Hunting stories

[ASAdog]

Over thirty years ago I was with a group of folks that had often met for a fall black bear hunt up on Beachy Saddle, above Elk Lake, not far from the town of Detroit, Oregon.

On this particular hunt one of the regulars, Curt, was actually participating in the hunt for the first time. Curt had often joined us for the camaraderie of the camp, but he had never before joined the actual hunt.

Curt had just received a .308 rifle as a gift from his folks and was anxious to join in, but since he had no real experience as a hunter the leader of our group, Walt (a Special Forces First Sergeant, Lifetime Distinguished Rifle holder, NRA Hunter Safety Instructor, and formally a runner of Alaskan trap lines) wanted Curt to join me as his partner/mentor.

Beachy Saddle has a large natural tilted bowl formation on one side of the mountain crest line. This bowl is filled with ripe wild huckleberries in September and is a natural draw for bear fattening up for their long winter sleep. I have counted up to 13 bear in a single sighting gorging themselves on the sweet berries.

There is nearly a 3000 foot elevation change between the bottom of the bowl and the crest line, which tops out at about 9000 feet above sea level. Needless to say the weather that high up can be tricky. I have spent many an hour up there when the weather suddenly turned from clear and warm to misty and very cold in September. When the weather turns like this, one can have ice forming on their side where the mist comes in from.

Following the plan, Curt and I were to climb to near the center top of the crest, while a couple of other teams were to likewise place themselves near the crest but far enough away from the other tandems to provide “escape route’ coverage for any bear that would be pushed up the bowl by the group of beaters with Walt that would be walking up through the lower area of the bowl.

Curt and I made it to our position (a spot called “Hole in Wall”) before the sun was to break. Unfortunately it was not the sun that broke, but one of those cold misty days instead. Ice was forming on us and our equipment as we sat there, trying to be quiet and watchful. Curt was having trouble dealing with this turn of events, and the exchange between us went something like this:

Curt (fidgeting) – Pssst, Terry, I’m cold.

Me – Shhhhsh, be quiet.

Curt (still fidgeting, but now adding squirming) – Pssst, Terry, I’m really cold.

Me – Shhhhsh, be q-u-i-e-t.

Curt (realizing that I was not going to let him out of this, and thinking of an excuse to move about) – Pssst, Terry, I gotta go pee.

Me (almost in exasperation) – Quietly, move to just over the ridge and go; but be quiet about it.

Curt moves to just short of the crest, leans his rifle on a nearby rock, then takes two steps forward to relieve him self. I don’t really notice this - at first.

Curt (standing there, holding his private, peeing on his own leg) – OOOH, OOOOH, OOOOOH!

Me (turning rapidly) – QUIE….

Picture this: Curt is standing there as described, with his back toward me, and two to three feet in front of him there is a bear standing licking its nose! Curt had apparently not seen the bear and had peed on its face!

I can’t shoot; Curt is standing between me and the bear.

Me (excitedly) – CURT! Your gun, your gun!

Curt (Very excitedly) – OH, OH, YEAH!

Curt takes one long step back, picks up his rifle, and with it pointing straight up into the air fires it!

The bear (remember the bear?), shakes its head twice (as if to say Holy s…), swaps directions and very quickly disappears over the crest.

I’m laughing so hard now I couldn’t shoot even if I’d had a shot.

We leave the spot heading back down to meet up with Walt.

Me – Damn, that takes a set; peeing on a bear’s face and all.

Curt – Aw, shut up. You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?

Me – Yeah, right; it’ll be our little secret (snicker). 

 

What's your story?

[HeavyH]

That's a good one. 

I rifled through the old memory bank trying to recall some of the great stories that happened in my 35 years of hunting trips.  I have a lot of stories and fond memories of things that have happened, and I love re-hashing every detail to anyone who will listen.  I think that's the best part of hunting trips these days.... sitting and boring my hunting partners with the same old stories of the past.  Take Vern for instance.  I've known him for 32 years now, and we have shared a hundred deer/elk stands, tents, duck blinds, and campfires.  No matter how many times he hears the same story, he listens with the same enthuseism as he had the first time he heard it.  Heck, 80% of the stories involve him.  But he sits there politely and listens to the stories, and re-hashes every stupid detail with me, and we have a good laugh.  Then there's Brent.  Brent is a little less apt to sit and patiently listen to the same old story and his body language tells me that he's already heard that one.. if not 4 times before.  But there is one story that everyone sits quietly and listens to.  I tell it each year, especially if there is a new hunter in our camp.  Maybe it's a first time hunter, or just someone who stops by our campfire.  And it's a story worth telling.  Hopefully you will think about the story that follows, and take something away from it that will affect you or a loved one.  Just thinking about this story gets my heart pumping. 

I learned about guns from my uncle.  He taught me about safety, and how to handle a gun long before I was of age to hunt.  In Oregon, you have to be 12 to carry a centerfire rifle and hunt big game, and of course you have to pass hunters safety.  I couldn't wait to take my hunter's safety course.  I looked at it like a right of passage.  All I had to do was pass the course and then I could FINALLY go to the famed hunting camp with my uncle.  I could finally "live" the stories that I had heard a hundred times before.  And as any hunter can attest, that first one was as special as any that would follow. 

I have always prided myself as an absolute fanatic on hunter's safety.  Even adults would tell me to lighten up on certain issues.  I never did.  I'm talking about the fundamentals, like opening the breach or action when you go through a fence, always checking the chamber EVERY time when you pick up a gun, or someone hands it to you, even though you saw them check it too, and ESPECIALLY keeping the muzzle in a safe direction at all times.  I was confident in my gun handling skills, and those around me were too. 

This is where the story really starts.  It was October 1988.  I had left camp that morning and went on a certain hunt that I had made many times before.  I had been hunting this area many years, and knew every ridge and trail.  I had killed an elk the previous year on this exact hunt, and I had high hopes that this day would be a good one.  Back then, in this particular area, seeing 20 elk a day was the norm.  In fact, if you didn't see 20 elk, you talked about it at camp that night.  Anyway... I had made it about half way on what is normally a 6-8 hour trek, and was sitting in a timbered draw between two ridges.  I had shot the elk the previous year at this exact spot, so I was happy when I found the same place.  I sat there for an hour or so with nothing happening, and was just about to continue on back towards camp when a shot rang out in the draw across the little ridge to my front.  As the crow flies, this other draw wasn't 500 yards away, but with the vertical up and down, it would take an hour or more to make it over to that draw.  So I decided to wait for a bit and see what happened.  Then I could hear the unmistakable sound of elk running at me.  If any of you have hunted elk in the timber, they make a distinct sound as they plow over and through brush, trees, etc.  Their hoofs make a sort of hollow thud sound as the run, and I knew that an elk could cover that same ridge and make it to my draw in about 30 seconds.  This elk was really packing the "mail".  I could hear him clearly.  He was cracking branches, small limbs etc, and was was making a bee-line for my position.  My heart began to race.  I situated myself on the backside of a deadfall and had myself a perfect rest from which to shoot.  I waited.  The elk would stop from time to time, but only for a second then he'd start back up again.  About 3-4 minutes later, I could tell that he was in my draw, and due to the lay of the land, I was sure he would come right up the little opening that I was sitting in.  I remember that feeling that I am about to shoot an elk.  I knew this was a bull elk, as the shot that the other hunter had taken confirmed that to me (this was back when cow season was later in the year).  Then there he was.  I was seeing glimpses of him  through the trees, and sure enough, he was coming right at me.  I strained to get a good look at the elk as he trudged along up towards me, but all I could see was the distinct elk tan color, and the dark shaggy mane.  Then I saw blood.  I could tell that he was bleeding somewhere near his neck, or around the area where the tan turned to the dark hair of his mane.  The blood was especially bright red, but I had seen that before (when the blood is especially oxygenated it is bright colored and slightly foamy).  I was just getting glimpses of this, but I was 200% sure this is a wounded bull elk, coming right at me, and he was just seconds from clearing the last tree that separated him from my unobstructed view.  I released my safety. 

(In the past, by the time I had gotten to this part of the story,my heart would be racing fairly well, and I would have a sort of tenseness to my body.  It is no different now.)  I snugged up on the trigger and waited to send 250 grains of Nosler Partition 338 Winchester Mag lead at this unsuspecting elk.  I remember thinking to myself "I hope this is the 6 point that others had seen in the area last week".  Then he cleared the tree.  There before me, panting and weak stood 250 lbs of clumsy Heppner Oregon farm boy.  I couldn't believe what I was seeing.  I sat frozen for what seems like hours.  It was like I was paralyzed.  I finally raised my barrel and clicked the safety back on.  I sat the rifle down and began to shake.  I was shaking so badly that I thought I would puke.  There before me, stood Kenny (a local and regular hunter in our camp area, whom I had shared many campfires) in his elk tan Carhartt jacket with the brown collar, and a red neck scarf snuggly around his neck.  He didn't see me at first, but finally after resting for a minute or two, he started up the draw and finally saw me.  He came and sat down on the very log that I almost shot him over.  "See anything?"   I couldn't get anything out except short one word answers.  I didn't know what to say to him.  I almost killed him.  I was on the trigger... I was ready to shoot.  This situation was a millisecond from being one of those tragic stories you read about in the newspaper.  The only thing I got out in sentence form was to ask what he was shooting at.  His reply... "a chipmunk".  No wonder Kenny never harvested an elk in all the years of seeing him there. 

In this story, the stars aligned (or so I thought) in what was a perfect elk hunting situation.  Shot, crashing and thud of elk coming at me, I see the tan elk through brush, and look, he's bleeding.  Here he comes.  Safety off.  I know... you are screaming at me now in your mind (maybe some out loud) "NO".  And I know what else you are saying.  I have said it over and over and OVER a thousand times since that event.  NEVER NEVER EVER EVER TAKE YOUR SAFETY OFF UNTIL YOU HAVE POSITIVELY IDENTIFIED YOUR TARGET, AND DECIDED TO SHOOT. 

Back at camp that night, I saw Tom, who was part if Kenny's party.  I told him that he may want to tell kenny to change his coat, it is after all ELK SEASON, and that coat is the exact color of an elk.  He agreed and the next day Kenny was wearing something else.  It wasn't until the following year that I admitted that story to Kenny and his crew.  I went over and visited their campfire one evening.  Kenny thought it was pretty funny, obviously not realizing just how close he came to death. 

So what is the final thought in this?  For me it always comes down to the part when I hear someone say "that couldn't happen to me... I'm really careful".  TRUST ME, if it can happen to me... it can happen to anyone (my friends all say that)  Don't let it happen to you.

Sorry for the novel.  It's important though. 

[ASAdog]

Good one, and an excellent point to boot. You sound like I would enjoy sharing a hunt/shoot with.

Walt, in my above story, is the guy that actually introduced me to firearms safety, basic riflery, hunting and trapping.

Note I started the list with "firearms safety". With Walt, firearms safety was the the first, middle, and final firearms lesson to learn - he always stressed it and it stuck with you or you were told to go elsewhere.

In Pursuit,

[ASAdog]

OK, here’s another one.

I love upland game bird hunting, with grouse hunting being at the top of my list. Something about the early fall colors, the fresh woodlands scents, my dog working the cover, the rush of a grouse flushing, and the difficulty of the shot in fairly heavy cover, as well as the wonderful flavor of the bird.

When in new areas it usually takes a while to learn where the grouse are holding up, and it often takes a while to develop relationships with land owner so that I may have access to their land for the hunt.

One of the things I do is drive the rural roads looking for areas that have the right mix of cover and grouse foods. After locating potential spots I make an approach to the house I believe may control the spot; not with intention of hunting that day, but to introduce myself, establish rapport, and to ascertain if indeed the person can and is willing to allow me access at some future date.

When I was stationed at Ft. Devens, MA, I actually lived in Nashua, NH. New Hampshire is well known for its grouse (known as “Pats” or “Partridge” by the locals), but nearly all of the huntable lands are in private hands. New Englanders are also known (rightly or wrongly) to be somewhat suspect of someone who does not come from their area (as my lack of a New England accent would give away), so it can be difficult for an outsider to gain access.

One fine early fall day I was on my usual weekend search for a grouse area when I spied a place that looked like it was made in heaven for grouse. It was a very old farm with grape vines that had gone mostly wild and an old apple orchard that had seen better days. The trees were mostly hardwoods of oak with some maple; each tree spaced just far apart enough to provide secondary growth below for cover, but still open enough to allow a chance to get a shot off.

The farm house, though it had a little peeling paint, appeared that it was still fairly well maintained. I approached.

The gentleman that answered, wearing a white shirt with a red tie under is overalls was in his sixties. His face and hands were heavy and had that work and weather worn look to them. He first looked at me with a “who are you, and why are you bothering me” look on his face, but after my introduction and a few pleasantries he warmed up a bit – seems he had served with Military Intelligence/ASA as a young man during the Korean War and he was glad that another ASAer had dropped by.

I got around to asking if he controlled the neighboring lands and if so if I might in the future have access for some pat hunting. Yes, about 120 acres of the surrounding land was his and he was willing to let me come and he would clear it with his two neighbors so that I could include their lands in my hunts, if I agreed to his rules.

His rules were generally very acceptable, but there was one that caught me a little off guard at first. It was that I had to hunt with “Old Bill” – as he put it “the best pat finder and retriever in the area, and the neighbors will recognize him”. I couldn’t believe it, not only was I going to be able to hunt his land I was also going to get to use his dog!

The following weekend I arrived at the farm at about 7am with a gift of flowers for his wife and a bottle of fine sipping whiskey for him. After a short pleasant exchange with the farmer he hollered out “Bill, Bill, get over here!”, and what appeared to be the oldest man I had ever seen came around the corner of the house. He was gray, grizzled, wrinkled, bent over, and shuffled.

“This is Old Bill” said the farmer. “He was born on this farm 98 years ago and knows it better than I do. If you hunt my land he has to be with you”.

“Hello, Bill” I said, hardly believing I was going to be saddled with an old man that could hardly look up and moved slower than maple syrup in January; but I put my faith in the farmer and accepted that to hunt here Bill would have to be with me. Maybe in the future the farmer would let me hunt without “Old Bill”.

To this day I’m still ashamed I didn’t immediately trust in Old Bill. He knew the lay of the land, every plant and tree, all of the grouse (he may have been on speaking terms with some of them), and always had me positioned well for every flush he bumped.  I limited out by 9 am. On top of that, he was a fine gentleman, with good wit, wisdom, and great stories.

I shared one of my birds with Bill which he accepted, but when I offered him ten bucks for his help he said “No sir! I already get paid, room and board, and paid attention to for my work here”. “You’re a good boy and I’d be glad to take you out and bird for you again” he added. I thanked him, and then I went to spend some time with the farmer and his nice wife – offering to help with some fence repair I noticed needing some attention when I returned in a week for another hunt.

The following weekend I arrived in great anticipation, again at 7 am.

I knocked on the farmhouse door. The farmer answered, but I could immediately tell that something was amiss. The look on his face, the redness of his eyes, that tell-tale moisture surrounding his eyelids all told me this man had been crying.

He said “I’m, I’m, sorry…” He trembled. “Bill died yesterday morning and… it’s my fault and…” He stopped there.

I almost couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “I’m sorry. He was a good man and a fine gentleman, but, what happened?” I asked.

In strained words he added “I went out back yesterday and I couldn’t believe it. There was Bill, tearing up chickens, and I couldn’t have him doing that, so I put him down like I would with any bird dog that went bad.”  !!!!!

Of course this is just one of those “stories” I tell around the hunt camp fire – it’s just a tale.

Anybody have one?

[HeavyH]

I thought it was gonna be the old "shoot that old mule" story we've all heard. 

Speaking of grouse... I know a honey hole for them.  I know of a special thicket in a little draw that also has a huge spring in it.  In fact, that whole thicket/draw is one big marsh.  It's also a great elk wallowing area too, but since I no longer chase elk with sticks, I usually just carry my shotgun in there in September.  If it's one of those dusty hot September days, you can bet your paycheck that there will be 20 grouse in that draw, hugging close to all that water.  I usually sneek in and let all the grouse flush, then wait for them to return one by one.  More than once I have been walking back to camp in less than 30 minutes with 3 fat blues. 

Grouse are chewy, but sure have a good flavor cooked on the barbie.