3 minute read
Old Guys and Elk
By Jim Drummond
This week a couple of the fellows at the old guy waterhole were whispering to each other while ignoring the rest of us. Someone finally asked if they were going to admit anyone else inside their private conversation. One of the fellows responded defensively, “Big game season is in full swing and we’re finalizing secret plans for a week at our hidden hunting camp.” Another gent queried, “What are you going to be hunting?” One of the old hunters emphatically replied, “Elk! You shouldn’t even ask that question!” Several of the other old guys rolled their eyes. Finally someone commented, “Both of you know that you’re never going to score an elk. I’ve rarely met an elk hunter who actually tags one. Most hunters never even see one.” The older of the two hunters responded, “We know that, but I get to buy a new pickup.” “What does elk hunting have to do with a new pickup,” someone asked. The first fellow responded, “I told my wife that I want a new pickup. She told me that I couldn’t have one. I responded that I’m going elk hunting. I asked if she will be comfortable knowing that I’m high in the mountains, in blizzards and snow drifts, with limited food and medical supplies, and in an old pickup that might break down and leave me stranded until spring. She gave it some thought and finally demanded that I buy a new pickup. If I don’t go elk hunting, I’ll be driving my old pickup until hunting season next year.” Someone else asked him, “What are you going to do if you actually bag an elk? That could really foul up a new pickup.” The hunter responded, “I’m never going to take an elk. I don’t even load my rifle. I just carry it over my shoulder as I walk through the woods. It provides a sense of connection to my ancestors. I really enjoy the sound of snow crunching under the soles of my hunting boots, and the fragrance of frosted pines. It’s also good exercise.” Another gent asked, “Don’t you miss the comforts of home when
Jim Drummond is a retired banker and Bozeman native.
you’re at elk camp for a week?” One of the hunters responded, “Not at all. We sleep in a warm canvas tent with a blazing wood stove. Our cots have a thick mattress, and we have a bright propane lamp hanging from a post. We chop a hole in the ice for coffee water, and don’t need a refrigerator to keep our groceries cold. At elk camp we don’t have to shower, or shave, or change our underwear. We don’t comb our hair, or brush our teeth, or put a toilet seat down. We play cards, and talk about pickups and dogs, and spit on the ground whenever we want to. We get to eat sardines, and sauerkraut, and garlic baked beans, and jalapeno spam. We really live it up.” One of the old guys in the group questioned, “When you come home empty-handed year after year, how do you explain yourself?” The younger of the hunters replied, “We alternate through a prepared list of missed elk excuses. The best excuse is that we jumped a herd but didn’t get a shot in the thick timber. The next excuse is that we tracked a bull for a full day but lost him in the dark and blizzard conditions. An excuse that we use sparingly is that a colossus bull elk was spotted, a shot fired, but we missed. When we use the ‘missed shot’ excuse we have to remember to load a rifle at camp and shoot at a stump. Most wives will sniff the barrel of a rifle when a hunter gets home to confirm that it’s been fired.” A late comer to the old guy waterhole rushed through the door, caught his breath, then came up to the table. Apologetically, he said, “I’m sorry I’m late. I had my annual physical and Doc made me take a mental abilities test. I don’t think I scored very high.” Someone else was thoughtfully rubbing his chin, then finally asked, “Ya’ get your elk yet?”
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