Gear Review: My Tent

     Here at Three Elk Meadow, we are always one for trying something different. We always like a good story, but it’s fun to try something new sometimes. Don’t worry, we’ll still keep the stories and whatnot, but the next couple posts will be a little bit different category: gear reviews.

    

First up: my little two-man tent. It’s called the North Face Flint 2, it’s $169 from many stores, and I absolutely love it. It’s seen me through countless scouting campouts, a week of rain at a beach in Utah, and a few million backyard campouts under the stars. It’s extremely easy to set up, (it only takes about five minutes at most,) it’s extraordinarily light and small, and it has many great features that enhance my camping experience. Overall, it’s the perfect tent for all ages, no matter what.
      The tent comes only in green, “bamboo green” according to the website, it weighs only 4.5 pounds, (extremely light,) and when packed up, it’s itty bitty. Only about a foot and a half long! Both of these traits make it super portable and easy to carry. One of my favorite features is its vestibule. It’s part of the rain fly, it protrudes out the front and is great for stowing gear, freeing up space inside. Also, it makes the tent look awesome! Beware though, the vestibule is not waterproof. I wish they had designed it to bond more with the ground, it is nigh on impossible to not have a little gap, allowing water to flow in. So if it looks like it might rain, bring your stuff inside:

       I learned this the hard way last year at a scout camp in Utah. It rained for five days straight, and me and my buddy who were sharing the tent had all our gear absolutely soaking wet and covered in sand (it was a beach) because we put our stuff in the vestibule. Oh well. Live and learn. The inside tent bit is actually extremely waterproof. It’s survived many a monsoon and a flood without the inside getting a tad bit wet. It has waterproof seams on the inside which keep it perfectly dry.

       It has some nice features which make things easier: a little hook at the top, perfect for hanging a lantern or a flashlight, two inside side pockets which can hold small gear like a flashlight in the night, snacks, whatever, and it also has high-quality aluminum poles (compared to the normal steel) which are very strong and light, and can survive the toughest Wyoming wind.
      A few cons always follow perfection, of course: first, the vestibule problem I mentioned earlier. Secondly, it is made to fit two people, and it does, but just. It does get a bit squished and cramped in there. It’s okay for two people in there for maybe a night or two, but after three or more nights it really starts to feel cramped and small. Thirdly: it is a bit expensive, for just a 2-man tent. Of course, it’s one of the best two-manners out there, and really makes for the cost in the high quality.     

Overall, I think this tent is the image of perfection. It is very versatile, portable, and high quality. It’s perfect for every lifestyle, whether you are a teenager going on scout campouts or the hard-core hiker/mountaineer. It works great in the calm, quiet backyard of my house or in a huge thunderstorm in the middle of the night in the Rockies a bazillion miles from nowhere. It’s my tent, and I love it.

-The Ranger

Here are a few more pictures:

    

The spacious inside

Here's my hand next to it - very small when packed up!

Without the rain fly (bug-proof!)

Brothers

      The first two days of Mark’s elk hunt were not great. It was hot. It was windy. There were people everywhere and every one of them had a pickup truck, a trailer full of ATVs and a case of beer. On the third day, it all changed. We were on a ridge overlooking a big basin long before daylight. There wasn’t a soul in sight. The wind had calmed a bit. And as the darkness began to give way to the dawn, I began running the spotting scope over the finger ridges a mile away. It took all of a minute to locate them. At least forty elk, ghostly in the half-light, feeding and moving slowly to the southeast. If we could get down into the timber, we could head them off.
        We eased down the drainage, paralleling the beaver ponds and glassing up through the aspens and spruce to make sure we still knew where they were. Still there? Yup. Keep on walking. The sun still hadn’t cleared the horizon and these elk were headed for the dark timber, following some 30-year-old cow with an IQ of about 140. But they hadn’t seen us yet, and the wind was in our favor. This just might work…

   When we got to the point where we figured our path and theirs were just about to intersect, we split up. I took one small draw and Mark took the one to the east. I was about halfway up it when I felt that feeling – the feeling you get when someone or something is looking at you. I stopped behind a small limber pine and peered around it. Two spikes were looking right at me from the ridge above the next draw. I just did a slow fade down to my knees and curled up in the sagebrush, waiting. Sure enough, the .30-06 roared once, then again with a satisfying “whack” at the end. The elk all headed south, and as I eased up behind the tree again, I could see a 6-point bull staggering with his head down, obviously hit. He dropped below the ridge out of sight.
       I was thrilled, but when I caught up to Mark he was distraught. The bull was hit hard, he was sure. He had lain down for a while, but when his herd crossed the creek into the timber he staggered to his feet and bolted after them. There was a blood trail that any moron could follow, and I was sure we’d find him piled up in the shin-tangle timber. We didn’t. He broke off from the rest of the elk – a good sign. He laid down again – another good sign. He got up and ran like a striped ape when he heard us coming – not so good. I must have prayed 20 times that we could find this bull and put him down – both for his sake and for Mark. He bled less and less until I was on my hands and knees looking for drops of blood the size of a pinhead. Finally, he was hardly bleeding at all.
      But we stayed on him – for four hours, up one ridge and down the next, back and forth across the creek and up through the black timber and down one elk trail and another until we tracked him into a dense stand of willows along the creek. We heard him get to his feet and crash out ahead of us. I stayed with the sketchy blood trail and Mark sprinted to the edge of the willow thicket. Again, I heard the rifle speak once, then again with that same telltale “whack”. I knew it was over.

       I found Mark standing by the bull at the edge of the timber. He was shaking, and he didn’t have much to say. I didn’t either. It was enough to just be there. We just knelt beside the bull and gave thanks that this great wild animal had given his life to feed our families. We gave thanks that he had not escaped mortally wounded. We gave thanks to be in wild country and to be together. I think back on that moment now and I’m sad for the bull. I wish he had dropped like a rock on the first shot. But I’m happy for my brother and his courageous, ethical heart. Life is like that sometimes – it ain’t always easy. Sometimes it doesn’t go like you planned and you have to just doggedly stay on the trail. Thanks for reminding me of that, brother.

-Grandpa

17/23

      There’s a lot of buzz these days amongst the outdoor crowd about how people in America have become afraid of the outdoors. No big surprise there. Given that the average American kid gets about 7 hours of screen time per day and about 7 minutes of unstructured time in the outdoors, it would follow that outside might become an frightening, even alien environment. Likewise given the media penchant for hysteria over violent weather and animal attacks and heaven only knows what terrifying things might lurk behind your picnic table in a park, it’s no surprise that people increasingly fear the great wide open. With the ultimate goal of eliminating pretty much everyone else from the mountains and deserts we call home, let me offer one more terrifying thought: You might get stuck.
       Over the course of the last 45 years, I’ve been stuck in 17 of Wyoming’s 23 counties. (Hence the name of this post.) I believe that qualifies me to have opinion on this matter. If I was FOX News, this would qualify me to have FOX News bill me as an international expert. I’m not (fortunately) but if I were, I’d offer three simple rules about getting stuck:

       1) If you can get out, you were never really stuck. We spent the day with Long Rifle, Mama B and the kiddos. It snowed pretty much all day. And since it’s southeast Wyoming, the wind blew. Hence, the driveway was drifted shut. Not little drifts, either – big drifts. Despite my fervent pleas for caution, Grandma demanded that we back up and “give ‘er heck”. We hit the first drift at about 45 MPH and “gave ‘er heck” for about the first 100 yards, but came to a halt with a dull thud when we high-centered the big F-250 in about 4 feet of snow. The neighbor and his Suburban couldn’t pull me out. The wrecker could. We got out. As such, we were not stuck.
        2) It matters what you’re stuck in. Snow and ice are for sissies. It’s just water, people. Sooner or later, it’s going to melt and you won’t be stuck anymore. Mud is another matter. Long Rifle once took a wrong turn on a faint two-track out in the desert and burrowed the pickup into a serious mudhole. To make matters worse, it’s a diesel pickup and the front end weighs about as much as the state of Connecticut. But even seemingly bottomless mudholes, given enough rocks submerged in them, will allow you to get out. Sand is another matter. Being stuck in sand is like being swallowed by a black hole. One of my very first memories is of being stuck with my parents in a bottomless sea of sand. I was four and thought it was great fun. My mother did not agree.

3) Technology may be your friend. Or not. We’ve all read the stories of charming little old couples who set out to drive to Costco for some muffins and ended up frozen to death in a snowdrift in Oregon because they believed their Garmin. Garmins lie. It’s just that simple. Even simple technology like a winch can be treacherous. Ever try to winch your jillion pound truck out by hooking it to a sagebrush? I have. It doesn’t work. You have to drive a deadman. Not a real dead man – just a big metal stake that you drive into the frozen tundra like a 500 penny nail so you can hook the winch cable to it. Ever try to drive a 500 penny nail into the frozen tundra? I have. That doesn’t work either.
       In the end, if you go hunting or fishing or messing around out in the real world you will probably get stuck. If that terrifies you, good. That means you won’t be hunting or fishing or messing around in any of the places we want to go. Besides, bears will probably eat you and you’ll almost certainly get beriberi. So stay home.

-Grandpa

The Sleepover

       The past couple blog posts have been about our “harebrained schemes.” To use a Grandpa-ism, they’ve been “crazier than a pet coon.” And so far, aside from some “minor” complications, they’ve been pretty safe. This next harebrained scheme resulted in a genuinely scary situation and a learning experience for us all.
       When we say, “We’re going elk hunting,” we mean, “ We are going to spend the next week walking between 10 and 20 miles a day over rough terrain, looking for a couple of elk.” Now you can imagine that if someone gets lost, you have about as much of chance as finding that person as winning the lottery. And thankfully, we have won that lottery.
       In early October 2005, we were doing our usual elk hunt. I was all of the long age of 3, and my sister Smiles was wee little thing at the age of three months. I tell you our ages to illustrate the worry ApprenticeMom must have felt when ApprenticeDad didn’t show up at the meeting spot after a day’s hunt. And we didn’t know where he was. All we did know was that he was lost.

Apprentice and Ranger playing chess that night

     

     From what I have gathered from family stories (I don’t remember much of this), ApprenticeMom was at The Cabin with Grandma and MamaB and the grandkids, holding dinner warm on the stove as “shooting light” passed and it was long after the guys usually showed back up. Finally, Grandpa came with some pretty bad news: my Dad hadn’t shown back up at the rendezvous point. They had split up that evening to each sit on a meadow and hopefully shoot elk at dusk. Grandpa, Long Rifle, and Long Rifle’s dad had yelled, fired shots, and done everything they could think of - but they still didn’t know where he was.

       This was pretty dang scary – there was a few feet of snow on the ground and it was set to snow all night. ApprenticeDad could have gotten injured, suffered hypothermia, had a shooting accident, or any number of terrifying possibilities. A prayer was said and a plan was made for the guys to camp at the trailhead that night so that they could get back on the trail as soon as it was light. If they didn’t find him right away, they’d call Search and Rescue.
      ApprenticeMom spent a sleepless night holding Smiles and watching it snow from the comfy chair at the cabin window. In the morning, she decided to go help look for ApprenticeDad. Just as she was getting her boots on, Grandpa’s truck pulled up into the cabin’s driveway – AppprenticeDad was found!

ApprenticeDad sleeping in The Cabin after
a night in the snow

According to ApprenticeDad, he never was “lost.” He says that once he was getting ready go to the rendezvous point, he tried turning on his flashlight (it was dark) and it wouldn’t turn on. It was dark as could be and tough to even find the trail, much less walk it back to the truck. ApprenticeDad decided to the right thing - stay put. So he started a fire and kept it going all night. Once it was light, he started to hike out of Story Meadow, where he met the rest of the party.
        I know ApprenticeDad wasn’t really lost, I know it could have been a lot worse. But that doesn’t mean it was any less scary at the time. We also have learned to pack extra batteries and to use the buddy system (at least two people together at all times.) We now hunt smarter and safer. Although we still manage to have a few harebrained schemes now and then.

-The Apprentice

Around the Horn

      It was a long day, maybe the longest of days. It was the day we had waited for. This was the day we would get our Colorado River and Snake River cutthroats. By nightfall, we would be halfway to our Cutt-Slams. It started slow – really slow, and got slower. We started on the water we thought would be a slam dunk. It wasn’t. We fished all morning and didn't have much to show for it, even with the “little black fly”. We flogged the water all morning. Finally, we broke for lunch. I like lunch. And usually, lunch likes me. But not this day. That’s when things started to go south.

Long Rifle

       Right around lunch time, I started experiencing every symptom listed on a Pepto-Bismol bottle. It was hot. I was sick. And we were on 65 miles of the bumpiest road I have ever been on. After some time on the road, I spotted a honey hole filled with fish. In seconds, I pulled in a beautiful Snake River cutthroat. Unfortunately for my nephews, his trout friends had bugged out. We decided to do the same. We fished every bit of pocket water we could find all afternoon. The boys fished. I hurled. They fished some more. I expelled pretty much everything I’d ever eaten. Then we drove again. And again. And again. Finally, we stopped on this gorgeous bend in the river where it drops a few feet and pools over in a corner. The water was deep enough and held two trophy fish, just made for Apprentice and Ranger. Good fishing and great country makes for a beautiful day (most of the time). Less so when your stomach is trying to escape your body for some reason. In Alpine, I had a hot bowl of soup and prayed I could keep it down.

The Ranger

 
      Grandpa and Uncle Mark decided that rugged road was just not worth it for our return trip. We pulled out a map and lo and behold there was another road that would get us back to camp. It promised pavement and stomach relief. We collaboratively decided to go the “new and better” way, but Lady Luck had other plans. It was after dinner when we started and late when we left the pavement, but it was the “new and better” road, so we were hopeful. At the stroke of 10 PM, just a few miles from camp, our headlights hit a giant snow slide that had buried the road. Just four miles to go, but no way to get there. The great debate began: Do we walk to camp or turn back? I was just praying that Montezuma’s Revenge would cease. It was late in the night and we had been traveling for hours. The smaller folks in the group were tired and hungry. Ultimately, we decide to backtrack 130+ miles all the way back up the worst road on the national forest system to camp. Luckily, the little guys slept while poor Uncle Mark drove most of the way and Grandpa and I attempted to keep

The Apprentice

the driver awake. Blessedly, we slept in the next day and some Immodium AD whipped whatever Ebola-like virus attacking my system.
   Unexpected situations will arise. Sometimes it's a sickness. Other times it's a snowdrift. Oftentimes it requires several miles of weathered roads. You may be lucky, like us, and get the trifecta. The best we can do is to take it in stride and look for the positives. On to the next adventure. I hope there’s a honey hole waiting for me there.

-Long Rifle

The Great Arctic Deer Hunt - Part 2

      When we woke up in the morning, it was a beautiful winter day. There was 16 inches of fresh powder, the sun was shining, and it was cold. We realized that we couldn’t do much about the deer situation, so why not take a shot and go hunting! We threw the guns in the truck and headed out, bound for another hunt area about 30 minutes away. The journey took a little while, due to all the snow, but we made it there in reasonable time.

Our plan was to get weaponry and turn into hunting mode the instant we crossed the border (a river in this case) into our area. So, as we rounded the bend leading to the border, we prepared to stop and get ready. I guess it came as a surprise to us when we heard from my uncle, “there’s a deer right there in those trees.” And it was true. Not one but two doe mule deer were standing right in the trees, next to the river which marked the border of our hunt area, (luckily on the correct side). And we weren’t ready! I was to take the first shot, as the deer were on my side, and I hadn’t any hunters orange, a coat, any ammo in my .243, and was caught totally off guard. I couldn't legally shoot from the truck, so I (as quietly as possible,) stuck a round in the chamber of my gun, quietly stepped outside. It was this movement which sent the two poor deer bounding off to a little hill with aspens and everything. We jumped out of the truck, and got set up on the tailgate to get another shot.

        No amount of training and practice at the shooting range can prepare one for the sheer rush of adrenaline that comes with taking a first shot. This wasn’t a little paper target anymore on a sunny, warm day with perfect wind conditions in my hometown, this was the real deal. I did my best to slow my breathing and the crazy shaking of my gun, aimed, and fired. BAM! Puff of dirt a few inches below the deer. She actually kind of jumped a little, her back legs went out, so I thought it was a hit. But there was another deer who had gone bounding off and my cousin, The Apprentice, still had a shot. BAM! Another puff. No hit. Deer goes running. I take another shot. No hit. Apprentice takes another. No hit. We take two more shots while the poor deer still stand there and then they bound off to parts unknown. 

        We decided that maybe those two deer just weren’t for us. Actually, we thought, they were probably made of Kevlar. We hit them repeatedly but their Kevlar armor was just protecting them. So, we piled in again, this time fully prepared, and set out once more. We realized that the snow was a big problem. We couldn’t access about 90% of the places that we had wanted to go to, the snow slowed progress down, and was overall just severely hampering our hunting experience. In an attempt to get out of snow, we dropped way down in elevation to near Green River and Farson. It was a good idea though, there was virtually no snow in contrast to the 16 inches we had received. Nothing. No sign. By this time we needed to head back for dinner. Along the way we got two bunnies, one each for me and The Apprentice. They were tasty. Once we got back to the cabin we had bunny for dinner and talked the night away.

        Over the next few days, we went anywhere and everywhere. We went back to where we had saw the deer the first time. They weren’t there. We went to all four corners of Sweetwater County in pursuit of deer. One time we went to Irish Canyon, and through the feet of snow, took this picture: 

As the hunt drew to a close, we realized, we probably weren’t going to get deer. Well, in my defense, 16 inches of snow should be enough to hamper anybody’s hunt! The key thing was though, we got to spend time with the people we love, doing the things we love, in the wild country we love. And so concluded my first deer hunt.

-The Ranger

The Great Arctic Deer Hunt - Part 1

       In the summer of 2013, I turned 12 years old. And that is a BIG deal in our family. I was able to receive the priesthood, leave the bondage of elementary school – and hunt big game. Naturally, of course, I was leaning over the tailgate of the truck pulling the trigger within weeks of my birthday. This is the story of the - I shouldn't say “failed,” let’s just call it the “less successful” deer hunt experience of 2013. Hey, we did get 16 inches of snow!

       We always and forever will go hunting for critters at The Cabin. It is so great to be tromping through the snow or whatever searching for critters and then, cold, tired and hungry, to come back to the crackling fire and a warm meal. That is one sure darn nice thing about it. So, we drove up to The Cabin amidst a light snowy, rainy mix. We had seen the forecast previously, and although it did call for a little bit of snow, we weren't concerned. It was September, after all! It occasionally might flurry a tiny bit for a while but we never really get true snow at that time of year. So, as we drove along, climbing higher and higher through the mountains as the light drizzle turned to flurries, we weren't a tad bit concerned. We started developing issues when the pavement ended.   

     Yeah, it was a mess. Those dirt roads hadn’t any snow for the

past few months, and they were just as slick and icky as anything else. Luckily we had a 4-Wheel Drive three quarter ton

pickup and just sort of plowed on cautiously. When we reached the cabin, we unpacked, got everything prepared, and then fixed dinner. We had a pleasant evening, getting weaponry ready and formulating a game plan for the next day, while the snow continued to lightly fall. By now we had an inch or so, not entirely enough to hamper progress but we commented that it was a little unusual. So, we went to bed with tummies full, and ready to face the next day.

       We had planned to wake up at 5:00-5:30ish, so I was a little surprised when I finally rolled out of bed around 7:00. One look out the window told me the reason though: yeah, there was over a foot of snow and it was still falling fast. We were utterly aghast; this was absolutely the most snow ever recorded in September up there. We knew it would be folly to try and hunt that day, all the critters would just bed down and sort of wait for the storm to recess, so we wouldn’t have much of a chance at hunting.

     We spent the day just sort of hanging out. Now, I don’t know much, but this much I can tell you: sitting by the crackling fire drinking hot chocolate and playing board games while the snow falls outside the window, that is one of the better things to do in life. We watched the Iron Man trilogy, played numerous board games, and burnt through (it seemed) about seventeen tons of Swiss Miss. 

      We had a little incident with a falling tree. There is only one access road into our Cabin area, and that thing is like gold. It’s our only way to get in and out of there, so we were naturally were a little surprised when we saw that it had been blocked by a huge fallen pine tree. So, we got on like 15 pounds of snow gear, and headed out to try to clear this tree out. When we got there, we noticed that someone else had been working on it, trying to get in. So, we brought out the humongous tow rope, threw the truck into 4x4 low, and put the pedal to the medal. The tree didn’t budge. We tried again. There was a loud snap and suddenly our precious tow rope was in two pieces! So, we spent the rest of the afternoon with the chainsaw cutting the poor tree into little bits and tossing them to the side. With the mission complete, we headed back to the Cabin, ate a warm meal, and headed to bed while the snow continued to fall.

-The Ranger

A Pretty Good Creek

      I knew it was special the very first time I went there. It was in 1973. Grandma and I were newlyweds, poor college students without two nickels to rub together. God saw how helpless we were and tweaked the moose license draw to get me a bull license in this area. We had a pretty fair idea of where we wanted to go, and on a bright shiny morning in October, we arrived. We put in a good camp next to a small meadow and waited for a bull moose to stroll by. We waited a long time. No moose. So we went for a drive. The road descended in switchback after switchback down a steep ridge. It was washed out and rutted and rough. There were rocks in the road ranging from the size of a cantaloupe to the size of a rhinoceros. It was narrow. If we had met anyone coming up the ridge, I have no idea what we would have done. After an hour of this insanity, we finally reached the bottom – and the creek. Not just any creek, but a pretty good creek.
     

The Apprentice

  There were no moose there that day, but you would have had to be blind to miss the fact that this creek had fish. Lots of fish, and some pretty nice fish. We actually had to ford the creek twice before the road gave out and we faced the return trip. We hadn't found a moose, but we had certainly found a pretty good creek. Decades passed. We went back from time to time. The road was just as bad, maybe even worse, but the fishing was pretty darn good. Rangermom and Apprenticemom came along. So did Mama B. We didn’t fish there much anymore. They liked small brook trout and lots of them, so Story Meadow was more our speed. But in time, the Ranger came along and so did the Apprentice. Long Rifle came along and married Mama B. And the fellas wanted to catch a Cutt-Slam.
     So we set off in search of four subspecies of cutthroat trout. The third one was hard. This was a case where the third time is definitely not a charm. Rather, it’s a curse. It was a long day. We started the day on our very own home water. It took us a while to get on to catching those fish, but everyone had Cutt Number One by noon. When I asked if they wanted to shoot for Cutt Number Three, they were game. And I knew a pretty good creek.
     It was a long drive. We didn’t even hit the bad road until maybe 4 PM. And the bad road was really bad. My father usually described something really distasteful as being like “nine miles of muddy road” but that would have been an improvement here. We didn’t get on the water until after 5 PM. We tried fishing the

The Ranger

surface, but nothing was happening. Then Long Rifle spotted a pod of fish deep in slow water. He caught one. They stayed there. The Ranger caught one and lost it. It went right back with the others. He hooked another and brought that one in. The Apprentice hooked its twin brother and brought that one in. All told, as you can see from the photos, it was what we consider a pretty good day of fishing.
       It’s hard to say why this creek is such a special place. It’s remote, that’s for sure. It’s a great place to fish, that’s for sure too. But not long ago, I was going through my grandfather’s diary for the year 1918 – less than two years before his untimely death. He had been riding to check several bands of sheep far over the divide when he apparently decided to take a day off to fish. He bee-lined it straight for the creek. Like the grandson he would never know, he was a man of few words when he talked about his fishing that September day: “Went fishing on the creek. Had a pretty good day.” For almost 100 years, it’s been a pretty good place for a pretty good day.

-Grandpa

Up Yonder

     Everyone has that one place that they call their own. It may be where you first went camping. Maybe it is the creek or river where you caught your first big fish. For some it may just be a place where they can get away from the day to day hustle and bustle. It could be the place that brings you peace and tranquility. Wherever it may be, our place is often so special we are reluctant to share it with others.

    My father-in-law (Grandpa) knows the ins and outs of Wyoming. If I was a bettin’ man (one of many Grandpa-isms) I'd say you could ask him any question about a butte, hill, stream or mountain and he can give you the exact location, how many times he has visited said place, what animals he has killed in certain spots and what he ate for breakfast the morning before the hunt. Grandpa is honest, caring and most importantly loving. However, when it comes to certain hunting or fishing spots and the place he calls “The Home Place”, he will lie his pants off on where exactly it is located. He may even “forget” what fly he uses to catch those big fish. There is only one thing in which he will play fast and loose with the truth. Hunting and fishing spots.
       We treasure these places and we don't let just anyone know about them. Next to being someone of great significance – if Teddy Roosevelt came back from the dead, for instance - you pretty much have to marry one of Grandpa’s daughters or become one of his grandchildren. Don’t get any ideas – all those pretty ladies are spoken for and we are pretty attached to each of the nine grandchildren, so you can’t sneak in that way either. I was lucky

enough to find Mama B which happened to be my golden ticket. It doesn't happen often, but occasionally I get asked where my special place is and you can tell ol’ Grandpa has rubbed off on me

because I always answer the same, “Up yonder.” Since I won't say where my special place is I will describe some of the best moments. My favorite place is where the water is rushing by my side, a warm breeze moving the current along. There’s a fly rod in my hand that feels like it's about to snap in half. There is no experience like the fight of a brown trout or a Colorado cutthroat that has just taken my fly. There are large trees and steep hills - terrain that would deter most. In short, it's God’s country. It’s my place. It’s the place where I feel at home.
          So if you ever decide to ask one of us where the best fishing or hunting places are located, you better do your homework prior to leaving your house. You never know what kind of pickle you may find yourself in. There may come a time when you see me with a stringer full of fat fish and feel inclined to ask, “Where did you catch those fish?” Don’t be surprised if you hear: Up Yonder, or

The Notellum River, or Nunyabusiness Reservoir. From Grandpa, you might hear my personal favorite (thank you, Tom Reed) - Giffy Creek. No matter what we say, you probably won't find it on a map and if you do, by all means let us know how your trip went! To save you from asking questions in the future, I will tell you a little secret. We catch all our fish on “a little black fly.” But that’s another story for another day.

- Long Rifle

Story Meadow

   The Ranger talked about how The Cabin is a place where our family grows. He talked about some the places nearby that we enjoy within a few hundred yards of The Cabin. We love those places and visit them every day. But there is another “must go” place at The Cabin. It’s the place we learned how to fish, where we access the Continental Divide Trail, where we get to some of our elk hunting grounds and where we grow closer to our Heavenly Father. (Heck, it’s even the place where my dad proposed to my mom.) This place is called Story Meadow.

Okay, it isn't really called Story Meadow, but that’s as close as I’m going to get (We have to keep some cards close to the ol’ vest, after all!). It’s not much of a hike from the trailhead, but it’s time enough to tell a story or two. Grandpa has shared many stories about his dad and his dad’s friends on the trail to and from Story

The Ranger and The Apprentice

Meadow. The Ranger and me love these stories. I’ll save typing any of them down for Grandpa to do, for fear of butchering them (and he can tell a story just about better than anyone – although I’m still trying to figure out which ones are true…). All the stories have a purpose - some of them are hilarious and for pure entertainment, some of them are to illustrate life lessons, and some of them are about what not to do (just ask him sometime about riding a horse in a lightning storm). We have all laughed and learned on the way to Story Meadow.

   We go to Story Meadow at least once during a trip to The Cabin – it’s an absolute must. In the summertime, one of the main reasons we go is to fish. We get up in the morning at The Cabin, pack a lunch and the worms, and head to the Meadow. When we get there, we head for our picnic spot where the non-fishers get out their books and the babies get put down for a nap. The fishers then head

out to see how many we can catch. We’ve all caught some of our first fish in this meadow – from our moms on down. And although the fish don’t normally get much bigger than six inches, it’s always a special feeling watching small hands reeling in them in. And when it’s time to head back to The Cabin, we clean the fish in the same spot we’ve done it for decades, then pack up and head out.

       Story Meadow is also the gateway to some of our elk hunting grounds. Almost every year we walk through it, sometimes hopping over the creek, sometimes falling in the creek, at around 4:00 A.M and again at 8:30-9:00 P.M. to get to where we sit at during dawn. It is amazing walking through that meadow with no artificial light sources but our flashlights and the stars above. Walking beneath the skies at this time of day or night, I sometimes think of Javert from the musical, Les Miserables:

Stars

In your multitudes
Scarce to be counted
Filling the darkness
With order and light
You are the sentinels
Silent and Sure
Keeping watch in the night
Keeping watch in the night

It really does feel like that. You can look up and see thousands of stars and galaxies. They look down at you, and you are reminded of how loving Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ must be to have created all of those worlds and stars, just for you and me.

     We all have our special places. In one of my family’s favorites, we fish, we hunt, we learn, and we grow closer to our Heavenly Father. I love this place. It helps our family grow closer together. It is our special place.

-The Apprentice

We Fish - Part 2

       The kids are quieter now. They’re focused. The practice and training kicks in and they are intent on the mission. There’s nothing but wide open country for twenty miles in any direction. There are blackbirds in the willows and the sound of rushing water. The first strike comes unexpectedly. The tip of the rod dips hard and the fight is on. Little hands are working furiously on the reel while the fish moves in all directions. I do my best to remain silent and let them do it themselves. It must seem like eternity for a child trying to land a fish, but they do it themselves and they tremble with the adrenaline rush. So do I. They look back at me for approval and I

couldn't be happier. They could care less if the fish were 20 inches long or 3 inches long. They care only that they caught these fish, and that they did it on their own without help from dad.

       The scene is repeated the next day on the Greys and the following day on the Wind. By now, they’re tiring and it’s time to give it a rest. Late nights and early mornings are taking their toll. We pick wild raspberries and we smell moose. We carry bear spray and we talk about what to do if we see one. We talk about the country and the rivers and the things that make this such a special place. It’s not really about catching fish. It’s the entire experience that they thrive on and they have done a great job. By the end of the week they are three-fourths of the way to finishing their Cutt-Slams, with three sub-species down and one to go.
     

 Next year we’ll make the trip to the Bear River country to catch Bonneville cutthroats. Both Spunky and Bubba are already making plans on where we should camp and where we will fish and all the different gear we are going to need. They talk on the way home about how the Ranger and the Apprentice have their Cutt-Slams. They talk about how cool it will be to get theirs, too. It’s a good feeling for all of us. I am one delighted father and I couldn’t ask for a better opportunity to spend time in what our family calls the Home Place with those I love. A wise person once said “give a man a fish and he can eat for a day. Teach a man to fish and he can eat for a lifetime.” I hope I have done my job in teaching these little anglers how to tie knots and

read the water. . I pray they will take those skills and feed the spirits of their own families. I hope I have instilled in my children an appreciation for wildlife and wild lands. I hope my children will teach others the importance of respecting the land. But most of all I hope they know that I love them and am proud to be their father.

-Long Rifle

We Fish - Part 1

      We fish. That’s what we do in our family. Fishing is a big deal, and the Cutt-Slam is a REALLY BIG deal. In fact, it’s such a big deal that the kids in our family talk about it year round. The mountains and the waters of the Green, the Snake and the Wind are home for my family and me. Like the cutthroat trout we pursue, we’re natives here. I wish I could say that our kids were born that way. Maybe they were – they certainly came from native stock on both sides. But Mama B. and I agreed early on that no kid in our family was ever going to suffer from insufficient time in the backcountry.

        Preparing our kids to catch four subspecies of cutthroat trout was no overnight process. We put in long hours at the pond in our local park. We started with Spiderman rods and Barbie tackle

boxes. As time went on, the casts got longer and the kids got better. The more we talked about our goal of finishing the Cutt-Slam, the more excited the kids were about it. It became a milestone, a rite of passage for them. By late summer, they were like something out of a Jason Bourne movie - highly trained and ready for anything. I remember asking Spunky right after her seventh birthday what she wanted to do and her response was immediate: “Its Cutt-Slam time!”
         Our base camp would be the same place it always is – the cabin in the Wind Rivers. We planned to fish near Big Piney for Colorado River cutthroats, over the top of the Wyoming Range and into the Greys River for Snake River cutts, and over South Pass to the Wind River for Yellowstone cutts. On the night before our first day, the kids were like bird dogs on the eve of the hunt, quivering with excitement. They couldn’t eat, they couldn’t sleep. If I could have turned them loose on the fish at 11 PM, I would have. 

      Breakfast is hot chocolate and homemade scones from Mama B as we head for the door. We load the little ones in the pickup, scrambling and scuffling like coyote pups in the early morning light. It is simply priceless. These kids are doing something most kids will never have the opportunity to do. They are on the road and headed for adventure. We see a cow moose, a whole hayfield full of sage grouse, a pair of sandhill cranes and a bald eagle. Each one is like the first one ever created for these little ones – something to be oohed and aahed over, something to be treasured. And before you know it, we’re there. And we’re actually fishing.

-Long Rifle

The Cabin

      We've all had that one special place in life: the one where, no matter what, you will be happy and healthy and one will leave feeling better than they came. The one place that connects us to our loves in life, whether friends, family, a stress reliever, the outdoors, or a mixture of them all. That place for our family is The Cabin. Grandpa’s parents built The Cabin in the Wind River mountain range in 1958. It’s stood there proud and strong through yards of snow, through -50° blizzards with 70 mph winds, a tornado, and over 50 years of aging. It’s been through four generations, and every single member of our family holds a special place in their heart for it.

   To quote J.R.R. Tolkien from The Hobbit in his account of The Last Homely House, “His house was perfect, whether you liked food, or sleep, or work, or story-telling, or singing, or just sitting and

thinking, best, or a pleasant mixture of them all.” This is true for The Cabin, too. Everyone can do as much, or as little, as they want, and it suits everyone’s loves perfectly. Nestled snugly in some trees

near a meadow with a little babbling brook and spectacular views

on all fronts, it can suit everyone’s passions in life, whether it be hunting, or fishing, or rock climbing, or hiking, or relaxing, or reading, or a “pleasant mixture of them all.”

    Here are some of our favorite places around cabin grounds: first, the rock pile. Down a little road and into the meadow next to Temple Creek, there is about 50 boulders of all shapes and sizes, ideal for eager rock-climbers, those wanting to hang out and talk in the cool breeze of the mountain air, or to come down at night, watch a spectacular Wyoming sunset, and stargaze under trillions of stars. That experience, I can tell you, really is eye-opening. Wow. Far away from any civilization, with zero light pollution to speak of, it is incredible the sheer magnitude of stars and galaxies to be seen, and it really puts things into perspective, and shows us Heavenly Father’s great creation. 

         Next, the creek. Back behind the cabin, say, 75ish feet away, lies the South Temple Creek. It’s our source of water and a fun pastime to while away the hours back at the creek. We don't have a water containment unit or anything up there, so our only water supply comes from a pump from the creek. And from the age of about two days, every child from our family has enjoyed going back and throwing rocks or pinecones or whatever in there. It’s some kind of weird initiation process we have in place.  

      We have a hammock on one side of the cabin which is the best thing ever. It is perfect for napping, reading, or frolicking. Let me tell you, there ain't too many things better than lying in the hammock in the shade of pine trees with the cool August afternoon breeze and the smell of pine and all things fresh, surrounded by critters and the sound of the creek babbling away in the background. 

      We all go to our special places in life, the ones that bring us happiness and healthiness no matter what. Ours is The Cabin. It lets us explore the things we love: the outdoors, family, friendship, and love for each other. I’m so glad for Heavenly Father’s great creation known as the Wyoming outdoors and for the great opportunity to experience His work: The Cabin.

-The Ranger

Meet Long Rifle

      He came to us as a junior in high school. It’s a funny thing about your daughter’s boyfriends. At first, they’re vermin – something to be rid of as quickly as you can. Most of them remain so, and no one misses them when they’re gone. And when this one came along, I was ready for him to be gone as well. I showed him the guns. Not in an unfriendly way or anything. I just thought he might want to see the .280 Remington that killed stuff a long way away. They were headed out the door on their first date when I told him, “Her safety and her happiness are in your hands for the next three hours. Don’t screw it up.” It sounds worse on paper…really.

But over time, the big galoot kind of grew on me. He was kind and sweet and gentle. Sort of a teddy bear, really. By the fall of their senior year, I was going to his football games because he cared about football and I cared about him. He wasn't kind or sweet there. He was scary – big, strong and fast. But he had a wonderful heart, and Mama B (she was a long way from being Mama B yet, but I've gotta call her something here) saw that. Pretty soon, he was going to the cabin with us. He was going to church with us. We were helping him with his homework. He wasn't vermin anymore. He was the boy who would grow to be the man we call Long Rifle.

He was a great young man, but he wasn't much of a hunter or angler until he fell in with us. He'd done it some, hadn't really loved it. But any guy who loved Mama B was going to have to learn his way around in the wild country, and so he did. He took to it immediately. The first time I took him elk hunting, we killed a cow deep down in a sagebrush draw below a rim. His dad and I stumbled and struggled and finally after 20 or 30 minutes, we managed to drag the front half of the elk to the truck. He watched us, then simply squatted down in front of the back half and asked us to put it on his back. He grabbed the legs behind his head and just walked off with it. Elk hunting got a lot easier with Long Rifle in our camp.

But he’s not just the designated pack horse. He’s as quiet as a whisper of wind going through the woods. He knows the country now, and he can cover a vast swath of it in a day. He’s a good hunter. He may be an even better angler. I know hundreds of people who are involved in fishing, but I’m not sure I know anyone who loves it more than Long Rifle. He’ll fish all day, just to be fishing. But what really endears this big, strong guy to all of us is his commitment to teaching the kids. He’s dad when he’s teaching his own kids - Spunky, Bubba, G-Baby and Gus. He’s the world’s coolest uncle when he’s teaching the Apprentice, the Ranger and the rest of them. But for me, he’s the man I wish I had been when I was in my 30’s. I’m dang proud of him. Meet Long Rifle.

-Grandpa

Apprenticemom

We’ve all had a mother figure in our lives. Whether called Mom, Aunt, Grandma, sister, Mrs., or something else, they are the ones that have shaped our lives. They take what they learn and impart that knowledge to us. Even though we are complete idiots sometimes, they still love us. They teach what’s right and what’s wrong. They take time out of their busy days to edit a blog post. They make our experiences in the outdoors possible. My mom does that and more.

            Some moms don’t like to do much in the outdoors – they prefer staying in fancy hotels, shopping or other stuff that I honestly don’t understand.  And while my mom is into stuff like this sometimes, she also is just as comfortable gutting a fish as she is buying shoes.  There’s nothing she likes better than bringing down a goose, and there’s nowhere in the world she’d rather be than The Cabin.

Elk hunting can be a lot of fun – it’s a week in the mountains away from schoolwork, and the prospect of killing an elk and filling the freezer with roasts and steaks that melt in your mouth is exciting.  But it can also be pretty tough work  - and when I’m walking on one of Grandpa’s “Death Marches” (between 10 and 20 miles a day), the thing that keeps me going is the food (I am a 12 year old boy, after all). Apprenticemom, Grandma, and Mama B make sure that we get it. There is nothing better than coming back to cabin in the dark, knowing that taco soup and hot fudge sundae cake awaits.  It keeps us going so that we can get the elk.

When we recently had our annual winter campout for Scouts, ApprenticeDad as “Scout Committee Chairman” was put in charge of getting all the stuff together for the campout. But while Apprenticedad took care of how to win the big competition, Apprenticemom thought about stuff like “how to keep the boys warm, how to keep them dry.” And although we thoroughly enjoyed tying for first place in the activities, we were gladder that we didn’t freeze our fingers and toes off.  In fact, to quote Grandpa, most of us “were hotter than a two dollar pistol.”

            Apprenticemom is the best mom in the world. She hikes with me, she fishes with me, she hunts with me, and she makes sure that I stay warm on winter campouts. She helps me become a better person. Thanks, Mom!

-The Apprentice

Rangermom

      Grandpa has talked about his wife, Grandma, (who is, of course, my grandmother,) so I suppose it would be fitting for me to talk about one of the remarkable women in my life; my mom. She’s like the rest of us. She fishes. She picks grouseberries in abundance up at the cabin, she lays in the hammock in the warm sun of a summer Wind River afternoon. But unlike the rest of us, she gets up  at some unearthly hour every morning to go run. That’s her little Rangermom-time. It brings her closer to herself and the outdoors by going out under the stars to solve life problems.

          Lauren Fleshman said: “Running is not who I am, it’s something I do, something I love.” I think the same can be applied to the outdoors. We live and breathe the sharp, fresh smell of sagebrush after a Wyoming monsoon in July, the triumph after a successful antelope hunt, the cool breeze of an September day in the mountains, the crackling of a campfire a million miles from nowhere under trillions of stars. It’s just what we do in our family.

Another quote, by Jenny Hadfield, states, “Life can pull you down, but running always lifts you up.” Again, this can be tied into the outdoors. I mean, is going fishing in the lazy Big Sandy river some nice warm summer’s evening really all that stress-inducing? The outdoors, no matter what life circumstances we face, always helps one unwind and think of things in perspective. It brings us closer to ourselves and God.

 Back to Rangermom. Whether it be nagging me to get packing for a campout, or the delight at fresh game meat to use for dinner for the next six months, she’s always there for me, helping me to experience the same outdoors that her parents lived in, breathed in. That their parents lived in, breathed in. And ya know, that ain’t such a bad thing.

-The Ranger

Here are a couple other great running quotes:

Grandma

Grandma

2/3/2015

       The Ranger, the Apprentice and I have talked about our love for the outdoors and for Wyoming. We hunt, we fish, and we spend lots of time in wild country. But the fact is that none of this would have been possible without some remarkable people. And of these remarkable people, none is more remarkable than Grandma.

Who would have guessed that a little girl born to Wyomingite expatriates in Washington, DC and raised in a succession of southern California beach communities (followed by a stint in New York City) would return home to the Cowboy State to nest? Who would have guessed that of all of us, the most respected rifle or bow shooter would be that same gal? Friends, we have 40+ years of experiences to draw upon when we say that Grandma is the real deal.

Grandma and I met on November 13, 1970 in Green River, WY. And we've been hunting and fishing partners ever since. She was a competitive small bore shooter back then, and a wicked shot with pretty much everything. When other high school sweethearts were going to the Sugar Bowl for a Coke, we were shooting or fishing. She learned to drive a stick shift in my old ’68 GMC, and she learned her way around every two-track road in Sweetwater County. She killed her first antelope with a Winchester Model 1894 in .30-30.

We went off to college together in the fall of 1972, and were married in the summer of 1973. We spent our honeymoon at the cabin on South Temple Creek. She helped pack out the bull moose that fed us through that first year together, and she taught me how to butcher it just like old George

Grandma and The Ranger

Phelps the butcher taught her. She shot a cow elk year after year in the desert country north of Rock Springs. She killed at least one antelope every year and multiple antelope most years. And she learned how to make antelope not only edible but absolutely fabulous.

When Rangermom, Apprenticemom and their little sister were born, she simply put them in a backpack and took them hunting and fishing. When they were old enough to walk, they walked the same mountain meadows and desert canyons we walked. They were there when we got rained out in the Bighorns and decided

Grandma, The Apprentice, and Co.

that maybe tents weren't for wimps after all. They were there when we packed the deer out in the dark north of Baggs. She taught her daughters to hunt and to fish by hunting and fishing with them. What’s more, she taught them how to do it with respect for the land and the critters. Now, she’s teaching her grandsons and granddaughters to do the same.

But most important of all, she taught all of us that wild things and wild country are a gift from God. She taught us that we had a right to love that legacy and a concurrent responsibility to take care of it for the next generation. If any of us ever amount to anything, it’s probably because of what we learned from Grandma.

-Grandpa

My Home

       Wyoming is an amazing place. You can hunt elk in the arid Red Desert. Or you can fish for four different kinds of cutthroat trout to nab your “Cutt-Slam.” And you can hike in the Gros Ventre Wilderness without seeing anyone for days. All of this can happen in a space of less than 100,000 square miles – and I've done it. I’ve done it in the place I call home.  

      I've always had an interest in wildlife. Perhaps it started as early as when I was seven months old, watching from a Kelty backpack as my family packed out quarters of elk. Or maybe it started in studying that very same elk’s skull in my grandparents’ house and uttering my first word, “elk.”
            Throughout my life, I've had a love for all things wild in Wyoming. In pre-school when other kids said, “I want to be a superhero when I grow up,” or “I want to be a ballerina,” I said, “I want to be a game warden.” I idolized - and continue to feel hero worship for - people like my grandpa and a close family friend who recently retired as Wyoming’s most senior game warden. These are guys who have devoted their lives to the conservation of Wyoming’s wildlife.

      I’m now 12 years old. I have had the opportunity to hunt and kill two deer (see The Hunt for deer number two) as well as countless rabbits, collared doves, blue grouse and ruffed grouse. I’ve

caught what feels like hundreds of brook trout under the shadow of Independence Mountain in the Wind Rivers. I've summited Jackson Peak. I've lied through my teeth about how wonderful the snails we find at nearby mountain stream taste (let’s just say it’s an acquired taste – and I’m the only one in my group of friends brave enough to power through it).

        For someone like me, living in Wyoming never loses its excitement. Whether it’s the new way a fish takes the line up a creek, or hiking into a spot I've never been before, or figuring out a scheme to finally get those darn collared doves around my neighborhood, there’s always something for a Wyoming kid like me. The experiences I've had and my goal to someday be a wildlife biologist shape the way I think, how I work, how I live. Wyoming takes the simplest things and ensures that they mean the most – and I'm lucky enough to call it my home.


-The Apprentice

It's Just What We Do in Our Family

           Back in the summer of ’09, me, my Uncle Chad and my Uncle Mark set out from the Big Sandy trailhead in pursuit of Black Joe Lake, to try to catch a fish or two. It was supposed to be about an 11 or 12 mile hike, which already was quite a fair bit for a little guy like me, being only eight years old. So, we set off. At first, everything seemed alright. I was happy, we were headed the right way, the weather was good, and all was well. Then, things went badly wrong. We got lost, dreadfully lost. We got so lost that we left the trail and, relying on only compass guidance, began bushwhacking. We had to climb a near vertical mountainside, with nothing below but a huge drop and rushing whitewater rapids. We finally, through an extreme round about way, got to our destination and got back safely home. When it was all said and done, I had walked 17 miles over extreme terrain, not always on a trail. When we got back, we were super tired. When my grandpa, (also a member of this blog) asked why we had done it, I responded, “Grandpa, it’s just what we do in our family.”

          A line of speech that was to become famous for years to come. And it was absolutely true. We fish. We hunt. We hike. We pick grouseberries in abundance by the cabin in the summer. We take a nap in the hammock in the warm sun of a Wind River summer’s day. It’s just what we do in our family. We all share a common goal: love the land and be a part of it.

        I suppose a little “about me” would be nice. I'm thirteen years old, and I am born and raised in Wyoming. We have deep roots here. I completed my Cutt-Slam in the same year that the above story happened. I shot my first antelope and deer last year, and had a great time doing it. (See Don't Stumble.) I have a love for all things wild and outdoors. Me, The Apprentice, and Grandpa created this blog in the hopes of allowing others to be able to experience the beautiful outdoors. We hope you’ll be able to feel the Wyoming spirit and the Brotherhood that brings us all so much closer to the land.

-The Ranger