Thanks Jim

I n 2001, Pass It On, the department’s fledgling hunter recruitment program was just beginning and as coordinator, I wasn’t sure where we were headed. I wanted to emphasize youth involvement, and I was certain hands-on experiences were important. We started by
training agency staff to be wingshooting instructors. 

Jim Kellenberger was in his 35th year as a game warden, holding the title of regional supervisor for the last 20. He was an avid hunter and skilled wingshooter and had taught hunter education through a good portion of his career. He had already passed on his love of hunting to his own children, and he took an interest in the Pass It On program, believing in its importance. Jim took all of the instructor training we could offer. He also had officers who worked for him involved.

We focused on wingshooting because Kansas offers a wide array of excellent bird hunting opportunities, and wingshooting clinics are easy to accommodate. The youngsters who went through our early classes responded positively, but we were only reaching a few hundred each year. 

In 2003, Jim retired from the agency after 38 years of service. He was respected and well-liked, and his officers rewarded him with an expense-paid dove hunting trip to Argentina! At his retirement party, Jim and I visited about the Pass It On program, and I suggested that he consider becoming a part-time wingshooting instructor (or maybe he suggested it, I can’t remember). 

A week later, Jim called and said he definitely wanted to see if we could create a part-time position for him. Neither of us knew how it would work out. My priority was conducting these events across the state and getting as many youngsters involved as we could.

Within a couple of months, Jim was outfitted with a fully stocked trailer, an old law enforcement pickup and a shooting vest with the Pass It On logo embroidered on the back. It was slow at first, but we did enough events that first year to build some momentum.

Interest continued to grow and Jim eventually built up to 21-25 events a year, mostly on Saturdays from March through October. Over the past 13 years, Jim conducted nearly 300 wingshooting events and instructed more than 10,000 shooters. Most were youngsters, age 10-16, but he instructed at many women-only events, as well. Jim has loaded more than 200,000 20-gauge shotgun shells into the semi-automatic shotguns we use in our programs. He then watched over-the-shoulder on each of those shots, instructing the shooters. I would bet my next paycheck that you could count the number of shooters who failed to break at least one target over the past 13 years on one hand.

Jim criss-crossed the state, never hesitating to drive from his home base in Jetmore to an event in Chanute or Junction City. When a group requested one of our programs, I contacted Jim to see if his calendar was open. He never once asked where or how far. It was, “I’m open that day. Just tell me when and where and I’ll be there.” He just about drove the wheels off of that first hand-me-down truck. Many event organizers asked for him by name when they rescheduled. His only rule was that we didn’t schedule any shooting events during pheasant season because he always had other plans. 

It’s been a good ride. Jim is still very much alive and kicking, much to the chagrin of Hodgeman County pheasants, but he’s hanging up his shotgun instruction vest. He had
another great year until some minor surgery knocked him out of action this October. While he was recuperating, with a singular goal of being able to walk the fields after pheasants this November, he confirmed what I suspected. He was retiring again. He actually apologized for
“bailing out” on me. I told him he didn’t owe the program an apology. He was responsible for what it had evolved into. I have a couple of other part-time instructors, and they’ll likely be busy next year. I know I can’t replace Jim – there’s only one. I hope to hire another instructor, but I don’t expect to find one with half them passion, dedication and knowledge
Jim had. I’m sad because I enjoyed working with him, but the kids are the ones who’ll miss out. He is truly one of kind.

On behalf of a generation of Kansas wingshooters and bird hunters, "
Thanks, Jim. We owe you more than you will ever know.”

CREEDE

The term “heavy heart” is an overused expression, and I never gave much thought to what it felt like. However, cliché or not, I don’t know how else to describe the weight I felt in my chest this past July. After having him by our side for 13 ½ years, our black lab, Creede, is gone. We held on as long as we could, and so did Creede, coping valiantly with what I can only imagine near the end. He didn’t appear to be in pain, but we knew he was struggling. Lisa and I did everything we could to make him comfortable and keep him around as long as possible, as much for us as him. Then came that dreaded July morning when I knew it was time.
When I returned home after burying Creede, every reminder added to the weight. As I got out of the truck, I missed hearing his hoarse “woof” that always greeted me, letting me know he’d seen me from his perch by the sliding glass door. In the house, his “happy toy” lay conspicuously near the top of the stairs. It was an old rubber squeak toy that he carried around whenever he was excited. When we came home, he would rush around the house looking for that toy, then he carried it, head thrown back, tail wagging, welcoming us as if he hadn’t seen us for a week.
His absence leaves a hole in our lives, but he’ll always be a part of us. He was an average hunter and retriever, but his unconditional loyalty to Lisa and me was anything but average, and our bond was instantaneous. I had pick of the litter and acted like I knew how to select the perfect puppy. In reality, Creede chose me. While the rest of the puppies quickly became bored with my attention and ran off to other adventures in the backyard, Creede stayed with me. From that moment until his death, he stayed with me.
He spent his first night at home in a large cardboard box next to our bed. I reached down with my hand to comfort him, and he went to sleep quickly. However, he woke me four times that night, and we went out to the backyard each time. The next night, he slept through, and so did I, both content, I suppose, with this arrangement. And he slept in that spot, sans the box, for the rest of his life. When I would get up in the night, I would slide my feet along the floor to avoid stepping on him. Usually, before I found him, I would hear his tail wag, thump, thump, thump, on the floor, helping me locate him. It was common for me to wake, listen for his rhythmic breathing or snoring and once I heard it, go right back to sleep. In the waning weeks of his life, he became restless around 4 a.m. He was having problems eating and keeping food down, so when I realized he wasn’t beside the bed, I got up with him. I continued to wake up at 4 a.m. after he was gone. In a half-awake daze, I listened for his breathing, then I would remember and feel the weight.
Losing Creede was tough because of our connection. He was a dog that wanted to be near us no matter what we were doing. Whether we were hunting, fishing or just working in the yard, he stayed close, just in case he was needed. He seemed to especially enjoy our September vacations to the mountains, taking long hikes with Lisa and standing belly-deep in the Rio Grande, waiting for me to catch a trout. We’ll feel that weight without him this fall, and I know I’ll smile through teary eyes when I look down and he’s not standing beside me watching my cast.
Some might say, “he was just a dog,” but our lives were happier with him along, that’s for sure. I’ll never know the extent of his physical ailments in the final weeks, but I’ll forever admire the way he coped and kept his dignity to the end. We can learn a lot from old dogs. We’ll have another black lab one day, but I know we’ll never have another Creede – and I’m okay with that.