RIP: Gordon Lehman

duck calling hunting

Remembering a friend, fighter, and duck hunter.

"It is not length of life, but depth of life." —Emerson

Every few months for the last 15 years or so, the phone would ring, and a gravelly voice bellowed, “Hello, Michael.” Very few people call me by my actual given name, but Gordon could’ve said anything—I’d know that voice anywhere. He’d then proceed to regale me with stories of fishing, hunting, and the ins & outs of the outdoor industry, before finally diving into whatever actual topic he had on his mind—and he always had something bouncing around that oversized, offbeat brain of his. In the last few years, it was the proposed glamping resort on his beloved Gallatin River in “Salesville,” as he liked to call it, referring to Gallatin Gateway’s original name. The pristine, cottonwood-filleds river bottom, teeming with deer, waterfowl, turkeys, and the occasional moose and black bear, would never be the same. He fought that abomination with everything he had, just like he fought the abomination of his failing heart, with the courage of a lion, the stamina of a horse, and the grace of a swan. The man was a fighter, through and through.

For 40-some years he rambled the Montana mountains, ran the rivers, and watched the wild animals come and go.

Gordon had the gift of gab—he could’ve held sway, I’ve no doubt, with the likes of Oscar Wilde and Groucho Marx. He’d keep me engrossed for 15 or 20 minutes, then abruptly sign off. He had things to do, people to see—or maybe he was just late for the duck blind, where he seemed to spend most of his time, especially toward the end. I’m not sure he ever shot a duck. The day he invited me to join him, we didn’t see or even hear one. We sat there, swapping stories, while he scratched his dog’s ears and reminisced about his interesting, exciting life—from college football player to fly-fishing guide to ski patrolman. For 40-some years he rambled the Montana mountains, ran the rivers, and watched the wild animals come and go. Gordon was one of the first outdoor reps to work remotely from Bozeman, and he made it here in time to get his own piece of paradise, before the real-estate boom.

Which is why he hated that glamping project. His duck blind was nestled between two channels of the Gallatin, in a beautiful riparian landscape—a wildlife-rich refuge, safe from the rapacious plundering going on in the rest of the valley. He brought people there often to let them see it—and feel it— for themselves: the rising trout, the soaring eagles, the towering trees above. He did it not for money, but simply to share the splendor—because in his mind, that’s what Montanans do. He did it for me and for so many others, with that big, bold heart that eventually had to burst from so much giving.

Farewell, my free-spirited friend—until we meet again, in that great big duck blind in the sky.


Editor’s note: Gordon Lehman passed away late last year, at age 72, after a long battle with heart disease. To help his wife Peggy keep up the fight to save the Gallatin from grievous glampers, visit protectthegallatinriver.org.

gallatin valley aerial
Tags