Print
E-mail
Comment
Rate
Tales from a Wyoming elk hunting camp: part two
By Justin Raines Staff Writer
Let's see ... where were we? That's right. I had just mounted a dim-witted pack beast named Bill and was riding into the hills as the new camp cook of the Spotted Horse Ranch.
Never having spent much time on or around horses before, it took awhile to acclimate to Bill's habits. He was a great lover of sagebrush and would stop every few yards to tear off a mouthful.
At first, I had no problem with letting him eat whenever he wanted to. We had an understanding. If he bore me calmly into the mountains and didn't try to throw me or bite my legs, he would be allowed to eat as much sage as he pleased.
Our deal worked for about two miles. Then, Bill began to abuse my tolerance. Soon, he was stopping constantly to enjoy a grassy snack. Despite my tugging at his reins, Bill refused to budge until he was full. I grew frustrated with the beast. The wranglers had to keep circling back to check on my progress. They already thought I was weird for sleeping in the barn, and now Bill was making an absolute fool out of me.
As the morning wore on, I resorted to violence. Sneaking in kicks to the ribs and yanking the reins viciously when he tried to stop for grass, I finally managed to break Bill. Halfway through the 16-mile ride, I was getting settled in. The horse had learned my rules just as the trail got serious.
We climbed up treacherous granite hillsides and crossed fast-flowing streams. The wine-headache I had endured all morning was easing up, and I was adjusting to the sway of the saddle.
As we gained elevation on the way to the camp, vast views of the Grand Tetons could be seen through the thick spruce forest. Jackrabbits fled our approach and bounded safe into the sage. Sometimes, we'd jump antelope and mule deer that were caught by surprise, casually lounging in the warm mountain sun.
Around mid-afternoon, we arrived at the camp. I was exhausted from the ride but soon realized that “Cookie” gets no sleep until the food is cooked and the dishes are done.
I knew all along that there would be no electricity at the camp, but it wasn't until I peeled back the door flap of the cook tent that I fully understood the task before me.
Breakfast was served at 5 a.m. sharp. Lunch was to be ready whenever the hunting party returned to camp, and dinner was always prepared late into the evening when the hunting was done.
The chief wrangler had an alarm clock in his tent called The Rooster. Every morning at 4 a.m. The Rooster hollered a shrill metallic crow that still haunts me in nightmares. Temperatures dropped into the teens at night, and it was no easy feat to shuck a flannel sleeping bag, light the fire in the stoves, stumble through the darkness to the stream for coffee water and begin making biscuits from scratch.
There was also the constant threat of bears. The week before I arrived, a bruin had entered the canvas kitchen during the night and savagely tore into the “bear proof” storage boxes.
The next morning, pancake powder and crumpled cans of soup were everywhere. The wranglers hung a cluster of metal spatulas from the roof as a kind of alarm system the following night.
When they heard the clanging sometime after midnight, they rushed into the tent and opened fire.
“I know I hit him at least twice,” one of the wranglers told me one evening before I left the ranch. “He took two shots at point blank range and didn't even slow down. Be careful up there, he's probably still around.”
I remember scrambling eggs with the Magnum under my apron. “This is wild,” I thought. In August, I was close to starvation and terminal poverty. Two months later I was well-paid and heavily armed.
After dark, the hunters returned to camp for drinks and stories. While they lounged, the wranglers rode deep into the dark mountains with rifles and meat axes to cape and quarter the trophy elk that had been shot.
The smell of blood was all over the camp. Raw flesh hung from poles, and it would not be long before I saw the first bear ...
Justin Raines is staff writer of The Clayton Tribune.
Never having spent much time on or around horses before, it took awhile to acclimate to Bill's habits. He was a great lover of sagebrush and would stop every few yards to tear off a mouthful.
At first, I had no problem with letting him eat whenever he wanted to. We had an understanding. If he bore me calmly into the mountains and didn't try to throw me or bite my legs, he would be allowed to eat as much sage as he pleased.
Our deal worked for about two miles. Then, Bill began to abuse my tolerance. Soon, he was stopping constantly to enjoy a grassy snack. Despite my tugging at his reins, Bill refused to budge until he was full. I grew frustrated with the beast. The wranglers had to keep circling back to check on my progress. They already thought I was weird for sleeping in the barn, and now Bill was making an absolute fool out of me.
As the morning wore on, I resorted to violence. Sneaking in kicks to the ribs and yanking the reins viciously when he tried to stop for grass, I finally managed to break Bill. Halfway through the 16-mile ride, I was getting settled in. The horse had learned my rules just as the trail got serious.
We climbed up treacherous granite hillsides and crossed fast-flowing streams. The wine-headache I had endured all morning was easing up, and I was adjusting to the sway of the saddle.
As we gained elevation on the way to the camp, vast views of the Grand Tetons could be seen through the thick spruce forest. Jackrabbits fled our approach and bounded safe into the sage. Sometimes, we'd jump antelope and mule deer that were caught by surprise, casually lounging in the warm mountain sun.
Around mid-afternoon, we arrived at the camp. I was exhausted from the ride but soon realized that “Cookie” gets no sleep until the food is cooked and the dishes are done.
I knew all along that there would be no electricity at the camp, but it wasn't until I peeled back the door flap of the cook tent that I fully understood the task before me.
Breakfast was served at 5 a.m. sharp. Lunch was to be ready whenever the hunting party returned to camp, and dinner was always prepared late into the evening when the hunting was done.
The chief wrangler had an alarm clock in his tent called The Rooster. Every morning at 4 a.m. The Rooster hollered a shrill metallic crow that still haunts me in nightmares. Temperatures dropped into the teens at night, and it was no easy feat to shuck a flannel sleeping bag, light the fire in the stoves, stumble through the darkness to the stream for coffee water and begin making biscuits from scratch.
There was also the constant threat of bears. The week before I arrived, a bruin had entered the canvas kitchen during the night and savagely tore into the “bear proof” storage boxes.
The next morning, pancake powder and crumpled cans of soup were everywhere. The wranglers hung a cluster of metal spatulas from the roof as a kind of alarm system the following night.
When they heard the clanging sometime after midnight, they rushed into the tent and opened fire.
“I know I hit him at least twice,” one of the wranglers told me one evening before I left the ranch. “He took two shots at point blank range and didn't even slow down. Be careful up there, he's probably still around.”
I remember scrambling eggs with the Magnum under my apron. “This is wild,” I thought. In August, I was close to starvation and terminal poverty. Two months later I was well-paid and heavily armed.
After dark, the hunters returned to camp for drinks and stories. While they lounged, the wranglers rode deep into the dark mountains with rifles and meat axes to cape and quarter the trophy elk that had been shot.
The smell of blood was all over the camp. Raw flesh hung from poles, and it would not be long before I saw the first bear ...
Justin Raines is staff writer of The Clayton Tribune.
 |
||
| Junior varsity football shut out by East Jackson |
Article Rating
Reader Comments
The following are comments from the readers. In no way do they represent the view of theclaytontribune.com.
