The Big Game Issue 2021 | Strung Magazine

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

WINTER

2021

1

2

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

VX-6HD

RUGGED PERFORMANCE. RELENTLESS CLARITY.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

3

IF WE COULD GET YOU ANY CLOSER TO THE TARGET, YOU’D NEED WINGS.

Explore Our Proprietary Camo and Hunting Apparel at DuckCamp.com 4

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

5

6

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

“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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

7

8

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

“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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

9

magazine

18 28 36 42 52 56 62

10

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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.”

68 72 76 82 86 92

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.”

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

11

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.

strung magazine 2300 Alton Road Miami Beach, FL 33140 (855) 799-3791

For Subscription inquiries visit: www.STRUNGMAG.com For Advertising inquiries: advertising@STRUNGMAG.com Editorial inquiries: editor@STRUNGMAG.COM All other inquiries: business@STRUNGMAG.COM ©2021 Strung Magazine. All rights reserved.

12

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

HOLD. NOTHING. BACK.

brock, british labrador retriever OWNER: josh miller BREEDER: river stone kennels

PREMIUM PERFORMANCE

BUILT TO HELP UNLEASH MAXIMUM POTENTIAL The Eukanuba™ Premium Performance line-up — formulated to fuel different activity levels, support post-exercise recovery and optimize nutrient delivery.

EukanubaSportingDog.com | @EukanubaSportingDog © 2021 Royal Canin USA, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

13

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

14

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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,

©2021 O.F. Mossberg & Sons, Inc.

MOSSBERG

| 450 BUSHMASTER

A WINNER BY KNOCKOUT.

Straight-walled 450 Bushmaster cartridges deliver devastating knockdown power and open up whitetail hunting opportunities in an increasing number of locales.

VERSATILE PATRIOT RIFLES IN HEAVY-HITTING 450 BUSHMASTER. Patriot 450 Bushmaster Threaded Barrel Walnut

Patriot rifles are durable, accurate, and loaded with features. Modern innovations, traditional styling, and the stopping power of 450 Bushmaster rounds combine to keep you in the hunt— whatever the game, whatever the season.

Mossberg — Makers of dependable, hardworking firearms for more than a century .

SAFETY TIP Store firearms securely, inaccessible to children and unauthorized users.

LEARN MORE AT MOSSBERG.COM STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

15

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.

16

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

17

MOUNTAIN MEN AND MR. MURPHY Words by Ryan Efurd, Photos by Ryan Lee

18

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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

19

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

20

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

21

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

22

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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

missed sheep into perspective.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

23

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

24

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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

“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.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

25

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

26

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

27

28

STRUNG MAGAZINE

FALL 20212021 WINTER

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

STRUNG STRUNG MAGAZINE MAGAZINEWINTER FALL

2021

29

we made it through the night, but the next morning we found ourselves in the alaskan wilderness without a shelter.

30

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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

STRUNG STRUNG MAGAZINE MAGAZINEWINTER FALL

2021

31

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

32

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

33

One day there are thousands of caribou streaming over the tundra, and the next it's a desolate wasteland.

34

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.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

Founded in Austin, Texas, built in Switzerland, every SEAHOLM automatic watch exceeds industry standards for shock resistance, water resistance and anti-magnetism.

Learn more about SEAHOLM® at www.seaholmautomatic.com

PHOTO: KNOX KRONENBERG

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

35

A BRITISH COLUMBIA,

BOONE & CROCKETT

36

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

37

38

STRUNG MAGAZINE

FALL 20212021 WINTER

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.

STRUNG STRUNG MAGAZINE MAGAZINEWINTER FALL

2021

39

“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.

40

STRUNG MAGAZINE

FALL 20212021 WINTER

STRUNG STRUNG MAGAZINE MAGAZINEWINTER FALL

2021

41

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.

42

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

43

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

44

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

45

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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

FALL 20212021 WINTER

“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

STRUNG STRUNG MAGAZINE MAGAZINEWINTER FALL

2021

47

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,”

48

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER 2021 2021

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

STRUNG STRUNG STRUNG MAGAZINE MAGAZINE MAGAZINEWINTER WINTER FALL 2021

49

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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER 2021 2021

We case YOUR

memories...

John MacGillivray / Dorsey Pictures

SEA RUN Fly Fishing Travel Cases (833) 634-7464 • searuncases.com

100% Made in Italy by Negrini Case

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

51

By Tom Carroll

52

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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.

STRUNG STRUNG STRUNG MAGAZINE MAGAZINE MAGAZINEWINTER WINTER FALL 2021

53

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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER 2021 2021

IT WAS FOR AUTUMN’S GOLDEN FIELDS THAT THE REST OF THE YEAR EXISTED.

STRUNG STRUNG MAGAZINE MAGAZINE WINTER WINTER 2021

55

The

Fairest Chase

A lifetime of hunting pronghorn reveals a few unexpected truisms

56

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

57

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

58

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

59

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,

60

helpless in this ocean of sagebrush, maybe

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

I was on, but keeping that half-mile between

STRUNG STRUNG MAGAZINE MAGAZINEWINTER FALL

2021

61

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,

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

63

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.

64

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

65

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.

66

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

KIRK DEETER

JEN RIPPLE

GARY DUBIEL

WANDA TAYLOR

KARLIE ROLAND

PAT DORSEY

MAC BROWN CHRIS JOHNSON

January 15-16, 2022 Doswell, Virginia

vaflyfishingfestival.com th

5

Annu

al

TOM ROSENBAUER

al

REAL PEOPLE. LIVE INSTRUCTION.

st An nu 21

February 26-27, 2022 Mesquite, Texas

txflyfishingfestival.com

2022 SPONSORS

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

67

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.

68

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

69

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.

70

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

71

RATIONS & INTOXICANTS

By Jenny Nguyen-Wheatley

72

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

73

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,

74

- kosher salt

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

75

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

76

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

77

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.

78

STRUNG MAGAZINE

FALL 2021 WINTER 2021 2021

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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

79

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.

80

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.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

Comes in 12ga, 20ga, 28ga, 16ga*, and 410 bore* *Available upon request

Introducing a wingshooting experience like no other. APEX Ammunition is the ultimate in premium, handcrafted shotgun ammunition, carefully and thoughtfully loaded in Mississippi by dedicated, experienced hunters. We pioneered the commercial production of non-toxic, ultra-high-density Tungsten Super Shot (TSS).

It’s time to experience wingshooting ammunition that out-performs and outpatterns anything else available today. Shop now at APEXmunition.com

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

81

GROUSE ABOVE THE SMOKE

by Noah Davis

82

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

83

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

84

STRUNG MAGAZINE

FALL 20212021 WINTER

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

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

85

NO GLORY

FOR THE TIMID

86

STRUNG MAGAZINE

FALL 20212021 WINTER

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.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

87

“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

88

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

89

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.

90

giant six-by-six lying in front of us was the

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

MARCH 11 - 13, 2022 CHI HEALTH CENTER | OMAHA, NE 2022

NATIONAL PHEASANT FEST & QUAIL CLASSIC Be a part of the much-anticipated 2022 National Pheasant Fest & Quail Classic. The annual national convention and outdoor trade show focuses on wildlife conservation, upland game bird hunting, bird dogs, wildlife habitat management, pollinators and more!

THERE’S SOMETHING FOR EVERYONE!

WILD GAME COOKING

BIRD DOG STAGE

YOUTH VILLAGE

PUBLIC LANDS PAVILION

PATH TO THE UPLANDS STAGE

HABITAT HELP ROOM

Save the date and join us in Omaha, NE. Reserve your room, purchase your event tickets and more! Become an exhibitor! Go online to PheasantFest.org today!

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

91

Article title treatment in frame 1 illustration

Version 1

92

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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,

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

93

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”

94

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

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.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

95

“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

96

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

WIN

Michael Burm

REGISTERED ONLINE AND IN-PERSON ATTENDEES WILL BE ENTERING INTO A DRAWING TO WIN A 10-DAY DESERT BIGHORN SHEEP HUNT IN MEXICO WITH SIERRA EL ALAMO

VIRTUAL EXPERIENCE JANUARY 10-15 SHEEP SHOW ® IN RENO JANUARY 13-15 EARLY BIRD REGISTRATION All registrants before 12/20/21 will be entered into a drawing for a $500 Floor Credit - redeemable with any Sheep Week® Exhibitor REGISTER AT: SHEEPWEEK.ORG OR CALL: 406.404.8769 State gaming/raffle laws prohibit residents of AL, KS, HI, NJ, UT, & WA from participating in online drawings. Debit cards (or cash/checks) for MT residents.

Canadian residents are eligible to participate in this drawing.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

97

98

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021

99

100

STRUNG MAGAZINE

WINTER

2021