Born of a Montana Barstool (Weekend Read)

It began in a Montana watering hole, the kind of bar where patrons gathered after work to toss peanut shells into sawdust and share stories over cheap beers. I had been here before and had yet to make a friend in this new town, but now I caught promising hints of a hunting story drifting over the beer from a loud guy at the end of the bar.

The fella floating the words had folded his 6’5” frame onto a random barstool. He wore a Stormy Kromer wool hat, just like the ranchers I grew up with and his pontifications gained volume and color with each swig of his beer.

He had a particular way of speaking, plain and authoritative, in the style of a traveling preacher minus the piety. His voice was slow and booming, laced with Canadian accent and unique off-color colloquialisms.

I wanted to find a bird-hunting buddy so I leaned toward him and took a chance with a playful challenge, “What do you know about pheasants?” He stopped mid-sentence and shot back, “Quite a goddamned bit. I’m James. Who the hell are you?”

Peanuts in one hand and beer in the other, James had been delivering a stirring sermon about his recent pheasant hunting trip. He waved his arms as if in the pulpit and parishioners around the bar listened with rapt attention; “They were flying around like goddamned bees. Everywhere! We were shootin’ the hell outta things, the dogs were crazy as shithouse rats, the birds were piling up like cordwood.” My risky intrusion had brought it all to an uncomfortable standstill.

I grew up on a ranch with hundreds of pheasants and hunting access to my childhood home seemed like currency I could use in barter, so I offered it along with a handshake. “You think you know pheasant hunting? Well, you ought to see where I grew up.” He turned and gave me his full attention.

James bore a strong resemblance to the iconic Seattle pitcher, Randy Johnson. He stood and looked down his nose with a cocked eyebrow, I felt as if I was standing at home plate facing the Big Unit, but after a moment he shook my hand and told the bartender “Get this guy a beer.”

For James, a hint of a new hunting spot was enough to explore friendship with a stranger. A few months later, he and I were following our dogs across the grasslands of our ranch in the biting cold. I had a lot of respect for someone who would take that sort of gamble.

Cold morning behind the dogs

Our hunting styles were a match. James was a born walker. Like a moose at a distance, he appeared slow and gangly, but up close it was clear he moved with stretched effortless strides, so long and flowing that almost no one could keep up. When birds appeared, he’d swing, shoot, and take a new step all in the same motion, never stopping his forward momentum.

We both possessed an almost addictive love for bird-hunting. Twenty-mile days, hunting right up until dusk became common. Other friends labeled our adventures “death marches” and found excuses to avoid getting looped into our hikes.

Our shared passion for birds and our dogs drove us to range over huge swaths of country. In the ensuing decades, we hunted mostly in Montana but explored the high plains from Oklahoma to Canada. In the breaks between our marches, we stumbled into small towns, snuck dogs into dingy hotels, and ate breakfasts in greasy spoons.

Montana bird hunting adventure

We listened in on conversations of old men in cafes on the off chance they might utter a tip. We chatted up crusty bartenders to find the preferred whiskey of ranchers. We lived it all with unapologetic abandon. The experiences served as valuable ingredients in Jim's art.

I grew to respect Jim as a master storyteller. Our adventures became threads in his projects. He picked out the interesting components and wove them in the loom of his mind, spinning them together until the fine fabric poured out.

His stories always arrived at unexpected and hilarious places. “Did I tell you about the time I took out an entire motel in a runaway grain truck over on the Clark Fork?” The roadside lodging establishment was thankfully almost empty due to the late morning timing of his crash, but Jim’s loaded wheat truck nearly killed the last person inside just as she was preparing to check out of room 107. He too barely made it out alive. The motel was not so lucky.

A few years after the wreck he randomly met the survivor on the same Montana barstool where he and I had first discussed pheasants. Of course, he started preaching and drinking beer with her too. They ended up laughing about another of Jim’s stories even though she was minus a few key internal organs due to the impact of Jim’s 40-ton Peterbilt.

James wove the words of his life together with the magnetic pull of the world’s finest novelists. Before long, his storytelling was in high demand by my friends and family. Inquiries about upcoming hunting trips focused on whether James was coming along.

James was the kind of guy you wanted to have on any ride. For me, this was partially because he was silver-tongued when prying permission from even the prickliest ranchers. I had native fluency in ranch language and thought I was pretty good at the permission game, but James was the best I had ever seen.

After the initial hard “no” through the screen door, Jim would conjure up one of his booming sermonettes. He began slowly, with something familiar, maybe commentary on a truck, or cow or the weather. Then an artful transition to a real or imagined memory of a distant cousin they both knew who maybe had a friend or a last name that sounded about right and then he’d throw in a good joke and one of his unique descriptive terms.

Soon the door would creak open, and Jim was inside, drinking coffee, eating cookies, and drawing property maps on paper towels. He’d get a warm handshake from the previously frigid rancher then swagger back to the truck with his wool hat tipped back; a slight grin creeping up from his mustache. After his truck door slammed he’d look at me and unleash the results, “Hope you got some goddamned ammo Busse, ‘cause we can hunt ‘er all!” I’d just shake my head in amazement.

Another day with the dogs

Those ranchers sensed the truth about Jim; you could depend on him to be true and authentic. Perhaps it was this honesty that led James to become a corner post in the wobbly fence of my life.

Over time, things got busier, and I traveled more. Life happened. We hunted together less but that did not matter to the fundamentals of our friendship. On one of my work trips, my wife Sara called with an emergency. Our beloved 16-year-old German Shorthair was on her last leg. Our vet said she was in pain and advised us to put her down that same day. I could not return for nearly a week and in tears, I blubbered into the phone, “I’ll call James.”

It was mid-morning and I reached him at work. He dropped everything and was at Sara’s side within the hour. He cried in the vet clinic waiting room just as I would have for his dogs.

When our first son was born, Sara and I named him Lander James, in honor of our favorite Wyoming Town and my friend. Lander was born in the middle of Jim’s January duck hunting season but he took the interruption in stride, showing up at the hospital in full camo while promising to someday take the infant to a new spot that he declared, “had a shit load of ducks when things froze up like this.”

Lander James Busse

25 years have passed since our first beers together in that bar. We’ve walked a thousand miles together and apart. New dogs have come and gone. Birds have indeed piled up like cordwood. Family has passed. And yet despite the march of time, nothing has changed. We are just a couple of bird-hunting buddies looking for the next ridge to hunt, joking with each other about missed shots and permissions gained.

We don’t waste time on unimportant diversions. Long walks, bird dogs, and good stories are simple things that are enough for us.