Time, Why Do You Punish Me?
April 1, 2012 No Foolin'

I haven’t written anything in the blog for several months. We did a big remodel on our house and I just couldn’t find anything funny about that. They say time will cure that and that someday I’ll be able to look back and laugh about the remodel experience. We created a new kitchen area by removing a bearing wall, tearing out an old roof, bedroom and bathroom. The new kitchen has been finished for a couple months and it is really nice, but enough time hasn’t passed for me to see any humor in the process at all.

I was out in the back pasture mowing the 3 foot tall weeds that grew last summer and fall due to me neglecting many things around the house while focusing on the remodel project. I marveled at how time has changed me, How my kids were almost all grown up and how I was feeling the aches and pains of age creeping up on me due to my recent back problems. How did I get this way? Two things immediately came to mind. First, I am obsessed with time. I have 3 songs on my IPod named ‘Time’. (Pink Floyd, Alan Parsons, & Hootie & the Blowfish ) plus ‘Time in a Bottle’, Tulsa Time’, ‘100 Years’ , ‘Don’t Blink’ and ‘The Pirates Who Don’t Do Anything’. The second thing that came to mind was Bill Schnupp and his emotional experience of selling an insurance product called ‘Time’ and the revealing day he tried to see what a hemorrhoid looked like.

I’ve decided I need to expound on some of my character flaws, or traits that got me to where I’m at this time in life. This new endeavor of mine is going to take up several chapters. I’m going to use my kids as examples of some of the traits they inherited from me, and I’ll mix in a couple of the Bill Schnupp anecdotes to show his kids what they have to look forward to. So here we go.


Chapter 1 - Katie

For some reason I enjoy long brutal hikes, bike rides, hunts, basketball games and such things that would wear me down to utter exhaustion. I wasn’t always like this but I learned to work hard at what I was doing to the point of sometimes wondering what I was doing and why I was doing it. I remember one hunt where Bill and I walked at approximately 32 miles in 3 days
up and down the Smokey Mountains carrying backpacks loaded with tents, sleeping bags, rifles, food, water, and finally an elk, a deer, and a meatball. I was a little leery of passing this trait on to my kids so I had to choose my opportunities carefully.

One late spring day when Katie was about 18, I asked her if she wanted to go on a mountain bike ride. She was still somewhat gullible and asked me where I wanted to go. I expounded about a trail up in the Boise foothills that wound around a big valley and finally came down near the golf course. We grabbed our bikes, helmets and some water and off we went. We parked near the elementary school at the bottom of Bogus Basin Road and pointed our bikes up the paved road. As we rode the 3 miles up the road I could see Katie starting to tire and also starting to wonder what she’d gotten herself into. Uh-oh, I thought to myself, she’s beginning to tire out and she’s starting to question going on this outing with me. I quickly explained that the dirt trail turn off was just ahead of us. She powered up the last of the pavement and seemed a bit relieved for the moment. We reached the dirt and headed out the trail. It took her another few minutes to realize that the dirt trail continued climbing up the mountain and didn’t show any signs of leveling off. I could see her anger build as we kept pedaling up the hill as the sweat poured off of us. Finally, the trail leveled off and wound around a big valley over to a creek running with cold water from the snow melting high above. I hoped the gentle ride around the valley gave her some rest because the trail was about to turn and follow the creek up the canyon, after that we were going to hit the steep part. The ride up the creek bottom was rocky and wet as we got to cross the creek two or three times. Luckily, it was spring and the creek was running high and we got our shoes wet trying to stay upright in the raging current. After a mile or so of pedaling up the creek bottom, I could see the switchback where the trail left the bottom of the canyon and climbed steeply up the canyon wall to where it crossed a pass into the next drainage. “We’re almost to the top”, I cheerily said as she glared at me with disbelief in her eyes after seeing the trail crawling up the canyon wall. After pushing her bike up the last quarter mile of the grade, Katie tossed her bike to side of the trail at the summit. She was sweating profusely and had drunk all the water in sight. She lay in the dirt at the side of the trail, the sand sticking to her sweaty skin. She looked pretty beat with the hot sun glaring on her. I knew I’d better say something quick or she would never want to go on an adventure with me again. She looked at me like I must be crazy but I was breathing so hard I couldn’t speak. After a few minutes curled up on the ground in a fetal position I was able to talk.

“It’s all downhill from here” I lied, hoping that she might
not hate me forever.

Then for a little motivation I added. “Laying here in the
hot sun isn’t gonna get you home”.

Katie stood up, brushed off the sticky sand and got on her bike. I climbed on my bike and we headed down the hill into the next canyon. We rode down some great terrain and through gullies and whoop tee dos. We rounded a ridge and suddenly rode straight into a herd of grazing sheep. There must have been a thousand of them. They were everywhere and we had to slow down and go through them slowly. We saw the sheepherder sitting in the shade of a big sage brush holding a rifle. Katie gave me a look that said, “This better not be private property you’re dragging me through,” after seeing the rifle. We made it through the sheep and past the man with a rifle and headed down the next draw. There was a dribble of water running in it to make things slick. The last stretch was a bit of a rock garden and we zipped down the trail dodging rocks and brush. We made the last stretch wreck free, which is a bit unusual for me, and we popped out on a paved road above the golf course. We zipped down the steep road with the wind drying our sweat and cooling our bodies. We came to the truck and loaded the bikes in and headed for home. I was sweaty, dirty, sunburned, tired, thirsty, and had scratches running up and down my legs. Four hours round trip, almost a record. It had been a good day. I was a bit worried about Katie though. I wondered if she’d ever want to do anything with me again. I’m can’t remember when the last time I’d seen her that mad at me; maybe when I made her go to basketball practice with a broken finger. I taped it up.

As we neared the house she hadn’t said anything to me for a long time. I was relieved when she finally spoke. She said, “I can’t wait to take Lori on that ride”.

That’s my girl.


Chapter 2 - Lindsey

This character trait is not necessarily a good one, but it can be in certain situations. (This isn’t one of them).

Lindsey was about 5 years old when I decided I needed to take the kids fishing for the day. I heard the catfish were biting near the dam on Lake Lowell. We had a couple extra neighborhood kids with us that wanted to go also. It was a hot summer day and we were all wearing shorts and flip flops.

Digression:
When I was a kid flip flops were referred to as thongs, but time has a way of changing even this. Now, when I tell me kids I’m going to wear my thongs, they refuse to go anywhere with me. I always thought I lookedin thongs.
End of Digression

We parked near the dam and it was a short walk to the reservoir. I had to carry a cooler and fishing poles so the kids had to walk. Brayden was not yet 2 so I also had to stick by him as we walked towards the water. We had to cross a dry weedy area and as I entered it, I could see lots of goat head weeds. They were so thick we couldn’t avoid them and soon our flips flops bottoms were covered with them. They stuck in the soles and wouldn’t come off. We tried dragging out feet to get them off. We made it to the beach and found a good fishing spot and sandy area. We cleaned off the shoes and did some fishing. The kids played in the sand and water. The fishing proved to be decent.

After a few hours, everyone was hot and tired and it was time to go home. We loaded up the cooler and fishing poles and got ready to go. I told Lindsey to put her flip flops on a couple times but she didn’t want to. Her feet were sandy. When we started out for the car she was carrying a flip flop in each hand. I told her to put them on right now, it was time to go. She gave me a look of defiance and said nothing. I recognized a streak of stubbornness in her demeanor. Rather than confront her right then and there, I said she could barefoot until the weeds and then she had to put them on. She gave me her “we’ll see about that” look so I backed down knowing how difficult she could be if I crossed her. We walked a while and approached the weed patch. I said as nicely as I could to her. “OK, it’s time to put your flip flops on Lindsey”. Another look of defiance flashed on her face. What a stubborn kid, I thought to myself. Where’d she get that from. I knew I could take her in a physical altercation (I’d had to do on a few occasions prior to this) and force the flip flops on her feet. It would mean several trips across the weeds for me; once with the cooler and fishing poles, once with Brayden and the other kids, and then once with a screaming, kicking maniac in flip flops. I stood there looking and Lindsey and decided that I wasn’t up to the battle with her that day. I told myself that there are some things in life one learns by doing and maybe this is one of them for Lindsey. I asked if everyone was ready to cross the weeds and we headed out into the patch. Everybody made it across with tons of goat heads stuck to the bottom of their flip flops. Everyone except Lindsey, she was standing almost in the middle of the weeds holding back her tears, and holding a flip flop in each hand. I went out and carefully picked her up and carried her over to the truck. Her feet were bleeding heavily and I pulled several goat heads out of each foot. We then wrapped them in napkins we found in the truck and set her on the seat. The napkins bled through and her blood started dripping on the floor mat. I rewrapped her feet with more napkins and one of the kids held them down tight on her feet until the blood quit dripping. I don’t remember her saying anything or even crying. She just sat there and looked a bit defeated and a bit defiant. We were finally able to leave and we made it home without much being said. During the drive home, I wondered if Lindsey learned anything that day. I wondered if her stubbornness would be lessened by the experience and if she might realize that some of the things she had to do were for her own good. Some people can learn things from the experiences of others and some people have to experience certain for themselves to learn some of life’s lessons. I know she never walked through a patch of goat heads barefoot again, but that daywasn’t the end of the stubborn streak that runs in the family.

 

The Demise of the Blue Grouse and the Extinction of 4-Wheelers

Sue and I bought our first real pick-up truck for our move to Alaska. It was a 1984 Ford F150 4X4 with a single cab and a full sized bed. This was the basic truck back in the mid 1980’s and it even had a manual transmission. There weren’t many extended cabs, double cabs, crew cabs, and maxi-cabs like there are today. Nowadays, it’s a rare thing to see a regular cab pick-up with a full sized bed. We kept this truck for several years and through our first 2 kids. We just piled in and went places.

After a few years in Alaska and Nevada, we returned to Idaho, and one of my favorite things was to load up two 4-wheelers and go Blue grouse hunting on the forest roads of Boise County. Blue Grouse are the kings of the forest grouse because of their large size. However, they are not too bright, and not too fast. The term ‘bird brain’ may spring from the Blue Grouse’s intellect. They sometimes look blue in direct light but mostly they seem to be gray. I felt like I had a lot in common with the Blue Grouse and I always liked trying to match wits with these brainless birds.

My father owned two 4-Wheelers upon our return from Alaska. He was always willing to let me borrow them, as long as I promised not to make him go with me. The smaller of the two 4-Wheelers was a Suzuki 185. Two people could easily lift it into the back of the truck by lifting the front wheels up onto the tailgate and then lifting the rear and pushing it in. One person could do it in a pinch. I would then turn this little 4-wheeler sideways, in the very front of the truck bed. After that, I could lift the second 4-Wheeler into the truck and push it up against the side of the little one. They fit pretty tight and the tailgate would shut behind them so they couldn’t move around at all. No straps, no ramps, no trailers needed. It was a great set up and made the trips into the mountains quick and easy. The infamous brother-in-law Bill often accompanied me on these trips, as his mind matched up well with the Blue Grouse also. He was always willing to show me how strong he was when I would challenge him with phrases such as, “I bet you can’t lift that little 4-Wheeler into the truck by yourself”. He would prove me wrong every time I would say that, which turned out to be pretty often after long days of chasing grouse, chuckar, deer, and elk through the mountains all day. He would lift the front end of the little Suzuki on to the tailgate and then grab the back rack and hoist it up and in the truck. He would then turn and smile at me and brag that his grandfather always told him that he was strong as an ox, and just as smart. He was always real proud of that compliment.

I spent several years with this truck and the two 4-wheelers and I would also take the kids up the trails as often as we could get away. As kids got older and busier, it became harder to do. Eventually my dad sold his 4-Wheelers and I sold the truck and moved on to a mini-van. The mini-van only lasted about a year and a half until I was finally able to convince my wife that a 1992 Ford F350 7.4 Liter Crew Cab Turbo Diesel 4X4 would be much more sensible and practical for our family of 6 than a mini-van could possibly be.Many years have passed by and last fall Bill called me and said that we needed to go Blue Grouse hunting again. I was all in. Bill said he had an ATV that we could take and ride up the old 4-wheeler trail. He said that an ATV is an All Terrain Vehicle and it looked a lot like a 4-wheeler, only better. He explained to me that there is no such thing as a 4-wheeler anymore, they’ve all been replaced with ATVs. These new ATVs are bigger and stronger than the old 4-wheelers. I pondered over the end of 4-wheeler for a while and then reminisced about riding them up and down the mountains and only rolling that little Suzuki twice. I then decided that progress must go on and that these new ATVs must be an improvement or the 4-wheelers wouldn’t have gone extinct. I now had a Toyota Tundra crew cab with a 6.5 foot bed. I figured that would be plenty of room for one of these new ATVs. The day before we were to go grouse hunting, I decided to check the Fish and Game regulations to make sure the Blue Grouse season was still the same, and to check the open units and limits. My digression for the day is below

The Fish and Game regulations used to be a small booklet of 10 or 12 pages and were pretty easy to find the season dates, limits and open areas. The new regs are 80 or 90 pages per booklet, and there are several booklets. There are pages and pages of advertisements, explanations of what weapons can be used, specifications of weapons, bullets, types of scopes, arrows and broadheads. There are tables of shooting hours, sunrises and sunsets, as well as maps, animal descriptions, pictures, and natural habitat research. These regs are also color coded for recent changes, units, zones and special permit hunts. They explain how some hunts are restricted to specific units while others are in certain zones. Zones are made up of parts of 1 or more units. Deer hunts are in units but elk hunts are in zones. There are then long legal descriptions of each unit’s boundaries. Hunters pretty much have to carry the regs with them nowadays and when an animals is sighted, sit down and read the regs to determine where you are, which unit you’re in, which zone you’re in, what’s the date, what time it is, what kind of animal you see, is it male or female, how many antler points does it have, what weapon you are carrying, in order to determine whether you can shoot said animal where it used to be standing.

End of Digression.

I looked through the bird regulations a couple of times but there was no longer a Blue Grouse season listed. I couldn’t believe it, what was going on here? As I looked closer I discovered there was a new grouse season in the same area and at the same time as the old Blue Grouse season. This new grouse season was for a bird called the Dusky Grouse. I had never heard of such a bird. I read about their characteristics and even looked at a picture. Dusky Grouse looked eerily similar to the Blue Grouse. These Dusky Grouse must have slowly moved in and taken over the Blue Grouse range and the Blue Grouse must now be extinct or endangered. When I figured that out, it motivated me to go out and shoot all those pesky Dusky Grouse for ruining our Blue Grouse hunting.

Bill has never been one for reading the regulations, so I called him up and told him that there is no more Blue Grouse hunting in Idaho, and that Blue Grouse appear to be extinct. Bill was overcome with disbelief and anger. I calmed him down by telling him that there is a Dusky Grouse hunt in the same area that is open. He had never heard of a Dusky Grouse either but was immediately interested. He then wondered if we were capable of matching wits with these new fangled birds. Bill asked what Dusky meant, and I told him I wasn’t sure but to me it sounded like the time of day just before it gets Darky. We set our sights on finding some of these Dusky Grouse and thinning them out so maybe the Blue Grouse could make a comeback.I got to Bill’s house early the next day. He was wearing his camo baseball cap that he always likes to wear, he says it keeps people from seeing what he is thinking. I used to be skeptical of this theory until one day I realized that I can never see what he’s thinking, and I know him pretty well. He pulled the ATV around to my truck and I was shocked at how big it was. ATVs were much bigger than 4-wheelers. I didn’t think I’d be able to help lift it into the truck so I started to say to him that I bet he couldn’t lift that into my truck by himself when he stopped me and said that you don’t lift ATVs, you drive them up a ramp. He pulled a big folding ramp out of the garage and set it on the tailgate. He then rode the ATV up the ramp and into the back of the Tundra. Only it didn’t fit. I couldn’t shut the tailgate. This ATV was too long for a 6.5 foot bed! We then had to find some straps to tie it down so it couldn’t fall out. We then had to strap the ramp down too. I kept thinking about how great progress is. We now have huge ATVs, small truck beds, no Blue Grouse and 90 pages of color coded regulations with advertisements. I was beginning to understand why old men are cranky and talk about the good old days. We made it to our hunting spot, drove the ATV down the ramp and headed up the mountain. We had a loop we used to ride that went gradually up one side of a mountain and then came down pretty steep and quick on the other. It was about 12 or 13 miles up and 5 down. We rode the long route up to the top and didn’t see any Blue Grouse, which wasn’t surprising as they were extinct, but we didn’t see any Dusky Grouse either. I remembered that the steeper downhill was usually better hunting. We got off the ATV and walked down the hill a while. After less than a mile, Bill said he was going back to get the ATV and that he would ride it down the way we came up. I asked him why he didn’t just ride it down this steep trail that is shorter. He said that this was an old 4-wheeler trail and an ATV wouldn’t make it down. The 4-wheeler trail has got some narrow places and some bad spots in it, so he had to go down the other way. You sure wouldn’t want to get an ATV stuck, or roll it on an old 4-wheeler trail. I told him I would just walk down the old trail and meet him back at the truck.As I walked the old trail I thought again about how great progress is. How we now have smaller trucks, much larger ATVs, and much more complicated regulations, and how this is so much better now. I waxed a bit nostalgic about the 4-wheeler and the Blue Grouse now being extinct. I ended up shooting 3 or 4 of those Dusky Grouse on my way down the trail and I enjoyed the walk and views. The Dusky Grouse looked just like Blue Grouse. They were slow and not very bright, so we matched up well. In fact, I couldn’t tell the difference between them and the old Blue Grouse. I suppose I could get used to hunting the Dusky Grouse as much as I might miss the Blues. And I suppose progress is a good and necessary thing. I tried to vow to myself that I wouldn’t become a cranky old man and talk about the good old days, but my heart wasn’t in it.

Oh by the way, when my Dad sold his 4-wheelers, I bought the little one. I still have it and it still runs fine. But don’t tell anyone. We kept the Ford F350 for 17 years.

The Bear Stand

Recently, I noticed that the string on my bow was broken and needed to be replaced. I took it to Cabela’s and walked back to the archery section. I was amazed at the new technology in bows, the new styles, fancy cams, wheels and cables. My Martin Firecat is a bit over 10 years old, but is way out of date. I also noticed how the price of things has gone way up. I suddenly liked my old bow just fine. My new string cost me $68.00. 15 years ago I could get a dozen arrows, a string, and some other options for that price. As I paced around waiting for my string to be installed, another $25.00, I noticed a tree stand. It was huge. It had ropes, clamps and chains to keep it attached to the tree and leveled. It had a padded chair and backrest, a retractable roof in case of rain or sunburn, and even a safety harness to clip into to keep one from falling out of the tree. The fabric and paint were all matching camo patterns. It also came with metal steps and handles that you screw into the tree to make the climbing easier and safer. It looked like something I might need, although I wondered if I could ever find it again if I put it up in a tree. As I stared at this fancy $1,200 behemoth, my mind wandered back to a simpler time, a time when tree stands were less complex and less expensive.

In the late 1980’s my wife and I moved back to Boise from Alaska. Much to my wife’s chagrin, I started spending more time with her brother Bill. It turned out that Bill and I had much more in common than anyone would have thought. We both liked hunting and fishing, and we played a lot of basketball together. We also found that in our teenage years, we both apprenticed under the same, little known but often followed, Greek philosopher, Dipp LeSchiticus. Bill talks like he was an honor student, but I never worked that hard at it, much like my high school courses.
When each fall rolled around, Bill and I spent a lot of time hunting and fishing together. Much of our hunting involved Garden Mountain. We hiked up and down the mountain a few times as well as riding 4 wheelers up the trail from Zimmer Creek. There was also a drivable road up the backside all the way to the top. We drove this road quite often. Back then, last few miles were a narrow, brushy stretch that scratched up my truck and tore the vent off the top of my camper shell the first time in. We always drove my truck after that because it was already scratched and torn up a bit. We would camp at one of several places on the top of the mountain, among them, the now infamous Dead Cow Camp.

My mind wandered to one particular spring. Bill and I were bored and antsy to get outside. We decided we should get out on the spring bear hunt and look for bears. We also figured that we should build our own tree stand, put out some bait for the bears, and just wait for them to come to visit. We knew there was still snow on Garden Mountain but thought we might be able to get to the top. We loaded up my truck with two 4-wheelers, two wooden pallets, various lengths and sizes of lumber, nails, hammers, saws and various other tools. We also tossed in our first round of bear bait. Old jars of fruit, a couple bags of old grain, and some fish and game meat left in the freezer for too many years. My truck had the Beverly Hillbillies look going on as we left town early one Saturday morning. The road up the mountain was on the North side. There was still some big snow banks in places so the truck didn’t get far off the valley floor before we hit deep snow. We pulled off to the side and unloaded all our equipment and supplies. We bounced the 4-Wheelers off the back of the truck and fired them up. It then took us at least an hour to load the pallets, tools, and food onto the 4-wheelers and strap it all down. I ended up sitting on the pallet’s edge as it was much larger than the 4-wheeler rack. We started up the mountain and made pretty good time in some places. The shady, protected corners were still snow covered and a few times we had to stop and muscle each 4-wheeler through the drifts. The higher we got the deeper the snow became and we were wearing ourselves out fighting uphill through the snow. We finally realized that we were not going to make it to the top, although we had gotten pretty high. We remembered a spot near the top that we had frequently seen game and had even shot a deer there a couple years back. We fought our way to that ridge. We arrived well after noon and unloaded our treasures. We only had to carry them about a hundred yards through the thick snow. We selected a spot about 25 feet high in a big pine tree and went to work. We spent hours climbing up and down the tree, cutting pallets and boards to fit, pounding nails and tying up ropes. Late in the afternoon we were exhausted, but, we had a pretty nice bear stand. It wasn’t quite level, it sloped down a bit towards the ground in the front. There was potential for slivers in the rear end, as I had learned from sitting on the pallet on the ride up, and it teetered back and forth a little bit. But overall it looked pretty good. We had even pounded some boards into the tree for steps. There was no padded chair, safety harness or rain cover, but we didn’t plan to hunt in the rain or fall out of the tree. We laid out the fruit, grain and frozen fish in an area open to the stand. We were pretty darn proud of ourselves as we packed up the empty jars and tools and readied ourselves for the trip down. Driving home we talked about how often we would bring up more bait and how one of us could sit in the stand and the other could hunt higher up the mountain. It was going to be a good spring hunt.

The next time I saw the bear stand was about a year and half later. I was driving up and over the top of the mountain to meet Bill for an elk hunt. I thought of that tree stand while driving that section of road. I stopped and got out. I walked the hundred yards off the road and looked at our stand. I found it easily enough. It was still in pretty good shape and seemed to be holding up fine. I noticed a game trail going by that looked like it had regular use. Some of the grain we left had sprouted and grown and it appeared to be nibbled on by the wildlife. I told myself that someday soon I would come back and sit in this tree stand and wait for the animals to come by.
I realized that it has now been about 15 years since we built that stand and somehow I’ve never actually sat in it and hunted. I’ve only been back there that one time.

I ended my day dream as the Cabela’s guy called to me and said my bow was ready. I retrieved my bow from him and gave the fancy tree stand one last look. Walking out of the store, I vowed to stop and check out the bear stand the next time I drive up the backside of the mountain. I’ll let you know what I find.

February 15, 2011

Elk Hunting 101

October 21, 2010

I took the day off from work today and I went on a long hike. Deer hunting season is open but I didn’t take my rifle. This was more of a scouting trip. Also, I left the house around 11:00 am. I was going to hike up the south side of a mountain in the sun, it was 70 degrees out, it was an area I hadn’t been to before, there was a chance I would cross into private property, and, I was taking my dog. My chances of seeing a deer were somewhere around zero. Also, it’s a really bad idea to be caught on private property with a rifle. It’s even worse to be caught with a rifle and a buck deer. It’s pretty hard to run with a 4 point over your shoulder. But, if a guy was just hiking along with his dog and got a little turned around, most land owners would let him go with a warning and a ‘don’t let me catch you here again’ sermon. This is one of those unwritten rules of the outdoors.

I had seen a couple 2 track trails taking off from a public dirt road near the top of this mountain. They were less than a mile apart. I wanted to get up near the top as I knew there was public land to be hunted. Problem was the 2 track trails were most likely on private property. The lower one had a big gate across it, spray painted bright orange with ‘No Trespassing’ signs on both sides. The upper one didn’t seem to have a gate as far as I could see. I parked by the upper trail and headed up and around the corner. Just as I got to the corner, there was the gate. Spray painted orange, ‘No Trespassing’ signs on both sides. Dang! There was only one thing I could do. I turned around, walked down the trail, and got into my truck. I drove down the road about halfway between the two trails, pulled off on the opposite side and hiked straight up the ridgeline separating the two trails. No gate, no signs, no spray paint. How could I know that it was private property?

I didn’t see another person the whole day. I found a pretty promising hunting spot, and possibly, a little better way to get to it.

As I hiked along during the day, I thought about written and unwritten rules. They are found in many areas of life. Baseball aficionados talk about the unwritten rules of the game. I don’t think I know a single one of those rules, I can’t even spell aficionado without Microsoft’s help. But still, unwritten rules exist. Just as there are written and unwritten rules of sports, in the working world, and in most relationships, the same is true of hunting. The Fish and Game Regulations are the written rules governing when, where, and what you can hunt in Idaho. The unwritten rules govern the rest of hunting. From proper etiquette when you run into other hunters in your spot, to when to have bullets in your gun, to how to leave the testicles naturally attached to the hind quarter of an elk and not have them bouncing off your face every other step as you pack it out. This reminded me of one of my favorite sayings: “Rules are the guidelines of wise men, and for the strict obedience of idiots”. Lucky for me, my brother-in-law Bill and I, are some pretty wise guys.

Several years ago, Bill called me and wanted to go elk hunting. We talked about hunting spots and maybe trying something new. We had hunted up the Middle Fork of the Boise River a few times, hiking up towards Thorn Creek Lookout from the river. It was a very long way from the middle fork road to the Look Out. We would only climb up about halfway. Any further and packing meat back down to camp would be brutal. But it sure looked like good hunting up higher on the mountain. We then discussed how we could drive up to Thorn Creek Lookout and hunt down a little ways, staying well above the area we had hunted from below. This sounded like a great idea. The hunt was set. We would get up early in the morning, drive to the lookout, and arrive well before daybreak.

As I lay in bed the night before the trip, I thought about a couple of the unwritten rules of hunting. 1- Never go to a new spot in the dark, you should always have at least one person familiar with the terrain. 2- Never hunt down hill for elk. This second one is usually a non issue as elk live mostly on the mountain tops during hunting season. Carrying elk quarters downhill is tough, but carrying them up hill very far is insane. Good thing Bill and I are wiser than that. We planned on staying high and looking down the draws and ridges.

The next morning about half an hour before day light, we drive past Thorn Creek Lookout. We meander down the other side of the lookout and park by a big rock out in an open meadow. We each have a day pack with food, water, clothes, and other hunting stuff. We have a pack frame for carrying heavy quarters, if needed. We leave it in the truck. We each carry a rifle. It’s still pitch black out as we walked off the side of the mountain and down towards the middle fork of the Boise. The brush is thick and noisy, so we move slowly as we wait for a little day light. As it begins to lighten up, we see an open ridgeline that runs out from, and down the mountain. We make our way to the ridgeline and begin moving down. It isn’t too long until we start hearing some elk grunts and barking below us. It is light enough to see pretty well as we hurry down the ridge towards the sounds. About 20 minutes later we get into the elk, they take off running. A large bull and a spike run off to our right and through some open sage brush. The large bull never slows down and rounds the corner away from us. The spike stops broadside in the opening and turns to take a look at us. Elk should have their own unwritten rules, one of which should be – Never stop running to look at people wearing bright orange jackets.

As we begin butchering the spike elk, Bill mentions that it isn’t a real big elk. Maybe we could leave the rear half in one piece, strap it to the pack frame, and get it out in one load. If it turns out to be too heavy to carry, we can just cut it in half with the bone saw and make another trip down and back. I think to myself how brilliant that is and hope that someday I can be as wise as Bill. Bill then gives me this proud look and says that his grandpa always told him that he was ‘strong as an ox and just as smart’. I was about to mention that that may not be a compliment, but I didn’t want to ruin that look on his face. It was turning out to be a beautiful fall morning. The sun was out shining on us, we had an elk down, and we were enjoying the great outdoors. We only had 2 problems that I could see. 1 -We didn’t know exactly where we were, and 2- We weren’t sure how far down the mountain we had come. I suddenly remembered those 2 unwritten rules that were bothering me last night. I’m not sure why they would pop into my head at such a great time and place as this.

We get the elk gutted, skinned and the front quarters off and into game bags. The rear quarters are in one piece, (with the testicles still naturally attached per the written rules). The legs are cut off at the knee and we are ready head up the mountain. Besides the meat, we have 2 rifles, 2 daypacks, and the head and antlers. We decide to take the rifles, backpacks, the head, and one front quarter in the first trip up. It will be a lot to carry, but the second trip will only be a front quarter and the rear half. We’ll get the pack frame from the truck and strap that hind end on to it. The sun is high in the sky as we head out. The cool morning has turned to a sunny, hot day. The ridgeline is dry, dusty, and mostly open to the sun. We plod straight uphill for 45 minutes, stopping to rest every now and then. We are hot dirty and tired and still have another trip to make. I trip over a root and the elk quarter goes flying off my shoulder and into some dry powdery dirt. Dust puffs up all around the meat. Bill starts getting cranky as he wrestles with the backpacks, head and a gun. He’s not a big fan of dirty, dusty, elk meat, so I keep my head down and keep plodding. It takes us another hour or so of climbing to find the truck and get unloaded. We had gone down the mountain a lot further than we thought that morning. Whose idea was it to go so dang far down this mountain and then shoot something?

It’s well into the afternoon as we eat some lunch and drink a lot of water. We’re ready to head back down the mountain. We take only the pack frame and some water. We found a narrow bit of a trail that side hills from just below the truck to the ridgeline we came up. We cross the side hill on it, and then we’re on our way back down, lighter, but tired and dirty from the first climb up. We make it to the meat late in the afternoon. We strap the rear half of the elk to the pack frame with the legs pointing up. We tie it down tight so it won’t shift around while carrying it. That’s another unwritten rule. If something this heavy shifts while on your back, it can cause a dangerous fall. The pack frame and elk has to weigh at least 175 pounds, probably more. Bill sits down and pulls the shoulder straps on. I help lift as he stands up. He gets it up, tightens the pack belt around his waist, and starts up hill. It looks pretty heavy but he moves at a steady pace. I take the other front quarter and follow along. He’s looking tired as he makes his way, slowly, up the mountain. Even those hairy testicles bouncing off his ear every other step don’t seem to bother him. After about 10 minutes, he stops. He’s mad and he’s tired. It’s just too heavy to do in one load. We decide to cut it in half and make another trip. Bill’s frustrated and wants to get this pack out finished. He asks me for my bone saw to cut the half into 2 quarters. Well, my bone saw is in my back pack up in the truck. Now he’s really pissed. I didn’t dare ask him where HIS bone saw was. I already knew the answer anyway. We stomp around in the dirt and dust awhile and decide we’re going to have to muscle the half elk up the mountain in one piece, rather than climb the mountain to get a bone saw and still have 2 more trips to make, the last, most likely in the dark. I tell him that I’ll take a turn with the pack frame. He looks at me like this is all somehow my fault. He straps the frame back on and lets his anger help muscle the elk up the mountain. I pick the front quarter up out of the dirt where I dropped it and follow along. After a few hundred yards up the steepest part Bill slips and lets out a painful grunt. He turns around and leans back onto the hill and gets the weight off of him. He wiggles out of the pack and then writhes in pain. He tells me that he thinks he blew out his bungee. I think on this a minute and just as the smart ass in me is about to ask if he needs some help to relight his bungee, I stop. I know that Bill’s a pretty colorful guy with a great hunting vocabulary, and some anatomical names that I never heard before, but something tells me to refrain from the smart ass comments that I have been cheering him up with most of the day. Also, I’m not quite sure what a bungee is, where it might be located, and if it even needs to be relit after being blown out. Though, I can clearly see that blowing out your bungee is plenty painful and quite irritating.

Those unwritten rules enter my mind again as I notice we’re on the side of a mountain, dog tired, the sun beating down on us as it fades in the west. It’ll be dark in a couple hours, and Bill has a blown out bungee. After a few minutes, Bill’s up moving around mad as a hornet. He looks like he’s limping, but on both legs. I still don’t know where his bungee is. We formulate a new plan. He’ll take the front quarter and head for the truck as fast as he can. I’ll take the back half and slowly work up the hill. He’ll get to the truck, get the bone saw and come back and find me. We’ll split the elk in half and each carry a hind quarter the rest of the way out. I get the pack frame on, Bill helps me up and we’re off. He takes off with the front quarter and his blown out bungee. I slowly start my ascent. I know I can’t sit down or I’ll never get up again. I work my way up the hill for what seems like a long time. No water, no shade, my legs are burning and I dread the leg cramps I know are coming later on that night. I’m in no joking mood and begin to wonder when Bill’s coming back. I climb over logs and up steep inclines as I picture Bill back at the truck drinking the water and sitting in the shade, watching the sun set. After what seems like hours, I finally make it up to the side hill trail and start across. It’s steep and slick and the light is fading. I could easily break a leg, roll an ankle, strain my back, or maybe even blow out a bungee in this mess. I finally see Bill coming back down the trail. He’s about 25 yards away when our eyes meet. He looks at me, his anger gone, and says in a nice voice. “Man, you’re doing really good with that. You’re only a quarter mile from the truck”. He keeps his distance and starts walking back towards the truck telling me how strong I look with those testicles bouncing off my head and some other crap about carrying meat and then something about an ox. But I’m not listening anymore. In fact, I’m starting to get a little peckertated with him and his phony compliments and encouragement. He stays about 20 yards ahead of me and is now walking backwards talking to me and telling me to keep going, and how close we’re getting. I make it across the side hill trail and I’m at the bottom of the last incline. At this point, I would like to ram this whole back pack and elk up his bungee, but I know I’ll never catch him. I start up the final incline until suddenly, I’ve had enough. I can’t do it anymore. I ask him in my most polite voice if he would be good enough to come over and GET THIS DAMN THING OFF OF ME! He looks a bit hurt as he helps me get the pack off and onto his back for last couple hundred yards. I must have forgotten to say please.

We make it to the truck as the sun is setting over the mountains. We unload, rest a minute and get a drink. We start talking about what a great day it has been and how much fun we had. How lucky we are to find elk in a new spot. We talk about coming back next year.

There must be another unwritten rule that says all hunts are fun as long as no one gets seriously hurt or lost for more than 2 or 3 days. I’m not sure if the bungee blow out is considered serious or not at this point.

We make it home late that night. My legs cramp up in the middle of the night. I wonder if this is what it feels like to blow out my bungee. The next day, Bill gets in to see the bungee doctor. The doctor gets it put back in place or relit or whatever they do for blown out bungees. He’s good as new in a couple weeks and we start planning our next trip. We reminisce about how good the last hunt was and how wise we are in following the rules of the hunt.

P.A.D.D.

I have never been one to have bumper stickers on my vehicles. I sometimes enjoy them on other cars but never really felt the need to express myself on my bumper. The majority of the bumper stickers I see are rather lackluster and unoriginal. It seems to me that bumper stickers have lost their appeal and that there are very few good ones about anymore. I do have a few favorites and a couple of them are below:

The more people I meet the more I like my dog

People who think they know it all really annoy those of us who do

What Would Scooby Doo?

I did make my own bumper sticker once but I never put it on my car, although I did hang it up at work for a very short time. It read:

P.A.D.D.
People Against Dead Drivers

Many years ago, my wife and I lived in Anchorage, Alaska. We lived in an apartment complex on the corner of a busy road and a fairly quiet cross street. We parked our cars at an angle on the cross street at the side of our apartment. The City of Anchorage had a lot across the side street that was a parking area for snow plows and other heavy equipment. There was a garage on the back of the property for maintenance work. The front of the lot was all gravel and was usually empty in the summer. There was a 6 foot chain link fence around the property and a gate across the entry way. The gate was always closed and locked. One summer night after midnight I awoke to some loud noises. I didn’t recognize the sounds. I then heard a car racing up the side street towards our complex. I heard some crashes and an engine roaring. I jumped out of bed and ran to the kitchen window. Bright headlights were shining directly into the apartment from the city lot across our side street. I could still hear the car engine roaring. I looked out the window and behind the bright headlights I could see dirt flying out from the spinning rear tires of the vehicle. I put some clothes on and went outside. Another man had stopped and run up to the vehicle and turned the engine off. The vehicle was a taxi cab and the driver had been shot and killed. We called the police and they showed up instantly. They cordoned off the area and interviewed everyone around. No one there had seen the assailant, or anything unusual prior to the noise. After a couple of hours the police came back to our apartment and said that the cab had hit our car before turning across the street, breaking through the fence and then looping back towards our apartment. The cab hit a fence post squarely or it may have come right into our kitchen. The damage to our car was minimal. Estimates came to about $600. I contacted the cab driver’s insurance company and they said they would take care of everything. So I filed a claim with them and waited for a check.

A couple weeks later I received a call from them. They told me that they were not liable for the damage. There was no negligence on the part of their insured. Bottom line for them was that a dead person cannot be negligent. Our conversations became somewhat morbid as we discussed when the cab driver actually died. Did he die before he hit my car and then make a turn away from it through the fence across the road and then back towards our apartment? Did the shooter pull the steering wheel to the right? I was 25 or 26 years old - pretty naive. The world hadn’t kicked me around too much yet, but something didn’t make sense to me. I called my insurance company and discussed the accident with them. My agent said that the cab’s insurance company is dead wrong, (pardon the pun). They should be liable for the damage regardless of the timing of the driver’s death. He told me to file a claim with them, fix the car, and then my insurance company would sue the cab’s insurance company for damages in the amount of their claim plus my deductible. This made sense to me and this is the path my wife and I took.

I waited a couple months and hadn’t heard anything from my insurance company. I called, talked to my agent, and then a claims adjustor. When I asked about my accident, he laughed and said that they would not pursue such a small claim. It was less than $300 paid by the insurance company. I told him what I had been told about recovering my deductible I had paid. He laughed again said that my $300 deductible paid was not a concern of theirs. I won’t mention the name of my insurance company, but I canceled my policies with them and vowed never to do business with them again. And told them I surely didn’t feel like I had been in good hands. My only recourse was to create my own bumper sticker. It hung in my cubicle at work for a very short time, there is more to that story, but I can't go there.

To this day I have not done business with that insurance company, I haven’t put a bumper sticker on any of my vehicles, I'm still an opponent of driving dead, and the membership of P.A.D.D. remains at one.

A Musing of Age

I recently celebrated the 21st anniversary of my 29th birthday. I’d heard that turning 50 is a big step in life. I do find myself reflecting on the past more often. I look at my kids and their friends and the way most of them are so grown up and mature. I remember like yesterday when they were small and needed me. Seeing them all grown up makes me feel less useful, it makes me wonder if I raised them right, if they had enough good, memorable experiences, and it makes me ask myself; “What the hell happened? Wasn’t I just 25 a couple of years ago?” My oldest son goes off to college next week. He’s 18 years old and 6 feet 5 inches tall. He’s a smart kid, he received a great scholarship, he got a 33 on his ACT test (99th percentile in the nation), and he can beat me on the basketball court. I used to be pretty good, I had skills, I was quick and agile. I used to have a decent vertical. When he was in 5th grade I dominated him, but no more.

My brother-in-law, Bill, is now pushing 50. I talked to him about being fifty years old and my concerns of growing old. I was hoping for some support. He explained to me that for many years he was always referred to as ‘Big Bill’. His oldest son, also named Bill, was either Billy or Little Bill. The years raced by and now both of Bill’s sons are taller and heavier than him. His daughter is grown and married. He no longer merits the name of ‘Big Bill’, his son is now ‘Big Bill’ or ‘Young Bill”, he is now appropriately referred to as ‘Little, Old Bill’. This was not the help and support I was looking for.

Brayden and I went salmon fishing a few weeks ago. We were walking through the woods up above the South Fork of the Salmon River. Brayden looked up and very calmly said, “There’s a bear”. I looked up and saw a large black bear strolling along about 50 yards from us. I was somewhat concerned as most black bears I’ve seen in my life typically turn and run from humans. This one appeared to be checking us out to see how fishing was going. This was also the second biggest black bear I’d ever seen, and he was much closer than most other bears I’d bumped into. I began forming my strategy if he charged, or wanted to search us for salmon. Would we stand our ground, jump up and down and scream, or would we make a run for it? I looked at the steep slope down to the river and thought that might be a good option. The bear stopped to take a closer look at us as I took his picture. I then looked to my son to see if he was getting concerned. He looked at me with a smile and a little twinkle in his eye. I recognized that look, as I had also used it somewhere in the past. It said, “It doesn’t matter which way you go Pops, I can outrun you.” The bear didn’t charge, but I had already settled on the ‘stand my ground, jump up and down and yell tactic’.

However smart and mature your kids may be, there is always room for one of life’s little lessons. Brayden’s mother had asked him to blow off the driveway with the electric blower recently. We have a large driveway with trees all around. We use a 100 foot extension cord to reach everywhere needed. Blowing off the driveway is a normal chore that even Brayden can’t get out of all the time. Brayden’s not big on doing jobs around the house. He tells me that the vacuuming really sucks, and that clearing the driveway blows. And we won’t even talk about cleaning his room. I was out working in the yard when he began blowing off the driveway. He had tied the blower cord and the extension cord in a knot to keep them connected as he tugged the cord around the driveway. As he stretched to the end of the driveway, the cord tangled with the poles on the carport and stuck. Rather than walking over to unhook it or trying to flip it free, he gave the cord a mighty yank and pulled the plug portion of the extension cord right off. The extension cord lay there on the driveway with the copper wires showing. The blower cord was still attached to the plug end of the extension cord. Lindsey, Brayden’s sister, and her friend were driving back from Salt Lake City and pulled up to the driveway at the precise moment Brayden bent over and picked up the end of the orange extension cord. He held it up and stared at the broken end of the cord, the wires hanging bare. “Einstein” then reached out and grabbed the copper wires. He shot up into the air twice as he threw the cord and yelled “ACK, ACK, ACK”. He then danced and spun around the driveway. He looked up and saw Lindsey sitting in the car watching. He yelled out at her, “THAT HURT LIKE SHIT!’ Lindsey, her friend, and I were thoroughly entertained by the whole performance. Later, Lindsey even attempted some re-enactments, although Brayden failed to see the humor. After we were all laughed out, I decided that Brayden needed to improve on his swearing abilities, as the ‘That hurt like shit’ comment is a bit troubling. Something just isn’t quite right. I could see that much improvement was needed and that I would have to call in an expert. I hope his mother can spare some time to work with him.

Huntin’ Spots, Champagne Peaches, and Dead Cow Camp

A few years ago, Bill and I were putting together a bow hunting trip to one of our favorite hunting spots. We decided to get together for lunch and do some trip planning. The previous fall, Bill showed me this great spot that was only an hour and a half from town. It immediately became one of my favorite spots to hunt. It was at the top of a large mountain. Most of our hunting spots are at the tops of mountains, mostly because that’s where the elk are. Most of our trips also require hiking several miles from the bottom to the tops of these mountains. The reason this new place instantly became my favorite spot is due to the fact that we could DRIVE to the top of the mountain! The road to the top of the mountain was long and slow as it switched back and forth up a steep slope. Once on top there was a 2 track almost wide enough for a vehicle. This 2 track snaked in and out of the canyon tops through thick trees and brush for another 3 or 4 miles. When I had driven it the previous year, I tore the vent off the top of the camper shell on a tree limb, cracked a head light on a rock, and scratched both sides of my truck, from front to back, on the brush. Luckily, I never had to worry about scratches, door dings, or even minor accidents again, as Bill now pronounced my truck, broken in. I also figured out why Bill always said that the best hunting rig around always belongs to somebody else.

I pulled into Bill’s office parking lot to pick him up for lunch. We were headed to an all you can eat buffet with pizza, a salad and fruit bar, fried chicken, and fried potato wedges. As I walked into his office, he was standing with a group of people and one older man was telling about his elk hunt the prior fall. Bill nodded at me and then to the speaker. I sat down to listen without a saying a word. A decent elk hunter knows not to interrupt a good hunting story. I followed the story fine as the guy talked about sitting in his hunting spot and watching the hillside across a narrow canyon. Then he made a statement that completely befuddled me, he said that “I saw an elk jog out into the open, so I got out and moved down to take a closer look”. Got out? Got out of what? How does one get out of a hunting spot? Typically your hunting spot moves around with you. If you’re sitting on a rock or under a tree, and after a while you get up and move to another rock or tree, that’s your new hunting spot. But you don’t get out of sitting on a rock or leaning on a tree. Did he get out of his clothes and do a little bare hunting? I got stuck on that statement and missed the rest of the story. I have no idea whether the guy shot an elk or fell off a cliff. My mind was stuck on the “got out of my spot“, comment.

Have you ever had those canned peaches in syrup at a salad bar? I placed a few of those between my pizza stack and fried chicken pile the first time through the buffet line. I ate 2 or 3 of them when I realized they were a little bit tangy and had a bite to them. They stung my tongue as I realized they had fermented and had probably been sitting out at the salad bar for several days. I was planning on complaining to the waitress, but by the time I saw her, I didn’t have any peaches left.

As Bill sat down with his four plates of pizza and fried chicken, I confessed to him. I said, “Bill, I thought I knew a little about elk hunting, but I don’t understand what that guy meant when he said that he ‘got out’ of his spot.” Bill broke it to me slowly and said that I missed the first part of the story. The guy was actually sitting in the CAB OF HIS TRUCK! I almost fell out of my chair. I had never heard of such a thing. My mind raced as I tried to figure out how such a thing was possible. In all my years of hunting, I had never seen an elk within 2 or 3 miles of a road during an open season. Sure, I’d seen them standing in the road the day before the season opened, or driving home the day after the season closed, but never during an open season. As I tried to wrap my mind around this new concept, Bill headed back to the buffet. The answer finally came to me. Bill was putting me on. He’s trying to make a fool out of me by telling me the guy’s hunting spot is in his truck. Well, I wasn’t going to stand for it. When Bill came back from the buffet line, I noticed he had some peaches on one of the plates on his trays. I continued eating my pizza thoughtfully.

After a bit, Bill looks up and says, “Hey, these peaches taste kinda funny.

“Really”, I replied, “Are they kinda tangy, and sting your tongue?”

“Yeah, what is that?” he says.

“Well, they soak ‘em in champagne. It makes them last longer and it gives them a little kick.” I tell him.

Bill looks at me and asks, “Really?” “Yeah” I say nodding at him with an earnest look.

“I don’t think I’ve had these before” he says.

“Oh, there’s a few places around that have them” I respond as if I were the expert on champagne peaches.

There, now we’re both a bit befuddled as he finishes his plate of peaches and moves on to the next course.

We turn to the bow hunt and decide to drive up late Friday evening, get there well after dark, and sleep in the back of my truck. We’ll get up and going just before daylight and walk the 2 miles to our hunting spot. Bow hunting requires getting pretty close to an animal to get a good shot off, so Bill reminds me to not wash my camo clothes with soap, don’t wear any deodorant, and to bring elk urine or skunk scent to cover our smell. Yes, you can buy elk urine in a bottle. How they get elk to pee in a bottle is something else I haven’t got my mind wrapped around, and don’t get me started thinking about the skunk scent.

The day of the hunt finally rolled around. I got off work, got my stuff ready to go, and headed over to Bill’s house. I noticed his shiny truck in the driveway and asked if he wanted to drive. He said his truck had a slow leak in a tire and we probably shouldn’t trust it that far from home. We took off in my truck and drove the hour and a half to our mountain top. I added a few more scratches and dents to the sides of my truck on the last few miles in. It was dark when we arrived but we had a nice flat camping spot in mind. We’d been there the prior fall and I pulled up and backed right in and shut off the lights. We jumped in the back of the truck, rolled our pads and sleeping bags out and were ready to get some sleep. We’d been lying in bed just a few minutes when I began to smell something pretty strong. I figured Bill didn’t want to smell artificial for the elk hunt and hadn’t worn any deodorant or washed his clothes for several days. But this was over doing it. I politely mentioned how bad he smelled and that he would have to wear a fair amount of elk pee tomorrow to cover his stench. Bill got all offended and started telling me that I smelled worse than he ever did. Rather than start an argument with him, I stuck to facts and reminded him that I had taken a shower during the week and that he smelled like something crawled up inside of him and died. For some reason he took offense to my factual explanation and started rambling on about some of my hygiene practices and various body parts and smells emitted. I finally fell asleep in spite of his hideous stench and inability to smell himself. I decided that my hunting spot was going to be a long way away from his in the morning.

We awakened before day break, got our sleeping bags out of the way, and began getting ready to go. I was never so happy to get out of the truck and away from Stinky Pete. We got our flashlights and began organizing things on the tailgate, however, I could still smell him, and it seemed to be getting worse. We looked at each other and almost simultaneously turned around and shined our flashlights on an unusual hump on the ground behind us. There, about 10 feet from the back of the truck, was a large range cow that had died a few days previous. Its guts had been drug around by coyotes and there was blood and gore everywhere. We could see the maggots festering around. As we moved closer, the stench was almost unbearable. I gathered my bow and gear, squirted some elk pee up each nostril, and headed down the trail as quickly as possible. I can’t remember how that particular hunt went , but from that day on, the place we parked and blamed each other for the hideous smell was henceforth referred to as “Dead Cow Camp”. Bill and I often hunt in different directions and always plan to meet at some peak, trail, or obvious landmark. We rarely see each other again, and usually end up lost and alone. However, if we ever agree to meet at Dead Cow Camp, we know exactly where it is and can always find our way there.

Not many years after this hunt there was a fire in the mountains near our spot. The fire fighters brought in bulldozers, widened all the roads, created some new ones, and cleared off an acre or so of flat land as a helicopter pad. The fire never reached the mountain. The roads were graveled and culverts added. These roads are now maintained by the county. Access is much easier and the traffic has greatly increased. Bill went up there a year ago and said that the helicopter pad now looks like a parking lot, and that he was looking into putting in a McDonald’s or Starbuck’s franchise as it appears that business would be pretty good. However, the hunting has dropped off. Dead Cow Camp remains the same with a few bones left bleaching in the sun.