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Tales from a Wyoming elk hunting camp part three: legend of the fried moose heart
By Justin Raines
Dirty, stinking, rotten, filthy Tennessee. Why, why, why? Why couldn't that field goal have been a little bit straighter, Vandy? Why couldn't you put the ball into the end zone from the 2-yard line Kentucky? Someone take this barbed wire from my belly! Take this pain from my heart! Great golly, I'm sick!
Ever since the Dawgs were brutally robbed of their shot at the SEC title Saturday, I haven't been able to pronounce “football” without launching into a slobbering, tearful rage. For this reason, I feel the only prudent thing to do is step away from the gridiron for a bit and revisit the calming memories of a high alpine retreat deep in the Rocky Mountains. I give you now, “Tales from a Wyoming elk hunting camp part three: legend of the fried moose heart.”
It's been awhile, so let's take a minute to figure out where we left off. I had just arrived on horseback at the hunting camp 16 miles into the Bridger-Teton National Forest.
As the new cook, I was getting acclimated to managing a kitchen in a canvas tent without electricity or running water. I was also compelled to wear a sidearm since bears had raided the camp just a week earlier.
Sanitation was a challenge since all water came from a small creek and had to be thoroughly boiled before it could be used in coffee, cooking or dishwashing. I had a stack of plastic tubs for wash water and a gallon of bleach for the cutting boards. There were also two propane burners and a full-sized oven packed in on the backs of mules. It was tricky, but I managed to pull off some tasty meals considering the circumstances.
Steaming pre-dawn spreads of fat, cathead biscuits with creamy sausage gravy, buttery scrambled eggs, golden syruped slices of fresh French toast and mountains of peppered bacon shiny with grease graced the table.
By the time the hunters stumbled in from their wood-warmed slumber, the stoves in the cook tent were red hot, having been fired hours earlier by my frozen hands. Two huge metal coffee kettles full of double-strength brew sat steaming on the burners with a handful of crushed egg shells thrown in to settle the grounds. The big gas lanterns hissed like tomcats, casting a soft glow over the breakfast table.
At night there was fried chicken with home cooked vegetables. One evening I even roasted an entire prime rib. Club sandwiches piled high with turkey, melted cheddar, fat slices of tomatoes and bacon awaited the hunters at lunch. Most of the ranch's clientele were from California, and the Southern cuisine usually sent them to bed happy.
After the first two days, my culinary confidence was running high. I'd figured out how to negotiate the primitive equipment and was quickly getting used to the brutal hours that “Cookie” was expected to keep.
So far, there had been no sign of bears even though large quarters of elk meat hung in the open air on wooden poles less than 50 yards from my cot.
On the third night, I was in the cook tent working on happy hour hors d'oeuvres while the hunters were drinking outside by the fire. Just as I was about to place a tray of bacon-wrapped scallops into the oven, the night exploded with a powder charge.
My first thought was that one of the hunters had shot a mule. Startled and upset, I burst from the tent to see what had happened. The hunters were badly shaken and looked to me for answers. I shrugged and went back inside to tend my scallops.
Our camp bordered other smaller camps, and drunken rifle fire was not uncommon, especially when someone was retelling a story and wanted to give it a special kind of exclamation point. Satisfied that the mules were safe, and the fools in my charge were under control, I soon forgot about the shot.
About thirty minutes later I heard Larry, one of our trusted guides, unsaddling his horse outside the tent. Just as I was about to bring him a mug of coffee, Larry burst through the door flap covered in blood up to his elbows.
“Hey Cookie, see can you do something with this,” he laughed, slapping the moose heart down on my cutting board with a bloody thump ...
Justin Raines is sports writer of The Clayton Tribune.
Ever since the Dawgs were brutally robbed of their shot at the SEC title Saturday, I haven't been able to pronounce “football” without launching into a slobbering, tearful rage. For this reason, I feel the only prudent thing to do is step away from the gridiron for a bit and revisit the calming memories of a high alpine retreat deep in the Rocky Mountains. I give you now, “Tales from a Wyoming elk hunting camp part three: legend of the fried moose heart.”
It's been awhile, so let's take a minute to figure out where we left off. I had just arrived on horseback at the hunting camp 16 miles into the Bridger-Teton National Forest.
As the new cook, I was getting acclimated to managing a kitchen in a canvas tent without electricity or running water. I was also compelled to wear a sidearm since bears had raided the camp just a week earlier.
Sanitation was a challenge since all water came from a small creek and had to be thoroughly boiled before it could be used in coffee, cooking or dishwashing. I had a stack of plastic tubs for wash water and a gallon of bleach for the cutting boards. There were also two propane burners and a full-sized oven packed in on the backs of mules. It was tricky, but I managed to pull off some tasty meals considering the circumstances.
Steaming pre-dawn spreads of fat, cathead biscuits with creamy sausage gravy, buttery scrambled eggs, golden syruped slices of fresh French toast and mountains of peppered bacon shiny with grease graced the table.
By the time the hunters stumbled in from their wood-warmed slumber, the stoves in the cook tent were red hot, having been fired hours earlier by my frozen hands. Two huge metal coffee kettles full of double-strength brew sat steaming on the burners with a handful of crushed egg shells thrown in to settle the grounds. The big gas lanterns hissed like tomcats, casting a soft glow over the breakfast table.
At night there was fried chicken with home cooked vegetables. One evening I even roasted an entire prime rib. Club sandwiches piled high with turkey, melted cheddar, fat slices of tomatoes and bacon awaited the hunters at lunch. Most of the ranch's clientele were from California, and the Southern cuisine usually sent them to bed happy.
After the first two days, my culinary confidence was running high. I'd figured out how to negotiate the primitive equipment and was quickly getting used to the brutal hours that “Cookie” was expected to keep.
So far, there had been no sign of bears even though large quarters of elk meat hung in the open air on wooden poles less than 50 yards from my cot.
On the third night, I was in the cook tent working on happy hour hors d'oeuvres while the hunters were drinking outside by the fire. Just as I was about to place a tray of bacon-wrapped scallops into the oven, the night exploded with a powder charge.
My first thought was that one of the hunters had shot a mule. Startled and upset, I burst from the tent to see what had happened. The hunters were badly shaken and looked to me for answers. I shrugged and went back inside to tend my scallops.
Our camp bordered other smaller camps, and drunken rifle fire was not uncommon, especially when someone was retelling a story and wanted to give it a special kind of exclamation point. Satisfied that the mules were safe, and the fools in my charge were under control, I soon forgot about the shot.
About thirty minutes later I heard Larry, one of our trusted guides, unsaddling his horse outside the tent. Just as I was about to bring him a mug of coffee, Larry burst through the door flap covered in blood up to his elbows.
“Hey Cookie, see can you do something with this,” he laughed, slapping the moose heart down on my cutting board with a bloody thump ...
Justin Raines is sports writer of The Clayton Tribune.
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