TIED TO NATURE
THE BIG GAME ISSUE
MOUNTAIN MEN AND MR. MURPHY • GROUSE ABOVE THE SMOKE FEAST AND FAMINE • LOST BEARS THE FAIREST CHASE • NO GLORY FOR THE TIMID WINTER WHEAT • POCKET COVERTS ON A SNOWY MORNING • LETTING THE SOUL GO
WINTER 2021 DISPLAY UNTIL MARCH 7, 2022
INDEPENDENT, PASSIONATE, UNCOMPROMISING STRUNG MAGAZINE
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“We lose ourselves in the things we love. We find ourselves there too.” —Fred Bear When Michael Henry wants to get to the hunt, he gets there by any means necessary. Here, he rides his bike, longbow and all, through downtown Livingston, Montana to get to his deer hotspot on the Yellowstone River. Photo: Jeff Moore
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“The real voyage of discovery consists, not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” —Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time Mike Lovewell filters water from a small creek after a long hike into the Idaho backcountry on a September elk hunt. Photo: Ryan Sparks
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Contents
WINTER 2021 MOUNTAIN MEN AND MR. MURPHY – Words by Ryan Efurd, Photos by Ryan Lee “The Dhorpatan Hunting Reserve is the only hunting area in Nepal. Established in 1987, the Dhorpatan covers 512 square miles and only issues 20 licenses per year for blue sheep. I was lucky enough to get one of the coveted tags with the help of Greg Brownlee of Neal and Brownlee, who specialize in the complex logistics of organizing hunts like these. Greg had been talking to me about Nepal for years, touting it as the ultimate mountain hunt. After dreaming about it for years it was finally time to make it happen.” FEAST AND FAMINE – Jay Beyer “Each day seemed like groundhog day: Wake up before dawn. Hike to the glassing knob. Make coffee and watch the sunrise. Spot a grizzly in the distance working toward the caribou carcass. Scare off the grizzly. Eat lunch. Do more glassing. Walk back to camp. Eat dinner. Wish we had more whiskey. Go to sleep. Several days went by like this, and our hopes of seeing more caribou diminished. This is the reality of hunting migrating caribou: It’s feast or famine. One day there are thousands of caribou streaming over the tundra, and the next it’s a desolate wasteland.” A BRITISH COLUMBIA, BOONE AND CROCKETT BILLY – A Photo Essay by Nick Trehearne “Only halfway through the second day of hunting, while the three of us were still in our Crocs, Lindsay’s rifle rang out throughout the valley.” LOST BEARS – Words by Dave Zoby, Photos by Natalie Behring “In most cases, poaching occurs when people are seeking a trophy, notoriety, or money— like in Vince’s case—for horns. The antlers and capes are taken in these situations. But the Island Park bears were not killed for a trophy. The carcasses were left to rot. These crimes seemed more akin to extreme acts of vandalism, like setting fire to the Ebenezer Baptist Church or taking a sledgehammer to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. […] The bear killers of Island Park represented a whole new breed, I said.” WINTER WHEAT – Tom Carroll “The return to the truck was solemn, the Lab trotting at heel, his master retreating into the sorrowful realization that it was truly over now until the Indian summer days of early October renewed them. The inescapable biologic justifications for closed seasons notwithstanding, he couldn’t escape this annual postseason funk. But in the end he realized that in part, this very fact gave the fall months their magic.” THE FAIREST CHASE – Andrew McKean “As I stand in what I expect is the late middle of an unexpected career as a hunter, it occurs to me that of all the animals I’ve hunted, antelope deserve the fairest death. It also occurs to me that I’ve learned everything I know about the West, and somewhat less about myself, on my knees watching the pillow-white asses of pronghorns canter away.” POCKET COVERTS – Tom Keer “What is best about pocket coverts is that they provide a sense of intimacy. Bird patterns are easily detected, especially when the woodcock consistently land in the patch where the stacked, stone wall meets the seep. […] Foundations, family plots, abandoned harrows, and tractors dot the landscape. We learn every square inch of the small patch; we know it in our bones, and it is as soothing as a well-worn pair of hunting boots. And like our boots, each pocket covert has its own unique story to tell.”
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BIG GAME GEAR GUIDE – Strung Staff Where and what we hunt varies from year to year. Some years we get lucky and draw tags that take a decade or more to get. Other years we buy over-the-counter tags and hunt close to home. Sometimes it’s deer and others it’s moose. It’s nice to have versatile gear that works wherever and whenever we hunt. In this year’s Big Game Gear Guide, we bring you a selection of gear that is as versatile as it is excellent. RATIONS AND INTOXICANTS: THE FUEL-SAVING HAY BOX – Jenny Nguyen-Wheatley “In 1941, the British government ordered the rationing of coal as more miners were called to serve in the war, and by March 1942, gas, electricity, and other fuel oils were added to the list. Civilians had to get creative not only with what they ate but also with how they cooked it: Simmering a pot of stew for two hours on the range would’ve been wasteful. One popular solution was the hay-box…” ON A SNOWY MORNING – Words by Reid Bryant, Photos by Jared Lewis “We drove along with them talking and me scratching Jesse behind the ears, and I felt comfortable being a little insignificant, so as not to sound uninformed. They didn’t ask my opinion anyway. Listening in and not being asked, I was starting to think that I’d like to impress both these guys, at least a little bit. I didn’t know anything about the business that they didn’t know better, but I did know there would be ducks, and we were out to shoot a few of them. I began to think that I’d really like to hit ‘em that day—to kill my limit clean and quickly and communicate that at this, anyway, I was wholly competent.” GROUSE ABOVE THE SMOKE – Noah Davis “When I make it to the tip of a ridge’s finger where the trees are scattered, I can see that the smoke has risen with the heat of mid-morning. The sun colors the fringes a flickering orange, three shades softer than the eyebrow of the grouse. I wonder where the grouse will go when the mountain is covered in smoke. How quickly will they disappear when their ashen feathers match the air around them?” NO GLORY FOR THE TIMID – Andy Mill “I used to ski for a living. In fact, I have skied the biggest mountains in the world at 80 miles per hour, fished the vast oceans, and battled 800-pound marlin. I’ve been on Italian race bikes and driven high-performance cars pushing 190 miles per hour. Still, calling in a screaming bull elk tops the list of exciting things I’ve ever done! I might be known as a tarpon angler, but given the choice between a 150-pound tarpon on a fly or a big bull crashing toward me, I’ll take the elk every time.” LETTING THE SOUL GO – Todd Davis “When Noah shot the deer, it was nearly dark, purples and oranges and pinks smothering the horizon. With every animal we take, I wonder whether it’s grace or luck, godsend or coincidence. We have so many words that mean similar things, but are weighted differently. I have faith in the endless connections between the living and the dead, the seen and the unseen. The woods offer life to us, and we should reciprocate, give back part of our lives to save and nourish the woods. Certainly what most folks call “God” must be living in all of these connections, all of these unions and communions. The webbing sticks to us, no matter what we do.”
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magazine
Publisher: JOSEPH J. BALLARINI
Editor-in-Chief: RYAN SPARKS
Creative Director: SCOTT MORRISON Photo Editor: SAMMY CHANG
Big Game Editor: ANDREW MCKEAN
Conservation Editor: REED KNAPPE Fly Fishing Editor: DAVE ZOBY Upland Editor: TOM KEER
Waterfowl Editor: E. DONNALL THOMAS JR.
Wild Foods Editor: JENNY NGUYEN-WHEATLEY Editors At Large: EHOR BOYANOWSKY
ALEXEI JD BOYANOWSKY JOE DOGGETT
MARK HATTER
Copy Editor: LEILA BEASLEY
Website: MICHAEL DUCKWORTH
ALEXA SPARKS
CREATIVE CONTRIBUTORS Natalie Behring
Ryan Lee
Jay Beyer
Jared Lewis
Reid Bryant
Andy Mill
Tom Carroll
Jeff Moore
Noah Davis
Tim Ryan
Todd Davis
Nick Trehearne
Ryan Efurd COVER
“Hard times create strong men.” —Ryan Efurd On a blue sheep expedition to Nepal, Ryan Efurd, Ryan Lee, and Kurt Rutter experienced everything from grueling hikes to blinding snowstorms to giardia and altitude sickness. In the last minutes of the last day, their efforts paid off. Photo: Ryan Lee
Strung Magazine is a quarterly outdoor lifestyle publication focused on fly fishing, upland hunting, big game, waterfowl, wild foods, and conservation.
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letter from the EDITOR Growing up, I learned to hunt in a vast wilderness. Carrying a .22, I spent entire days roving the immense woodland. Several times I got lost and was scared I wouldn’t be able to find my way back home. Sometimes I would bring our farm dog Buddy, although he scared off more game than he turned up. Together we discovered old, abandoned tree stands, chased fleeing rabbits, and occasionally surprised a deer. Eventually I felt more comfortable and began exploring further and further into the woods. I wasn’t sure how far they actually went, and at the time it wouldn’t have surprised me to find out they went on forever. That patch of woods that once seemed endless was less than a half-mile long and never more than a quarter-mile wide. The trees that made up “the timber,” as I called it, were only left standing because the deep creek that snaked through the trees made it impossible to clear for farmland. Despite its meager size, I had some big adventures in those woods. I shot my first squirrel and my first rabbit there. After reading a story about coyote hunting in an outdoor magazine, I took a bag of leftover chicken nuggets and placed them 20 yards in front of a hiding place where I then sat and waited for a coyote to appear. I lasted less than an hour before deciding squirrel hunting was more fun. I ate the chicken nuggets on my walk home. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, those experiences taught me how to move through the woods, the habits of different animals, how to play the wind, and the seasonal changes in the forest. When I was old enough, I arrowed my first deer in “the timber.” As I grew older, I learned other things, too. Outdoor magazines and hunting shows gave me the impression that real hunting adventures only happened in far-off places and involved hard-to-draw tags, months of planning, bush planes, and pack horses. I still loved hunting the family farm, but I craved wilder, more remote places like the ones I read
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about. Since then, I’ve had my share of backcountry adventures, and if I’m being honest, I still love traveling to remote places. My wanderlust is as strong now as it has ever been. For years I’ve told people that one of the most enjoyable things about hunting is its ability to lead you to places you would otherwise never visit. But until this last year, I didn’t realize that sometimes those places are in your own backyard. There is a small nature center within walking distance of my home. Situated on the edge of town, it has several trails where my wife and I run, bike, and exercise our dogs. It’s also teeming with deer and turkeys. Early last year I learned that the nature center was having an earn-a-buck hunt to reduce the deer population. Twenty hunters would be drawn for the hunt, and once you arrowed a doe, you could kill a buck. I threw my name in the hat and was lucky enough to draw a tag. Scouting was simple because I already knew where the deer were from my daily run with the dogs. On the opening morning of the hunt, it was snowing. I dressed in my garage, hopped on my bike, rode two miles into the nature center, hung my stand in the dark, and waited for dawn. Thirty minutes after sunup I spotted a doe coming my way. She stopped broadside at 20 yards
and put her head down to eat. An hour later I was sliding her hind quarters into a game bag as flakes of snow danced in the air. I spent the next five days perched in a tree, and several times I spotted two nice bucks following the creek about 100 yards below me. On the last day of the hunt, I decided to move my stand into the bottom, although the wind was questionable. I hadn’t seen a single deer the entire day, but 20 minutes before the end of shooting light on the last day of the hunt, one of the bucks walked under my stand. I watched him fall 30 yards from where I shot him. As I quartered the buck in the dark, I heard a twig snap and the tamping of feet in the leaves. Switching my headlamp on high, I saw the glow of eyes as a pack of coyotes circled around the carcass waiting for me to finish. I sent my wife a pin of my location, and she met me with a thermos of hot coffee. Four hours after dark, the two of us packed the buck three miles back to our home—about the same distance I had to walk back to the farmhouse after hunting squirrels in “the timber.” It felt as adventurous and rewarding as any hunt I’ve ever been on. The experience opened my eyes to the fact that we can find as much adventure and childlike wonder close to home as we can in some remote mountain basin. The reality and all-encompassing beauty of nature is there. It just takes the right set of eyes to see it. I hope you enjoy our Big Game Issue and that this hunting season finds you on adventures both near and far. Keep Casting,
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ANDY MILL
Andy Mill’s plethoric career has had deep traction as an athlete, broadcaster, angler, and author. An elite alpine downhill ski racer, Mill was one of the best in the United States from 1974-1981. For his 1976 Olympic heroics, where Mill placed 6th while skiing on a severely injured ankle, he was awarded the “Olympic Spirit Award”; in 1993, he was inducted into the Colorado Ski Hall of Fame. Mill enjoyed a 20-year broadcasting career, covering two Olympics and hundreds of network specials, including 81 fishing shows from around the world. Personally, Mill holds his fishing accomplishments close to his heart. His success is profound, winning more invitational fly tarpon tournaments than anyone in history, including 5 Gold Cups. He is only one of two people to have won a tarpon, bonefish, and permit tournament on fly. In conjunction with his award-winning book, A Passion for Tarpon, and being a trustee of the International Game Fish Association, he has found himself as one of fly fishing’s leading authorities.
JAY BEYER
Jay Beyer never planned on being a photographer. He didn’t go to a fancy photo school and he didn’t study under an artistic mentor. He picked up a camera one day and started taking it on trips. It didn’t take long, and his photo business was keeping him so busy he had to quit pounding nails and just shoot photos. Now, he travels the world capturing stunning imagery of skiers, snowboarders, hunters, bikers, climbers, runners, and fly fisherman doing what they love. When he’s home he spends as much time as he can with his amazingly understanding wife and overly energetic son who are the fuel behind his motivation. Jay’s previous contribution to Strung (“Of Secret Tapes and Sockeye Lakes”) appeared in Volume 3, Issue 3.
JEFF MOORE
Jeff Moore is a photographer and writer based out of Livingston, Montana. He photographs everything from big game to waterfowl, bird hunting to gun dogs. His work has been honored numerous times by the Outdoor Writers Association of America and Communication Arts. In 2014, Sotheby’s used his photos to sell one of the most expensive decoys ever sold at auction. This year, his photo of a teal showcases the Montana hunting regulations guide. In addition to his outdoor work, he often comes indoors for product photography with a variety of clients. He’s always looking for the next adventure and trying to find something new. Find more of his work at jeffmooreimages.net
NATALIE BEHRING
Natalie Behring is a photojournalist based in Victor, Idaho, where she focuses on reporting about the issues facing rural America. She lives with her partner, a border collie, and enjoys hiking and exploring the Greater Yellowstone area.
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Ryan Efurd is an outdoorsman, entrepreneur, writer, and president of technical hunting clothing brand, CANIS. Born in Arkansas, Efurd grew up hunting and fishing. His love of the outdoors and an appetite for adventure has inspired him to pursue a variety of big game animals across the globe. In 2018, he partnered with awardwinning Swiss designer Marcel Geser and together they set out to create technical hunting garments that took inspiration from mountaineering apparel to meet the needs of the modern hunter. From the Swiss Alps to the remote Kamchatka Peninsula, they spent two years testing prototypes. CANIS is the result of that process. When he’s not running day to day operations, you will find Ryan coaching youth sports in Northwest Arkansas and fathering his four adventurous children. You can follow his adventures on the CANIS Athlete YouTube channel or at canisathlete.com
RYAN LEE
Ryan Lee is the founder of Think to Make, a graphic design and photography agency based in Denver, Colorado. Lee has worked in a broad range of industries but is particularly interested in collaborating with brands that combine form, function, and the great outdoors. Over the last few years, Lee has traveled as part of the CANIS crew to Argentina, Mexico, the Brooks Range of Alaska, West Texas, and the Himalayas of Nepal. He most recently photographed Ryan Efurd’s Ibex and Argali hunt in Kyrgyzstan. When not chasing big game with CANIS, he enjoys fishing and biking with his wife and two daughters.
TODD DAVIS
Todd Davis spends most of his time hunting and fishing in the game lands to the west of his home in Tipton, Pennsylvania, a small village that sits at the foot of the Allegheny Front. He’s the author of six books of poetry, most recently Native Species and Winterkill, both published by Michigan State University Press. His nonfiction appears in such magazines as Gray’s Sporting Journal and Anglers Journal. When he’s not in the woods, he teaches environmental studies at Penn State University’s Altoona College.
TOM CARROLL
Tom grew up in California, but left after college for a life outdoors in the Rocky Mountain west. First landing in Idaho, and eventually settling in north central Montana, he guided fishermen for twenty summers on the Alaska Peninsula in order to fuel his passions following bird dogs, hunting whitetails during the fall, and calling turkeys in the spring. An inveterate sporting “gypsy,” he now splits his time between Montana and Arizona, but still roams throughout the west in search of birds and fish away from the “madding crowds.”
CONTRIBUTORS
RYAN EFURD
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MOUNTAIN MEN AND MR. MURPHY Words by Ryan Efurd, Photos by Ryan Lee
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One of the best things about hunting is it
the world, is famous for its extreme alpine
are notorious for testing your physical and
takes you to places you would otherwise
landscape, which is home to the highest
mental stamina. Hunting them is something
never see—wild places in remote corners
elevations on earth. It claims eight of the
I have dreamed of my entire life.
of the earth. The adventure, the cultures
world’s 10 highest mountains. The bharal
you encounter, and the relationships
or blue sheep are native to the Himalayas
The Dhorpatan Hunting Reserve is the only
formed along the way are an irresistible
and are the highest-living game species in
hunting area in Nepal. Established in 1987,
combination that inspires a never-ending
the world. They thrive in one of the most
the Dhorpatan covers 512 square miles and
drive to hunt and explore. Nepal, the roof of
demanding environments on the planet and
only issues 20 licenses per year for blue
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MOST OF THE SHERPAS AND PORTERS WORE FLIP-FLOPS sheep. I was lucky enough to get one of the
successful. I was introduced to Charton, my
engulfed my senses. I got my first glimpse
coveted tags with the help of Greg Brownlee
Sherpa, who later told me he was born at
of the famous doko basket used by Nepalese
of Neal and Brownlee, who specialize in the
18,000 feet in a village where walking is the
mountain men to carry goods across the
complex logistics of organizing hunts like
only mode of transportation. In Nepalese
mountains. They load their baskets
these. Greg had been talking to me about
villages like Charton’s, travel is talked about
with up to 80 pounds and
Nepal for years, touting it as the ultimate
in days of walking rather than miles or
carry them using a
mountain hunt. After dreaming about it for
kilometers. Our team greeted us with smiles
tumpline
years it was finally time to make it happen.
and stares alike. It was clear they were
Arriving in Kathmandu, we met up with
sizing us up to see if we could hold our
Mahesh Busnyat. Hunting Nepal since 1973,
own in the mountains. The sights,
Mahesh is legendary in the Nepalese hunting
smells, and vegetation of
community. I was honored to meet him
this foreign land
and soon realized his immense wealth of hunting knowledge about Nepal. Mahesh,
photographer Ryan Lee, videographer Kurt Rutter, and I then loaded into a helicopter for a two-hour flight into the mountains. The view was breathtaking as we flew past Machapuchare and Annapurna, two of the tallest mountains on earth that remind you just how small you really are. The Nepalese government will not issue permits to climb Machapuchare, believed to be the sacred mountain home of the god Shiva. As the chopper nosed over the ridge, I realized the enormity of the terrain we would be hunting. At the landing zone, a team of Sherpas and porters was waiting—a reminder that this hunt would require a team of people to be
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OR TENNIS SHOES INSTEAD OF MOUNTAIN BOOTS. strap called a namlo that goes around their
into a drainage before starting our ascent
After three hours of hiking, we arrived at
forehead and allows them to carry weight
to the first village we would sleep in for
the small village in the early afternoon.
with their spine and back rather than their
the night. This was an acclimation hike
Donkeys, chickens, and a few goats roamed
from 9,000 feet up to 11,000 feet to slowly
while the locals made fires and boiled tea.
introduce our bodies to the high altitude.
Small gardens of potatoes and onions
The footpaths that snaked up the mountain
were planted on the hillside, and brilliantly
through thick vegetation felt more like a
colored Nepalese flags flew above the huts
jungle than a mountain environment. Most
and whipped in the mountain breeze. The
of the Sherpas and porters wore flip-flops
contrast of colors against the mountain
shoulders. Baskets loaded, we descended to the treeline and
or tennis shoes instead of mountain
backdrop was a majestic sight.
boots. After a night’s rest we began our hike up to 13,000 feet where we set up our main camp. The day was warm, and the walking was
relatively easy along the footpaths. As we came through a pass, one of the Sherpas hung a flag and recited a traditional prayer asking the gods for good luck and safety. The donkeys led the way loaded with tents and gear, the bell on the lead animal providing the only distinguishable sound on the otherwise quiet trek into the Himalayas. The route from the village to basecamp required a mild effort of eight hours on the trail. The day was warm, but the load was light for our team. According to tradition (and for safety), the Sherpas and porters carried our weight; at this altitude, it would put a serious strain on our bodies and double the walking time.
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IT WAS A DEDICATION THAT SEEMS RARE IN TODAY’S WORLD. rams situated between two craggy peaks
rolled back over to take the shot. It broke
that seemed to rise forever into the heavens.
low, and the rams scattered high into the
Murphy’s Law states that if anything can
The rams were bedded on the outskirts of
mountains. It’s fitting that Murphy’s law
go wrong, it will go wrong. Mr. Murphy was
the herd and didn’t seem to have a care in
comes directly from the epigraph of a
ever-present on our trip.
the world. We observed them for some time
famous mountaineering book. According to
before Mr. Murphy showed up again. Without
the author, it’s an “ancient mountaineering
Basecamp was nestled in a drainage between
our videographer, I didn’t want to shoot
adage,” although that day it felt as modern
two giant peaks. The guides had been out
because our goal was to document the hunt
as ever.
scouting the day before our arrival and had
on film. There were miscommunications due
located a group with two shooter rams.
to the language barrier, and we ultimately
The eight-mile hike back to camp felt like a
While we made plans for the first day, Mr.
bumped the group of sheep into escape
gut punch, each step providing a moment
Murphy made his first appearance: Our
terrain north of 18,000 feet.
to reflect on what had just happened. Then it began to dump snow. I could see
cameraman Kurt came down with giardia, a parasitic disease contracted by consuming
The next three days we rose well before
basecamp a mile down the drainage as the
contaminated food or water. Giardia causes
sunup looking for sheep, but with little
snow intensified and whipped across the
diarrhea, nausea, and intense abdominal
success. We covered miles of country,
mountain. Hearing something to my right, I
pain—not something you ever want to deal
averaging seven miles a day at elevations
turned and gazed in disbelief at six porters
with, let alone at 13,000 feet. Needless to
ranging from 13,000 to 17,000 feet. On
huddled under a cliff in the snowstorm.
say, Kurt was out of commission the first day.
the fifth day we went deep into the
Dressed in meager clothes and tennis
Mahesh sent a couple of guys down to the
backcountry, which took us up and across
shoes, they were all smiles and said they
village to retrieve medicine with hopes that
a beautiful glacier. The Sherpas said they
had hiked up in case we needed help in the
we could help him; until then, he would need
had never been on this glacier before and
snow. These are undoubtedly some of the
to fight off the threat of dehydration that
excitedly had me take photos of them so
toughest men I have ever encountered.
comes with giardia at such elevation. After
they could show their families. Realizing
They are as rugged as the mountains they
talking with Mahesh, we decided to go out
that even experienced mountain Sherpas
work and live in. They had been sitting
and scout for sheep in the meantime, which
felt a sense of adventure to be in such a
for hours in a blowing snowstorm just
would also help us adapt to the altitude.
beautiful and remote place was a spiritual
to help their friends. It was a dedication
moment I won’t forget.
that seems rare in today’s world. It was emotional and hard to process. It put my
We rose from our sleeping bags at 4 a.m. to
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sub-freezing temperatures. After breakfast
Coming across the glacier put us behind
we began our climb out of camp—straight
where we thought the sheep were, and as
up. The hunting party consisted of two
we finally peered over the ridge after our
guides, a game scout, a Sherpa assigned
long hike, we spotted sheep bedded 350
to each of us, and a sheep packer who
yards below—but the shooting position
For the next two days we climbed until
carried the doko full of water and food that
presented a problem. Lying prone in jagged
noon. Snowstorms came and went, creating
would be replaced by a sheep if we killed
rocks was painful, and my back started
near whiteout conditions. We had no choice
one. The mountain was extremely steep,
cramping while my hand fell asleep to the
but to go back down the mountain. It was
and it just kept going vertical. Initially I
point that I couldn’t feel the trigger of my
an extreme mental exercise to climb out of
felt great with the altitude, and the team
rifle. Staring through the scope for such a
the sleeping bag at 4 a.m. with an aching
moved steadily up the slope, but after five
long time, I started to get dizzy and worried
body to climb for seven hours in the cold
hours of climbing, I got a sudden feeling of
I wouldn’t be able to make the shot when
only to turn around and go home when
vertigo. As things started to spin I looked
the sheep stood. Finally, after an hour and
we finally got within striking distance
down at my altimeter. It read 16,200 feet. I
a half of staring through the scope, the ram
of the rams. As we sat in the cook tent,
took another Diamox—a medication used to
stood. However, our team’s language barrier
Mahesh said that in 40 years of guiding
prevent altitude sickness—out of my pack
caused confusion and I couldn’t shoot as
blue sheep expeditions he had never seen
and was soon ready to go again.
the ram fed away from us at around 400
snow like this. We were now on day three
yards. I could hear Mr. Murphy whispering in
of sustained snowstorms and cold weather.
As we ascended the large peak, we came
my ear as I clicked off the safety, reached
Mr. Murphy had us in his crosshairs.
upon a plateau that provided a nice feeding
for the trigger, and felt nothing. My hand
area for sheep. That’s when I saw them—
was asleep. I rolled on my back to get some
Time and weather were quickly becoming
the first blue sheep I had ever laid eyes on:
feeling back in my hands, but I realized the
the enemy of success. As the snow
roughly 50 ewes and lambs with several
opportunity for a shot was slipping away. I
continued and with only three days left to
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missed sheep into perspective.
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hunt, Mahesh decided we would gamble
required. Now, at 70 years old, he simply
around the world and spent 11 days in
and hike down the valley and over a pass,
grinned as he thought about his American
the mountains rallying all the mental and
moving our entire camp to a new area. He
friends making the climb.
physical effort we could, but it just wasn’t
predicted it would take us 11 to 12 hours
going to happen. I was thankful for the
of walking to reach the new camp. The
On the final day we began our ascent up
men we were privileged to hunt with. I was
morning started early as we departed camp
the steepest mountain I’ve ever climbed.
thankful for the life lessons I had learned,
at 4:30 a.m. The walking was immediately
Many times we were on hands and knees. I
and I was thankful that I was able to spend
brutal with deep and treacherous snow. We
remember thinking my mother would kill me
11 days in some of the most unforgivingly
climbed vertically up and over several passes
if she saw what I was doing. The thought
beautiful mountains in the world. I looked at
before descending down an extremely steep
brought some humor to the otherwise
Charton, he nodded his head, and we began
drainage along the side of a 2,000-foot
serious situation. After seven hours of
our descent down the mountain.
ravine. It felt as if death itself was against
climbing we made the ridge. This in itself
us, but step after step, we finally reached
felt like a small victory. Keep in mind, we
We had made it about 200 yards when I
our new camp.
carried no weight outside of binoculars and
heard a whistle above us from the guide,
cameras; the Sherpas and guides carried
who motioned for us to come back. I
As we settled in, we spotted a group of
everything else, reminding us of their
thought the Sherpa had taken the wrong
sheep above us several miles away. Mahesh
superhuman abilities. We snuck into a rocky
path and he was redirecting us, but when we
informed us it was too dangerous to go
outcropping in the middle of the feeding
got closer he said he had located two rams.
after them in the snow. The guys had ropes,
slope where we had seen the sheep each day
“The sun is fading fast, but I think we can
but the mountain was too steep, and he
from camp. Not more than 15 minutes later,
get there,” he said. My eyes lit up, and I felt
was certain someone would slide to their
the ewes appeared 150 yards away. The
the energy surge back into my body.
death. We needed to wait for the snow to
longer we waited for the rams to appear the
melt to expose the lone trail that led up
clearer it became that they were gone. It
We scurried back up at a brisk pace before
the mountain. We spent the next two days
seemed Mr. Murphy had herded them away.
the guide went into a crouch above me. I
glassing while we waited. I kept asking
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peeked over the mountain spine and saw
Mahesh, “Are you sure there is a trail up to
With two hours of daylight remaining and
two rams bedded directly across from us
those sheep?” He would always reply with
a four-hour descent down the steepest
basking in the sunset. After accepting that
a grin, “Oh yes, there is a trail, but it’s very
mountain I’ve ever climbed, I stared into
I would go home without a ram moments
steep and vertical.” I didn’t realize it at
the sunset trying to make peace with it all.
earlier, the situation felt surreal. When I
the time, but in his younger years, Mahesh
I took off my hat and ran my hand through
took the shot the ram’s shoulder exploded
had made the hike and knew the effort it
my hair. It was over. We had traveled
in a cloud of dust, and he ran down the
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“The sun is fading fast, but I think we can get there,” he said. My eyes lit up, and I felt the energy surge back into my body.
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mountain and out of sight. It happened
ram, and I said a prayer to myself for their
We celebrated with cold beer from the
at the last hour of the last day. The guide
safety. As I had done many times before, I
village and sat around the warming fire
quickly told the Sherpas to take us down the
wondered how anyone could be as tough as
thinking about our helicopter ride back to
mountain while they recovered the sheep.
these guys. It snowed on us relentlessly for
Kathmandu the next day.
I couldn’t control my emotion at what had
the next six hours. At one point, a mule fell
just happened, and my eyes filled with tears
above me and slid past. They were under too
The following morning the villagers
as I quickly packed my kit for the descent.
heavy a load in the snowy conditions, and
presented us with traditional flower
we had to rip all the weight from the mules
necklaces and marked our foreheads with
and leave our tents, cooking supplies, and
tikā, a mixture of red powder, water, and
the pannier bags the mules carried. They
rice used on important occasions, as we
We started down, and the adrenaline and
would send a team back up the mountain
heard the roar of the helicopter approaching
emotion made my legs feel weak as it
days later to recover the supplies, but the
from the south. It is a customary religious
dumped from my body. I told myself that
mules would die if we didn’t get the weight
practice to bless passengers before a flight.
this was not the time to relax and have an
off their backs. It was complete chaos, but
After one last round of hugs, handshakes,
accident. As we came over the last ridgeline,
we were in the company of true mountain
and larger-than-life smiles, we waved
we could see camp straight below us in the
professionals.
goodbye to our Nepalese family as the
dark. It was so steep that it would be another
chopper took off. Air travel is expensive in
two hours before we reached camp. The two
Nepal, and as we waved goodbye, I thought
guides arrived in camp at 9 p.m. without the
Just as I was becoming concerned about
about the journey home for the Sherpas
ram; it was too steep and dangerous in the
how cold I was getting, we saw blue sky
and porters: a seven-day hike out of the
dark, so they cribbed the meat and would
piercing the clouds below and the smoke
mountains, a bus to Kathmandu, a flight
take a team back up in the morning.
from fires burning in the village. We had
back to the Everest region, and then a two-
made it. The villagers welcomed us inside
day hike back to their villages. It’s hard to
That night as we went to sleep it seemed
their dirt-floored huts and served us warm
imagine such men exist in the world. Hard
like our adventure was over—but getting
tea. It was the best cup of tea I’ve ever had.
times create strong men.
in itself. The next morning dawned with
The team of Sherpas and porters arrived
END NOTE: To watch the short film
another six inches of snow on the ground
with my ram well after dark that night.
documenting this hunt, Namaste Himalaya: A
and a near whiteout. Mahesh said he had
They were weary, tired, hungry, and
Blue Sheep Expedition, go to canisathlete.com
sent a team of Sherpas to recover the
exhausted, but they never complained.
down the mountain would be an adventure
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FEAST AND FAMINE - A BROOKS RANGE CARIBOU HUNT By Jay Beyer
Flying over Alaska’s vast and imposing Brooks Range, I looked
FEAST
down at perhaps the most remote and undisturbed wilderness in North America. Home to Dall’s sheep, grizzly bears, gray wolves, moose, and black bears, the shadows of these mountains also hold an estimated 750,000 caribou that take part in the longest migration of any terrestrial mammal on earth. It was these caribou that had brought us to Alaska.
By Jay Beyer
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we made it through the night, but the next morning we found ourselves in the alaskan wilderness without a shelter.
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It was sunny and clear as we flew toward
a small rise in the landscape to shield our
way for the rest of the herd that was now
our hunting camp, and my companions Jon
approach. As we peaked the hill, the ground
coming straight toward us. Jon picked out
and Sara spotted several herds of caribou
in the distance appeared to be flowing: Over
the largest bull and watched it close the
below. Still, we knew hunting would have to
2,000 caribou streamed across the land.
distance until it finally turned broadside less
wait until tomorrow; in Alaska you aren’t
than 150 yards in front of us. At the shot,
allowed to fly and hunt on the same day.
That’s when we noticed the river separating
the bull stumbled and fell. It was 9 p.m., and
This gave us plenty of time to set up camp,
us from the herd. We had no choice but
we had our first caribou on the ground with
make a game plan, and drink some whiskey
to wait it out and hope they would cross.
a couple hours of light to work before dark.
while watching caribou in the distance. That
Instead, they turned and moved up the
After the haul back to camp we nursed our
night, the anticipation of the hunt had me
valley going directly away from us. We tried
sore feet and backs with a little whiskey. In
checking my watch, eager for daylight.
to keep up, but when we reached the river
hunting, exhaustion and success often go
found it too deep and fast to cross. We
hand in hand.
We woke to a fresh blanket of snow and an
could only watch as thousands of caribou
overcast sky. Yesterday’s caribou were gone.
disappeared into the distance. Stumbling
During the night the snow returned, this
Walking several miles from camp across the
back to camp with cold feet and broken
time more intensely. Eventually my tent
sodden tundra, we reached a high point that
souls, we had to remind ourselves there was
poles began to sag and stress under the
overlooked nearly the entire valley. Nothing.
still plenty of time to hunt. After all, there is
weight of the fallen snow, but worse was
After a long and frigid day of glassing, we
only one constant in caribou hunting, they
the wind that howled against the tent walls.
got back to camp to find fresh caribou
are always on the move.
Even after clearing the snow from our tents
tracks stamped in the snow around our tents. It seemed like they were taunting us.
we had to continually support them with Later, as we were boiling water for dinner
our hands and feet. After hours of holding
under the evening sun, we spotted a small
our tents in place, I heard Sara and Jon yell
Beaten down from the day before, we
herd of stragglers following in the footsteps
that a tent pole had ripped through their
reassessed our situation over a cup of
of the horde that had come before. We
rainfly. As I went to help them repair their
coffee the next morning. Midway through,
assumed they would follow suit and head
tent, I watched my tent fold in the wind
Jon spotted a caribou in the distance,
up the valley, but decided to abandon our
without my weight to support it. We made it
then another, and another until an entire
freeze-dried dinners and scramble back to
through the night, but the next morning we
herd was in view. We quickly got our gear
our previous position just in case. When
found ourselves in the Alaskan wilderness
together and headed in their direction, using
the small band reached the river, the
without a shelter.
front caribou dashed across, leading the
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Huddling around a Jetboil and making coffee under the still-falling snow, we tried to figure out what to do next. Far in the distance, a stand of aspens and alders offered a possible refuge from the weather, and we decided it was worth the effort to move camp. Most of the day was spent making trips back and forth to move our gear, but in the thicket we found a relatively flat place to pitch our tents and carved several branches to serve as improvised tent poles. Between the snow and the wind, our chances of spotting caribou that day were slim, so we took advantage of the downtime to cook some backstrap over the fire and finish the last of the whiskey. When morning came, we found blue sky and fresh snow. Returning to our glassing knob, we hoped another migrating herd would pass by. Instead we spotted a grizzly trailing where the herd had passed before. Through our spotting scopes we noticed he was scavenging the velvet left behind by the shedding bulls. When the grizzly got downwind of Jon’s caribou carcass, he turned and came straight at us, following his nose. We fired our guns to scare him off, but he didn’t seem to care and began eating
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on the carcass. We decided to move upwind,
Eat lunch. Do more glassing. Walk back
through our spotting scopes. Being the only
and as soon as he caught our scent he took
to camp. Eat dinner. Wish we had more
caribou we had seen in days, we decided to
off running across the tundra until he was
whiskey. Go to sleep.
make a move and get closer. Unfortunately,
out of sight.
after a couple miles of hiking we realized Several days went by like this, and our
they were juvenile bulls neither Sara nor I
We thought our bear issues were over.
hopes of seeing more caribou diminished.
had an interest in shooting. We walked back
Instead, they were just getting started. It
This is the reality of hunting migrating
to camp, scared a grizzly off Jon’s carcass,
seemed as though the migrating caribou
caribou: It’s feast or famine. One day there
and proceeded with our evening routine.
were replaced by lone wandering grizzlies.
are thousands of caribou streaming over
Each day seemed like groundhog day: Wake
the tundra, and the next it’s a desolate
As I was firing up the stove for dinner, I
up before dawn. Hike to the glassing knob.
wasteland.
caught motion out of the corner of my eye.
Make coffee and watch the sunrise. Spot
“Sara! There is a bull walking right at us!”
a grizzly in the distance working toward
Finally after days of looking we saw four
I whisper-yelled across camp. We made a
the caribou carcass. Scare off the grizzly.
bulls barely visible in the distance, even
quick plan and cut the distance by circling
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One day there are thousands of caribou streaming over the tundra, and the next it's a desolate wasteland.
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around camp and getting ahead of the bull.
swam to our side of the river. As soon as
him. His coat was fading to white, and bits
As the bull followed the river that paralleled
the bull stepped out of the river, Sara fired,
of velvet still clung to the undersides of his
camp, we thought we would have a tough
and the bull ran a small arch in the willows
antlers. None of us thought we would see
shot to the other side of the river as he
before falling. We fought our way through
another caribou on the trip, but this old bull
passed by. But miraculously he turned and
the tangle and were ecstatic when we found
was out by himself on his last migration.
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A BRITISH COLUMBIA,
BOONE & CROCKETT
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A Photo Essay by Nick Trehearne “Trust me: If we sit here and wait, you’ll shoot a billy.” I had joined my friends Matt Erickson and Lindsay McQuaid in a remote British Columbia landscape none of us had ever been to before. Our goal was for Lindsay to shoot his first mountain goat, but on the first day they were both understandably skeptical of listening to “the photographer” when it came to hunting tactics. But I had seen it before on other hunts: Mountain goat terrain is unbelievably rugged and steep, but these animals have no problem navigating this unforgiving alpine territory and can cover a lot of ground in a day. If you put yourself in a good position and wait, eventually the goats show up. On day one we hiked all over the mountains trying to spot and then stalk a goat. The problem was that the mountains of coastal British Columbia are simply too steep. Other than a few select vantage points, you couldn’t see a goat, even if he was only a few hundred yards below you. At the end of the day we huddled around our freeze-dried meals, exhausted from traversing the steep slopes, and tried to make a plan for the next day.
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As Lindsay and Matt realized the vast enormity of the mountains we were hunting, I offered up my suggestion again. “You fellas ready to listen to me yet?” I smirked. “Fine,” Lindsay replied, and we picked a spot that would let us glass the greatest amount of ground the next morning. When we woke, the tents had steamed up, and outside the sun was baking the mountainside. It was hot and only going to get hotter—unseasonably warm for this time of year, but a perfect day to sit around and wait for a goat to show up. We set up a tarp as a sunshade, slipped into our Crocs, and tried to stay cool. Several hours went by, and the temperature slowly rose. I could tell Matt and Lindsay weren’t impressed with my strategy, and they would have likely abandoned our post and set off to glass other areas if it hadn’t been for the heat. As is typical when hunting, a goat appeared when and where we least expected it. “Get your gun! I’ll grab the spotter,” Matt exclaimed, pointing toward a goat that had just walked out around 300 yards above us. Judging the sex of a mountain goat can be difficult even for an experienced goat hunter; only minor differences in horn characteristics provide clues as to whether the goat is a billy or a nanny, and selecting mature billys is important for maintaining healthy populations. In this case it only took us one look to realize this was a huge billy, out by himself surveying the country.
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“You guys aren’t going to believe this—he’s huge!” Matt exclaimed, barely containing his excitement. “What do you think, Nick?” I quickly jumped from behind the camera to verify the billy. “Oh, you better shoot that one.” Only halfway through the second day of hunting, while the three of us were still in our Crocs, Lindsay’s rifle rang out throughout the valley. The goat crumpled but then slid down the mountain almost to the valley floor, on the opposite side of the mountain from camp. Initially we were alarmed; when we discovered, however, that the billy had caught on a large boulder and hadn’t been too badly damaged, our faces were wreathed with smiles. We slowly descended to the goat’s location and butchered it beside a creek. By the time we finished, a black, starless night had fallen. We loaded our packs with the meat, hide, and skull and set out into the darkness to haul everything over the ridge to camp. The following morning came early, and with little sleep we still had the long heavy pack out down the mountain to the truck. Sore but still smiling, we crept our way back. It took the better part of the day, and when our packs hit the tailgate all we could think about was the beer and pizza we’d enjoy after a couple hours’ drive to the nearest town.
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Words by Dave Zoby, Photos by Natalie Behring
In theory, a fishing story can be about a number of things. At least I hope so. I hadn’t been to Idaho in years. The photojournalist Natalie Behring and I had been talking about doing a story on the three grizzly bears that had been poached in the Island Park area in just the last year. But the major news outlets had beaten us to it. “Is there a Serial Grizzly Bear Poacher on the Loose in Idaho?” read one headline. How do you compete with that? There was the initial outrage, theories and accusations, a few cryptic posts on social media that suggested the criminal was a local with an axe to grind. But with tourist season on the doorstep, the outrage faded, and the journalists switched to other subjects, like the lack of affordable housing and the new brewery in Driggs.
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It was late May and the salmon fly hatch
therein; she lived in Afghanistan for two
the last several years; it’s a thing. They have
would, in theory, be moving upstream each
years and flew contour routes in Apache
a bond that is better left unstudied.
day. Maybe we could catch it just right.
helicopters over the starkly barren steppes
Perhaps Natalie would like to come along
of the Hindu Kush. Greenpeace’s ship, the
We drove past the rolling potato fields of
and photograph? In our downtime, we made
m/v Rainbow Warrior, was her home base as
Eastern Idaho, the verdant croplands, the
loose plans to hang around the breweries
she shot photos of climate change and the
pivot irrigation, and across creeks and rivers
and restaurants to see if anyone would
declining oceans. Naturally, she was drawn
swollen a bit and off-color with snowmelt.
be willing to talk bears. We had calls and
to the bear story. I enjoyed being around
The distant Tetons looked odd to me; I am
emails with the various agencies whose
someone with such worldly experiences;
usually on the other side, looking west.
job it was to protect grizzlies. There was a
my colleagues at the school where I teach
$40,000 reward for anyone who could solve
back in Casper still choose Branson and
There is so much water to explore here: the
the poaching cases. Natalie agreed to come
Disneyland for travel.
Teton River, Bitch Creek, the Warm River,
along and try some fishing photos, though
the Buffalo River, the Falls River, Harriman
she admitted that this wasn’t her specialty.
“I don’t think anyone will talk, but we can
State Park, and the many accessible
She makes a career shooting social strife
fish and hang out,” I said.
sections of the Henry’s Fork. At Ashton we
and portraits of famous people, not dudes
bought licenses. Her annual license cost
with fish.
“It might not even be a story at all,” she said.
roughly the same as my three-day version
Natalie became a photojournalist by
I picked Natalie up and we loaded our
fly imitations and coaxed the clerk to talk
accident. While teaching English in China
camping gear into my truck. Before we
trout. We were camping at the Warm River
she walked into the Reuters Beijing Bureau
headed off, we did a quick mile walk with
Campground, and he said if we didn’t mind
and asked if they would buy some of her
the dogs. Her black and white dog Alonzo
catching smaller fish, we should hike up the
images. She walked out with a job. Since
herded my black Lab, Henderson before
railway path and pick a likely spot on the
then, she has covered war zones, celebrities,
sprinting ahead and laying on his belly in
Warm River.
presidents, and rural America. She regularly
the dirt as we walked the road and looked
lands photos in The New York Times and
for moose. Occasionally Alonzo nipped at
“It’s secluded and you can let your dogs run
National Geographic. She learned Mandarin
my hands, or nibbled the inseam of my
wild,” he said. It sounded good to me.
and lived in China for over a decade where
jeans, which alarmed me. I have met several
she documented the rapid construction of
cattle-dog/independent woman pairs over
as an out-of-stater. I bought a few salmon
planned cities and the concomitant pollution
After we arranged our campsite, Natalie and I readied our packs and headed up the old
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It’s natural to try to connect these crimes, or imagine them as something else:
railway bed to find some untouched trout
The Warm River is a spring-fed river with a
photos of Henderson and Alonzo than me
water. I was carrying my 3-weight and a
reputation for eager fish and great summer
and my fish. The Warm River is true to its
backpack with my wading boots and snacks.
dry fly action. We met a couple coming down
name; I was able to wet-wade in late May
The year had been heavy, and my plan was
the path in full fishing regalia. They said
when most streams are bitter cold. At one
to try to lighten it up by fishing with my
they had tried to find the pocket water but
pool I had rises on 10 consecutive casts.
3-weight and avoiding eye contact with local
had given up because the flows were too
I caught and released enough rainbows
law enforcement. She carried a much heavier
high. They pressed on.
to prove a point—that point being that
pack of camera gear and various lenses
winter was over and we could now move on
that looked expensive. The camp host said
Natalie spotted a game trail where elk and
with the rest of our lives if we wanted; we
Fish and Game had recently dumped 600
moose had traveled for water. We used the
were going to lighten things up one way or
rainbows in the section by the bridge—and
steep trail to slip and slide down to the
another. I changed back into dry socks and
the evidence came in the form of a dozen fly
river. I tied on a stimulator and a caddis
hiking boots, and we crawled up and out of
fishermen crowding the obvious pools. We
dropper. Immediately I began catching small
the canyon in search of other places to see.
pushed through and made a few miles.
rainbows on the dry. Natalie snapped away with her camera, but she was taking more
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Sometime between March 17 and 23, the
a metaphor against all of the hard work that has gone into grizzly bear recovery.
Idaho Fish and Game says a female grizzly
shot 13 times with a small-caliber rifle. Fish
I tried to change the subject by telling
was killed near the Pole Creek Campground,
and Game were adamant that there wasn’t
her about how, 20 years ago, my friend
just a few miles from where Natalie and I
enough evidence to say the shooter was
Brian Farmer and I did an all-night drive
camped. We drove my aging truck back to
the same person who had killed the other
from Laramie to buy a drift boat in Idaho
the area where it happened. The bear had
bears in the fall. When Natalie talked about
Falls. We went to the Hyde dealership,
died in the Warm River; her collar sent a
the dead bears, flickers of rage emerged.
but it didn’t seem right. The salesman at
mortality signal to the Fish and Game. Her
It’s natural to try to connect these crimes,
Clackacraft was having his lunch when we
cub, too young to survive on its own, starved
or imagine them as something else: a
walked in. He said he’d throw in oars and an
in the nearby den. So, all told, four grizzlies
metaphor against all of the hard work that
anchor if I bought the boat on the spot.
had been killed in the Island Park area in
has gone into grizzly bear recovery.
just a short time. We couldn’t find the exact
“How about a bite of your sandwich, too?”
spot of the crime. Of course, there wasn’t
“The bear-killer lives in Ashton; I just know
much to see—just beautiful aspens and firs,
it,” she said. Her camera rode in her lap as
I said.
and a wilderness that runs all the way to
we drove through standing pools of water.
He said sure, and held out a hoagie with
Yellowstone and beyond. The sow had been
She clenched her fist.
wilted lettuce and ham. I took a huge bite
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and the deal was done. Natalie laughed a bit,
drinks and curly fries, thousands of years of
trout. I thanked him but forgot to buy him
but the mood was dark.
fly-fishing experience would be lost forever.
a round. We were out the door and headed
We bellied up at the Last Chance Bar and
back to camp. It irked Natalie that we were
Famous hatches like the salmon fly hatch
Grill. Wedged between sunburned guides
sitting in a restaurant full of happy eaters—
on the Henry’s Fork generate an enthusiasm
and fidgety clients, we ordered bar food
people stuffing their faces with steak and
for trout fishing that is often out of
and talked about where we might go the
twice-baked potatoes—while there was a
proportion with the actual experience. The
next day.
killer on the loose.
was palpable; the parking lot was full. You
The gentleman seated next to me was
I told her about Romeo the Glacier Wolf,
could feel the joy of the new season, the
having a conversation on his cell phone. I
an animal that was gunned down outside
sunlight pouring through the huge windows,
was eavesdropping, and not very covertly. In
of Juneau, Alaska, by two poachers who
a kid and his mother throwing rocks into
his brief conversation he mentioned access
moved to the area specifically to shoot him.
the river as the sun began to slide back
points along the Henry’s Fork and said that
They wanted the easy trophy. Then there
to earth. I had this passing thought that
it wasn’t salmon flies but black and olive
was Sampson the Elk, who was shot behind
much of the fly-fishing brain trust had
caddisflies that were raising fish—a tent
the YMCA in Estes Park in the cruel winter
gathered in Island Park. And it was true:
wing caddis in size 16. When he was finished
of 1995. There was Cecil the Lion. Vince
There were vehicles with license plates from
with his conversation I turned to him and
the Rhino. It goes on and on. Seems like,
Utah, Florida, Washington, and Arizona.
asked him how he did.
when you name a wild animal, you doom it.
energy at The Trout Hunter in Last Chance
How do I know these belonged to fly-fishing
But these examples are not exact analogs
aficionados? Let’s just say that I’ve been
“I fished Box Canyon and did okay—the flows
to the bear killers of Island Park. In most
doing this long enough to spot my kind.
are up to 900—but my buddies slayed them
cases, poaching occurs when people are
There is a certain type of person who is
at the boat launch in Ora.”
seeking a trophy, notoriety, or money—like
willing to drive thousands of miles to catch
in Vince’s case—for horns. The antlers and
a salmon fly hatch. They’re sloppy dressers.
I swiveled to Natalie and asked her if she
capes are taken in these situations. But
They put certain stickers on their bumpers.
knew the town of Ora.
the Island Park bears were not killed for a
They don’t wash their trucks very often, and
trophy. The carcasses were left to rot. These
there are often water dogs napping in the
“It’s just three farmhouses and a bridge,”
crimes seemed more akin to extreme acts of
extended cabs.
she said.
vandalism, like setting fire to the Ebenezer Baptist Church or taking a sledgehammer
46
The bartender was in the weeds. The bar-
Finally, we had some actionable intelligence.
to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. When
back, sour and worried, scurried for ice.
Perhaps we were no closer to knowing who
I grew up in Virginia, poaching was used to
She washed beer mugs in a frothy sink.
killed the four grizzly bears, but we had a
procure food, as seen in the hundreds of
The characters at the bar looked as if they
plan for the next morning. The guy at the
cases where “hunters” shoot wild turkeys
had just leapt from the willowed banks of
bar kept giving me more advice—he was
and whitetails from truck windows. I once
the Henry’s Fork. (Natalie told me that she
thrilled to help us out. Guys like him have
found and reported a poached cow moose
never shot fishing scenes or fishermen in
caught most of the trout they’re ever going
near Hoback Junction in Wyoming. Both
general because they all wore the same
to catch, and I have made a career from
hindquarters had been filched. The bear
clothes and dark glasses; their ball caps
following their advice. Accomplished trout
killers of Island Park represented a whole
obscured their faces so that you couldn’t
fishermen—the real deals—will spill their
new breed, I said.
tell one from the other.) If the Yellowstone
guts. Really, they don’t understand why
Caldera were to blow as we were waiting for
the rest of us have such problems catching
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“He’s not looking for a trophy—he’s taking
But the Island Park bears were not killed for a trophy. The carcasses were left to rot.
something from people who might get some
Were there that many corrupt individuals
captured on film. But she decided to spare
joy out of seeing a grizzly,” I said.
stuffed into this small sliver of the state?
me from the other things. After all, I had warned her that I have a weak stomach. And
But there was so little evidence. The Fish
“When I was in Afghanistan I once
this was a fishing trip, so, in theory, it should
and Game believed the perpetrator who
photographed Buzkashi; do you know
be kept as light as possible. I reminded her
killed the sow traveled by snowmobile. But
what it is? It’s that game where a goat
of my desire to lighten up in 2021. Natalie
little else led us any closer to putting a
or lamb is used as a ball and men on
rolled her pad and sleeping bag out in the
good profile together on who this person,
horseback try to drag it into a goal. It was
bed of my truck. Alonzo leapt in. I crawled
or people, might be. And if it wasn’t a
the most beautiful and brutal thing I ever
into my tent with a soaking wet Henry. He
serial bear killer, and actually the work of
photographed,” said Natalie.
had taken one final dip just as we headed
individuals who had no connection, what did that say about the state of things in Idaho?
off to bed. Sometime during the night, an Then she reconsidered and said that maybe
owl killed something just a few feet from my
it wasn’t the most brutal thing she ever
tent, and I listened for 20 minutes as the
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struggle ensued. It was not a good death. No
said the man in the straw cowboy hat. He
location, they drive to the next. They have
doubt Natalie could hear it, too. And then it
smiled broadly. He was the more talkative of
options. If all of their spots are taken, they
was quiet, with just the sound of the river.
the two. He asked us where we were from.
shrug and go to coffee at a diner where the
The next morning at the Ora Boat Launch
I have noted over the years that boat
waitresses know them by name. I know it
there were two older fishermen hooking
launches are perfect places to find some of
sounds counterintuitive, but for the oldest
feeding browns at regular intervals. The
the top fly fishermen. No longer do these old
fishermen, time is on their side. They can’t
men caught the fish mechanically, one after
timers wish to be confined to a drift boat
hike into canyons like they used to. Instead,
another. Some of these trout ripped off 50
for a 10-hour day—they hit it for a two-hour
they have made close study of bugs and
feet of line in a few seconds and broke the
morning session and then maybe two hours
conditions. Their patterns are so deadly that
3X leaders with ease.
at dusk. They hit it and quit it, something
they don’t allow you a close inspection of
I was never able to do. And they don’t get
their fly boxes. But they will tell you vaguely
territorial about any one place—if there
what’s going on. The boat ramp is easy
are too many of their counterparts at one
wading, and there are steps leading back to
“Dang, I wish I could have seen that one,”
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I could see Teewinot and the ragged Teton Range. But, again, it looked wrong because we were on the unfamiliar side. I couldn't make it seem right.
their vehicles, and there are people around if
And then I was into one, possibly the best
anything happens.
fish I had touched all season, possibly a fish I
We slow-rolled through Ashton. The
didn’t deserve. Taking a large, wild brown on
lampposts were adorned with portraits of
I was casting two dries: a salmon fly adult and
a dry is always a treat. This one dug across
graduating high school students, the class
a smaller stimulator. No fish touched my flies,
the river and sulked, but eventually came in
of 2021. Fresh-faced with flourishing hair,
but they continued to feed in big, disturbing
and relented. I walked him over to Natalie so
these youngsters were about to inherit
gulps. I saw some impressive tails and heads
she could get some images.
a world of cryptocurrency, Elon Musk,
break the surface not 10 feet away.
income inequality, and wild, wild economic “These days the magazines don’t like the
possibilities. The world they were getting
“Caddis,” said the man in the cowboy hat. He
grip-and-grins, or any photos of the fish out
was full of amenities and upgrades. Yet
hooked yet another fish and dipped his net
of water,” I said. “But whatever.”
there was also a bear-killer in it, right there
underneath. “You have anything in green or black? About a 16 will do her.”
under our feet, as they say. In the distance Boats arrived with guides and clients. My
I could see Teewinot and the ragged Teton
dog growled. The guiding industry was going
Range. But, again, it looked wrong because
Natalie stood on the soggy bank, ruining her
full tilt. The wade fishermen pegged their
we were on the unfamiliar side. I couldn’t
running shoes, shooting photos of the two
flies and headed for the parking lot. But the
make it seem right.
old guys catching trout and me whiffing.
taciturn angler stopped to talk. He said he
Henry whined from the willows. Alonzo
grew up in the area and had fished all of the
Kathy Rinaldi of the Greater Yellowstone
crept and herded us from 30 yards away, his
rivers. When I told him that we had had a
Coalition says the death of the sow grizzly
weird, obsessive gaze fixating on me when I
good day on the Warm River, he grinned.
was a huge setback for conservation groups
went to change flies. I put on the caddis as
and hunters who hope, one day, for the
instructed. Twice in the last 24 hours I had
“That’s where I learned to fish, by the
opportunity to legally hunt grizzly bears in
been told that caddis were the ticket.
hatchery. We used to dangle things from the
Idaho. She describes the huge resources and
bridge,” he said.
enormous efforts and compromises that
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The truth is struggling to emerge—it just needs a little boost these days. have gone in to bring these bears back to
reverberated with rage, or at least a dark
“Some of these people—their whole life
sustainable numbers. The recent death of
sense of unattained justice. Despite what
is to return emails—and they’re not even
this particular female bear was devastating,
I keep saying about keeping things light,
good at it.”
as she was in her prime of production and
the bear-poaching story churned inside of
known to stay out of trouble. “There’s a
me and made me feel like a visitor to my
I noticed that her camera was with her the
lot of opportunity for grizzly bears to get
own country. So much work has gone on to
whole time, just in case. Sure, we looked like
into trouble in the Island Park area—this
bring grizzlies back, it makes no sense to see
two people who had been out fishing. Just
bear had consistently stayed out of trouble.
poaching cases suddenly spike in one area. I
two people eating eggs and drinking Folgers.
In fact, her den had been driven over by
didn’t understand how someone could do it.
Believe what you want.
snowmobilers and collapsed. She left her
And I felt like the guilty person, or persons,
den. She stayed clear of people for the most
might just get away with it.
part,” said Rinaldi. Conservation groups
ecosystem in just under a year. What does
like the Greater Yellowstone Coalition
My students are often hard-pressed to
that do? Has anyone studied what that
partnered with Fish and Game to raise the
defend their position on why the United
does to the land? I’m not just talking about
reward money. The idea is that if you make
States is the best nation in the world. They
the ebb and flow of nutrients, but perhaps
the reward too attractive to turn down,
offer platitudes about freedom. “We are the
the very character of the area, including
someone will come forward. But, so far, in
freest,” they say. They might say something
the citizens. There are people who would be
all of the bear poaching cases, this method
about economic opportunity. Just look at all
thrilled to see the Yellowstone Ecosystem
hasn’t proven out.
of the great stuff we have, they say. Even
without wolves and bears. And, perhaps,
our most experienced politicians struggle
they aren’t just talking; they’re actively
We ate eggs and toast at a diner in Ashton.
to describe why the United States is a
making it so.
There were enormous elk mounts on the
preferred place to live. I want to help them
walls, and a black bear in cinnamon phase.
out here: It’s the free press, dummies.
A humdrum whitetail. A goose and a
The thing about serial killers—if this is, indeed, the work of one person—is that
pheasant. Farmers and ranchers jabbed at
An image, shot at the right angle at the right
they often can’t stop once they’ve begun.
their breakfasts. They hit their hash browns
time, can collapse whole counties, rearrange
My guess is that the poacher was not more
with heavy pulses of Cholula sauce and
maps. The right line of prose can erase
than 30 miles from where we finished our
green Tabasco. Wearing hats that advertised
regimes and send legions of men to prison.
breakfast. Maybe things will calm down in
seed companies and fertilizer empires, they
The truth is struggling to emerge—it just
Idaho. Maybe four dead bears is enough.
hailed each other from across the room.
needs a little boost these days. Natalie talked
Maybe the shooter, or shooters, will hang
One of them requested a towering dollop of
about what photojournalism has meant to
it up. If they don’t, there will be people out
whipped cream atop his coffee.
her. She talked about how much she hates
there looking for them. Someone will talk.
corruption and bureaucracy. She mentioned
There are people keenly interested in justice
None of them looked like bear poachers.
several times that someone knew the truth
and revenge. There are people willing to do
I didn’t get the feeling any of these folks
about the bears, and the $40,000 apparently
whatever it takes to stop them. And it’s not
would kill an animal so rare that it only
wasn’t enough to get that person to talk. She
who you think.
exists by way of the Endangered Species Act.
worried that most of the conservation groups
In fact, these men and women seemed like
had lost their way.
regular folks. But then again, so did Natalie and I. Little did they know that each of us
50
Four bears had been removed from the
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By Tom Carroll
52
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An old Allman Brothers tune came over
“I swear I’ll never understand it,” she had
these last short grass benches, and the
the Great Falls station as the white Dodge
shrieked, both hands clenched tightly on
elk came down out of the Bob Marshall
bounced over the railroad tracks. He turned
the dashboard, long dark hair screening her
to winter here—a hoofed menagerie all
the volume up a notch, accelerating past
contrastingly pale face.
benefiting from the incessant warming
the General Mills elevator, its imposing hulk
Chinook winds that blew down these east
a silent sentinel of good game country. A
“In November you’re crazy to shoot those
slopes of the Rockies, sweeping and melting
long, green snake of Burlington Northern
damn things, but in April you’d rather kill us so
the snow from the landscape. A few lions
grain cars lay in wait just outside of town,
as not to ruffle a feather…. For Christ’s sake!”
and wolves kept all of these inhabitants
ready to hall another load of durum to the
honest, along with the last remaining
mills south and east. The Lab settled in and
His reaction to this rather hysterical rebuke
ancestors of the original Plains grizzlies,
nuzzled its chin over his thigh, eyes closing
had been a disdainful glance and a clipped,
which were becoming increasingly prevalent
in calm contentment as his owner sang
one-word reply: “Exactly.”
along river bottoms and fields far from their
along to the chorus of “Blue Sky.” They drove
traditional mountain sanctuaries.
north out of the diminutive town, into the
She had left last October, unwilling, like all
January wind, out to the fields for one last
of the others, to play second mistress to
As they drove he checked the bare
look and farewell to the survivors. Gravel
birds and dogs. Sometimes he missed her.
cottonwoods along the creek for grouse but
replaced pavement as the stark
knew he wouldn’t see any perched
stubble fields rose and fell away to
like “partridges in pear trees” on
the west, running a checkerboard
this balmy midwinter afternoon.
pattern seemingly right up to the
Only severe weather forced these
Front: a dramatic juxtaposition
original High Plains natives into
of Rocky Mountains and Great
the refuge of the trees. The wild,
Plains. A cock pheasant appeared
winter flocks would be up in the
out of the ditch and scurried in
buffaloberry draws or out feeding
front of the truck, forcing the
in the wheat now.
driver to brake hard and swerve, waking the Labrador. The dog sat
The thought struck him that he
up and whined softly, ears forward,
was instinctively analyzing the
brown eyes alert, his intent gaze
whereabouts of the grouse as
following the rooster as it crossed
if it were still bird season when
the highway and disappeared
he was more of an interactive
into the roadside grass. He smiled
constituent of the landscape—a
and wished the bird an easy
time when the features of the
winter and then calmed the dog,
country all blended into a mosaic
wondering how it must be for him, having
that had meaning and required astute
hunted almost every day for the past three
They continued driving west toward the
observation and assessment. Is this what
months, to suddenly be denied. His look
mountains, picking up a wide cottonwood
José Ortega y Gasset meant when he wrote
of empathy did little to improve the dog’s
creek bottom on the right and grass and
that only the hunter can truly be “in the
incomprehension of closed seasons.
grain fields to the left. This was transition
country”?
country. Only a few miles from the rising This post-season benevolence toward the
hills now, the rocks showing in the tilled
Now he lamented that his role had once
game he had pursued with relentless fervor
strips increased, attesting to a more
again been reduced to that of spectator—
only a few weeks past was not enigmatic;
perceptible harshness than the flatter,
nothing more than a lowly tourist whose
in fact it made perfect sense. The previous
richer ground to the east. The pheasants
gaze seized nothing. Just as quickly he
spring a similar, albeit more vigorous, brake-
thinned out up here; it was better Hun and
dismissed this thought. He was a knowing
and-swerve episode involving another gaudy
sharp-tail country, and although whitetails
insider, and like the retired ballplayer who
rooster and his harem of hens had prompted
inhabited the river bottom right up to the
returns to the park to watch his old team
a rather emphatic reaction from the girl in
mountains, mule deer were more prominent.
play, he is separate from the mere fan. A
the passenger seat.
A band or two of antelope drifted through
part of him is still out there.
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The truck rolled past the residence of the
The truck eased to a stop where the grain
and flared back over the two of them.
first Hun covey. He reflected that he had
met the lakeshore cover of grass and
The bird was frozen for an instant as it
shot four birds out of this bunch, which
willows. This was home to the second Hun
hung against the white backdrop of the
had originally contained more than a dozen
covey. The dog was instantly out of the
mountains, its dark head and breast patch
members early in the fall. They bounced
truck and pissing on a tire.
clear and prominent, before whirring off in
across the creek and skirted the grain field
the direction of his companions.
where several attempts at decoying geese
They walked a ways out in the stubble at first,
had resulted in moderate success. The
hoping to catch the birds feeding, but after
Moments later the dog returned unnoticed
honkers came off of the reservoir just over
a quarter-mile turned back into the wind
to his side and hooked a wet nose under
the hill to the east to feed in the stubble,
and the lowering afternoon sun, closer to the
his hand, receiving the obligatory pat and
and when the wind was right he had them
cover. The dog quartered, nose high, plying the
gentle approbations that complete the
landing in his lap. Other mornings the geese
breeze for bird scent. He followed behind at a
bond between hunter and game dog.
fed elsewhere, leaving him shivering in
hunting pace, both of them caught up in this
the field watching the morning sun turn
gunless exercise, neither registering the fact
The return to the truck was solemn, the
the snow-covered walls of the mountains
that if the covey was flushed there would be
Lab trotting at heel, his master retreating
brilliant pink and orange, which he figured
no shot, and no retrieve.
into the sorrowful realization that it was
was almost as satisfying a reward for
truly over now until the Indian summer
getting up in the dark as the geese. The
Soon the dog became more animated, head
days of early October renewed them. The
reservoir was frozen over now, hosting only
lowering as the black tail ceased its lazy
inescapable biologic justifications for closed
a handful of ice fishermen on the weekends,
sweeping motion and converted to shorter,
seasons notwithstanding, he couldn’t
the geese gone to the open water of the
more nervous strokes. He reflexively trotted
escape this annual postseason funk. But in
Missouri further south.
a few yards closer. Halfway between the
the end he realized that in part, this very
grain and the willows the dog ceased his
fact gave the fall months their magic.
As they wound their way around the back
casting altogether, making straight for the
of the goose field, he conceded that now,
edge of the stubble, dark head low, front
There would be turkeys to look forward
without the frenetic pace of the fall, the
shoulders extending into that ageless canine
to in April, maybe a black bear hunt and
subtler rhythms of the land seemed more
predatory crouch. A few yards behind, he
some spring fishing on the local streams
apparent to him. The constant analysis of
knew the dog had them; moments later,
and lakes before his return to Alaska
hunting season had given way to a more
half a dozen gray and russet partridge burst
for another season of guiding. But for
detached, reflective calm that seemed
out of the grass, gathering themselves over
the moment he yearned to recover the
to reveal more of the overall tapestry—a
the grain. The birds curled back with the
anticipatory joy of late September when
sorting and re-piecing together of all of the
wind and whipped past him as a disheveled
he loped off of the plane in Seattle, the
focused observations made while hunting to
squadron, squealing and screeching their
salmon and trout and bears of summer
form a more cohesive view.
displeasure at having been disrupted on
already distant memories. It was for
their afternoon forage to the grain.
autumn’s golden fields that the rest of the
Back on the reservoir road, a lone coyote
year existed.
trotted over the hill: winter’s scavenger
He didn’t swing an imaginary gun but simply
on a ceaseless mission of the stomach. He
stood and watched them glide out over the
In the gathering dusk they drove back
did not begrudge the coyote his predatory
yellow stubble, finally banking back into the
to town, having completed the painful
status; although he had shot a few of
trees far downwind. He couldn’t help but
transition to that amorphous time of year
them over the years, tanning the pelts and
estimate his chances, however, and decided
that is late winter. The months just passed
selling them, he didn’t regard himself as
that he would have had at least one and
now officially converted to memories,
an evil assassin, bent on their eradication.
possibly two.
logged and stored with the others into
The coyote was part of the landscape and
the cumulative experience of significant
belonged out here. As did he. They were
The dog followed their flight for a few
moments that shape and define an
both, at their cores, just simple hunters, and
strides before circling back to the flush
individual—which make up a lifetime.
he felt a closer bond with the coyote than
site when there was no shot or falling
with those who castigated coyote hunters.
birds. Seeming to finally know what this
He guessed, however, that the coyote might
was about, the Lab scoured the still-fresh
not feel the same.
scent as if to glean a last “hit” when a late, tight-holding single blew up under his nose
54
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The
Fairest Chase
A lifetime of hunting pronghorn reveals a few unexpected truisms
56
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By Andrew McKean
Considering all the places pronghorn
goat” and that I should bring my rifle, I
antelope belong, bleeding out in the bed of
agreed more for the experience than the
a pickup is not one. It’s where you hope and
shanks.
expect all antelope hunts end, but reducing their steeplechaser legs to shank meat is as
We loaded into Tony’s Dodge, four of us
dispiriting as viewing a butterfly collection,
hip-to-ass on the bench seat, and found
ether and pins diminishing gossamer to
a herd of antelope somewhere near the
exhibit.
northern border of the reservation. They ran. We chased. Sonny rode shotgun, and
My temporary downbeatitude is leavened by
when we came to a fence, he jumped out,
anticipation of that shank meat, plus rump
cut the wires, and the chase resumed. At
roasts and neck stews. Because there’s no
some point, my head hitting the metal roof
wild meat as sweet and finely flavored as
of the pickup, beer cans clanging on the
American antelope, and there’s no deeper
floorboards, and my rifle banging against the
fulfillment as a hunter than to stalk across
stick shift, Keevo said, “Welcome to Canada,
impossibly open country; to crawl through
eh?” I realized the final fence we cut was
cactus patches; and to hunch, doubled over,
the international border. The antelope were
down prairie washes into range of a herd of
flagging, tongues lolling, and we drove right
wide-eyed pronghorn.
up on them, still rolling as Sonny worked the lever of his .30/30 out the window. He
Those tensions—my thrill to see a toffee-
shot two dead and jumped out with Keevo
and-white pronghorn sail the plains and the
to throw them in the bed. Another one, hit
countervailing sadness when I reduce one to
in the ass and dragging its useless back legs,
meat—are the poles of a whole ecosystem
was about to go over a rise. For fuck’s sake,
of expectations that I cycle through in the
finish it off, I told Sonny.
course of an antelope hunt. I haven’t tallied the tags I’ve notched in half a lifetime of
“You kill it if you’re so bent about it,” said
hunting them, but after several dozen
Tony. I did, the first of many pronghorn to
hunts, my affection for these animals has
fall to my Savage 99 in .243, leaning across
increased in proportion to my contrition for
the hood of a pickup somewhere in southern
taking those most excellent shanks.
Saskatchewan—no license, no passport, no soaring euphoria of success.
As I stand in what I expect is the late middle of an unexpected career as a
My next antelope was a good 10 years later.
hunter, it occurs to me that of all the
I had a tag and patience to spend most of a
animals I’ve hunted, antelope deserve the
week in southeastern Montana, back when
fairest death. It also occurs to me that I’ve
you could draw a Region 7 permit every
learned everything I know about the West,
year and nearly every rancher let you hunt.
and somewhat less about myself, on my
I wore volleyballers’ knee pads outside my
knees watching the pillow-white asses of
jeans because my buddy told me about how
pronghorns canter away.
punishing the cacti were. I looked stupid,
LESSON ONE: WAIT FOR IT
like a lost carpet-layer, and simply couldn’t cut the distance to antelope. But there were so many animals that if one approach fell
My very first antelope hunt was less a hunt
apart, there were more over the next rise.
than vehicular homicide. I was living on an Indian reservation in Montana, and all my
I was eating my lunch on a mound of
buddies were either Sioux or Assiniboine
pit-run gravel in a rural pit leased by the
guys, underemployed, crack shots with a
county road department when a single buck
cue ball, and self-destructive as carbolic
strolled up a rise and stood watching me
acid. They kept their families in fresh meat,
inside 100 yards. I shot him with my Savage
usually river-bottom whitetails, and when
steadied on the blade of a Prairie County D-3
they told me they were going for “speed
Caterpillar.
LESSON TWO: NO FLAT LAND You can read in other magazines where to hunt antelope, and which hunting districts in Wyoming or New Mexico have the greatest trophy potential or the highest license draw odds. You can watch YouTube videos for tips on judging horn length and how to decoy them with an old sweatshirt. What I’m going to tell you is that every antelope is killable—maybe not by archery equipment, but you don’t have to use ballistic turrets and precision sniping gear to kill them with rifles. Instead, you have to understand how to close the distance. To the uninitiated, every antelope looks like the next and every acre they occupy looks impossibly empty, which is why we have so much pink on BLM maps. Those are Bankhead-Jones properties, homesteads that reverted back to the federal government after honyockers went crazy or broke. I won’t rhapsodize about the glorious hidden qualities of the plains, but I will tell you that elevational distinctions on the prairie are measured in inches. A shallow wash will hide a stock trailer when viewed from a mile away, and even gentle rises will obscure the approach of a terrain-minded hunter. If you hunt antelope correctly, your back will hurt for days, and unless you have those knee pads, you’ll be removing cactus spines from your kneecaps for weeks. The first lesson is one that your primitive mind knows implicitly: Danger announces itself by silhouette. When you are in the middle of a wide-open wash, your eye will immediately find the aberration on the horizon, no matter how far away. You’ll see a ridge-lined pickup at 10 miles in open country, and you’ll notice when a distant coyote pauses on a knob, even though you may never have seen the animal when it was below the horizon. As year-round residents of this country, antelope are even more keenly aware of skylining. So don’t do it if you want to kill antelope. If you must enter a new basin, find a way into it at its lowest point. And if there is no other way into a drainage than to break the horizon, then crawl over its lowest point, and be quick about it.
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There are reasons beyond nursing sciatic pain and impaled knees to get close to antelope. It’s exhilarating, but it’s also deadly because you can take highpercentage shots at calm, stationary animals. Long shots, especially in the capricious wind of the prairie, are as likely to miss and blow out the herd as they are to drop a distant pronghorn. And after that first shot, hitting percentage drops like a cannonball. And the palatability of antelope meat drops in proportion with every surge of adrenaline and spike in body temperature. I never hunt without a bipod, partly to keep my gun off the turf when I’m bellycrawling into range, and partly to steady my shot when bulldozers aren’t handy. I also consciously tell myself not to overshoot an antelope. I’m famous for holding high, and The equal and opposite constant is that
killable. If they drift over the horizon, wait
then shooting even higher. After years of
every drainage has a low point you can
until they’re all on the other side, then find
walking back to my pickup after missing
exploit. It might be a six-inch-deep trench
a way to keep your approach hidden by the
relatively easy shots, I now zero my rifle for
scoured by spring runoff, but that’s enough
terrain and walk up to rifle range. Unless
100 yards and hold on the top of the back
to hide at least half your mass from
antelope are spooked, they don’t move fast,
for the longest shots. If I have to hold for
antelope. The deeper the wash, the more
giving you plenty of time to decipher the
daylight over the top of a pronghorn, it’s too
erect you can stand, but my backaches
terrain and catch them unawares.
far to shoot.
LESSON THREE: KNOW YOUR LIMITS
LESSON FOUR: WATER IS FOR DRINKING
preferable to backpacks for antelope
“One shot, dead antelope. Two shots, missed
Billy Stockton told me to bring a book and
hunting.
antelope. Three shots, wounded antelope.
a pillow, and maybe earplugs. I’d be hunting
from antelope hunting are from the miles of awkward walking with my knuckles on the ground and my profile reduced by half. This is also why lumbar packs are vastly
Four shots, find another antelope.” Every
in a ground blind staked near a windmill
The other truism is that antelope move. It
hunting season my buddy Skip recited that
with a gearbox that wouldn’t hold grease.
may be on a different schedule than you
nursery rhyme as we listened to opening-day
The constant shrieking had sent some
want or expect, but eventually unkillable
gunfire in other basins.
hunters in early, before the evening parade
antelope will move to a place where they are
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of antelope to the stock tank filled by the
on the plains of northeastern Montana,
windmill. I made it the full day, but I asked
airlifting them to Hawaii, and releasing
Stockton, a no-nonsense Colorado outfitter,
them on the open volcanic plains of Lanai.
to let me hunt on foot and to make my own luck for the rest of the hunt, not because of
Lanai, at this time before statehood, was
the banshee wail but because holing up in a
owned entirely by the Dole Pineapple
dark tent on the open range seemed like the
Company. Whether corporate executives
worst kind of ambush.
wanted to hunt antelope on their estate or because Hawaii’s territorial biologists
My dad’s best friend bought a ranch with fur
determined pronghorn might fill a vacant
money, and he’d kill 200 coyotes a winter to make the payments. But he never hunted on Valentine’s Day, the fever-pitch of the coyote rut, because, he told me, every critter needs a day to simply live. And he said every hunter needs a day to dispense mercy instead of delivering death. That wisdom was on my mind as I watched the antelope file in to the stock tank. They didn’t want to be there but were lured by the only water in five or six sections. They glanced around nervously, drinking quickly and then trotting off to the open alkali flat all around the waterhole. I could have drawn my bow on any of them, but instead I absorbed their anxiety and tried to find some tune in the keening blades.
LESSON FIVE: KNOW WHERE YOU BELONG Tucked away in a filing cabinet in the Fish and Game office where I worked for a spell was a report on what came to be known as the “Pineapple Pronghorns.” It was a wellintentioned but disastrous attempt at early wildlife management: capturing antelope
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habitat niche wasn’t detailed in the report.
but it confirms to me the special status of
us. In a dog, his demeanor would be called
But what was inventoried were the number
antelope. They can’t be forced into habitat.
“skulking,” an apprehensive quasi-interest,
of Montana antelope (40) that were shipped
They make lousy prisoners. And their desire
his head lolling and sideways glancing to
to Lanai in 1959, and attempts to habituate
for their homeland is as strong as it was
assess flight paths.
the transplants while they became
for any of those first-generation emigrants
accustomed to the climate and terrain of
who left their names and their homesteads
I kept walking, and he kept following. I
their new homeland.
around the rural West.
stopped long enough to study him and realized he was a pretty good buck. He
The antelope were kept in an acclimation
I was thinking of those Pineapple
stopped when I did, then walked when I
pen for some time, and when the gates
Pronghorns last October as I traipsed
walked. I led him in a huge circle that ended
were opened, all 40 antelope ran straight
around a huge sagebrush bowl in the south
back near my pickup. I dropped below the
for the ocean. Maybe they thought it looked
end of my county. Just to the west, in my
gumbo bank of a prairie stream and studied
like the prairie back home, or maybe they
neighboring county, conservationists are
the antelope. He was now 400 yards, then
were parched from their time in captivity.
buying ranches and building an empire of
300 as he inspected what had happened
In order to reach the beach, they had to run
buffalo that they hope will extend from the
to me. I stayed low and out of sight, hiding
through a screen of thornbush. Of course,
Missouri River well into Canada, near the
below the creek bank, until I was very nearly
they realized that the ocean water was
place I shot my first antelope.
back at my pickup. I set up my bipod and
undrinkable, and milled on the beach.
waited for the antelope to approach. I shot I parked my pickup near the foundations of
him at 100 yards, but I think he would have
Attempts to haze the pronghorns back
an old homestead. I’d been here before, and
come closer.
to the uplands failed. Some were so
looked for stray nails and shards of pottery,
traumatized by the thorns that they turned
but it’s been picked clean. I was just cinching
As I was searching the sagebrush for my
to the water and drowned. Others were so
my pack when I saw a lone antelope halfway
spent cartridge, I found the action of an
lacerated by the thorns—the report noted
up a ridge maybe 800 yards away. He looked
antique toy gun, rusted almost beyond
that several had punctured eyeballs—that
good through my binoculars, but that’s too
recognition. I was a stone’s throw from that
they were euthanized. Of the original 40,
long a shot, and because he was watching
old homestead, and imagined the toy pistol
only 18 survived the ordeal. The herd grew
me, I didn’t like my chances for an approach.
was the pride of some young boy, tiny and
slowly to about 150 animals, and a short hunting season was implemented in the
So I started walking away, angling in a
pretending to fight Indians or to shoot
1960s, but the herd crashed soon afterward,
way that didn’t threaten the antelope but
antelope sailing out of range in the sage.
and no antelope remained on Lanai by the
didn’t drop more than another 200 yards. I
I wondered what became of him and his
early 1970s.
looked back as I walked and noticed the buck
family. Then I approached the antelope and
keeping up with me, following the same line
began the process of making shanks.
There’s a lot to learn from that experience,
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helpless in this ocean of sagebrush, maybe
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I was on, but keeping that half-mile between
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Pocket Coverts They Don't Have To Be Big To Be Good By Tom Keer My idea of paradise is lots of open space
for firewood and others to create space for
they were farmers instead. Alpacas. They
with habitat favoring ruffed grouse and
the cattle—stopped when Mr. Browning sold
wanted to open up more space for the
woodcock—and for a while, we had it. I
off his herd. The dairy business collapsed,
pack animals, and sell the timber to make
cut my string of dogs loose at the end
and he settled in for a long-overdue rest. Mr.
some money. They said I could run what
of the two-track, and we entered an
Browning’s retirement consisted of sleeping
was left, and I was optimistic. That hope
uplander’s Valhalla. Young, gnarly alder
until six o’clock instead of waking well before
ended when the skidders rolled in.
and ramrod-straight popple infringed on
dawn, but when we’d arrive he’d come out
the dirt road and scraped off the truck’s
with some pep in his step. Sometimes we’d
The skidders that rumbled down the two-
paint on the way in. In the middle was
chat, others he’d roam around with us, but
track were so wide they knocked down the
a pasture rimmed with so many young
ultimately he passed. Shortly thereafter his
primary growth along the dirt road. The
aspen and white birch that come October
widow did as well, and the property was left to
market was strong, and by the time they
it looked like a sea of gold. Hawthorns
their kids. They didn’t cotton much to country
finished cutting there wasn’t much left
and their icepick-long tines and high-bush
life, and when the real estate market spiked,
but diseased trees and those of low cash
cranberries filled in gaps as did twisted
they sold it.
value. They left the patch in the floodplain near the stream alone. The soil was too
apple trees that were long overdue for
62
pruning. I named that cover the Gold
I met the new owners by accident. I was
soft from spring runoff, and they didn’t
Mine not because of the tremendous
running dogs on spring woodcock and saw
want to sink their rig to the axles. What
concentration of birds but because of the
them standing by my truck. They wore clean
was left was a pocket covert.
goldenrod that grew up along the entire
chinos instead of Mr. Browning’s faded Dickies.
edge. And every fall I was there to mine it.
They wore shoes (not boots) and drove a BMW
One fall day I soaked in the change and
instead of a manual F-250. They announced
wondered, How much land does a bird
Truth be told, after all these years parts
they were keeping their land in Current Use
dogger actually need to hunt? The late
of the covert were getting a little long in
for the tax break, and that meant I could still
chef Julia Child always said “more is
the tooth. The regular cuttings—some
hunt it. But they weren’t much into hunting;
better,” but she was referring to wine,
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We learn every square inch of the small patch; we know it in our bones, and it is as soothing as a well-worn pair of hunting boots.
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enough grain to bake about 3,000 loaves of bread. I wasn’t here to bake bread, I just wanted to go hunting. Today, an acre is 43,560 square feet. If it were perfectly square, each side would measure 208.7 feet; that’s smaller than a football field. My rough book estimate of the pocket covert by the river was that it was about 30 acres all in. It wasn’t the volume I was used to, but at about 20 to 25 football fields in size, it was worth a short spin. I belled up Cider and cut him loose along the seep that ran down to the river. In half a minute I only heard his bell. He wasn’t on the ground for more than five minutes before the clanging went silent. He stood jam on until I arrived, and when I walked in on his point, a grouse rumbled out straightaway. I shot, the bird tumbled, but I wasn’t happy. With such little land, should I have held off? Nah, but I would on the next one. It doesn’t take much to shoot out a pocket covert, that’s for sure. Funny: I seldom hunted along the river when there were so many other parts of the covert. But now it was different, and the birds were still here. The hunt was different, for there was enough time between each point that we all set a measured pace. The dogs worked thoroughly, their pattern fell into a natural cadence, and we enjoyed a calm, leisurely hunt. The pocket covert was short and sweet—an adrenaline rush of heightened awareness, intense focus, and concentration, all across a short period of time. If a pocket covert were small enough and the birds thick enough, then it’d be as intense as chasing a Red Bull with a double Espresso while butter, and lard. Friends in Minnesota,
farmer with a hard-charging animal would
Wisconsin, Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and
cover more turf than one walking behind a
Maine frequently talk about enormous tracts
plodder. Later on, an acre was measured by
of prime habitat that, if fully hunted, would
food production: An acre was the amount of
take several days to cover. The Gold Mine
land that produced enough food to feed one
wasn’t that big, but it was big enough that I
man. But that was vague because fertile turf
could run two braces of dogs for half a day.
yielded more than arid ground. The AngloSaxons measured land by “hides,” with a hide
And how much land is an acre, anyway?
being 120 acres that produced enough food
That definition has changed over time. One
for a family to live on. Clean farming practices,
medieval measurement called an acre the
fertilizers, bug repellants, and the like offer
amount of land plowed in one day by a man
a bigger yield. An acre in the Midwest yields
and his ox. That’s not very accurate: A fit
smoking a butt. If the birds are around, then pocket coverts can cause blood pressures to rise. If there are no birds, then they can be a tremendous letdown. Pocket coverts have become more common these days, partly as a result of building and expansion like the Gold Mine and partly from forest maturation. Size only matters with regards to the number of acres a grouse needs to survive. If the pocket covert is too small, then the grouse population will be as well. But all is not lost provided there is food and
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protection for all seasons. Buds and conifers help grouse make it through the winter by offering food and shelter. Spring and summer bugs and greens fatten him during pleasant times of the year, while fall fruit and nuts bolster his independence. Aspen, birch, and dogwood are a plus, as are alder and poplar. If they grow along a river you’ll find woodcock— sometimes good flights of them. What is best about pocket coverts is that they provide a sense of intimacy. Bird patterns are easily detected, especially when the woodcock consistently land in the patch where the stacked, stone wall meets the seep. Old barns, traditionally painted red, remind us that frugal farmers preserved planks with blood from slaughtered steers, while green barns were the calling card of wealthy landowners. Foundations, family plots, abandoned harrows, and tractors dot the landscape. We learn every square inch of the small patch; we know it in our bones, and it is as soothing as a well-worn pair of hunting boots. And like our boots, each pocket covert has its own unique story to tell. Sometimes the dogs and I want to stretch our legs, and that’s what makes mixing a pocket covert with larger parcels a winning combination. A morning run with a big running setter or pointer might not be such a great idea. Settle those dogs down with some bigger morning runs, and when you’ve taken their edge off, hit a pocket. Put one of those dogs down in a pocket covert during the golden hour—you won’t regret it. Time isn’t a requirement for pocket coverts, so you can hit one or two before work, during your lunch break, and, if you’re lucky, at the end of the day. Odds are you have some near your home; maybe they’ve been overlooked? They’re perfect for a puppy or a young dog, especially when a flight of woodcock drops in. The more contacts the merrier. Change is constant, and pocket coverts connect us with the past. They remind us of how big properties were carved up to make room for progress just as they call us to act on habitat work. They’re important: Not only do they connect us to the past, more importantly they give us hope for the future.
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strung magazine
BIG GAME
Each year, Strung’s editors choose outstanding products within their area of expertise as Blue Ribbon selections. While we stand by every item we recommend in our gear guides, these are the products we believe represent the best of the best. Strung’s Blue Ribbon selections not only work well—they enhance our outdoor experiences.
HENRY BIG BOY ALL-WEATHER SIDE GATE RIFLE $1,141 (HENRYUSA.COM)
The theme of this year’s Big Game Gear Guide is versatility, and this rifle from classic American firearms manufacturer Henry certainly fits the bill. We tested it in .44 Mag and found it useful in a wide variety of situations. The all-weather version (chrome plated steel and industrial-grade coated hardwood stock) means you don’t have to baby it in the rain or snow. It sports a 10+1 tube magazine capacity and shorter lever throws thanks to the shorter cases of “revolver” calibers. For longer range shooting, it’s drilled and tapped for mounting optics. The Big Boy is a tough rifle that is at home in the deer woods, riding along as a truck gun, or slung across your back in bear country. The Big Boy adds to Henry’s reputation for American-made quality.
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BENCHMADE 15500 MEATCRAFTER - $160 (BENCHMADE.COM)
Strung’s Editor-in-Chief, Ryan Sparks, worked as a butcher when he was younger. He wishes he had this knife back then. We won’t go into the science behind it, but the SelectEdge technology Benchmade brought to the Meatcrafter results in a perfect edge from the factory. Being in such excellent condition out of the box means minimal and simple maintenance down the road. With a trailing point and semi-flexing blade, this is truly a field-to-table knife. If we could only have one knife for everything we do—from skinning, field dressing, and deboning big game animals to filleting bluegills—this would be it.
DANNER RECURVE MOC TOE BOOTS - $200 (DANNER.COM)
Danner calls their new Recurve Moc Toe a “performance heritage boot,” which is to say they took a classic hunting boot design and infused it with modern technology. A waterproof upper keeps your feet dry while the breathable mesh lining prevents sweating, giving you versatile boots that you can wear from August antelope through rifle elk. The 7-inch ankle height provides plenty of support without becoming heavy, and a nylon shank takes the place of traditional steel, further cutting down on weight. Outside of their functionality, we also like their classic look.
MEAT! PROCESSING EQUIPMENT - PRICES VARY (MEATYOURMAKER.COM)
MEAT! makes commercial-grade meat-processing equipment like grinders, sausage stuffers, meat slicers, and vacuum sealers designed to exceed expectations. Even better, their direct-toconsumer approach means they can offer products of the highest quality without an added retail markup. We used a variety of their meat-processing equipment, from their 10-tray dehydrator to their vertical sausage stuffer to their 440-pound digital meat scale, and were impressed by the quality and thoughtfulness of design.
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strung magazine
BIG GAME
STONE GLACIER SKY 5900 - $659 (STONEGLACIER.COM)
Stone Glacier is a Montana-based company that builds American-made packs for everything from day hunts to multi-week expeditions. We used their Sky 5900 for an 8-day elk hunt and can say that it is hands-down the best pack we’ve ever used. The pack’s construction, including the Xcurve frame that contours to the shape of the back, allows for infinite adjustability. After a few minutes of fine tuning, it fit like it was tailormade. An integrated load-shelf lets the bag pull away from the frame, creating a platform where you can lash meat between the frame and the pack. This prevents blood from seeping into your pack and keeps the heaviest weight near your back during a pack-out. Expanding the load-shelf ups the Sky 5900’s carrying capacity from 5,900 cubic inches to 8,000—perfect for hauling elk quarters or an entire boned-out deer, pronghorn, or sheep. The frame is compatible with all of Stone Glacier’s bags, so you can swap out bags depending on the nature of your hunt.
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LEUPOLD PRO GUIDE TRIPOD KIT - $599 (LEUPOLD.COM)
With their new Pro Guide Carbon Fiber Tripod, Leupold has a tripod worthy of its optics. Weighing just under 4 pounds, the tripod extends to nearly 5½ feet with the addition of a removable center post, and has the strength and rigidity to handle full-size spotting scopes and large cameras. Four-section legs nest to make a pack size of about 22 inches, and the unit ships with a ball head and Arca-Swiss mounting hardware to handle most optics bases. The stout legs deploy with precision and ease and lock in place with quarter-turn twist controls that have oversized rubber grips that make operation a cinch, even with gloves. The Pro Guide is the “just right” middle of a trio of new carbon tripods from Leupold; the 2-pound Alpine model ($399) is suited for backcountry hunts, and the 5.3-pound Mark V ($999) is a beast that will stabilize even massive optics in heavy wind.
BUFFALO WOOL CO. SOCKS - $34–$54 (THEBUFFALOWOOLCO.COM)
When it comes to foot care, hunters far too often focus on boots and overlook their socks. Buffalo Wool Co. makes bison-fiber socks in a variety of weights so your feet will stay comfortable no matter the conditions. What makes them so great is the inherent qualities of bison down. Bison wool is warmer than sheep wool and as soft as cashmere. Short and crimpy fibers create small air pockets that insulate by trapping air while simultaneously wicking moisture away from the skin. Bison down is also naturally soft, comfortable, and antimicrobial (think scent control), and doesn’t lose its loft after a day of hiking. We tested their Trekker Boot Socks as well as their Pro-Gear Boot Socks, and we wouldn’t think of hunting in any other socks from now on.
ONX HUNT APP - $14.99–$99.99 (ONXMAPS.COM)
Over the last several years the onX Hunt app has become so integral to our hunting that we can’t imagine hunting without it. Covering over 985 million acres of public land and more than 121 million private properties in all 50 states, OnX Hunt gives you access to land ownership data, GPS tracking, topographic maps, and more. Using the onX Hunt app allows you to scout terrain before upcoming hunts, find lesser-known access points, share hunting locations with friends and family, measure distances, and find your way home if you get turned around. You can purchase maps for a single state or get the Elite 50-State Membership. Both last a year and are worth every penny.
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RATIONS & INTOXICANTS By Jenny Nguyen-Wheatley
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THE FUEL-SAVING HAY BOX Hay-box cooking became popular during
At dinnertime, archaeologist Peter Ginn
gardens into vegetable plots—which became
World War II, when the production of
commented that it was one of the best
known as “victory gardens.”
consumer goods took a backseat to military
stews he’d had, and that got me thinking:
needs. Many food items such as sugar,
In addition to being useful during times of
“There’s no doubt about it that ‘townies’
coffee, and meat were the first to be
war and scarcity, the hay-box cooker could
came off worse during the war,” Goodman
controlled in the United States and Great
be utilized for outdoor-type situations. I did
said. Unlike those in the countryside,
Britain, and as the war raged on, fuel was
a little digging and found a page out of The
hunting, gardening, and foraging were not
also in short supply.
Win-the-War Cookery Book, published by
as accessible to people who lived in the city.
the British Ministry of Food in 1917, during In 1941, the British government ordered the
World War I.
rationing of coal as more miners were called
Prior to the war, Britain imported 70 percent of its food, requiring 20 million
to serve in the war, and by March 1942, gas,
The key points: Find a box with a lid; line
tons of shipping per year, according to
electricity, and other fuel oils were added to
it if it has any crevices or openings; and
Cook’s Info. Suddenly cut off by the Axis
the list. Civilians had to get creative not only
pack it tightly with hay around a pot of
powers, who disrupted supply lines, Britain
with what they ate but also with how they
hot food, no less than four inches on all
scrambled to find ways to feed her people,
cooked it: Simmering a pot of stew for two
sides. Immediately prior to transferring,
at home and overseas. In 1941, the U.S.
hours on the range would’ve been wasteful.
the casserole needs to have been boiling for
government sent nine tons of vegetable
One popular solution was the hay-box
at least five minutes with the lid on, and
seed through the British War Relief Society
cooker, which I learned about on Wartime
it should be nearly as full as possible. Once
for use in home gardens.
Farm, a British documentary that follows
it’s placed in the hay box, resist peeking to
Ruth Goodman, Alex Langlands, and Peter
prevent heat loss. For cooking times, allow
While troops were fighting on the front
Ginn as they spend a year attempting to
three times as long in the hay-box cooker as
lines, British farmers bore the brunt of war
work and live on a farm near Southampton,
you would over a fire or in the oven. The hay
on the Home Front. The nation’s increasingly
England, under wartime conditions.
box is ideal for recipes that require long and
desperate demand for food meant that
gentle cooking, such as soups, stews, milk
virgin land had to be tilled, changing
Historian Ruth Goodman cooked on a
puddings, rice, and so on. It will not bake or
the British countryside forever. In The
kerosene stove for the duration of the
roast or fry.
Agriculture of England and Wales, 1939-
show, and kerosene, like other types of fuel,
1946, geographer John R. Borchert wrote
was rationed during the war. In order to
On Wartime Farm, Goodman used a wooden
that British farmers increased total arable
conserve as much of it as possible, Goodman
crate with no lid, so she made one out of
land from 12.9 to 19 million acres in just the
demonstrated using a hay-box cooker to
a pillowcase filled with hay. We have these
first four years of war.
prepare beef stew. A hay-box cooker is
amazing things called coolers now, which
essentially a box tightly packed with hay or
are not only airtight but also self-insulating,
Astonishingly by 1943, 75 percent of food
straw. Goodman explained:
so the four-inches-of-hay rule need not
consumed in Britain was produced in Britain.
apply. I used a foam cooler that fit my
Farmers overcame the food crisis not only
“[With the hay box], there’s no heat
4-quart Staub. Do not use too big of a pot
with fewer workers, as most young men
source—just insulation. But it does
when cooking by this method: Too much
were off fighting, but also under heavy
the job of what you might think of a
airspace in the pot will make food cool down
government regulation. Their families lived
slow cooker…. It’s all about keeping
too quickly.
with the same rationing system as everyone
heat in. So, the stew that I’ve got
else.
on, when it’s really thoroughly
I kept the ingredients simple—in the spirit
boiling—and it does have to be
of what inspired this recipe: rationing during
I gave my “wartime stew” eight hours in
thoroughly boiling—I can transfer
wartime—although you’d be hard pressed
the hay-box cooker. The resulting dish was
it from [the stove] and straight
to find a man who would let his wife dump
satisfying, humbling, and also surprising.
into [the hay box]. It’s really fuel
precious ale into her cooking pot in 1943.
The venison and vegetables became tender
efficient. I’m only doing the cooking
Vegetables and fruit were never rationed,
but not mushy. It was enough time for
for that initial boiling stage…. The
but they were hard to come by, especially in
all the flavors to marry. Preparing food in
heat stays in and carries on cooking,
the city. Wherever possible, the U.S., British,
the hay box turned out to be a small yet
slowly and gently.”
Canadian, and Australian governments
profound history lesson via cooking, one
encouraged people to transform their
that I will remember in future.
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Hay-Box Venison Stew Servings: 6
Prep Time: 30 minutes Cooking Time: 8 hours
- 1 tbsp tomato paste
Ingredients:
- 1 rib celery
- 2 pounds venison roast
- 3 cloves garlic, minced
- oil/fat
- 3 tbsp all-purpose flour
- 2 to 3 carrots
- 1 (12-ounce) bottle of brown ale
- 1 medium onion, chopped
- 2 to 3 large waxy potatoes
- 1 sprig fresh rosemary
- 3 cups water
- 3 sprigs fresh thyme
- 2 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
Special equipment: hay or straw, cooler, enameled 4-quart Dutch/French oven 1. Tightly pack the bottom of a cooler with
rosemary, thyme, celery, and a pinch of salt.
not open the lid thereafter to prevent heat
Sweat until onion turns translucent, about
from escaping. Carefully transfer the Dutch
seven minutes, stirring occasionally. Next,
oven to the cooler, tightly nestling it into
add tomato paste and garlic and sauté for
the straw or hay. Finally, completely cover
one minute. Then add flour to the veggies
the pot by tightly packing the remaining
two inches of straw/hay. Place the Dutch
and stir for two minutes. Gradually add the
space in the cooler with straw/hay. Cover
oven inside the cooler and tightly pack
beer, stirring as you pour, to form a gravy.
the cooler with the lid and set something
straw/hay around the pot to create a nest.
Adjust heat as needed. Do not burn.
heavy on top to form a tight seal. Leave the
Lift out the Dutch oven, being careful not to disturb the impression that you’ve made in the straw. Set the cooler aside.
2. Peel carrots and potatoes and cut into
4. Return venison roast to the pot with
cooler alone for eight hours. If outside temperatures are moderate to warm, leave the
potatoes. Then add enough water so that
cooler outside. If it’s cold, place the cooler
it’s two inches from the rim of the Dutch
indoors.
oven. Stir in Worcestershire sauce with 1
6. After eight hours, carefully remove the
large bite-sized pieces. Cut the celery rib
teaspoon of kosher salt. Bring to a rolling
in half. Then on the stovetop over medi-
boil. Then cover the top of the Dutch oven
um-high heat, add 1 tablespoon of oil/fat to
with aluminum foil and place the lid on top,
the liquid and venison roast registers above
the Dutch oven. Pat venison roast dry with
making sure it fits tightly. Adjust the heat
140 degrees, it is technically safe to eat.
paper towels and season it generously with
so that the stew doesn’t boil over, but keep
However, if it is convenient for you to do
salt. Brown the roast in hot oil until a golden
it at a vigorous boil for a good 10 minutes
so, place the stew back onto the stove and
crust forms on all sides. Remove the roast
with the lid tight. The stew needs to be hot
bring it back up to a boil to be absolutely
and set aside.
enough to help kill bacteria and allow for
sure. Discard rosemary and thyme, cut the
carryover cooking.
roast into bite-sized pieces, and season the
3. Reduce heat to medium and add more
oil/fat to the Dutch oven. Add onion, carrot,
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- kosher salt
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5. After boiling the stew for 10 minutes, do
pot from the cooler. If the temperature of
stew to taste. Serve with crusty bread.
Hot Grog Servings: 1
cocktail
:
Ingredients
rk rum
- 2 ounces da
e juice
- ½ ounce lim
- 1 tsp packed
brown sugar
d hot
ice, sugar, an
e ju Add rum, lim water into a
ish coffee
hot toddy/Ir
mug and stir
amon
with the cinn
stick. Garnish
with a slice of
lime.
During World War II, whisky was in short supply as distillers shifted their focus toward producing industrial alcohol. Therefore rum, imported from the Caribbean islands, took center stage. The origin of grog is deeply rooted in British maritime history.
t water
- 4 ounces ho
ick
- cinnamon st - slice of lime
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ON A SNOWY MORNING Words by Reid Bryant, Photos by Jared Lewis
Paulson put some new-leased ground in corn
didn’t seem too concerned about a job well
at 4; I’ll bring my canoe and the Labrador….
that year just in time to get blindsided by
done; when he left there was spilled corn all
Dress warm.” Then he added, “I know Bill’s
September rain that pushed harvest out
over the field—piles of it where the combine
your boss, so don’t go shooting all his birds
several weeks. Water filled the depressions
stopped to unload before coughing into gear
and pissing him off.” Truth was that Dave
and sent the river almost over its banks,
again. The kernels sank into the soft stubbled
owned the company and was therefore Bill’s
and even the marauding bears steered
soil and then froze into resolute mounds. All
boss, and mine, too, though that fact had
clear of the mud. By the time things
manner of critters from crows to coons to
always seemed to matter a little less when
dried out, Paulson still had a few hundred
whitetail deer came into the fields to scratch
we went hunting. When Dave said such
acres standing in the floodplain along the
the leavings free, and waterfowl from well
things, I never could tell if he was serious or
Battenkill, the dry husks crackling like paper
upstate piled in each morning like clockwork.
just good at picking out the threads of my
when the wind went through. With no chance
insecurities.
of getting it all in, he contracted the work
That December, Dave called on a Friday night
to a French Canadian who was trailing the
to say that some weather was coming, and
Bill’s presence complicated things. He was
harvest south toward Pennsylvania. The
he’d seen ducks flying ahead of it. “Why don’t
a standup guy, but I was nervous around
Canadian cut the corn in a few days, starting
we plan for a morning at Paulson’s?” he said.
him—not so much because I was afraid he’d
each morning with a big skirting sweep that nearly touched the riverside cottonwoods. He
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can me, but because I remained keenly aware “I’ll have Bill join us, too. Meet at my place
that he could. He was quiet and circumspect,
maybe 60 or so, and I had given up trying
in the back of the truck, squeezing into the
know anything about the business that they
to impress him or ingratiate myself. When I
rear seat next to Jesse the Lab, whose tail
didn’t know better, but I did know there
had tried to do so early on, he’d just looked at
thumped the upholstery. Dave’s headlights
would be ducks, and we were out to shoot a
me blankly as if wondering why I didn’t have
lit up cones of nighttime as he turned right
few of them. I began to think that I’d really
better things to do. So I kept my head down
out of his driveway and onto the tar road
like to hit ‘em that day—to kill my limit clean
and did my work and assumed that if there
and began twisting through the dark toward
and quickly and communicate that at this,
was anything to read into Bill’s silence, I’d
the New York line. Dave and Bill hadn’t let
anyway, I was wholly competent.
find out about it sooner or later.
my arrival interrupt their conversation, for which I was glad. It was about business, and
It was still quite dark when Dave pulled off
The morning wasn’t as cold as I’d figured
how the year was fixing to end up. We drove
the shoulder with the engine running and
it would be, and the snow hadn’t started
along with them talking and me scratching
the low-beams on. We all got out. Bill and
yet—but you could smell it coming. When I
Jesse behind the ears, and I felt comfortable
Dave untied the canoe, and I pulled the
arrived, Dave and Bill were in the idling truck
being a little insignificant, so as not to sound
decoy bag and gun cases out of the back.
drinking coffee, the canoe already on the
uninformed. They didn’t ask my opinion
Jesse disappeared over the shoulder and
roof though it was still five till the hour. Their
anyway. Listening in and not being asked, I
into the night, a black dog lost to the dark. A
preparedness made me feel late and silly, so
was starting to think that I’d like to impress
goose, closer than we could have known and
I apologized and chucked my gun and jacket
both these guys, at least a little bit. I didn’t
clearly agitated, started honking, the sound
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starting low and guttural and culminating in that high, clear call that ends in a question mark. Dave left us to drag the gear down to the river while he pulled away to stash the truck. He was always one for keeping things discreet—the good duck holes and trout pools and woodcock coverts—though he was just as keen to borrow the same from those less inclined to secrecy. Bill and I loaded the canoe in a stiff silence as the snow began to fall in big flakes that sifted through the cottonwoods and melted as soon as they touched. Dave came back along the water’s edge and pushed the canoe
A dark snowy morning and being stranded on the opposite bank and an ego that was fragile to begin with: These things began to combine and make me feel a little bit left behind.
into the river until the current grabbed it and swung the bow downstream and against the bank. He held the boat by the gunwales to steady it and whistled Jesse in. “I’ll run Bill across and get the decoys set, and then I’ll come back and grab you.” He whispered this and held the boat for Bill, who stepped into the bow seat with more grace than I’d anticipated, and the two pushed off. That they had my gun with them didn’t matter, I supposed, since shooting light was still a piece off. I’d have liked it if Dave had noticed, though, in case the setup dragged on and the ducks started flying my way.
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Waiting in the dark without a gun while
was bouncing, and Dave put her on a heel
the whole outfit got set up on the opposite
and set off through the shallow water toward
side of the river, I started to think about
where I saw Bill’s light winking. I found my
what would happen if I shot well. I thought
gun and bag of shells against the blowdown.
to myself that I’d like to be seen as a hell
Shooting time had just arrived, dark gray and
of a good hunter, or shooter anyway, a guy
gauzy quiet, and I could barely see the decoys
who didn’t need any taking care of or empty
sprinkled through the rocky shallows.
congratulations about the rare few birds with which he connected. I wanted to be
I heard the ducks before I saw them. They
seen as capable. I wanted those guys across
were gabbling somewhere close, and I could
the river to notice, and I couldn’t help but
sense them back in the cornfield, so I knew
wonder whether Dave had taken Bill across
they were getting off the water to feed. I
first to set him up in the prime real estate,
could hear occasional wingbeats whistling
or because he thought he needed looking
over the water, but the light just wasn’t
after, or because he thought him better,
there yet—at least not in enough quantity
more adept, company. A dark snowy morning
to make shooting an option. The snowflakes
and being stranded on the opposite bank and
got closer together, and I waited. I could hear
an ego that was fragile to begin with: These
Dave talking to Jesse in a clipped tone, but
things began to combine and make me feel a
I couldn’t make out his words. I’m sure she
little bit left behind.
was whining and hearing ducks passing close and wondering when she’d have some honest
Dave snuck in on me from upstream and
work to do.
I startled. He’d dragged the boat up the far bank to avoid bucking the current, and
And then they started coming. Ones, twos,
he had lost little ground, turning the boat
and pairs of pairs, lumbering low and
downstream in the slack water and creeping
upstream as the light defined the river and
in quietly. “We still have 12 minutes or so,
the space just above. Dave was working the
and it’ll be dark past that,” he said, sculling
first few groups—or trying to, anyway—
his paddle and letting me step into the bow
blowing a firm but unaggressive comeback
seat cautiously. “I left your gun against
and laying in a series of chuckles behind it. If
that big blowdown, and Bill’s set up just
the birds were circling we couldn’t see them,
downstream. The ducks will be flying up from
but it didn’t matter; fresh ones followed
the bend below Paulson’s barn, where the
the ones that passed, and I waited for Bill
slower water is.”
to start shooting, as they were coming right across his bow. I assumed that when
“Where will you be?” I asked.
he finally shot, it was Dave who dealt the decisive blow, as three shots sounded off,
“Down tucked in with Bill. I’ll have Jesse, and
then two more in short order—the latter,
you can mop up whatever comes through. I’ll
I assumed, from Dave’s old 21. I saw Jesse
do the calling.”
out in the shallow water picking up a drake and then Dave scampering out to pick up a
We slipped across the river with a few quiet
second big duck. I couldn’t tell what it was,
strokes. I could already hear the milking
but knowing him I doubted it was a Suzy.
machines coming on at Paulson’s barn. The sound was muffled, though, and the barn
The next wave came through and Bill touched
lights were just a hazy glow through the
off, and I watched to see the middle bird
big falling flakes that filled my headlamp
dodge just a little, and the three of them
beam. Dave got the canoe close enough to
kept coming upstream and right in front of
shore, and I swung my legs over the gunwale
me: two drakes and a hen, low and gathering
to the bank side, gripped with both hands,
height to clear the cottonwoods. It was a
and stood up. I held the boat steady as he
strict left-to-right, 20 yards at the most,
stepped out, too, and we dragged the boat
and my gun was the end of the line. I stoned
into the cottonwoods and rolled it over. Jesse
the first bird and clipped the second enough
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greenheads out of the snowflakes, isolating
birds back out of the snow and the mist, and
them from the rest of the morning. The
we could hear them turn but couldn’t see
birds came upstream steady enough to keep
them, swinging through the snowflakes and
us on our toes and watchful. There was a
over Paulson’s cornfield. Dave squalled on his
three-mallard limit then, and we were seeing
call and I hoped they’d return, but I couldn’t
enough birds to let the hens pass. I kept
imagine from where. And then, of course,
my eyes peeled for the big bull black ducks
there they were, emerging like apparitions
that were sometimes there, hoping that
out of the sky and the snow and the morning
one might slip through the gauntlet. Soon
with their feet out front and their wings
enough, Bill and Dave were done, and I just
cupped, headed into the dekes bobbing right
to drop it but not kill it, and already Jesse
had one more to be done as well. The traffic
in front of Bill and Dave. I pulled up and shot
was after them both, the dead bird floating
of birds had slowed decisively, and I could
the big drake in front, watched the others
right back into her upstream advance. The
hear the geese in their raft downstream
flare as he crumpled and splashed, and Jesse,
swimmer was turning circles, but his head
honking occasionally while I waited for my
just a few yards away, leaped into action. In
was up, and the current was pushing him
last bird to appear. I could see Bill and Dave
less than a heartbeat—or so it seemed—the
deeper, and Jesse was headed back to Dave
moving around, leaning their guns against a
bird was limp in her mouth, and Dave was
and clear—so I finished the cripple, tipping
cottonwood trunk and tucking in against the
holding out his hand without getting up. He
him over into the current with a swat of
trees with Jesse to drink coffee. They were
was smiling, and Bill was looking at me with a
number 3’s. He lay broken and still. Dave had
chatting and looking upstream now to where
suggestion of approval in recognition of a job
come out to grab the first duck, and he sent
I was hidden, little concerned now about
well done.
Jesse quickly for the second so as to neither
what might be coming up from below.
lose it nor have her chase a retrieve smack into the big raft of birds downstream.
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I unloaded my gun and picked up the spent When the last birds came they did so in
hull, tucking it into my pocket with the
reverse, a pack of four winging downstream
three other empties. A tidy bit of shooting.
“Good shooting,” Bill said from out of his
from over my shoulder too high and too fast
Somewhere behind us Paulson’s milking
hiding place.
for me to have picked them up. Dave saw
machine shut off, and in the stillness
them, too, and so did Bill, and I could see
there was only the sound of falling snow
That was about when the birds really started
Dave quickly set down his thermos top and
and gabbling ducks and a dark black river
to come, and Bill and Dave started picking
pivot, a call in his hand. He commanded those
slipping past.
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STRUNG MAGAZINE
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GROUSE ABOVE THE SMOKE by Noah Davis
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Far below me the Blackfoot flows through the canyon toward Missoula. Smoke drifts above the riffles, and I can’t see the river through the ash of trees that burned days ago—a ghost quilt stitched with fir, spruce, and pine. The fumes ride the wind east from fires in California, Oregon, and Washington. They settle here in this Montana river valley until another storm blows in and sends the thick haze out across the prairie, the Great Lakes, the Appalachians, and then finally the Atlantic.
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How many bends had I rounded, hills crested, and streams crossed only to see the two-track empty in front of me?
As a native Pennsylvanian, grouse and wildfire smoke are both unfamiliar to me. The wildfires are less familiar than the grouse. The ruffed grouse is Pennsylvania’s state bird, and 20 years ago it was common to flush two or more in an afternoon while fishing a brook trout stream. But over the
I’ve climbed into the timber along the spine
last decade and a half, West Nile virus and
of the mountain above the smoke, the cool
the aging forests have made sightings
night air pushing it into the basin. With
and wingbeats something to brag about
no dog to trail a bird’s scent, I arrive at
in the barbershop—rarer now than seeing
first light when the grouse are feeding
the flash of a bobcat or fisher. Here in
and picking gizzard grit before heading
western Montana, the dusky, ruffed, and
to the trees to roost their September day
spruce grouse are as common as robins
away. This kind of hunting means finding
and seen more as a consolation prize for
birds on the ground by walking miles at a
unsuccessful elk hunters than the revered
shuffled pace, trying to spot foliage-perfect
bird of my home.
feathers before the glossy berries of their eyes spot me.
The East’s gift of water has spared the ridges around my valley, and the few burn
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The logging roads I walk—rutted reminders
restrictions I experienced growing up were
of the last century of timbering—rim the
more for the townhouses than the tens of
bellies of the ridges, and I watch as rays
thousands of forested acres that covered
of light bank off the smoke in the valley:
the Allegheny Front. Wildfires were a
morning refracting back on the slopes the
Western problem—an event I only witnessed
sun just crested.
on the television.
I cut through a huckleberry clearing to a
I crouch as I approach the bench off the knob
of the plumage that makes me believe I’m
knoll just above the tree line, following the
and see a dusky grouse at the edge of the
reaching toward something not lying on the
tracks of elk that have taken refuge from
forest, pecking at the ground, unaware of my
ground but embedded in dirt.
bow hunters in the tangled thick on the
approach—a situation closer to a spot-and-
mountain’s north-facing slope. Here, in the
stalk on a deer than the romantic upland
Hiking the ridge back to the car, with nearly
thinner air, I breathe deeply as I scale up to
image of a setter quivering in a solid point. I
an hour of walking ahead of me along the
where I found a covey of dusky grouse the
use the lilt of the hill to shade my silhouette
trail, the weight of the grouse forces me to
week before. The smell of smoke is faint,
as my eyes strain to find other grouse in the
switch its claws from hand to hand every
and my lungs are thankful for the respite
trees or on the knoll, but I only see the lone
10 minutes. Blues are a bird whose size
from the choked valley.
male scratching at the loose rock.
mimics the great elevations they climb. This grouse’s beak nearly reaches my ankle as
Finding a grouse is always a surprise and
I run out of hillside with 15 yards between
often leaves me wondering how many I’ve
us, and the grouse sees my shape and
simply walked by in the growing morning
flushes. I bead him as he rises toward the
When I make it to the tip of a ridge’s finger
light. How many bends had I rounded, hills
canopy, and he drops flapping to the ground.
where the trees are scattered, I can see
crested, and streams crossed only to see
the head sways with my stepping.
that the smoke has risen with the heat of
the two-track empty in front of me? Then
The shades of blue I’d usually call gray on
mid-morning. The sun colors the fringes a
suddenly a grouse is standing just off the
the forest floor are actually somewhere
flickering orange, three shades softer than
path in a clearing beneath the spruce,
in between. Because of this blending of
the eyebrow of the grouse. I wonder where
which looks the same as the hundreds of
colors, it takes me nearly a minute to find
the grouse will go when the mountain is
other spruce clearings I’d passed in the last
the bird even though I marked his landing.
covered in smoke. How quickly will they
three hours. The grouse is now obvious and
When I finally discover his outline on the
disappear when their ashen feathers match
present.
pine needles, wings outstretched—paused in
the air around them?
mid-beat—I too pause to admire the pattern
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NO GLORY
FOR THE TIMID
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By Andy Mill
Bowhunting Bugling Elk is an Unrivaled Experience For 68 years now, my life has been defined by experiences that make my heart jump out of my chest. I have had more than 20 surgeries as a result of great ideas gone bad. Maybe I should’ve stayed in the sandbox rather than climbing over the monkey bars. But the truth is that I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Once while hiking down into the Black Canyon of the Gunnison in search of trout, I was skirting along a narrow edge when my backpack bumped against the rock wall behind me, kicking me forward and launching me over a vertical drop headfirst. I was certain I was going to die. And yet my life didn’t race before my eyes. I saw no images of my family in my mind. Midway through my fall, I just laughed. If this was God’s way of removing me from the earth it seemed comically inconsequential and random. After a full front flip I lay on a bed of rock with blood covering my face. My hip hit hard, but the blow to my face was only a glancing one. Once I realized I was still alive and going to be okay, all I could think about were the big rainbow trout below me. I used to ski for a living. In fact, I have skied the biggest mountains in the world at 80 miles per hour, fished the vast oceans, and battled 800-pound marlin. I’ve been on Italian race bikes and driven high-performance cars pushing 190 miles per hour. Still, calling in a screaming bull elk tops the list of exciting things I’ve ever done! I might be known as a tarpon angler, but given the choice between a 150-pound tarpon on a fly or a big bull crashing toward me, I’ll take the elk every time. I didn’t earn my first elk with the miles of hiking, constant secondguessing of decisions, and mounting frustration that such hunting normally involves. Hunting over a wallow on a private ranch, all of sudden there was a bull in front of me. Nevertheless, from the moment I was introduced to bowhunting for elk, I knew it would be a lifechanging experience. Looking back I can say it altered my life as much as the first time I watched a tarpon eat my fly. The experience was the beginning of 17 years of learning—about elk and the nuances of how to communicate with them—that have made me tougher than I ever thought I could be. Elk-hunting also accelerated my son into manhood. A few years ago I was in Springfield, Missouri, emceeing the International Game Fish Association Hall of Fame induction ceremony when my phone rang. “I almost got one tonight,” my son roared with excitement. He had called in a bull and a handful of cows and said he was at full draw when one of the cows picked him off and the herd busted.
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“Don’t go back tomorrow,” I said calmly. “Let me get on a plane and we’ll do it together!” When I landed in Aspen early Sunday afternoon, Nicky was there waiting. We raced up to the house to get everything ready. It would soon be evening. Hunting public land around Aspen is nothing short of brutal. The mountain walls rise straight out of the valley floor, and although elk numbers are good, you have to work to find them. The area we were hunting is as beautiful as it is rugged with a variety of pine and aspen flowing over rolling ridges that drop toward the Roaring Fork River. It’s a good place to catch elk moving from their bedding areas to water and feed. There are never more than a handful of elk, but it only takes one. We were specifically looking for
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the same bull Nicky had called in a couple of
We climbed higher and 20 minutes later,
If he continued on the same line, Nicky
days before and hiked for an hour to where
I let out a soft cow call. Instantly a bull
would have a perfect broadside shot. As
we thought the bull would be.
answered above us. I told Nicky to get out
he came crashing closer, I saw Nicky draw
ahead of me as I pulled a decoy out of my
his bow. I shifted my focus back to the
I love evening hunts. The dimming light
pack and set it up. A few minutes later we
bull and heard the arrow hit with a solid
always gets my heart pounding a little
gave each other a thumbs-up, and I let out
thump. The elk bolted down the side of the
harder, knowing what might happen in the
another soft cow call. A cow immediately
mountain a hundred yards before stopping,
last few hours of daylight. Unlike morning,
appeared over a rise in the mountain and
blood pouring out of his side. Soon his front
when it seems as though time is running
came running across the hill toward me. At
legs collapsed and he fell forward. I turned
out, in the evening, things get better by the
30 yards she stopped, gazed in confusion
to Nicky and we punched at the sky in a
minute.
at the decoy, and slid off into the woods. I
celebration only hunters can understand. We
called again, and the bull exploded with a
waited a bit before scrambling toward the
guttural scream, this time much closer.
bull, hugging each other in disbelief that the
We slid sideways to the east and started our slow move up the mountain, using our ears as much as our eyes. When we neared the
I saw him silhouetted on a ridge slightly
same six-by-six Nicky had had at full draw
spot where Nicky had encountered his bull, I
above us, frozen against the skyline. I could
on Friday night.
threw out a small locater bugle. Nothing. Still,
tell he knew exactly where the sound had
everything just felt right. As we continued up
come from but was canting his head back
I have certainly lived my life to the fullest,
the drainage, we followed a well-used game
and forth trying to locate the elk that had
for there is no glory for the timid. But in
trail with fresh sign everywhere. If I’d been a
made it. I knew Nicky wanted me to try and
a life filled with extraordinary moments,
bird dog, my hair would have been standing
pull him closer with another call, but I stood
calling in that elk with my son is the most
on end. My hearing has diminished with age,
my ground in silence. I continued watching
memorable by far.
so I kept looking at Nicky, waiting for him to
him, waiting to see what his next move
point toward some cracking branch up the
would be. And then he started toward us.
mountain.
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giant six-by-six lying in front of us was the
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Article title treatment in frame 1 illustration
Version 1
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The article was written by Todd Davis for the STRUNG publication.
Whitman’s actual signature
By Todd Davis The moon’s light breaks over branches,
what direction starlight falls from. We turn
drenching my hands in pale shadow and
off our headlamps, and the landscape glows.
luminescence. My headlamp bobs as I turn toward a sound crashing through the
Place is always more than geography and
mountain laurel, then returns the circle of
geology, climate, and a cartographer’s
light to the open cavity of the deer’s chest.
Men died in these woods, extracting what
survey. Place exists in time, an ecology that
My son’s hands move with care, the knife
they could. They decimated the forests.
encompasses all who have lived and died. The
doing its work.
Most of them poor immigrants happy for
imprint of the ways they lived affects our
a job with a peavey and axe. Falling trees
own beliefs, our own actions. Many different
crushed legs, pinned chests, and dislocated
tribes shared these hunting grounds, bringing
shoulders. When I heard these stories as a
down elk and deer, carving days from meat,
boy, I wondered if this was the way the trees
drying it for the months ahead. The paths
fought back. I imagined the ghosts of these
these hunters made on the mountain, tailing
men walking streambeds, turning over stones
game trails and the gravity of tumbling
in dry times, looking for a pocket watch or
water, are the same we hike when we hunt
lost flask.
or fish, when we forage summer days for
Paragraph #4
Men died in these woods, extracting what they could. They decimated the forests. Most of them poor immigrants happy for a job with a peavey and axe. Falling trees crushed legs, pinned chests, and dislocated shoulders. When I heard these stories as a boy, I wondered if this was the way the trees fought back. I imagined the ghosts of these men walking streambeds, turning over stones in dry times, looking for a pocket watch or lost flask.
It’s been a long hunting season without an animal. We have our family to feed. We also Paragraph #2
ginseng and wild berries.
have Noah’s wedding in June, and he wants a
It’s been a long hunting season without an animal. We have our family to feed. We also have Noah’s wedding in June, and he wants a venison feast to celebrate his love for Nikea. Our heads are bathed in the last moments of sun, the faint light quickly disappearing on the plateau to the west where coal was strip-mined.
venison feast to celebrate his love for Nikea. Our heads are bathed in the last moments of sun, the faint light quickly disappearing on the plateau to the west where coal was strip-mined. Earlier in the day we hiked more than an
After Noah finishes gutting the deer—
Noah and I have dragged plenty of deer
capturing the heart in a plastic bag to
together. But this doe is big—nearly 200
carry home—we begin what we know will
pounds—and in a short time, despite the
hour, gaining a thousand feet in elevation.
be a long Paragraph #5
We started in the crease of a hollow just
moved above thethetree line. Wethe wash our have emptied After Noah finishes gutting deer—capturing heart in a plastic bag to carry home—we begin the contents of her belly and
above the village where we live, scaling the sloped shoulders of the Allegheny Front, some sections so precipitous that they weren’t
drag. At this point, the moon has
fact that we’re tugging her downhill and
what we know will be a long drag. At this point, the moon has moved above the tree line. We wash hands thea white snow, a now white sheet ourassortarms ache and our hand strength ourbloody bloody hands in thein snow, sheet smeared with now streaks of pinkchest, and red—an ment of patterns for some animal to puzzle over. Last night’s wind piled the snow into banks that smeared with streaks of pink and red—an is beginning to wane. Every 50 yards we stop, reflect an ivory light, sending it upward, as bright as any streetlamp. Everything that was licked by the storm sparkles, making me rethink where the sky is, what direction starlight falls from. We turn ofthepatterns for some animal to pause, and rub cramps from our forearms. off assortment our headlamps, and landscape glows.
clear-cut. Among the dying ferns that cover
puzzle over. Last night’s wind piled the snow
Noah’s 24. Like most young men, he assumes
slabs of talus, a few stands of old growth
into banks that reflect an ivory light, sending
he can do whatever’s necessary to somehow
hemlock and white pine were spared. They
it upward, as bright as any streetlamp.
get this animal back down the hollow and
loom above us, throwing the significance of
Everything that was licked by the storm
into the bed of the truck. A former college
our place in the world into stark relief.
sparkles, making me rethink where the sky is,
basketball player, his six-and-a-half-foot,
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240-pound frame is packed with muscle. At
must be living in all of these connections,
Darkness descended in a matter of minutes.
54, my own college-playing days are more
all of these unions and communions. The
No second deer today. I saw the shadowy
than 30 years in the past. I look at my watch
webbing sticks to us, no matter what we do.
outline of my son’s body moving just off the
and start to do the math. We may not get
path as I walked back. When I joined him, he
out of the woods before midnight, and the
Most of the day hunger and worry draped
showed me the deer, beautiful in its stillness,
way my hands are cramping I may not be
us. Flurries threw crystals into the afternoon
fallen in the snow with so much promise. We
able to hold a fork tomorrow when we cook
air while we waited for deer to move. We
said improvised prayers. To the woods. To
the backstrap.
didn’t hear a shot anywhere on the mountain
the sky. To this deer and what had escaped
and decided to call it around 4:30—to begin
its body, whether that was a soul or simply
At our next rest, instead of massaging the
the long hike out, trying to work some
the electricity that ceased when the heart
ball of arm-muscle, bending back fingers to
warmth back into our muscles and joints,
stopped pumping.
relieve the tendons in the wrist, I search the
into our bones, which felt like they’d shrunk,
sides of the old logging road for a pole among
compacted by the cold. Moving quietly, we
More than an hour later, night fully on top
the fringe timber, which is mostly black birch.
still watched, some ancient part of the brain
of us, I’m grateful that my body’s holding
Black birch is also called sweet birch because
clothed in the predator’s alertness. At the
up, that I can be in this place with Noah. The
when broken it releases a pungent root-beer
ridgeline’s cusp, Noah raised a hand and
air’s cold—somewhere in the high 20s—but
fragrance. I love to tear a young shoot from
brought his rifle up. More than a hundred
we’re soaked with sweat. I hear my breathing
a branch, peel the bark, and suck on the
years before, when this mountaintop was
working in concert with his, the shared labor
sugary end. The longer it’s in the mouth, the
clear-cut, a makeshift road buckled the
so much like the earliest people who brought
stronger the flavor grows: something sweet
ridge’s stone field, men heaving rock to the
animals down off this mountain. The snow
to make the walking easier.
sides to make way for logging sleds—cairns
squinches beneath our boots. As we’ve hiked
that now blocked my view of what Noah
down through the hollow, we’ve said how
could see.
much we love one another, how much we love
to freeze after the day’s melt. The makeshift
The deer walked up on the talus bench just
these moments. A comfortable silence settles
yoke is definitely more efficient.
below the ridge peak. The bark of Noah’s
between us.
I hack at the base of one of these young trees, then carve a keyhole in each of the deer’s back leg tendons. We guide the birch pole through the openings, lift the ends onto our shoulders, and start again down the mountain, deer swaying between us. Every few steps we slip on the snow that’s begun
rifle was loud but barely registered. I saw the kick, the motion that pushed his shoulder Paragraph #12
slightly backward, smoke ascending from the
Out ahead in the blurred gray of moonlight, I imagine I see flashes of the deer’s soul: free
The deer walked up on the talusHe bench justabelow ridge peak. The bark of to Noah’s was loud but laurel leaves, moving barrel’s mouth. took stepthe forward into runrifle through glossy barely registered. I saw the kick, the motion that pushed his shoulder slightly backward, smoke ascending from the barrel’s mouth. He took awhere step forward into the space where the piles of stone the empty space the piles ofempty stone beneath the dipped. stars and across snowy fields, Another step. I hurried to his ear and whispered. He nodded. Yes, he was pretty sure it was a good shot, a Another step. I hurried topointed his ear no longer hunted by us or by the coyote who killing shot.dipped. He told me there were two other deer and to and where they likely were headed—around the mountain, away from us, where they would have to rejoin the trail because the terrain becomes too whispered. He nodded. Yes, he was pretty call across the ridges. Our shoulders ache, steep even for deer. He’d go look for the body. I’d try to get a shot of my own.
Paragraph #10
sure it was a good shot, a killing shot. He told
reminding us that we’ll have meat for the
me there were two other deer and pointed to
year, and I promise myself to remember the
When Noah shot the deer, it was nearly dark,
where they likely were headed—around the
beauty of this deer, to remember Noah’s face
purples and oranges and pinks smothering
mountain, away from us, where they would
and long, strong body, to do my best not to
the horizon. With every animal we take, I
have to rejoin the trail because the terrain
let this day slip away. There will come a time
wonder whether it’s grace or luck, godsend
becomes too steep even for deer. He’d go look
when I can no longer scale this mountain,
or coincidence. We have so many words
for the body. I’d try to get a shot of my own.
when my body and the electricity that
When Noah shot the deer, it was nearly dark, purples and oranges and pinks smothering the horizon. With every animal we take, I wonder whether it’s grace or luck, godsend or coincidence. We have so many words that mean similar things, but are weighted differently. I have faith in the endless connections between the living and the dead, the seen and the unseen. The woods offer life to us, and we should reciprocate, give back part of our lives to save and nourish the woods. Certainly what most folks call “God” must be living in all of these connections, all of these unions and communions. The webbing sticks to us, no matter what we do.
that mean similar things, but are weighted
crackles through it will cease.
differently. I have faith in the endless connections between the living and the dead, the seen and the unseen. The woods offer life to us, and we should reciprocate, give back part of our lives to save and nourish the woods. Certainly what most folks call “God”
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Paragraph #13 Darkness descended in a matter of minutes. No second deer today. I saw the shadowy outline
For now I sing the body electric.
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“Many hunters believe—have always believed—that it is not the skill of the hunter that brings game to the hunter—no human could ever be as wary or cunning as a wild animal— but rather, that the animal comes as a gift of the land: that it is an act of good luck, grace—a presentation. And that the good hunter always remembers this, and is always grateful, amazed by and marveling at his luck—at the beautiful, intricate specificities of it. And I’d have to agree: with every deer I’ve ever killed, that’s always how it’s been. The mountain delivers a deer to you. Like something eroding slowly, the mountain shed itself of one deer, but sends it not randomly downslope, but in your direction. It’s easy to say thank you. It’s the easiest part about hunting.” — Rick Bass, A Thousand Deer, Photo: Ryan Sparks
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