Just one of many standing in a booth selling his wares. Rocky couldn’t have been more comfortable.
It was as if he’d known you all his life and he had.
Nothing to sell, but plenty to talk about without saying much Rocky had nothing to prove even though his living depended upon it.
My first day of hunting with Rocky seemed routine. We dismounted at a spot new to me and known to him.
We climbed a hill in a foot of snow. I placed my boots in his tracks. We sat against a ten foot tall spruce in a two foot snow drift. I sat on my coat.
Rocky told me where to look. Then he told me not to shoot at a medium-size buck that trotted out below us.
“There may be elk coming.” he said.
We sat in windless silence and watched.
Finally two rag-horn bulls stepped out of the timber about 200 yards below us. I placed the cross hairs of my scope on the bigger of the two and it seemed to fall into the timber out of sight. Rocky said it looked like a hit.
We climbed down through drifts that were deeper than they looked and came upon the bull.
“I’ll help,” I said.
“No, sit down over there in case a buck comes by,” said Rocky.
So I sat, until another hunter appeared on his hike from below. When I returned to Rocky and the bull, it was quartered and ready to be dragged down the hill.
I couldn’t imagine that anybody could quarter a bull so fast.
Now, after a few more hunts in the Bob, Rocky Heckman is gone. But, like all special people, he cannot and will not be forgotten.