Aligning Stars

     We’ve been at this for a year now, and we warned you right up front that this blog would be primarily about our adventures in the great outdoors. If you’re still waiting for cupcake recipes or relationship advice, we may not be your guys. But that’s not to say that we’re only about hunting and fishing. From the start, you’ve seen that there’s no real line of separation between our family and the outdoor life we love. You’ve met some of the characters – the four of us, Grandma, Rangermom and Rangerdad, Apprenticemom and Apprenticedad. You’ve met Stub, the first time deer hunter. And very briefly, you’ve met the love of my life, Mama B.
     I’m no astronomer, and certainly not astrologer, but it seems to me that every now and then the stars just align. And when they do your heart opens and you will find that missing piece, that special someone that completes you. Sometimes the stars align for a brief period of time and then seem to drift apart. For others, the stars align for eternity. I'm fortunate to be in the latter group.  

     It all began in the fall of 1999. She sat on the other side of the room in one of my classes. She was beautiful. Shoulder length hair fell perfectly around her face. Her eyes were as blue as the sea. She seemed happy. It took me a while to realize she was the same girl I had been watching in my strength and conditioning class. I was excited to get to know this girl. I was in high school – it wasn’t like I was shopping for a wife. But the truth is that she had all the qualities I was looking for in a best friend and partner for life. She loved God, Wyoming, her family and the outdoors. She was fun and adventurous. It took a while before she’d even give me the time of day, but once she did we had fun together. I knew early on I wanted to marry this one and wanted to spend every waking hour with her. She made me feel whole, even then. She still does.
      We’ve been married almost 11 years. She’s more beautiful than ever, and she still loves God, Wyoming, her family and the outdoors. But more than anyone I know, she has a genuine love for people and a desire to help them. If I could describe my wife in two words it would be love and service. No one I’ve ever met come close to her in serving others and making people feel special, regardless of their circumstances. My children have been blessed to call her mother. I am blessed to call her my eternal companion. I love you, Mama B.

-Long Rifle

It Is What it Is

     I remember the first wild alligator I ever saw. It was a big bull gator, maybe 12 feet long. He was up on the edge of the Santee River in South Carolina. My old friend Larry Cartee and I walked over, close enough to him for me to snap a photo or two. He looked to be asleep. But then he opened his eyes. And he looked not so much at me directly at me as through me. It was one of those experiences that stay with you forever. His expression (if reptiles can have an expression) said very clearly, “We’ve been here since the Jurassic, junior. And we’ll be here when you're gone.” He wasn't annoyed, he wasn't alarmed. He simply didn't care.      

     Wild things and wild places are like that. They don't care. Our needs, our lives are of no consequence to them. I was reminded of that recently. I read an account of two young men who set off into the desert country south of Wamsutter in midwinter blizzard in a 2007 Ford Focus. Predictably, the car got stuck. Even more predictably, these two rocket scientists decided to walk out. By the grace of God, they found some shelter and were rescued by a search party a couple of days later. Natural selection was thwarted again, and they were safe.
     But more intriguing to me than the story were the comments on the online account of their plight and subsequent rescue. There were literally dozens of comments that ranged from, “Where is Wamsutter? I can't find it on Google Earth!” to “Oh, they’ll be fine. There's a ton of oilfield traffic out there!” But a friend of mine, a young game warden for whom I have tremendous respect, had the temerity to suggest that heading out into some of the wildest country left in America in a blizzard driving a Ford Focus might not have been a great move. A storm of angry comments followed, berating him for being “disrespectful” of the men and their families.      

     I can only imagine that most folks are so disconnected from the real world of deep winter out there near Man and Boy Butte that they don't get this one principle: Nature is not cruel and merciless, nor is it kind and loving. It just is what it is. Try telling that wind that it’s being disrespectful when it chills you to the bone. Try telling that crusted snow that it ought to reward you for trying really hard when you've been postholing through it for hours and you don’t have any idea where you are. The dry washes are full of the bones of those who thought they were too tough to die out here. And the snow and the wind and the desert – they just don’t care.

-Grandpa

Déjà vu - Part 2

     We started at the same unearthly hour, had the same kind of sausage breakfast sandwich, got in the same truck, drove down the same roads, and listened to the same people telling much of the same news on the radio. But this was to be a much different day.
We got there at the same time, but the difference was that this time it was 2 degrees F outside instead of -8 F. Positively balmy! We almost lined up in an identical situation - we had just crossed the property line when we saw two does and a yearling. This time, they were between 150 and 200 yards away. I fired a “warning shot” to let them know we are coming, and herd them closer to where we want them (or at least that’s what I called it – others may claim that I missed my first shot). They acknowledged this, and politely started booking it for a road crossing about 500 yards away. With the salutations over, we hopped in the Ford and Grandpa practiced his World Rally Cross driving skills to head them off.

     We got there right before they were crossing the fence, and they promptly turned around and started running out into the fields. Whitetail have an interesting method of running. As they sprint, they will hop far in the air, so you never know where they will be. But nine times out of ten, once they get to around 75 yards away, they will take two seconds to look back to make sure the predator hasn’t changed its position of attack. That momentary hesitation is what gave me the shot. When the lead doe slowed down to look at me and turned broadside. There was just enough time to line the scope up and shoot. She was dead.
      After a prayer of thanks and gutting her, we loaded her up just as the sun began to shine over beautiful southeast Wyoming. This gave The Ranger a great photo opportunity, pictured below. Not wanting to rest on our laurels (even though our “laurels” were feeling pretty frozen), we went looking for bunnies. We spotted one that was trying to get warm in the sun. Ranger hopped off in pursuit, made a sneak and got the bunny. We then spotted a corral where the cows come to water.

With a stroke of luck, the landowner came along and gave us permission to scout around and shoot some rabbits. We hit the jackpot. They would dart in and out of cover, eventually standing there in the middle of the yard just looking at us, and then there would be the customary pause of aiming then the crack of a .22 shell leaving the barrel at 1,300 ft/s, then the mad dash to retrieve the rabbit. Over the course of an hour or two, we killed a dozen rabbits. Like shooting fish in a barrel...

     There was a moment when Grandpa got so excited that the only way I could describe him was like an eight year old Girl Scout who made the biggest cookie sale of all time. It started like “What is that… it can’t be… it is… holy crap!” We were coming back along the ditch where the Ranger shot the first rabbit, when Grandpa saw what appeared to be a bobcat. The Girl Scout started emerging… then it was crushed. At a closer inspection it turned out to be a feral cat. With that we made our way out of there, talking about the impact of feral cats on an ecosystem and the great time we had. With a deer in the back, bunnies beside it, and some warm laurels to rest on, we were headed home. It was really fun.

-The Apprentice

After the Bundys Are Gone

     Well, it's all over but the mop-up in Burns, OR. The Bundys and their thugs are in the wind or in the hoosegow. Maybe things can get back to normal at the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge and the people of Burns can get back to lives without a media circus. Maybe some more thoughtful voices will be heard. We talked about whether we should even broach this topic here at 3EM, and came to the conclusion that maybe we could be one of those voices. We’ve definitely got skin in the game. The public lands of Wyoming and the West are the closest thing we have to a historic context for previous generations of our family. More importantly, they're also the closest thing we have to a legacy for future generations of our family. The public lands are our home place.
     Let's begin by getting a few things straight. First, the Bundys and their ilk never represented anyone but themselves. They certainly never represented ranchers in the interior West. My observation, based on 61 years of experience suggests that westerners in general (and ranchers specifically) tend to resist representation. Every ranch is different. Every ranching family is different. Every outfit has different needs, different goals. They are no different than family owned restaurants or family owned grocery stores in that respect. And rest assured, if you could ever get these notoriously independent folks to agree on anything, it would not be to appoint a whack job like Ammon Bundy as their spokesman.  

     Second, the last thing we need now out here in flyover country is some sort of running gun battle (metaphorically speaking) over whether there should be livestock on public lands. The hardcore greens would like to rekindle that fight because it will bring them membership and money. That’s a sucker’s game, and we should treat it with as much disdain as we reserve for the Bundys. The real work that's being done on the ground for trout and sage grouse and all the other critters out there in the sagebrush sea is being done by hunters and anglers and ranchers working together on projects that benefit us all. Working together gets stuff done.
     Finally, let's not forget what the real problem is. The problem is not a few pistoleros with tinfoil hats and conspiracy theories. The problem is a well orchestrated and well funded effort to transfer lands now administered by the Bureau of Land Management and Forest Service over to the private sector. That's what they want. And they'll continue to starve those agencies for budget so they look incompetent while they say they want to “take back” our public lands. They don't want to take them back. They want to liquidate them. They want the home place. That's the problem.
So before you decide to refresh that old “Cattle Free by ’93” dogma, I hope you’ll think twice. And I hope you don't have to think twice about giving the public lands to anyone but the people who control them now – us, the American people.

-Grandpa

Failure is Always an Option

     Last month, I had the opportunity to go elk hunting with Grandpa in a great area in southeast Wyoming. Three times. I didn’t ever get the cow I so desperately wanted, and that’s okay. We hunters don’t always score huge every time, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. In fact, I believe that the times we “fail” make the successes all the better.    

     Our hunting experience was great. As Grandpa says, “It was colder than a well digger’s [butt]” out on Giffy Knob. The outside temp reading on the truck said 7 degrees but with the screaming wind and blowing snow if felt much, much colder. We saw elk within the first hour each time we were out. Most of them were bulls, and I had to take a cow or a calf. We hiked and hiked and hiked some more, and we saw a ton of wildlife. We saw a mountain lion track that couldn’t have been more than 5 minutes old. We met some seriously cool people and saw some seriously cool things. We froze, sure – but it was worth every minute.
     If you ever have the chance to meet a Southeast Wyoming game warden, let me tell you, they are the real deal. These guys were dedicated to getting me an elk from minute one, and it was amazing the things I learned from them. Me and Grandpa discussed something interesting on the way home of the last day. If we had gone out and shot a big cow elk at first light on the very first day 50 yards from the truck, sure we would have been happy. An elk on the ground by breakfast time is always a great thing! But we would have never been able to meet the people we met, see the things we saw, and learn the things we learned. I would rather spend three long unsuccessful days doing the things we did than one successful hour. So, in conclusion, failure is always an option!
     It’s been said that we don’t hunt in order to kill, rather we kill in order to have hunted. I think that’s true. For me, elk hunting is about a lot more than killing an elk. It’s about connecting with the land and the people you love.

-The Ranger

The Sneak

    “Head down that two track a ways, past the patch of brush on your left and when you get to the tree, stop and glass the horizon.” These are Grandpa’s directions to Uncle Mark and me as the sun was just peeking over the snowy hills on hunting morning. The instructions are clear. Go to the tree. Glass. Then, return and report. Grandpa moves the truck back to a higher vantage point and Uncle Mark and I head for the tree.
     After arriving at the tree, I pull up a trusty set of Maven binoculars (above and beyond the clarity I am used to) and I immediately see elk a few clicks away. Uncle Mark is into elk as well. Uncle Mark keeps talking about a bull looking our way and I cannot find the bull he is talking about. Then, I realize Uncle Mark and I are looking at two different bunches of elk. After focusing on the terrain, I find three different bunches of elk all tucked up in a bowl. It is perfect. The wind is at their back and moving toward us and they are spread out across the ridge in a strategic move to alert others if danger approaches. The way they camouflage into the mountain side is art in its purest form. They are going to do what they can stay alive and put themselves in the best possible advantage to do so.
Luckily for us, we are approximately three quarters to a mile away from them and lots of terrain in between us. Uncle Mark and I take our time on this one. It would only take one of the lookouts in the bunch to sniff out two guys bumbling through the dips and valleys of the terrain. Every few hundred feet we stop and glass - looking for the best possible strategy. We go slowly so we don’t increase our heart rates. Based on our location, we are out of sight but definitely within smell because of the circling breeze. We use rocks, sagebrush and valleys to hide us. As we bounce back and forth closer to the elk, we can smell them. Heart rate starts to elevate. Trevor Jones and Randy Edelman’s soundtrack fills the crevices of my mind and we are Hawkeye and Chingachgook, the last of the Mohicans. Running silently through the woods, leaping over fallen timber (or walking slowly and trying to catch a breath) trying to cut off the elk and get a good shot. We make our way to a point of advantage. We must get there before they see, hear or smell us. Uncle Mark steps out from behind a rock and immediately goes to a knee. He backs up slowly. The cow elk just sits there, not knowing or caring we exist. I position myself so

Mark can use my hind quarters as a rest. There is no breeze and I

can feel my heart pounding. I’m worried I may throw off Mark’s

shot. I can hear Mark slow his breathing and with the slightest

pull of the trigger “BOOM” followed by “I got her.”
     Uncle Mark makes a clean shot on the cow. We take a minute to watch the rest of the elk scatter and we make our approach. As we draw near, I hear Chingachgook’s words as they descend over the valley. “We’re sorry to kill you, Sister. We do honor your courage and speed, your strength.” We kneel down and offer a prayer of gratitude. It’s part of the code. The last thing we would ever do is break the code.

                                                      -Long Rifle

Code of the West - Part 5

    Ok, here it is, 3EM’ers! The fifth and final chapter of the Code of the West. So far, we’ve talked about:

#1 – Work hard, and do your share.
#2 – Help out.
#3 – Serve God.
#4 – We all screw up.

To which we’ll add…

Principle #5 – Never miss an opportunity to shut up.

     It's very common for some of us (especially those of us who might be getting a little long in the tooth) to tell everyone who will listen that they're a throwback, an atavism. About how they should have been a mountain man in 1825 or a cowboy in 1885. To be honest, I've said that myself a time or two. But the fact is that I'm so nearsighted that the Crows would have killed me before I saw 1826. And while being horseback on the llano has its allure, the truth is that without antibiotics I'd have been dead at about age 30. 

     What I think we’re really wishing for is quiet. Stillness is an endangered species in the 21st century, and it's darn near extinct. Phones, tablets and other devices connect us, but they also imprison us. We're talking, texting and tweeting incessantly, obsessively. I miss the silence. If the West has any one defining characteristic, it is the scope of its silence. Wallace Stegner said that to understand this place, you have to get over the color green. I would add that you have to shut up and listen to the silence. That's the Code of the West. Shoot, that is the West.

-Grandpa

Code of the West - Part 4

     By now, you're probably wondering how long we’re going to ride this “Code of the West” horse. The good news is that the end is in sight. We sorta figured that there couldn't be more principles than we could count on the fingers of one hand. You ropers out there will have to count the stubs,too. We’ll be putting out a special sixth edition for those of you from Star Valley…
So we have: 

#1 – Work hard, and do your share.
#2 – Help out.
#3 – Serve God.

To which we’ll add…

Principle #4 – We all screw up sometimes.

    Old Gerdes used to say that the only people who never make mistakes are people who never do anything. His point was that it was ok to mess up once in a while, as long as you owned up to it and tried to make it right. He was pretty forgiving of a dumb mistake, so long as you didn't try to cover it up and you didn't make it a habit. As a teenage hod-carrier on a crew of bricklayers, I appreciated that because I made some bonehead mistakes. But I learned to own my mistakes, and that taught me to be a little more forgiving of other people when they screwed up.
     I needed that lesson a few years later on my first real job in conservation. I worked on a wildlife habitat management area in central Wyoming. Ace was the boss. He was a tough old galoot with the work ethic of a beaver on meth. He learned leadership skills working oil rigs, and his tolerance for sloth or stupidity was zero. We had just finished putting in the first of three center-pivot irrigation systems, and he left me in charge on site while he went into town to pay the tab for it – the $50,000 tab for it. We worked until about mid-morning, then I drove over to check the pivot. I found it tangled up around a cottonwood tree, twisted and crippled on its very first trip around the field. I considered suicide, and I considered headlong flight, but settled on just telling Ace I screwed up. When he got back, he just looked at it and said, “It's ok, kid. S[tuff] happens.” We fixed the pivot, removed the tree, and he never said another word about it. Because Ace lived by the Code of the West, and I loved him for it. Still do.

-Grandpa

Code of the West - Part 3

     So far, we've talked about the first two parts of the Code of the West, or at least the Code as
we practice it:

#1 – Work hard, and do your share.

#2 – Help out.

     The third one is a little more difficult. It's more difficult because it’s related to both the first two, but it's even more difficult because it’s part of everything we do. On top of that, it's one that might turn some of you off. But we try never to be untruthful here at 3EM (except about where we hunt and fish – we lie like rugs about that) so I'm just going to lay it out there and hope you’ll understand.

Principle 3 – Serve God.

     We are a family of faith. It's who we are. We know God lives and that Jesus Christ is our Savior. We try, in our own way to be a little more like the Savior every day. Sometimes we make it, sometimes we don't. But we know He loves us, so when we fail we get back up and keep on trying. As my father said, “It doesn't matter if the horse throws you ten times, as long as you get back on eleven.”    

     We pray. A lot, I guess. We pray in the morning. We give thanks when God grants us an animal to feed our family. We pray at night. We pray when someone we love needs help.And we pray when we find ourselves in a jackpot that we’re pretty sure we can't get out of on our own. It's just what we do.
     But maybe just as important, we try to live our faith by loving and serving others. I'm reminded of something I saw Apprenticedad do not long ago. A friend’s vehicle had broken down in Cody on a Saturday. It was going to be weeks before it could be repaired there. Apprenticedad and another friend figured out over Sunday dinner that they could use their flatbed and other equipment to go get it. Did they wait until Monday morning to do that? They did not. They just packed up and headed north after dinner. They loaded up the disabled outfit and headed home, arriving at 4:00 AM after a 430 mile all-nighter. Why? Because it's the Code of the West.

-Grandpa

Code of the West - Part 2

     The other day, we kicked off the Code of the West series here at 3EM with Principle #1 – Work hard and do your share. We work hard, and as the Ranger says, “That's just what we do in our family.” I saw an example of this the other day that will stick with me for a long time. Uncle Mark killed a cow elk in a late season hunt up near Giffy Peak. We could drive the truck to within about 400 yards of it. Rather than make either of the two frail elders of the tribe (Grandpa and Uncle Mark) pack more than one quarter of this elk, Long Rifle simply put the back half of the elk on his massive shoulders and toted it to the truck for us. That act reminded me of the second principle in our Code of the West:

Principle #2 – Help out.

     God sends each of us here with some gifts. Some of us get obvious gifts – like the massive shoulders of Long Rifle that have packed literally thousands of pounds of meat out to the trailhead for our family. Some are a little less obvious – like a tender heart or willing hands. The Apprentice may be the alpha male of helping out in our family. He’s not at his best early in the morning – he’ll be the first to admit that. But I don't know many other 13 year old males who stagger bleary eyed up the stairs at 5:30 AM at Grandma’s house and say their first words of the day: “What can I do to help?”
But whatever gifts we come here with, we can and should use them to help someone. We never drive by someone who’s stuck. We always carry a set of jumper cables – not for us, but to help someone else. And we never ask, “What's in it for us.” Why? Because it’s the Code of the West.

-Grandpa

Code of the West - Part 1

     Former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher is credited with one of my favorite quotes on political power: “Being powerful is like being a lady. If you have to tell people you are, you aren’t. ” So it is, I think, about being a westerner. If you have to wear woolly chaps and spurs to go get the mail, you’re just a pilgrim in a Gene Autry costume. My own community is a serial offender when it comes to this principle. Every year during the last full week in July, bank presidents and financial planners who couldn’t saddle a horse to save their soul don their starched Wranglers (almost always an inch or more too short) and the same pair of cheap boots they’ve had since 1978 to play cowboy. It’s fun for them and funny for the rest of us. We’re all romantics when it comes to the West.
     The romance of the West has been a draw almost from the beginning. Kit Carson and Buffalo Bill were the heroes of dime novels more than a century ago, each espousing values neither ever practiced. More recently, there’s been talk about the “Code of the West”. It's not a new idea. Zane Grey wrote a book about it. John Wayne talked about it. Some recovering Wall Streeter named James P. Owen exploited it. And legislatures across the West have adopted resolutions endorsing vague value statements that have little or nothing to do with the real Code of the West. The truth is, I doubt there is a real one. If there is one, it's one that varies a bit from family to family and individual to individual. But living here for six generations counts for something. Starting today, and for the next few days, we’ll touch on a few items that are important in our own family's Code of the West.

Principle #1 – Work hard, and do your share.

     The highest form of praise that can be lavished on anyone in our family comes from Grandma. And if Grandma says “He (or she) is a workin’ machine,” no higher accolade can ever come your way. As the original “workin’ machine” she ought to know. She came here, the product of a thousand generations of German-Swiss women, not one of whom made an inch of room in their family for laziness. Ranger and the Apprentice always scramble for the front passenger seat in my pickup (assuming Grandma isn't in it) because

they consider that the co-pilot’s seat. But with that seat comes the responsibility of getting out and opening and closing any gates. And when the truck comes to a halt, that passenger side door better be already opening. Why? Not because I'll be grouchy at them if it's not. These guys never required more than a raised eyebrow on the worst day they ever had. They open and close the gates because it's their responsibility. And it says so right here, in the Code of the West.

-Grandpa

Déjà vu

     A new year comes with new adventures and new stories. For us, stories sometimes evolve into many segments: the Cutt Slam, or an elk hunt that takes many attempts. I want to add the second chapter to something that started almost exactly a year ago: my forays into deer hunting.
     This was Stub’s (The Ranger’s younger brother) first deer hunt. We went back to the very same ranch where we had so much success last year. The very same voices of Robert Siegel and Audie Cornish drifted through the radio as we drove through the dark of southeastern Wyoming. A sense of déjà vu descended, and I looked at Stub as I remembered my deer hunt a year before. I wondered if he felt the trepidation that I felt, or the inability to sleep I remembered. Then, I noticed that he was asleep. I guess he wasn’t having that problem…
     As soon as we got on the property, in was game time. It was COLD when we got there at sunrise - about -8 F. We shivered outside the truck as we put on the final layers of clothing and discussed our gameplan. We would drive along the dirt road through sunrise, hoping to catch the deer as they made their way from water and feed to the sand dunes where they spend the day. Our lineup went as follows: Grandpa as driver/spotter, Rangerdad as front passenger/spotter, me at left rear passenger/shooter, and Stub at right rear passenger/shooter. It went exactly to plan. We just passed the property line when we saw three or four doe whitetail, not a hundred yards away. So Stub got out and very calmly made a great shot on one of the bunch. She dropped. With that, we began chasing one of the bunch that had separated and not gone very far.  

Stub and Rangerdad

     We chased her for several hours. She stayed pretty close, sometimes allowing me to get a shot in and every time she came out unscathed. By the time she finally darted into the neighbor’s property, I had fired six or seven pretty easy shots. This had shaken my confidence pretty badly. Before, I thought I was an okay shot, but after that I was regarding myself as the worst shot in the history of humankind. But after taking care of Stub’s deer and eating lunch, I convinced myself that I was just feeling a little off that morning and things would get better later in the day.
     We headed up to the sand dunes that afternoon. On the way, I took a shot at a little bunch about 200 yards away, within easy range for my .243. Again, nothing happened to one of the deer. By the time I had jacked another shell in, they were 400 yards away and running. I was once again trying to find a fault in my shooting to fix, and I couldn’t come up with anything that might cause me to miss entirely.
     When we got to the dunes, Stub was feeling sick so he and Rangerdad stayed at the truck while Grandpa and I went walking. We nearly had a repeat of last year, when we stumbled upon a doe and a yearling at the same blowout where I shot my deer last year. I was a wee bit wobbly this time, so it was no surprise to me that I missed my first shot but the others I was bewildered at. I had missed four shots at no more than 200 yards. Simply put, it was not good. I had similar experiences with another three or four groups. We decided that there could only be two possibilities: 1. I was really bad at shooting or 2. My rifle was really off. We decided to test this, so we found the nearest target (a rabbit 10 yards away) and tested it out. It was around five inches off. While that doesn’t sound like very much at first, until you do the math - if that stays a constant, at a 100 yards away, I am 4 feet off. With that, we decided that I should switch to the backup gun.
     We walked around a bit more but saw nothing and after it got dark, we headed out. It was a good day in the field (after all, any day in the field beats a good day anywhere else), and after a stop at the local gas station for a Coke and one of their gigantic hot dogs, we headed home to get some rest for the next day of hunting.

-The Apprentice

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

Bailey

       I remember looking at her at her for the very first time. I’ve heard of love at first sight, and that was as close as I’ve ever come. She and I just “clicked”. She had a different name then, but she came to be my best friend.
       She was amazing with kids. As a rambunctious 3 year old I always had more than enough energy, and Dad didn't always have the time to wrestle for hours on end. She would chase tennis balls I would throw. She would let me roll up and down her all day, she would grab my arm and shake it in that way I loved. 

      She loved the cabin. She would jump into the creeks and scare every fish in a mile radius away. She and I loved swimming together in Molly’s Pond. She got so excited for antelope hunting. The smells, the rides in the truck, bounding through the sagebrush. But she always kept an eye on us kids, whether we were a few feet away learning how to field dress an antelope, or playing tag or hide and seek 100 yards away.
      She was a great dog. She loved me unconditionally. She would have followed me to the ends of my world and beyond. She was my friend through the good times and the rough times. But she's in a better place. A place where she can chase rabbits and tennis balls all day. A place where she can wrestle three year old boys without her back hurting. A place where she and I can play again. Thanks Bailey!

-The Apprentice

We Salute You

      He was never much of a talker. A WWII generation guy to the core, he preferred to let his actions speak for themselves. And as for his wartime experiences, he almost never spoke of them. Perhaps a brief mention of a name or a place in passing, never more than that. At the first hint of a question about them, he’d clam up tight. And sometimes, he’d just go all quiet. I learned early on that there were places he went then that I couldn’t follow. The best thing was to just stay close and wait for him to come back. He always did.

         I think now that his war, fighting the Japanese in the jungles of New Guinea and the Philippines, must have been terrible. But his war didn’t end on VJ Day. He brought it home and it took years for him to win it. Victory in that war came the only way can ever come in the silent battles for a person’s soul. It came from love - his love for God and his love for Wyoming. It came from his love for trout fishing and elk hunting and the peace he found on the river and in the backcountry. It came from his love for my mom and me.
        For all those veterans out there, from all of us here at 3EM, thanks for your service. We’re able to do what we do because you did what you did. This day and every day, we salute you.

-Grandpa

Grandma Draws Bears

      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. So she was a pretty cool Grandma, and all nine of her little grandchildren thought so. All of us here at 3EM think she’s pretty darn cool, too.

    Now our home country is really not very good bear country. We have only a few black bears, and we get at most an occasional

grizzly. But the thing is, you see,

Courtesy Dave Glenn

Grandma draws bears. Not with a pencil and paper. She can draw a bear with pencil and paper, but that’s not what we’re talking about here. Grandma draws bears the way flowers draw bees. If you spend much time with Grandma, you’re going to have some sort of bear adventure. Consider, if you will these vignettes:

Bear One
      A number of elk seasons ago, Grandma and I accompanied a good friend into the West Fork of Notellum Creek. It was a beautiful October morning. It had snowed a few inches the night before, and then cleared off cold. The snow in the West Fork was soft and silent and the grass was studded with frost that shimmered like diamonds in the morning sun. It was simply glorious.
       She walked with us as far as the second crossing on the West Fork, then hearing the siren song of her hot chocolate at The Cabin, she thought she might head back. She made a little circle back through the timber to the trail we came in on. And what to her wondering eyes should appear but a humongous black bear track following the tracks we had made only 30 minutes before. A coincidence? Perhaps. Curious bear? Perhaps. Hot-footing Grandma back at the pickup in record time? Definitely.

Bear Two
       Several elk seasons ago, Apprenticedad walked right smack into the middle of the main herd way up in the top of The Saddle. Almost in self-defense, he shot a cow elk. He was happy. We were all happy for him. Grandma was so happy that she volunteered to help him pack it out while the rest of us tried to find the remnants of the now scattered main herd.
       It was all going just great until they got down into the dense timber above Giffey Meadow. The trail winds down through the spruce and fir here, and you can’t see more than a few feet in any direction. So when something said, “WOOF!” Grandma stopped. She asked Apprenticedad, “What do you think that was?” His response was a game attempt to reassure his beloved mother-in-law, “Oh…uh…nothing.” But as always it is the nonverbal that gives us away. As Aunt Carol would have said, “his face looked like two sheep turds floating in a bowl of milk” and instantly Grandma knew exactly what was woofing at them and she knew Apprenticedad knew as well. Abiding by the rule that when the going gets tough, the tough get the heck out of there, they did.
     There are other days and other bears, too. There will probably be more days and more bears. Maybe she smells like donuts and we’ve never noticed. Maybe she just looks tasty, like one of the chocolate chip cookies she bakes at The Cabin. But we all carry bear spray now, because no matter how much we love her, the fact is…Grandma draws bears.

-Grandpa