I wish I had known, been able to reach out. But now he’s gone, too late to say goodbye.

I remember the last time we spoke. It was brief, on my way into the Green River Festival a couple of years ago. His welcoming smile and warm brown eyes, same mischievous glint, were unchanged since our pheasant-hunting days. Back then, he’d pull into my South Deerfield yard in his blue Honda Accord at 8:30 sharp each Wednesday morning. He’d step inside to briefly greet my wife, readying for work, before we’d depart for a wetland romp somewhere along the Hopewell basin, or maybe Fuller’s Swamp or the Bashin, sometimes all three for a robust four- or five-hour hunt behind Sara, my Lab, then Pepper, my first Springer. His enthusiasm was contagious, blatant joie de vivre, always eager. I’d choose the coverts and handle the dog, pursuing flushes while vocally positioning my buddy for shots along the edges. To his benefit, he was often in a better place than I. Great fun and teamwork, like Flatt & Scruggs, Garcia & Grisman, harmonious swamp-busting to the tune of lively banter — men’s talk, sometimes raunchy, flavoring our thorny, mud-splattered maneuvers. He was all man, with a feminine kindness; all doctor with a nurse’s compassion. Not my doctor. A friend.

Unfortunately, our paths had parted in recent years, since my move to Greenfield. When my wife bumped into him, she always remarked how friendly and genuine he was, a good man to the core. We didn’t know he’d been sick since October, were unaware of the treatments aimed at his evil foe. A private man, he probably didn’t want people to know, hoped to be spared the indignity of shallow coffee-shop gossip. Mercifully, it didn’t last long. Bruce Van Boeckel, a first-class internist who helped build the local hospice center to assure dignified death for others, passed away Friday peacefully, his way, at he and wife Terry’s wooded Leverett home. Always a picture of health, Bruce loved life and his work, was vigorous, brilliant and handsome, full of life and charm. Had everything going for him, and didn’t see 57. It isn’t fair. Too young. Too much to offer. Why Bruce?

Couldn’t his aggressive cancer have attacked someone who wanted out, had little to live for, suicidal demons tugging at his strings; someone cold, hungry and hopeless? But that’s me talking, not Bruce. He likely accepted it as a bad hand dealt, with no choice but to play it out. No stranger to mortality, he had often seen the sinister smirk of terminal illness, then was consumed by it. No escape, no chance, a cruel irony. He knew the signs and symptoms, the idiosyncrasies, and it still took him. What chance for you or me? None. A frightening reality. Terrifying.

We met back in the ’80s, a few years after he settled here. I was at work. The phone rang. It was Bruce. A New York City native, he read my column and hoped I would introduce him to the bird-hunting game. He had sharpened his wing-shooting skills at a sportsmen’s club and a hunting preserve, was ready for the real thing. I asked when he was available. Wednesday was his day off. An odd couple had been forged, he high-achieving and credentialed — Yale and Harvard no less — I from the school of hard knocks, independent, a rebel. Our friendship blossomed fragrantly and bore succulent fruit that amiably withered after a decade. We even traipsed off to Sodus Point for Lake Ontario fishing trips, to the Rangeley Lakes for a New England Outdoor Writers Association safari, bass-boat I helped him select in tow. Hauling that boat, four men and their luggage up the long hill to Springfield, Vt., my Cherokee’s thermostat went kaput, requiring a hot, steamy pit stop. We got through it, though, and fished western Maine for an uneventful, three-day, May weekend. No problem, just hit it wrong. Everyone struggled. But that didn’t stop Bruce from trying. Patience was one of his many virtues, that and diligence, along with his ability to communicate, meet people, pick their brains. Determined to catch landlocked salmon and trout that weekend, he chewed ears, absorbed many tips and tried most, all for naught. He used to fanaticize back then that he’d retire at 50, buy a charter boat and take others fishing. It never happened. Perhaps it would have in time. We’ll never know. His time ran out. Tragedy in its purest form. He would have been a good captain, or anything else he put his mind to. Believe it.

A rare find, Bruce was for me a unique hunting companion I won’t forget. We were the same age, grew up during the Sixties and connected on many philosophical issues. The man was a scientist, a researcher, and his Ivy League education trained him how to find information. I was a component of that exercise, helping to satisfy his hunger for local history, his fertile mind rich as the bottomland soil we trudged. He was always fascinated with stories about the roads or trails we traveled, a swamp or upland meadow we were hunting; loved the folklore, the vernacular, the quaint upland graveyards, their tidy stonewalls. His curiosity, intellect and zeal for discovery was infectious. You could feel it in his kind brown eyes, deep as an oily sinkhole. He wanted to learn the turf, and I was a teacher. The payback was friendship and occasional medical guidance. The few times I asked for advice, he was there for me, happy to help. He even once examined me, gratis, at his Connecticut River Internists office. I was concerned about something, a false alarm. He told me to come in before lunch, he’d take a look. It tells you a lot about the man.

It hurt a little when Bruce called me before bird-hunting season more than decade ago to disclose that he was a fisherman, not a hunter. Although he loved the physical trials and camaraderie of bird hunting, he had lost his stomach for killing. I understood, respected his candor. A philosophical dilemma had swung him. The doctor committed to saving people was having trouble justifying the kill. He didn’t need the meat, and preferred fishing, which allowed him to release what he caught. He asked why I had stopped fishing, said he would like to rekindle my interest. We could fish together, continue our sporting bond and devilish banter. I told him my schedule had changed, that if I couldn’t be on the stream before the birds sang, I wasn’t interested. The only suitable alternative was dusk, which my job also precluded. I’d rather clean my kennel than fish at midday. He understood. It was too bad. Maybe someday we would reconnect.

As it turned out, that day never came. It wasn’t meant to be. But does it matter? Hardly. Friendship survives until you’re both gone. Now I’m the sole perpetuator. I will never forget Bruce, the way he dropped into my life, gave me laughs and companionship. He’ll always have sanctuary in my soul. And while I don’t believe we’ll ever meet again in some heavenly kingdom, I’m grateful for the time we had here, however brief.

Still, I do regret that the word never reached me, that I missed my chance to meet eyes, embrace, laugh about the good times, shake farewell? I guess in my own way I’ve done that now. I can feel his presence. I pray he’s listening. He was good at it.

Better than I.