Christmas on the Sagebrush

     December 25, 1909 dawned warm on the sagebrush sea of southwestern Wyoming . It was a Saturday, and the “Warmest day so far,” according to my grandfather’s pocket journal. Never a man of a great many words, his terse one-line entries don‘t hint at any particular significance of the day. He was still riding for Franklin and Gilligan, the big sheep outfit owned by his brother-in-law and old Doc Gilligan. So Christmas or not, warm day or not, he was horseback in the gray/white monochrome of winter.   

     Last night in the back pasture, when the Enemy of All Coyotes and I watched the full moon sailing across that cloudless winter sky, I thought of him. I thought of the Christmas only four years later, when he had arrived home from the range on December 19, 1913. He had been married for two years and had a young son. That year, he hadn’t even made an entry in the pocket journal again for almost two weeks. He was home, and he and Harrie and Franklin (their first-born, named for the beloved partner and brother in law) were warm and happy together.
     A little over six years later, he was gone. He didn’t live long enough to watch his children grow into adulthood. But I like to think he was watching when Grandma and I gathered our bunch in off the range like some unruly bunch of woolies yesterday. He couldn’t be there for the family Christmas concert to hear the piano and the violin or sing the old Christmas songs with us. I like to think that he would have loved the Christmas pageant, with a beautiful angel and sweet Mary and Joseph, and the biggest shepherd carrying the littlest sheep on his shoulders. I think he would have liked that part a lot. But even more, I think he would have loved the words from the Book of Luke, read by his eldest great-great grandson:

And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Cæsar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed.
(And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)
And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.
And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judæa, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)
To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.
And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.
And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.
And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

From all of us here at Three Elk Meadow, Merry Christmas – and God bless us, every one!

-Grandpa

Opening Day

     4am comes quickly. As does the lethargy that accompanies early morning wake up calls. However, there are three distinct times where 4am has been my favorite hour. Fishing. Hunting. And when my beautiful wife woke me with, “This baby is coming. Now.” Best wake up calls in the world and each get me moving like a kid on Christmas. My autumn was packed with more football games than fishing days and although I am not always paying attention, I am pretty dang sure Mama B isn't giving me one of these wake up calls anytime in the near or distant future, so this post is about door number two.

     To get to “the spot”, we need to get up early. It's quiet. Not much is said as we eat our breakfast bars and drink our hot chocolate. I don't speak much in the morning. It takes my brain a minute to catch up with the rest of me. Someone starts the truck and we let it warm up. After fueling up with a delicious breakfast provided by encouraging wives and mamas, we head out.
     After the trailhead, it's a good couple miles into the saddle. We rely heavily on our headlamps and the contours of the forest to guide us. Once we make it to Noneyabusiness Meadow, we hoof it to the dip in the timberline on the horizon. We usually find the fence and head up the mountain, the elevation rising in a short amount of time. Occasionally someone has moved said fence, so we miss our mark but eventually make it to the top as the light is starting to spread across the meadow. We find respite under a tree, hoping to see one of God’s majestic creatures getting its last bite to eat before bedding down for the day.
     This last trip was a little different. It was Apprentice Dad, The Apprentice and me. No Grandpa this time, which doesn't happen very often. We sat under a tree and waited for about 15 minutes for it to lighten up enough to shoot. In a beautiful coincidence, there were three bull elk on all sides of us screaming while a wolf pack answered. Throaty growl, short yelps, bugle. I could feel my heart pounding. Was it hearing a wolf for the first time or the struggle up the hill carrying a little extra winter weight from 2014? Maybe both. However, it was a time of reflection, appreciation and excitement. I was going to hunt without the physical guidance of Grandpa and I had the uneasy feeling that I had been given the reins for the first time. I had gone out on my own in years past, but this time was different. It felt like the torch had been passed to me and Apprentice Dad. There was a need to prove something.   

     Finally, it was shooting light and we had to work on our ascent to the base of the mountain. It wasn't long before we caught up to one of those bulls we'd heard bugling in the darkness. We saw legs and hind quarters high stepping through the forest like the great Walter Payton leaping over the New England Patriots as he led the 1985 Chicago Bears to a Super Bowl championship. We never got a shot on that bunch, but with a little patience and a focused Apprentice, we eventually walked out to the truck at 11 pm with meat in our packs and a newfound appreciation of hunting in the high country. I felt like a Hunter.

-Long Rifle

Silence of the Mountain

     I’ve never known exactly why, but sometimes late in the elk season, the mountain just goes quiet. If you’ve never been there, maybe you can’t appreciate that. But in early October, the high country is a pretty noisy place. There are elk bugling, and chickadees chipping and gray jays squawking and even a wolf howl from time to time. There are ravens speaking their ancient language in the roost trees at dawn. But a few weeks later, everything just goes silent. It’s a little eerie, and it makes you feel very small indeed. 

      We left the trailhead at 5:00 AM, and were high above Story Meadow before first light. Having fulfilled our contract as packers for the Great Desert Elk Hunt, the Apprentice and I had the next two days off. Apprenticedad – ever the team player – said he could handle the butchering himself. He set us free to hunt some mountain elk. We were out of the cabin like we were playing hooky from school. And we were standing in the predawn graylight before I realized how quiet it was. Not a sound, not even the breeze in the fir trees. But we were not alone. There were elk.
      All the elk in upper Notellum Creek were on the move – or at least they had been the day before. The day-old snow told the story than anyone could read. They were headed out. There were trails five or six feet wide, all headed the same direction. It wasn’t the snow that was moving them – just the ancient wisdom of the herd. Someplace southeast of us, there were elk. Multiple bunches, actually – and each being led by some old slate-blue colored cow who knew every tree, every rock and every draw between here and the winter range. All we had to do was find them.      

     We spent the morning in the high country where Long Rifle shot his cow early in the season. We we saw lots of elk tracks and they were all heading to the West Fork of Notellum Creek. We spent the entire day on the mountain to see if we could catch stragglers, but no such luck. We checked all the hidey-holes and sat the right meadows until dark, but the country was still silent.
       The next day, we were in West Fork – again before light. And we were immediately into elk. Second rut bulls - bugling over cows that hadn’t been bred the first time around – were all around us. At first light, there were at least 2 bulls on either side of us. We moved carefully, always with the wind in our faces, to ease up on them. Surely one of these guys had some girlfriends! We were always within 500 yards of them, but they filtered up into the dark timber each time. We cow-called often, but not too often, and we heard at least two cows calling back. At one point, we thought we had them, but at the last second they dove off off into deep dark timber and were lost.
      Late in the afternoon, the snow squalls moved in. The elk were silent now, and so were we. We worked the north side of the West Fork country, knowing that there were elk there and hoping we could find them. We didn’t. We did find a winter-killed raghorn bull skull, broken in two parts – one for each of us. And when it was too dark to see anymore, that’s what we carried out in our packs. But what we carried out in our hearts was another great day in our home country. Just Grandpa and grandson in the silence of the mountain.

-Grandpa

A Pretty Cool Grandma

     A few posts ago, Grandpa mentioned Grandma. He said, “Once upon a time, there was a Grandma. She was not a round, soft Grandma like some grandmas. She was more of a lean muscle kind of Grandma. But she did lots of Grandma things like making cookies, reading stories and snuggling little people. She also did other Grandma things like camping and hiking and hunting and shooting the eye out of a gnat at 300 yards with a .243.” 
     I’d like to elaborate a little bit. I have a pretty cool grandma. She has two sides, and both are really cool. One side is the snuggly Grandma that was my very first babysitter. This side makes shortbread cookies, owns a big, snuggly cat, and drinks copious amounts of Mayan hot chocolate. That’s a really nice side to be around.     

     But there’s another side as well. Over the years, I’ve grown to recognize this part – and stand back a little from it. This is the “predator” side of her. When she gets into this mode, nothing will stop her. This is the side that can hike all day long at 10,000 feet

elevation, pausing only to drink a little water from her hydration

pack and maybe eat some trail mix. This is the grandma that has cut her own Christmas tree in the mountains for the last 42 years. This is the side that mommy antelope use to scare their fawns into obedience – “Run like the wind, children, or the Devil Woman will get you!” This is the dear, sweet grandma with the camo Buff, the dangerous “eye of the tiger” look and the frighteningly accurate .243. This is the grandma that will put a quarter of an elk on her back and head off down the mountain with it. This is my No Fear Grandma. 

Let me offer an example: Last year, after a massive snowstorm, some grandkids were over and we decided to go sledding at a choice hill. A foot of perfect snow made for a great afternoon. The part I remember most was, after heading down the hill, I was slowly trudging back up to the top. A wild, ferocious, feral screech made me look up. Here comes this ball of scarves flying along at like Mach 3 on a little pink sled. The ball of scarves hit a particularly good jump, flew somewhere into the stratosphere, and (still screeching) plummeted back to Earth. I was so proud of my grandma. Afterwards, we went home and made cookies and snuggled with the cat.

-The Ranger

Desert Elk

       Back in May, we all raised our eyebrows this spring when Apprenticedad applied for a long shot elk license in an area with only a 6.6 percent chance of drawing. But he was confident, and sure enough, he drew it. We shook our heads at the wonder of it all. He was the only adult elk hunter in our family who had never hunted there, and it must have been his turn. When it came time to go find that elk, it was a team effort, with Apprenticedad in the lead and the Apprentice and Grandpa trying to do everything we could to help him. We all met at The Cabin on a beautiful Monday afternoon. All systems go.
       There are some things, though, that even good luck and good help (well, pretty good help) won’t fix. Maybe you’ve heard the saying “if something can go wrong, it will.” So imagine our surprise when we woke up to a couple inches of snow. That, in and of itself, wasn’t the problem. The problem was discovered when we were driving down the dirt road, and we saw the tire pressure warning light start blinking. So as hunters who’ve been in at least one too many rough spots because of auto problems we went down into the nearest town and got the tires checked. We had expected to be hunting at first light, instead, we celebrated the dawning of a new day at the Ford dealership.

      With air in all four tires and fuel for both men and machine at “Adventure’s First Stop” we were on our way. Breakfast burritos and a Coke put a new shine on things and before long, we were sailing the sagebrush sea. We got in the home country around 9:00 AM and started poking our noses around the places we love. The first thing we noticed was that rabbits were rampant. The Apprentice and Grandpa took turns missing them with a .22 pistol. It was some comfort to know that all those missed shots were piling up federal excise taxes that would fund wildlife conservation projects somewhere. After funding three prescribed burns and a water development, we actually got a bunny. It is possible that Apprenticedad was less than impressed with the support crew…
       Onward down the creek and up a favorite canyon, we glassed and scoped and watched for elk. Sure enough, we saw a herd of about seven bedded in a draw about 800 yards away. We watched, frozen in place and tried to figure out how to approach them. They were in a tough spot. As we inched our way forward to about 799 yards, those seven elk and all the other 63 that we hadn’t seen stood up and ran over the ridge. It’s amazing how 7 elk can become 70 so quickly, and become 0 elk even quicker.

       We watched for a minute and quickly formulated a plan. Grandpa got in behind the elk, and made no attempt to conceal himself. They were half a mile away, but as soon as they saw him they stopped and watched him intently. Apprenticedad and I made a big circle around them and got as close as we could without them seeing us. They were jumpy, like REALLY jumpy. They let us get almost close enough, but not quite. There’s a certain way elk tell you, "don’t get any closer," they start pacing, and showing the

whites of their eyes. We knew we didn’t have much time – it was now or never. So Apprenticedad plopped down in a patch of sagebrush for cover and picked a lone cow. He made the best shot I’ve ever seen with a .30-06. She was down! I was proud and happy for my dad – he hadn’t killed an elk for a couple of years and this one was a memorable one.
       When the elk is down, the work begins. We field dressed her and got the truck as close as we could to her. It took a while, but we got her loaded in the truck and headed for civilization. Somehow, Grandpa made sure the way home went through our favorite ice cream stop. We don’t always have ice cream for lunch when we’re elk hunting, but when we do it’s a wonderful thing.

-The Apprentice