many generations, gave rise to great endurance. He was compliant, prompt to comprehend what was expected of him, possessing a willing and generous heart. Brilliant style. Great magnetism. Exceptional poise around game. This one would be true to his heritage." -Barbara Teare, The American Field, April 22, 1995
That's always struck me as the best "snapshot" of Snakefoot, the one that comes closest to capturing both his incomparable physical gifts and the intangible aura of nobility, even majesty, that impressed everyone who came in contact with him. He was, by a wide margin, the most charismatic dog I've ever been around. Part of it is that he was such an imposing physical specimen, but the bigger part was this: His light simply shone brighter. It's said that Secretariat had that same regal presence, and although the comparison's a weighty one, Snakefoot's shoulders are broad enough, I think, to bear its burden.
Alone among dogs of my experience, Snakefoot's fame cut across all boundaries, extending far beyond the limits of the relatively small, insular community of horseback field trials to encompass the world of the outdoors at large. His winning record, in fact, was not extensive, although what it lacked in quantity it made up for in quality. Campaigned sparingly, Snake placed a total of eight times in just 20 starts-by the standards of the sport, an incredibly high "batting average."
His last two wins were the biggest of all: the 1994 National Open Shooting Dog Championship and the 1995 Masters Open Shooting Dog Championship. These triumphs earned him the Top Shooting Dog Award for 1994-'95. Then, although Snake was not yet five years old, Bob Wehle retired him from competition. He'd fulfilled every expectation, vindicated the bold claims Bob had made for him, and proved that after nearly 60 years the Elhew breeding program -and the Elhew pointer-remained the standard by which all other breeding programs and all other pointers should be judged.
Snakefoot became a celebrity in retirement. Numerous magazine articles were devoted to him, and Bob himself took pen in hand to write Snakefoot: The Making of a Champion. Although less about Snakefoot per se than a "summing up" of Bob's philosophy and the legacy of Elhew Kennels, it served to further burnish Snakefoot's reputation and attract visitors by the dozens to Elhew Kennels to see him or, better yet, have their picture taken with him. The demand for his get was so frenzied that Bill Richards, Bob's Alabama kennel manager, once had every meal he sat down to for 21 days straight interrupted by a phone call from a prospective puppy buyer.
And so the names of Bob Wehle and Elhew Snakefoot are forever linked, the greatness of one illuminating and reflecting the greatness of the other-the architect and the masterpiece he worked all of his life to create. But I'm here to tell you this: The story might have had a very different ending. Snakefoot would never have been the dog he turned out to be if not for the man who trained him, handled him throughout his brief but brilliant career, and ultimately knew him better than anyone; a man content to let the limelight fall on Bob and Snake while he quietly went about his business, so secure in himself and confident in his abilities that he felt no need to call attention to the part he'd played and as a result has never received the full measure of credit due him for making Snakefoot, well, Snakefoot.
He is the unsung hero of the Snakefoot legend, and his name is Gary Christensen.
This is where it all started," Gary says by way of greeting. "All the dogs we worked for Bob came through here: Snake, Gypsy, Tom Fool, Big Blaze, Ajitator... "
I'd met the Christensens in the mid-'90s at Elhew Kennels in Midway, Alabama, and after reconnecting during the push to elect Snakefoot to the Field Trial Hall of Fame in '05 they invited my friend John McMahon and me to join them in North Dakota for the sharptail opener. Although they retired from the field-trial scene some time ago, they still spend the spring, summer and early fall here, miles from anywhere, surrounded by the endless prairie, comfortable with its moods and weathers. They tend a big vegetable garden, take a four- to five-mile walk every day, correspond via e-mail with a wide circle of friends, and keep tabs on the field-trial fortunes of Snakefoot's descendants. (Snakefoot himself passed away May 15, 2003, two months shy of his 13th birthday.) The bottom line, though, is that they simply love the country-country that's as beautiful as God ever made for following big-running bird dogs on horseback, and in particular for teaching them to pattern, handle and "stand off" their game.
"You can get more done on the prairies in two months than you can get done in two years anywhere else," Gary says.
As soon as we've aired our dogs-my setters, Ernie and Butch, and John's English hunting cocker, Bishop ("What the heck is that?" Gary asks, grinning, when John unclips the latch and the little brown dynamo bursts from his box in the trailer)-I start pumping Gary for information. I knew he'd been in the automatic transmission business, that he and Diane had made their home in Zion, Illinois (near the Wisconsin line), and that, like most field-trialers, he'd started out as a bird hunter.
I knew, too, that he'd owned Elhew pointers and called Bob Wehle a friend since the 1960s; that he'd spent parts of several summers in Manitoba working with Harold Ray, the Hall-of-Famer who developed so many champions under the Smith Setters banner; that he'd also worked extensively, both in North Dakota and on the Packsaddle Ranch in western Oklahoma, with the fine pro Gordon Hazlewood; and that by the early '80s he'd established himself as one of the top amateurs in the country, winning multiple championships with the pointer female Aramist and developing a pointer male, Arian, that would win the 1988 National Open Shooting Dog Championship for a different owner.
What I didn't know was when and why he decided to surrender his amateur status and agree to train dogs as a pro for Bob Wehle.
"I'll tell you exactly how that came about," Gary says, shaking an index finger for emphasis as we relax in the yard, a cool breeze rustling the cottonwoods. He keeps himself in terrific shape; at the age of 70 he looks like a slightly older version of the golfer Tom Kite.
"It was in February 1985, and we were at Alvin Nitchman's place near Hurtsboro, Alabama. [Alvin "Doc" Nitchman was perhaps the most successful amateur of all time on the shooting-dog circuit.] Bob came up from Midway to work dogs with us, and the first dog he put down was a young female that we barely saw before she was gone-but I'd seen enough of her to know that she was something special.
"Bob had an older dog that he ran, too, and after we were done he asked me if I'd be interested in taking over his training. I said no, but I told him that if he was looking for someone to work with that little female, I'd be very interested. He sent her with me that summer, and of course that was Elhew Dancing Gypsy. I guess you could say that the rest is history."
One of the prettiest dogs running or on point that ever electrified a field-trial gallery, Dancing Gypsy is widely considered the second-greatest dog to come out of Elhew Kennels. In the spring of 1987, during her first season as an open shooting dog, she won the Alabama Classic and the Masters Championship under Gary's whistle. She went on to win the "big one" for Bob, the 1991 National Shooting Dog Championship, and to earn the Top Shooting Dog Award for 1990-'91. But by then a different pro, Larry Moon, was handling her. In a pattern that would repeat itself, Gary and Bob had had a falling out, and in 1988 Gary had pulled the plug.
What's important to understand about Gary Christensen is that he didn't train dogs for Bob Wehle because he needed to but because he wanted to. He loved the challenge, he loved the competition and, most of all, he loved to develop class dogs. These were his motivations. The money was an afterthought.
What you also should understand is that there isn't a deferential or obsequious bone in Gary's body. Self-made and self-reliant, he's his own man, period.
Still, he'd just as soon not talk about the reasons he and Bob parted company. "It was always piddly stuff," he says, shaking his head. "It was never about the dogs."
I'll say what Gary's reluctant to: For all his warmth, kindness and extraordinary generosity, Bob could be a difficult person to work for. Even when they were on the outs, though, their mutual respect never wavered. Whatever accolades came Dancing Gypsy's way, Bob made it clear that although Larry Moon may have driven the car, it was the team of Gary and Diane Christensen-and they truly were a team; "Diane was as much a part of this as I was," Gary stresses-who'd tuned it to go fast.
By Sunday evening we've enjoyed two days of rewarding hunting. We've gotten a kick out of watching pint-sized Bishop root tight-holding sharptails out of the thickets, and when Gary has complimented me on the style and drive Ernie displays as he rambles the prairies, I've felt like I could die a happy man. After all, Gary's benchmark for comparison in dogs is something like John Derek's in wives (Ursula Andress, Linda Evans, Bo).
Now while John McMahon sprawls on the living room couch and slogs through the gore of Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian, Gary and I repair to the kitchen, where Diane's tidying up, to talk about Snakefoot. Not that we haven't been talking about him and about everything else under the sun for the past two days; in fact, Gary's already made what strikes me as one of the most profound statements about dog training I've ever heard.
"The most important thing in dog training is what you don't do," he'd asserted.
The conversation picks up in this same vein when Gary says, "I wish I could tell you that I was 'the great trainer,' but I can't. Snakefoot was a great dog-and I knew he had the potential to be great the first time I turned him loose. As I've said many times, yes, Diane and I trained and handled Elhew Snakefoot-but we were really just along for the ride.
"I did know what not to do, though. He was so smart-the most intelligent dog we ever had-and so sensitive that a heavy-handed trainer could have ruined him very easily. But you could say the same about almost all of the Elhew dogs. If you're patient enough to leave them alone and let them develop naturally, they'll figure out just about everything on their own-and it makes training so easy. But if you try to pressure them and force them to do things they're not ready to do, it makes training hard. I've had so many pros ask me, 'How do you train these Elhew dogs?' I always tell them, 'The first thing you do is get the club out of your hand.'
"I recall only one time when Snake defied me. I rode him down, pulled his ears a little and reminded him who's in charge. Then I said to Diane, 'Well, I've either straightened him out or ruined him.'
"But that was the thing with Snake: Once he knew what was expected of him, he did it. We had to do little or nothing to steady him to wing & shot and teach him to stop to flush, and at 14 months he was completely finished on his game. And he backed from day one. Even if he couldn't see the other dog on point, he'd back the other handler if he saw him trying to flush birds. That's how intelligent he was."
"And he was such a proud dog," adds Diane. "He had all the poise and grandeur you could ever want. He seemed to know what he'd been put on this earth to do. He never pointed rabbits or other 'trash,' he never chased deer; you could road him right next to a bitch in season and he wouldn't bother her. He was an easy keeper, quiet in the kennel-although Bob let him get in the habit of barking after he was retired-and he absolutely loved kids. Whenever our grandchildren visited, the first thing they'd do was go find Snakefoot."
"He was exceptional in every way," Gary says. "He was a great bird-finder, he had a natural front-running pattern-we never, ever lost him-and on top of everything else he was a beautifully gaited dog. He covered the ground so easily, and as a result he had tremendous stamina.
"He could do more than any other dog could do, and he knew it."
The conversation roams like a dog on the prairies, keeping the wind in its face, searching the birdy places. Gary tells me that he had "no problem" with Bob's decision to retire Snakefoot, explaining that they'd accomplished everything they'd set out to with him and that Bob was always focused on the future, eager to see what the next generation of Elhew pointers could do. Indeed, Gary was then grooming two young dogs for Bob that he was confident had National Championship potential: a son of Snake's, Tom Fool, who was in many respects his sire's spitting image, and an eye-catching daughter of Dancing Gypsy named Ajitator.
Elhew Ajitator, in fact, did win the National, in 2000-but by then Bob had sold her. Perhaps inevitably given the personalities of these two strong-willed, uncompromising men, Bob and Gary clashed again in 1996. This time, though, Gary took his bat and ball and left the game for good.
He and Bob mended fences, as they invariably did, but Bob-who in Gary's absence had placed dogs with several other pros without achieving remotely the same success-could never convince him to come back. Not "officially," anyway. In later years the Christensens parked their camper in Midway for a few weeks every winter-old friends visiting old friends-and during these stays Gary would help Bob work the young dogs and offer his frank evaluation of the year's crop.
I tell Gary that the last time I ever spoke to Bob, in the spring of '02, he called a grandson of Snakefoot's, Elhew Royalty, "the finest dog I've ever blown a whistle over."
Gary smiles-a little enigmatically, it seems to me-and says, "From what I was able to see of him, he was an awfully nice dog. If he'd had the chance, he might have followed in Snake's footsteps."
We'll never know, because the chance -meaning both the chance to be tutored by Gary Christensen and the chance to prove himself in the crucible of field-trial competition-never came. When Bob died, Royalty along with all of the other dogs in his kennels and the Elhew name itself passed into the ownership of Brian Hays. A professional gundog trainer based at Addieville East Farm, in Mapleville, Rhode Island, Hays hunts the Elhew dogs extensively. He spends much of the fall guiding for grouse and woodcock in Quebec, but he's chosen not to campaign the dogs in field trials.
All of which begs the question: Will there ever be another Snakefoot? It's not inconceivable, although to use one of Bob Wehle's favorite analogies, coming up with a dog with the same combination of qualities would be "like catching lightning in a bottle." Compared to the task of finding a trainer as patient, as skilled and as blessed with good help as Gary Christensen, though, that might be the easy part.
Author's Note: Gary and Diane Christensen can be reached at pointdog@prodigy.net.
Tom Davis describes being asked to write the Preface to Bob Wehle's Snakefoot: The Making of a Champion as perhaps the greatest honor he's ever received. "I was lucky and privileged to call Bob a friend," he said. Davis's most recent books are Why Puppies Do That (Willow Creek Press) and, in collaboration with photographer Denver Bryan, The Orvis Book of Dogs (Lyons Press).
"We'd started 21/2 miles east of here," he said, directing my gaze to a vaguely defined coordinate across this sea of grass. "Mind you, now, he wasn't runnin' off. He was just lookin' over the country. I was singin' to him the whole way-although I finally had to ride him down to get a rope on him."
We're standing along a section line, the September sun high at our backs, the table-flat prairies near Towner, North Dakota, stretching to horizons beyond which you can imagine the world simply falling away. Scattered thickets of popple and wild plum rise bristling from this tawny expanse, shimmering mirage-like at the limits of vision, seeming to float above the earth. Seeking shade, the sharptails go to these places in the heat of the day. The dogs learn to look for them there, as the dogs brought to the prairies for training have been doing since the days of baggage cars, buckboards and telegrams.
Off to the south, a glint of white through a grove of leafy cottonwoods reveals the boxy, two-story house where Gary and his wife, Diane, have spent their summers since the mid-1980s-and where, for a time, Bob Wehle sent the cream of the Elhew Kennels crop to be prepared for the handful of major field trials that Bob felt were the ultimate "proof of the pudding" of his storied breeding program.
The dog that pulled Gary along in his wake for 21/2 miles before he was rounded up was one of three Bob had sent to North Dakota that year and by far the youngest. But when Bob called and asked which was his best dog, the answer, as far as Gary was concerned, was a no-brainer.
The best dog, Gary declared, was the puppy. The one Bob had named after a character in the movie "Dances With Wolves." The one called Elhew Snakefoot.
"Highly intelligent and nat-urally gifted, Snake stood out early... He loved to run, and his robust Elhew conformation, fine-tuned over many generations, gave rise to great endurance. He was compliant, prompt to comprehend what was expected of him, possessing a willing and generous heart. Brilliant style. Great magnetism. Exceptional poise around game. This one would be true to his heritage." -Barbara Teare, The American Field, April 22, 1995
That's always struck me as the best "snapshot" of Snakefoot, the one that comes closest to capturing both his incomparable physical gifts and the intangible aura of nobility, even majesty, that impressed everyone who came in contact with him. He was, by a wide margin, the most charismatic dog I've ever been around. Part of it is that he was such an imposing physical specimen, but the bigger part was this: His light simply shone brighter. It's said that Secretariat had that same regal presence, and although the comparison's a weighty one, Snakefoot's shoulders are broad enough, I think, to bear its burden.
Alone among dogs of my experience, Snakefoot's fame cut across all boundaries, extending far beyond the limits of the relatively small, insular community of horseback field trials to encompass the world of the outdoors at large. His winning record, in fact, was not extensive, although what it lacked in quantity it made up for in quality. Campaigned sparingly, Snake placed a total of eight times in just 20 starts-by the standards of the sport, an incredibly high "batting average."
His last two wins were the biggest of all: the 1994 National Open Shooting Dog Championship and the 1995 Masters Open Shooting Dog Championship. These triumphs earned him the Top Shooting Dog Award for 1994-'95. Then, although Snake was not yet five years old, Bob Wehle retired him from competition. He'd fulfilled every expectation, vindicated the bold claims Bob had made for him, and proved that after nearly 60 years the Elhew breeding program -and the Elhew pointer-remained the standard by which all other breeding programs and all other pointers should be judged.
Snakefoot became a celebrity in retirement. Numerous magazine articles were devoted to him, and Bob himself took pen in hand to write Snakefoot: The Making of a Champion. Although less about Snakefoot per se than a "summing up" of Bob's philosophy and the legacy of Elhew Kennels, it served to further burnish Snakefoot's reputation and attract visitors by the dozens to Elhew Kennels to see him or, better yet, have their picture taken with him. The demand for his get was so frenzied that Bill Richards, Bob's Alabama kennel manager, once had every meal he sat down to for 21 days straight interrupted by a phone call from a prospective puppy buyer.
And so the names of Bob Wehle and Elhew Snakefoot are forever linked, the greatness of one illuminating and reflecting the greatness of the other-the architect and the masterpiece he worked all of his life to create. But I'm here to tell you this: The story might have had a very different ending. Snakefoot would never have been the dog he turned out to be if not for the man who trained him, handled him throughout his brief but brilliant career, and ultimately knew him better than anyone; a man content to let the limelight fall on Bob and Snake while he quietly went about his business, so secure in himself and confident in his abilities that he felt no need to call attention to the part he'd played and as a result has never received the full measure of credit due him for making Snakefoot, well, Snakefoot.
He is the unsung hero of the Snakefoot legend, and his name is Gary Christensen.
This is where it all started," Gary says by way of greeting. "All the dogs we worked for Bob came through here: Snake, Gypsy, Tom Fool, Big Blaze, Ajitator... "
I'd met the Christensens in the mid-'90s at Elhew Kennels in Midway, Alabama, and after reconnecting during the push to elect Snakefoot to the Field Trial Hall of Fame in '05 they invited my friend John McMahon and me to join them in North Dakota for the sharptail opener. Although they retired from the field-trial scene some time ago, they still spend the spring, summer and early fall here, miles from anywhere, surrounded by the endless prairie, comfortable with its moods and weathers. They tend a big vegetable garden, take a four- to five-mile walk every day, correspond via e-mail with a wide circle of friends, and keep tabs on the field-trial fortunes of Snakefoot's descendants. (Snakefoot himself passed away May 15, 2003, two months shy of his 13th birthday.) The bottom line, though, is that they simply love the country-country that's as beautiful as God ever made for following big-running bird dogs on horseback, and in particular for teaching them to pattern, handle and "stand off" their game.
"You can get more done on the prairies in two months than you can get done in two years anywhere else," Gary says.
As soon as we've aired our dogs-my setters, Ernie and Butch, and John's English hunting cocker, Bishop ("What the heck is that?" Gary asks, grinning, when John unclips the latch and the little brown dynamo bursts from his box in the trailer)-I start pumping Gary for information. I knew he'd been in the automatic transmission business, that he and Diane had made their home in Zion, Illinois (near the Wisconsin line), and that, like most field-trialers, he'd started out as a bird hunter.
I knew, too, that he'd owned Elhew pointers and called Bob Wehle a friend since the 1960s; that he'd spent parts of several summers in Manitoba working with Harold Ray, the Hall-of-Famer who developed so many champions under the Smith Setters banner; that he'd also worked extensively, both in North Dakota and on the Packsaddle Ranch in western Oklahoma, with the fine pro Gordon Hazlewood; and that by the early '80s he'd established himself as one of the top amateurs in the country, winning multiple championships with the pointer female Aramist and developing a pointer male, Arian, that would win the 1988 National Open Shooting Dog Championship for a different owner.
What I didn't know was when and why he decided to surrender his amateur status and agree to train dogs as a pro for Bob Wehle.
"I'll tell you exactly how that came about," Gary says, shaking an index finger for emphasis as we relax in the yard, a cool breeze rustling the cottonwoods. He keeps himself in terrific shape; at the age of 70 he looks like a slightly older version of the golfer Tom Kite.
"It was in February 1985, and we were at Alvin Nitchman's place near Hurtsboro, Alabama. [Alvin "Doc" Nitchman was perhaps the most successful amateur of all time on the shooting-dog circuit.] Bob came up from Midway to work dogs with us, and the first dog he put down was a young female that we barely saw before she was gone-but I'd seen enough of her to know that she was something special.
"Bob had an older dog that he ran, too, and after we were done he asked me if I'd be interested in taking over his training. I said no, but I told him that if he was looking for someone to work with that little female, I'd be very interested. He sent her with me that summer, and of course that was Elhew Dancing Gypsy. I guess you could say that the rest is history."
One of the prettiest dogs running or on point that ever electrified a field-trial gallery, Dancing Gypsy is widely considered the second-greatest dog to come out of Elhew Kennels. In the spring of 1987, during her first season as an open shooting dog, she won the Alabama Classic and the Masters Championship under Gary's whistle. She went on to win the "big one" for Bob, the 1991 National Shooting Dog Championship, and to earn the Top Shooting Dog Award for 1990-'91. But by then a different pro, Larry Moon, was handling her. In a pattern that would repeat itself, Gary and Bob had had a falling out, and in 1988 Gary had pulled the plug.
What's important to understand about Gary Christensen is that he didn't train dogs for Bob Wehle because he needed to but because he wanted to. He loved the challenge, he loved the competition and, most of all, he loved to develop class dogs. These were his motivations. The money was an afterthought.
What you also should understand is that there isn't a deferential or obsequious bone in Gary's body. Self-made and self-reliant, he's his own man, period.
Still, he'd just as soon not talk about the reasons he and Bob parted company. "It was always piddly stuff," he says, shaking his head. "It was never about the dogs."
I'll say what Gary's reluctant to: For all his warmth, kindness and extraordinary generosity, Bob could be a difficult person to work for. Even when they were on the outs, though, their mutual respect never wavered. Whatever accolades came Dancing Gypsy's way, Bob made it clear that although Larry Moon may have driven the car, it was the team of Gary and Diane Christensen-and they truly were a team; "Diane was as much a part of this as I was," Gary stresses-who'd tuned it to go fast.
By Sunday evening we've enjoyed two days of rewarding hunting. We've gotten a kick out of watching pint-sized Bishop root tight-holding sharptails out of the thickets, and when Gary has complimented me on the style and drive Ernie displays as he rambles the prairies, I've felt like I could die a happy man. After all, Gary's benchmark for comparison in dogs is something like John Derek's in wives (Ursula Andress, Linda Evans, Bo).
Now while John McMahon sprawls on the living room couch and slogs through the gore of Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian, Gary and I repair to the kitchen, where Diane's tidying up, to talk about Snakefoot. Not that we haven't been talking about him and about everything else under the sun for the past two days; in fact, Gary's already made what strikes me as one of the most profound statements about dog training I've ever heard.
"The most important thing in dog training is what you don't do," he'd asserted.
The conversation picks up in this same vein when Gary says, "I wish I could tell you that I was 'the great trainer,' but I can't. Snakefoot was a great dog-and I knew he had the potential to be great the first time I turned him loose. As I've said many times, yes, Diane and I trained and handled Elhew Snakefoot-but we were really just along for the ride.
"I did know what not to do, though. He was so smart-the most intelligent dog we ever had-and so sensitive that a heavy-handed trainer could have ruined him very easily. But you could say the same about almost all of the Elhew dogs. If you're patient enough to leave them alone and let them develop naturally, they'll figure out just about everything on their own-and it makes training so easy. But if you try to pressure them and force them to do things they're not ready to do, it makes training hard. I've had so many pros ask me, 'How do you train these Elhew dogs?' I always tell them, 'The first thing you do is get the club out of your hand.'
"I recall only one time when Snake defied me. I rode him down, pulled his ears a little and reminded him who's in charge. Then I said to Diane, 'Well, I've either straightened him out or ruined him.'
"But that was the thing with Snake: Once he knew what was expected of him, he did it. We had to do little or nothing to steady him to wing & shot and teach him to stop to flush, and at 14 months he was completely finished on his game. And he backed from day one. Even if he couldn't see the other dog on point, he'd back the other handler if he saw him trying to flush birds. That's how intelligent he was."
"And he was such a proud dog," adds Diane. "He had all the poise and grandeur you could ever want. He seemed to know what he'd been put on this earth to do. He never pointed rabbits or other 'trash,' he never chased deer; you could road him right next to a bitch in season and he wouldn't bother her. He was an easy keeper, quiet in the kennel-although Bob let him get in the habit of barking after he was retired-and he absolutely loved kids. Whenever our grandchildren visited, the first thing they'd do was go find Snakefoot."
"He was exceptional in every way," Gary says. "He was a great bird-finder, he had a natural front-running pattern-we never, ever lost him-and on top of everything else he was a beautifully gaited dog. He covered the ground so easily, and as a result he had tremendous stamina.
"He could do more than any other dog could do, and he knew it."
The conversation roams like a dog on the prairies, keeping the wind in its face, searching the birdy places. Gary tells me that he had "no problem" with Bob's decision to retire Snakefoot, explaining that they'd accomplished everything they'd set out to with him and that Bob was always focused on the future, eager to see what the next generation of Elhew pointers could do. Indeed, Gary was then grooming two young dogs for Bob that he was confident had National Championship potential: a son of Snake's, Tom Fool, who was in many respects his sire's spitting image, and an eye-catching daughter of Dancing Gypsy named Ajitator.
Elhew Ajitator, in fact, did win the National, in 2000-but by then Bob had sold her. Perhaps inevitably given the personalities of these two strong-willed, uncompromising men, Bob and Gary clashed again in 1996. This time, though, Gary took his bat and ball and left the game for good.
He and Bob mended fences, as they invariably did, but Bob-who in Gary's absence had placed dogs with several other pros without achieving remotely the same success-could never convince him to come back. Not "officially," anyway. In later years the Christensens parked their camper in Midway for a few weeks every winter-old friends visiting old friends-and during these stays Gary would help Bob work the young dogs and offer his frank evaluation of the year's crop.
I tell Gary that the last time I ever spoke to Bob, in the spring of '02, he called a grandson of Snakefoot's, Elhew Royalty, "the finest dog I've ever blown a whistle over."
Gary smiles-a little enigmatically, it seems to me-and says, "From what I was able to see of him, he was an awfully nice dog. If he'd had the chance, he might have followed in Snake's footsteps."
We'll never know, because the chance -meaning both the chance to be tutored by Gary Christensen and the chance to prove himself in the crucible of field-trial competition-never came. When Bob died, Royalty along with all of the other dogs in his kennels and the Elhew name itself passed into the ownership of Brian Hays. A professional gundog trainer based at Addieville East Farm, in Mapleville, Rhode Island, Hays hunts the Elhew dogs extensively. He spends much of the fall guiding for grouse and woodcock in Quebec, but he's chosen not to campaign the dogs in field trials.
All of which begs the question: Will there ever be another Snakefoot? It's not inconceivable, although to use one of Bob Wehle's favorite analogies, coming up with a dog with the same combination of qualities would be "like catching lightning in a bottle." Compared to the task of finding a trainer as patient, as skilled and as blessed with good help as Gary Christensen, though, that might be the easy part.
Author's Note: Gary and Diane Christensen can be reached at pointdog@prodigy.net.
Tom Davis describes being asked to write the Preface to Bob Wehle's Snakefoot: The Making of a Champion as perhaps the greatest honor he's ever received. "I was lucky and privileged to call Bob a friend," he said. Davis's most recent books are Why Puppies Do That (Willow Creek Press) and, in collaboration with photographer Denver Bryan, The Orvis Book of Dogs (Lyons Press).
- By: Tom Davis
