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pocket or in his room. Crockett hadn't been much more than a pup when they'd first met, and still fit easily in his lap. And though over the years his lap had become smaller and smaller in proportion, the dog was always forgiving of this ever-increasing inconvenience and eager to make the most of whatever lap remained. They might go for weeks or even months without seeing one another. But Crockett was always thrilled whenever he arrived, whether at Frank's big adobe house down in Santa Fe or up at the ranch high in the mountains above Chama, and they would go for long walks together, just the two of them. He had once gotten to the ranch just ahead of a blizzard blowing in from the north, and when the snow hit he couldn't resist heading out with his cameras. "Better distract Crockett," he'd told Frank, " 'cause I'm on my way up the ridge to get some snow shots and he's gonna want to come with me." "He sure will!" Frank assured. "In fact, he'll be crushed if you leave without him." So they'd headed out together, the tall Tennessee hillbilly and the big cowboy dog dancing around him, twisting and cavorting and rolling in ecstasy in the deep powder snow. At first the wind hadn't been so bad, not until they rounded the bend in the trail and began climbing. But once they reached the top, the storm hit them full force, the hard white flakes racing up the mountain from the canyon a thousand feet below and tearing horizontally across their faces as they bore east out the ridge. All the while Crockett had been racing around like the pup he'd once been. But as the blizzard continued to intensify, he became ever more vigilant and protective, eventually moving out front to break trail. He would occasionally turn as though starting back to the lodge. Frank Simms with his best friend Crockett, high in New Mexico's San Juan Mountains. S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 3 0