“I’d been feeding that fish gummy worms the whole way down the river. You know, the ones that are sweet and sour. When I ran out of those, the fish decided to just eat dad’s fly.”
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"Toothy Torpedos" (Published in Issue 3 of FFI Magazine)
This link will lead you straight away to some insight on fly fishing for barracuda-cheers!
https://ffimagazine.com/a/toothy-torpedos/
"Cans in the Fire" (Published in July/August issue of Bugle Magazine)
The tenth year of union is marked with tin. Perhaps, not the most romantic of elements, but the malleable metal represents the flexibility and durability required to endure. At the crossroads in Bonner, Montana, my wife pleaded, and I bent, abandoning my intended destination. We veered right onto the two-lane highway that leads to rugged grizzly country that, once again, would test our durability.
A decade earlier on this celestial event, the Autumnal Equinox, Lauren and I bivouacked into the heart of a timbered basin, slept amongst the elk, and cracked the code. Back then, at mid-morning, a stiff waft of elk hit us in the face. My wife went with her gut and ripped a bugle that surprised the hell out of a bedded herd. They materialized out of the bear grass. First a bull, just out of range, then two cows, and as I began to draw, to my immediate right, another bull tilted his rack back and bellowed. His frame was half-hidden by a young evergreen, but I zeroed in on an open patch of hide behind his shoulder. This time, the feathered shaft left my recurve on a true path, and a two-year enigma, to take an elk with a traditional bow, was solved.
Our honeymoon hunt was layered in accord, discord, struggle and triumph. We shared tight confines, ate paltry meals, and logged exhausting days on little sleep in a collaborative effort to complete a daunting task. She called, I shot, and we packed for two days, and ultimately, succeeded where I had failed with others. This feat gave us a boost of confidence that, together, we could navigate the metaphorical dark timber and haul the heavy loads that life had in store.
This trip was in memorandum of that adventure, an overnighter for nostalgia sake, and it had been my original intent to commemorate the affair in amicable terrain. To that goal, a week prior, a friend of mine led me on a pre-scouting mission to an unfamiliar mountain range. Via a moderate, switchback trail, we hiked to a prominence with divine views of an alpine moraine. Complete with a low density of grizzly bears, to my mind, this would be an ideal spot for a couple of tired parents to enjoy a casual day hunt. But, at the truck stop, with our kids at my sister-in-laws and a borrowed camper in tow, my wife made a strong case while we fueled up; the only way to revel in the memory of our great elk hunt was to return to where it all went down.
I maintained a watchful eye on the trailer as we chewed up the miles and talked about elk, and elk hunting. It was the first time in months, since our official wedding anniversary back in June, that we shared a relaxed conversation on much other than kids, daily schedules, or finances. We entered the main drag of the quaint mountain town and reminisced as we passed the dive bar that once served our pre, and post-hunt beers and opted for the burger joint. In true Montana fashion, this community harbored more bars than street lights and I confessed that the 50’s-style family diner was the only establishment in town that I had never set foot in.
Loaded up with fries and milkshakes, we turned off the pavement and onto the familiar gravel road. As we neared the mouth of the basin, the road didn’t look so recognizable. A smooth path of freshly laid aggregate replaced the washboard, and it had been re-routed away from the creek and our intended campsite. In addition to redirecting foot, hoof, and tire traffic around sensitive char and trout habitat, the project accomplished the unintended goal of masking the entrance to our old stomping grounds. It was unlikely that many other hunters had discovered the bowl in recent years, or exerted the effort to explore it.
In the fading light we found a cul-de-sac off a side road that would pass for camp. With nothing to pitch and no cache to hang, we climbed into the camper as the wind began to howl and swirl. This had always been the problem with hunting here. The rivers flow one way or the other on the Continental Divide, but the weather can never make up its mind on which way to go. A windy night in an old burn is all the more unsettling in grizzly country, where the trees moan, snarl, and growl. Protected by the sound-dampening qualities of the aluminum camper, we put in a movie, the Clint Eastwood classic, Unforgiven, and about the time the boys rode into Big Whiskey, Lauren was sound asleep.
I resist most technological developments, often to my own detriment, but I’ve embraced recent advancements within the realm of instant coffee. Our tanks topped off with hot joe and breakfast burritos, we were laced up and out of the cozy confines of the camper in quick time. By headlamp, we negotiated the reclaimed two-track and found the one and only log-bridge over the stream, complete with notches carved for traction. The route through the alders on the other side was overgrown, suggesting that the trail hadn’t seen boot prints in a spell. A path that had once been mapped into my memory bank was faded and I stopped to gain bearings. Just before the sunrise crested the ridge behind us, I felt an odd disturbance atop my dome, followed by the familiar chirp of a robin. I jolted my head and the bird flew off the top of my hat. Lauren and I had a chuckle; the day was off to an interesting start.
This basin is shaped like a coffee filter half-folded in-hand, the rim of which is a continuous alpine ridgeline. Behind the crest lies a wilderness that stretches to the Canadian border. In mid-September, bulls seek refuge from the cracks of early rifle season, cross the scree slopes and funnel into the sub-alpine of the bowl. Three miles of hellacious country separate the road and the elk grounds and the initial price of admission is a calf-burner, a steep pitch to enter the narrow creek mouth. From there, a series of faint game trails etched into the hard ground open the door to the breeding and bedding grounds. Through much trial and mostly error, we had discovered this elusive route that accesses the heart of the bowl, where elk coalesce in a swath of gentle topography, glacial feeder creeks, wallows, and hardwoods.
A decade ago, we concluded that the best option was to backpack in the first two miles, camp amongst the bears, and intercept the elk on their home turf. As we dug in and paid this ante once again, ten years of physical inflation burned in my legs as a faint bugle rang out from above our position. Our primary goal was accomplished, just to hear one rip in this backcountry sink and affirm that this wild place was still intact.
We spotted the elk responsible as he crossed a taboo burn so thick with blow down that the only reward for pursuit was a high degree of personal discomfort. I had made that gaffe before. We were content to glass him from afar, and kept our course. Our old path was hard to discern. The game trail had dissolved and, to our dismay, we stumbled into the deadfall we’d hoped to avoid. I griped and groaned like I tend to do in high-hurdles, and Lauren, the optimist, recounted the time I lost my favorite boning knife here, a heavy-handled Kershaw that held a tenacious edge. Miraculously, she found it a year later. A knife in the forest is no different than a needle in a haystack.
She had a knack for finding things in the woods. Once we recovered from my miscue and emerged from the blow down, she assumed the lead and took us right to our old campsite. The terrace remained just as we had left it, a length of forgotten rope hanging from our cache tree. The moment yearned to be savored but a bull interrupted and beckoned us across the creek. We crossed at the very spot where we stashed a couple of pints of “Colorado Kool Aid” all those years ago. After hauling our bull off the mountain, we cracked those gold cans and neither of us could ever recall better refreshment. The icy flow chilled the meat while we summoned our remaining strength for the strenuous task of hanging quarters well outside of camp.
That creek now fed a fresh wallow, and while we investigated, I found an old fire ring beneath a pine tree. Two weathered tin cans rested together in the old ashes of the ring. It is policy to remove trash from the backcountry, but they had been here for decades, and seemed to belong. Then, another bugle, closer this time, commanded our attention. Lauren and I locked eyes and used hand signals to setup, then she went to work on the bugle. The woods fell silent, for a long while. The bull bugled again, farther off, indicating that he had no intention of heading our way. Perhaps he winded us, but we were content with the outcome of the hunt. It was now midday and killing a bull now would mean shirking responsibilities that are no longer so easy to dodge.
Ten years ago, we were stubborn and determined and would have pursued the elk until dusk enveloped the basin. I had no doubt that we were hardy enough to continue, but we flexed, and abandoned the hunt in favor of a nap prior to descent and our return to children and weekly routine. Lauren and I climbed to the lush grass on the edge of the burn and beneath a lodgepole pine, settled in next to one another. Within the remnants of the old fire, we lie still.
The Last Renegade
On the morning of March 9th my sister, Megan, called to tell me that dad had passed. We were en route home, halfway between Montana and Oregon, at a hotel in Idaho. Despite our best efforts, we had missed the final farewell. We pushed on, a morose drive along the Columbia. It happened to be my wife’s birthday. Dad had always liked her best. At Megan’s house, we gathered for a family dinner, and took joy and solace in the cheerful play of our collective children. As we arranged for dad’s service, another cloud loomed as the smoldering COVD-19 pandemic plumed into a conflagration. Inevitably, we canceled the service and shifted attention to other complex and unpleasant family matters. With nothing left to do, the sensible thing was to return home and brace for the ramifications of a national lockdown.
Like a needle in a haystack, lost amid this web of chaos, was the opportunity to mourn the loss of my father. Throughout the turmoil of the father/son relationship, specifically, the abyss between a teenage boy and a middle-aged man, our shared love of hunting and fishing was the glue that kept us together, and empowered us to forgive and forget the petty disputes that we, too often, allowed to overpower the deep love that exists between us. My dad was a good man that worked really hard to provide for his family. He was extremely supportive and proud of all of us, and this love deserved reflection. I needed this too.
Following an unprecedented earthquake that shook our house in Missoula, the skies broke loose with a resurrection of winter, and I waited for the storm to settle before hitting the river. “Social Distancing” was a new buzzword, but I would’ve fished solo regardless. I sorted through dad’s Deschutes-centric fly boxes, the compartments stuffed with Sofa Pillows, Elk Hair Caddis, Green Butt Skunks, and his favorite fly, the Renegade. I found the ones that I had tied for him, and the noticeably better store-boughts that I had gifted prior to his annual foray to Whiskey Dick’s, the famed water on the Warm Springs Indian Reservation. My dad represented the tribe for his entire law career, and once a year, during the Pi-Ume-Sha Treaty Days celebration in June, we were granted access to the forbidden fruit in the form of brick-shithouse “redsides”, the native rainbow of the Deschutes.
I plucked two mint condition Renegades from his box and added them to my collection of foam flies and parachutes relevant to western Montana. I recalled the first time that Dad came out to here to fish with me some 15 years ago. Despite my local knowledge, he leaned on the Renegade and I learned that the trout of the Clark Fork watershed couldn’t resist the timeless dry fly.
I called by buddy Mike, another Central Oregon native who relocated to Missoula well before I did, and he kindly granted me access to prime wade water via his property. My Brittany, Skookum, so named for the creek that trickled into the Deschutes above Whiskey Dick’s, explored the woods and kicked the ducks off the slough on the walk to the river. My dad had Brittanies, so I always have too. On a relatively warm April afternoon, there were stoneflies and mayflies about and the fish were taking advantage. I made a few casts with my preferred foam dry fly, raised a fish or two, and concluded that I should let these trout rest, and return later. I hiked downstream to the serenades of sandhill cranes and honkers, and found a pod of rising trout on the far bank. After better fishing than I deserved, I hiked back upriver, and perched on a streamside log. I removed the foam fly, dropped to 4x, and attached one of dad’s Renegades. I sat there awhile. A head wind teased a pending storm front from the Bitterroots. The weather system had likely originated in the Cascades, then passed the Blues and Wallowas, and I reflected on our times together: decades in those mountains and the arid river chasms that drain them. I recalled our adventures to Belize and Guatemala, and for the first time in nearly a month since he passed, I really missed my dad but felt his presence. I toted Skookum across the river, dropped her on an island, and approached the rising trout, Renegade in hand.
On one of my first drifts a fish took. I set the hook, and from the other side, I heard dad’s infectious laugh at the effectiveness of an age-old dry fly pattern designed to imitate nothing. The trout wasn’t very big but I broke it off, and knew that in my period of reflection, I had managed to tie a shitty knot. My dad always stressed the importance of a good knot, and here, once again, his son had ignored his sage advice. I snipped the end of the frayed tippet and plucked the last Renegade from my box. Skookum, bless her heart, watched chest deep in the frigid water. She was either ready to go home or transfixed on the gravity of the moment.
I missed another eat, and the cloud cover waned momentarily, taking the risers with it. I waited and watched, and as the calm before the storm loomed, I made a blind cast into a soft current break and a fish rose to the fly. I slipped the beautiful Westslope Cutthroat into the net, a native fish, caught on a simple fly that belonged to an angler eternally linked to native people, a renegade of sorts himself. I submerged the net and the fish returned home. I clipped my last Renegade, returned it to the fly box, went home, and played with dad’s grandkids until the sun went down.
Dimensional Concussion
It was the finale of a wild rivers adventure on the south coast and alongside my buddy, Jed, we slinked through some of the continent’s oldest trees. We weren’t in any rush, transfixed in one of nature’s great cathedrals that had refused to succumb to the ice 10,000 years ago. Sure, there had been some pretty women to ogle during our brief time in Santiago, but being relative gentlemen, Jed and I had never rubbernecked like this before. We had ample time to soak in the forest and could wait for the steelhead for a few more minutes. We’d traveled a thousand miles in hopes of intercepting their obsequious nature, to feed them flies finished with sharptail grouse feathers from the old buffalo grounds in Montana. Our odds were slim. But that was hardly the point, and I knew my friend was well engrossed in the same energy that was upon me now, or perhaps, he was way ahead of the game, as usual.
We clunked down the narrow road, barely clearing the Sequoias in a rented U-Haul, which actually made a pretty good case for a poor man’s RV. There was a cot setup in the back for changing costumes and keeping our shit secure from nobody that would steal it, and today we were intent on swinging flies, and for the fence, on the lower river. There wasn’t much conversation to be had as I pieced together what little I had learned about this stretch of water. There were four definitive sections of holding water that had been explained to me, and I’d had occasion to fish here a few days back. As usual, I’d learned what not to do and now had just enough information to be really confused; that’s the beauty of steelhead angling, or permit fishing, or elk hunting, or whatever outdoor challenge floats your boat.
Driving downstream on river left, I stared past the tip of my friend’s beak and watched a drift boat slide in to back-troll one of the juiciest pieces of water. I knew very little about the run, but I knew I liked it, and the amount of attention that the locals were presently paying to it affirmed my suspicion.
Jed saw him first, and I countered his quick intense reaction, refocusing my attention to the left side of the road where an old hippy manifested out of the woods and approached us, close enough to make his statement clear. “We’wha. River people. ’96!” Jed and I exchanged dumbfounded glances and continued down the road to Stout Grove.
I first met Jed on Montana’s Smith River when we were both hired as baggers for a multi-day fishing trip. He was taller than my 6’ 2” by a good piece and his gorilla arms reached to his ankles. Running gear had always been my favorite job on the river, and though my colleague on this adventure sure looked capable, despite being rather out of shape, I was in my early 30’s and assumed I might school him in the finer points of boatmanship. “Rowing is not all about power, it’s about finesse,” I mused internally as we shoved off. We left the boat ramp at the same time and never again would I be within a river turn of him. I was amazed, what with my sculling background and years on tumultuous Oregon rivers working with guys named “Marty” and “Rodger”, who built their own knives and arrows and could hold that mighty flow back with a few back strokes. Moving to the relative tranquility of Montana, I figured I would be the stroke oar, moving tonnage down-basin. Montana is a big pond, lil’ guppy.
Jed and I became fast friends on that trip, resorting to an old primate tongue once the angling clients had concluded that we were basically Cro Mag, and should be treated as such, Jed’s Masters Degree and my nimble Associates aside. We crushed the guest’s white wine spritzers when they weren’t looking and spilled their overrated Cuervo 1800 down our gullets. Jed beat up on big browns in the camp water and by day four, I knew I had met someone of premium character-humble hilarious, irreverent, genuine, and kind, all the factors I admire in an angler. I would come to find out later that he had been a next-level athlete and I never really had a chance of keeping up with him in the first place.
Jed has had occasion to fish cool places, and I s’pose I have too, and as we stepped into the lower river with the redwoods shattering the light, sure as shit, that same odd bird that I had seen a few days prior well up-country lit in the tree across from us. I took the low part of the run, as it was deep and slow and I had a ‘Zellman’s Tendonitis’ tied on for dredging the depths. The skill-player above me fished the riffle-stuff and by the time we were both done, Jed took the words from my mouth-“This might be the coolest place I’ve ever fished.”
I pointed the bird out to Jed, who feigned interest, but I could tell he was in the zone and his primary focus was on the water-the space between a Sports Psychologist and an Audio Technician (we are always listening).
We finished the pool, regrouped, and slipped back into the ghostly forest, shadows creeping all around us. The vibe was mysterious for sure, but positive, like a good buzz amongst a biker gang.
The next piece of holding water was several hundred yards long and we agreed to split it in half. I took the bottom portion. I fish faster than Jed, too fast for winter steelhead, surely, but I can’t sit in a treestand for more than an hour either. I found a natural exit at the bottom of the pool, left my camera and water bottle, headed upriver a couple of hundred yards and entered the river. Directly across from me in a massive redwood, I saw that unusual bird again, and from a side profile I confirmed my suspicions that it could be no other raptor than a Crested Caracara. I’d seen them in Argentina. This individual was a full 10 degrees of Latitude north of its home range. I’d heard rumors of unusual numbers of tuna and even wahoo, being caught off the Oregon coastline. The winds of La Nina were shuffling the deck, or, perhaps, the bird was looking for something in particular?
I finished the run, fishless, and exited the river to retrieve my gear. Next to my dry bag was a small stack of wet stones that I’m certain hadn’t been there when I left my stuff. The sky was cloudless and I had not seen anyone on the riverbank? Perplexed, I grabbed my stuff, with my spine tingling and my head on a swivel, I trekked back upstream to join my friend. Reflecting, the name, “We’wha”, seemed to echo throughout this spiritual garden.
We’wha was a leader of the Zuni tribe, a member of both the Badger and the Dogwood people, and a prominent cultural ambassador for all Native Americans. We’wha died in 1896. What I initially took to be the ramblings of a wayward stoner was, in fact, a clue that would unlock a portal into the past.
A man and his domain.
Damn-Near Game Time...Proper Scope Mounting
Several years ago, I had the great opportunity to return to the theater of my youth, a wheat farm in North-Central Oregon, where a thick volume of my most-cherished outdoor memories reside. I was charged with providing a new precision rifle for this all-important mission, one capable of handling the big country on my old friend’s land along the Columbia Plateau.
Jake hard at work on the farm.
I opted for a Remington Long Range in .300 Winchester Magnum and had the scope mounted and bore-sighted at a reputable gun counter in Montana. I zeroed it in 3 shots, then drove highway miles with the rifle packed in an armored case.
Upon arrival, we should’ve had ample time to play around with precise adjustments for longer-range accuracy. However, at their gun range, Jake and I were bewildered. We were running low on fodder for the .300 Win, and still couldn’t get the new rifle to punch tight clusters through the paper. About the time we sent Richard to town for more ammo, Jake noticed rub marks near the rings, and we realized that the scope had been moving, ever so slightly, with every shot. We then inspected the mounting job and discovered that it had been conducted in a rather half-assed fashion. We busted out the Allen wrenches and Loctite and started over.
Anybody can have a bad day, so I figured I’d give the gun counter another chance when I bought a rifle chambered for the devastating caliber, the .300 Remington Ultra Magnum (RUM) with a specific purpose in mind. I dropped the gun and a Black Diamond Optics 5x25 off at the gun counter prior to an open-country elk hunt in Montana.
At the range, the gun performed nicely. The recoil was surprisingly comfortable, compliments of good cartridge/rifle combo and a Bell and Carlson stock. I fed 40 rounds through it, which my shoulder would’ve never withstood from my old Browning .300 Winchester, nor the .270, for that matter. Satisfied, I returned home to clean the rifle. That’s when I realized that the crosshairs were off-center. Removing the rings revealed a deep scratch in the tube, indicative of another piss-poor mounting job.
When any of our clan has a gun issue, we call Hammy. He’s something of a “cleaner”, he will make your problems go away. I handed the man my new tool, got out of the way, and let him go to work.
Using a Dremel, he digs X’s into the top of the receiver and on the bases, so the epoxy clay will find ample purchase.
Setting epoxy clay in place.
A drop of Loctite on EVERY screw.
With a lapping kit, Hammy smooths the rings, so they will not damage the scope tube (I have heard that some of the high-end rings on the market negate the need for this process.)
All dialed-in like Hammy.
All's Well that Ends Well-Thwarting Local Gangsters and the Mexican Navy.
An effective counter measure for a claustrophobic coach seat was necessary, so I ordered a margarita and resisted the urge to reach over and choke the comfort out of the imp in front of me, who had just reclined his seat. Meanwhile, in Mexico, the paperwork that I had submitted weeks ago had just caught the eye of somebody looking to make a buck.
Upon arrival in Los Cabos, I confidently presented our carnet (an importation document listing our inventory of professional video equipment) to the customs agent, and was unexpectedly ushered into a side room. There, I was informed that our gear was now in the possession of an “import/export specialist” who would be happy to negotiate the release of our company tackle. According to these uniformed agents, I had simply been the victim of bad timing, as the specific guidelines outlined by the government official that I had so thoroughly navigated in the days leading up to this trip had simply changed. Most likely, by a thick wad of cash.
In those days, we shot outdoor television shows on huge studio cameras, which our videographers packed on sheep hunts up the Himalayas and down tumultuous rivers in South America. Our company founder was something of a visionary. He setup shop adjacent a university with a prominent radio and television program, and seized the opportunity to offer menial wages in exchange for countless hours of labor in order to acquire a valuable library of high-definition wildlife footage. To an outsider like myself, who had come from a guiding and writing background, this level of camera equipment seemed like overkill for documenting two dudes flyfishing, but the spectacle did produce the desired results of keeping others from attempting outdoor TV (eventually, they figured it out). The exhibition provided a menial wage for me too, as one of my duties was negotiating the complex international laws, which are always subject to sudden and erratic change, pertaining to the exploitation of a sovereign nation’s wildlife for the purpose of cable-package content back in the good ol’ USA. In this particular instance, it would appear that I had hit a roadblock and the newfangled production, Fly Fishing the World with Conway Bowman, may be beached before it ever set sail.
My first order of business was to contact our local liaison and guide, a gringo who had been operating in Mexico for many years. He assured me that this sort of thing was typical and that we had nothing to worry about, for a few hundred dollars we’d be back in business. He made a phone call to the “import/export agent” (surely, the Spanish translation for “Art Vandelay”) and I overhead him repeatedly use the acronym “ESPN”. While a former version of the fishing show we intended to produce was, in fact, aired on the nation’s leading sports channel, that had been many years ago, and I questioned the advantage of associating our equipment with a highly-recognizable network. My hunch was Vandelay and his cronies were seeing dollar signs.
A meeting was arranged and while I was preparing to handle these goons face-to-face, the host, Conway Bowman, and the outfitter, Doug Brady of Flytreks, went fishing. The cameramen went to “shoot B-roll”, TV lingo for beauty footage of sunrises, sunsets, and long walks on the beach. Most often, they would just go to the bar. Both of these sounded like much better options than a Mexican backroom negotiation.
As I apprehensively approached this place of business, it was difficult to discern just what type of racket these folks were conducting. The storefront was a windowless, drab building in an otherwise abandoned strip mall in the Mexican desert. A prime setting for clandestine activities, and possibly, the last building I would ever enter. Inside, there were stacks of electronics, boxes of paperwork, and four desks occupied by suspicious men currently in possession of our valuables. Whatever back-slapper had just been told moments before I entered the room must’ve been hilarious, but the laughter subsided immediately and the four “import/export specialists” scowled as I approached the man whom I assumed to be in charge.
In broken Spanglish, I calmly explained that we would need our gear back today. I was pleasantly assured that this would be no problem, $5000 cash would do it, and another $5k upon our departure would ensure the safety of the equipment upon exportation. I decided to approach this like a car deal, and left, returning hours later with our lead videographer, Bill, a well-traveled veteran of international bullshit whose glare could take the fresh paint right off a Sunday school.
Bill the Cameraman
With Bill at the door, I stood my ground, and we left with our equipment for $400 today, $400 upon our departure. The show must go on; though we’d now lost two full production days of a scheduled five-day shoot and it would take ample luck on the angling side of things to pull this rabbit out-of-a-hat. Fortunately, we could rely upon experienced saltwater anglers and a seasoned guide.
On day three, it was ass-on-curb at 4AM. We drove for hours on winding, rough roads across the Baja backcountry to a boat launch, somewhere in the Sea of Cortez. From there we took an hour’s ride out to an isolated island. The waters were inundated with a variety of gamefish; roosters, jacks, needlefish, and the acrobatic ladyfish. In a matter of hours we had all the angling footage we would need, and I had a little time to sample the goods myself.
On the return trip along the rocky shoreline, a Mexican Destroyer approached a few hundred yards off. It seemed to be taking an interest in our vessel, which was confirmed when a Zodiac was launched off the port side and made haste en route to our position. Our guide dozed while we slyly stashed our camera gear beneath the gunnels and a boatload of heavily armed members of Armada de México began their interrogations of our intentions. Our guide, who was surely playing possum, eventually stirred and calmly explained that we were simply fishing. After some intense moments, he convinced the soldiers that we were not the droids they were looking for, and they turned the boat around and returned to the mother ship. Apparently, this shoreline, pockmarked with nooks and crannies, is a popular route for drug smugglers. Though we had yet to encounter any narcos, at the rate we were dodging bullets it was only a matter of time.
The camera crew and the host departed the following day, and Doug and I were left to our own devices with the guide. It had always been a dream of mine to catch a marlin, and though I’d tried with my dad in these very same waters many years prior, we’d come up empty. Today, the goal would be to catch one on a fly rod, a notion that seemed rather ludicrous given my limited experience in pursuit of billfish. An hour or so into our search, we were surrounded by the largest pod of porpoise I have ever witnessed. They stretched to the horizons all around us, and the guide and first mate suggested I jump in and swim with them. I wasted little time diving in, but it wasn’t quite the surreal experience I was hoping for. The dolphins largely avoided me and I soon realized that I was the slowest thing in an open ocean well-stocked with a variety of predators, including tiger sharks, which frequently hunt dolphin pods.
After my ill-advised swim, the boat sprang into action when a marlin came up on one of the teasers. Amidst considerable excitement, the first mate yanked the teaser from the drink and the fish circled the wake frantically while the captain, first mate, and my fishing buddy, barked orders at me in English, Spanish, and “Douglish”, respectively. I grabbed the stout little 10-weight and fired a cast in the fish’s direction. The marlin rushed over, slammed the fly and I was fast to my first billfish. A display of aerial acrobatics ensued, and then the fish sounded, requiring me to lean deep into the rod and crank on the fly reel until he tired. We pulled him aboard for the obligatory grip-n-grin, and quickly released a beautiful representative of the Striped Marlin back into the Pacific.
Not an hour later, a second marlin came up on the teaser and we repeated the process, with my buddy, Doug, at the helm. Leaning on far more experience wrestling with large saltwater gamefish, he landed his in considerable less time and we concluded that we had made our peace on this incredibly fortuitous day, and would do best to return to port in time for salty rims at happy hour.
Adam Pfiffner 1976-2016
I moved to Montana to hunt elk in wild country, which doesn’t make a lot of sense to most unless you consider the true prize, a year-round supply of ancient, perfected protein to fuel the body and mind. Naturally, I soon met others with the same intentions, and one of the first was Adam. Unlike me, Adam didn’t care much for hunting deer, antelope, or upland birds. In the fall, he was devoted to the single purpose of hunting elk, and the tougher the country, the better. That’s how we ended up in the same elk camps together and I quickly realized that I had met my match. Adam was gung-ho incarnate. I trained all year for elk season; stupid stuff like marathons, half-marathons, and lunges. He worked hard and played hard, turning abandoned wood into masterpiece homes, running wild rivers and racing dirt bikes and snowmobiles through the mountains. No matter how hard I prepared I could never keep pace with him in the steep timber and eventually gave up trying. I judged my own conditioning on just being able to keep him in view.
We lost Adam in the spring of 2016, and the following elk season, I had every intention of spending it alone, paying respect to his spirit by hunting half as hard as he did. I returned to the last place that we had bowhunted together, where I had the initial sense that, at 40 years old, still tough as cow bone but clearly in physical pain, my friend was heading down a mysterious path. His ghost was with me every step and I realized that spending this joyous season choking back tears of reflection and regret was not what he would have wanted, so I pulled myself together for rifle season, reached out to an old friend of mine, and accepted a generous offer to join his camp.
During the last week of the season, on a beautiful late fall day, with the Madisons aglow, we maneuvered 4-wheelers down a churned-up two track. Despite the fact that the ATVs replaced pickups as the vehicle to get us into camp, where we would hunt on foot right outside the canvas door, I chuckled as I imagined Adam’s infectious cackle resonating from the dark timber. The two of us would poke fun at any outfit on the highway with an ATV in tow, and noted how “butt bumpers” and elk antlers never seemed to ride in the same rig together. As soon as he left me unsupervised, my first act was to jump on a wheeler and ride into elk country.
We put meat in the freezer on that hunt and I had found a new fire to stoke during rifle season, but the following year, our daughter arrived and an extended hunt wasn’t an option for me. Fortunately, I drew a local cow tag and a friend of mine, who knew the unit well, took me on an afternoon hunt that turned out to be all the time that I would need to invest. Based on his additional intel, and the keen eyes and situational awareness of another friend of mine, I filled my bull tag the following Saturday and was home that evening. Elk had never come so easily and I rode this tailwind, which I sensed had to be generated by my late friend’s spirit, back to the deep timber camp.
Last year, I followed fresh elk tracks over manageable deadfall (“low hurdles” in a patch of “North Idaho Timber” in the parlance of elk camp). I don’t know why I stopped in my tracks at that moment. I’d been thinking of how Adam and I would have approached this hunt. He would’ve split left or right and tracked one of the bulls, likely to the elk’s doom, and I would’ve taken the other. We would now be in this together, a manageable task for two long-legged goons immersed in deadfall. But as the tines manifested just 20 or so yards to my left, the bull must’ve realized, too late, when my footfalls subsided, that I was not his traveling companion. When the shooting stopped, he stood there a moment and took one final look at his home, before toppling over in a mass of downed trees.
Years ago, Adam and I were high up on a ridgeline during an inclement bow hunt. We gazed down into an abyss of burned timber, listening to the pines sigh in a gale, when he uttered words that I will never forget “this place is like the darkness in the back of our minds”. He smiled at me and laughed, and I knew what he meant. Perhaps, in the end, had he spent more time in these woods smiling at the darkness, he’d still be with us, but maybe, like the great bull on the ground searching for his wayward companion, circumstances had left him alone and in the wrong place at the wrong time. I prefer to think that it was just his time to go, and he was sending me a gift from the other side. “Stop, Brother, look around.”
The elk may be glad that Adam is gone, but I am still here and intend to pass on everything gained from our friendship to my children. In our little circle, Adam’s spirit lives on, and we will carry it with us on the autumn wind, when it’s time to lace em’ up and put boots to fine, rugged country.
10 Steps to "Karnopp Asada", a Can't Miss Dish!
This is an easy, foolproof wild game meal and a household favorite!
1) Go where the deer and the antelope roam and obtain primary ingredient.
2) Heat oil in cast iron skillet and lightly fry a grip of corn tortillas.
3) Caramelize a whole onion
4) Use a high quality cut, backstap or top round
5) Lightly sear protein and set aside
6) Thinly slice meat
7) Season liberally with sea salt, pepper, and lime juice
8) Return to cast iron, briefly
9) Prepare plates with avocado, cilantro, lime slices (and ideally, jalapeno, but my wife is scared of them) and serve
10) Devour!
An Impromptu, Unsanctioned, Solo South American Marathon
Sleep deprived and disheveled, I stumbled off the last leg of redeye flights from Missoula to Santiago. The cobwebs cleared on the stunning drive from the airport to our lodge, nestled at the base of an impressive volcano near the Pacific coastline. By the time we completed a tour of the property and checked into our rooms, it was time for an early dinner. I’m wired to grab a quick bite and get on with things, but I would soon learn that our hosts took dinner seriously. Our meal lasted about four hours, which allowed the sommelier ample time to acquaint us with his fine cellar. I may not possess the most discerning nose, but the pours were fantastic and there seemed to be a bottomless supply (our television crew would act as the sounder to test those depths at the aptly named “Yan Kee Way” lodge over the course of the next week.)
When dinner finally ended at 9PM, we retired to our cabin to prep for the 8am crew call. In the morning we would begin production on an instructional flyfishing series, my first assignment as lead producer. As was modus operandi in our world of outdoor television, this concept was slap dicked together by figureheads and I was very recently handed the reigns and an unreasonable deadline. We hadn’t yet begun production and we were already behind. For the moment, I was more concerned about the damn audio equipment, and in my compromised state I attempted to attach receivers to transmitters and find enough working cables and batteries. As I was struggling with my task I felt an odd sensation and looked down to see a tarantula resting on the top of my forefoot. I shrieked like a schoolgirl and stamped the silver-dollar sized arachnid to the floor, which left an impressive stain of blood and guts on the tile (I would come to learn that these harmless creatures are called Chicken Spiders, so named for their docile behavior.)
My jarred circadian rhythms pulled me from slumber at 2:00AM. The travel and wine had settled into my bones and the day held the promise of bumpy boat rides book-ended by long commutes on bad roads in a rig with a stiff suspension. I donned my Brooks’ Beasts, plugged my Ipod into my ears, and went outside to stretch. The night was perfectly cool and slightly humid, like a July dawn on the banks of a desert river. I found the perfect tune for the moment on my new portable electronic device; one of the jams my wife had uploaded (or downloaded?) from the library of rom-com soundtracks and 90’s gangsta’ rap that she and her sister had compiled in college. Between “Destiny’s Child” and “Mike Jones” I was inspired to stretch my legs.
There was only one road leading into and out of the lodge and from what I had gathered, it dead-ended down to the left a few miles. It all seemed pretty simple, hang a Louie out of the compound and mosey down the two-lane for a piece, then turn around and maybe have enough time for a quick nap before coffee and breakfast. Though there was a large wooden sign reading “Yan Kee Way” at the lodge entrance, for good measure, I left my t-shirt hanging on an adjacent post, which would be highly visible from the main road.
The fresh night air filled my lungs. My legs loosened and the blood flow returned following 24 hours of sedentary travel. There was nothing to worry about out here, no grizzly bears, sasquatches, or armed bandits. I was on the only road in an otherwise remote jungle wilderness near the tip of the South American continent, the shifty tectonic plates deep beneath my feet perhaps the biggest hazard as I began to churn up the miles. My short itinerary negated the need to bring any water.
Between playlists I listened to the night for any nocturnal howling or screeching, but the jungle was church-quiet. Out of my peripheral, I caught a glimpse of some animal slip across the road, but couldn’t determine whether or not it was indeed a Pudu, the tiny native deer species that I badly wished to see. I came to the end of the road where it simply looped back around. I figured I’d been out here for an hour or so, and my retinas detected the faintest hint of light on the landscape when I turned around. I should be back at the lodge right about sunrise at 7:00 AM.
I came to a bridge over a small Rio and removed my head phones to listen to the burbling as a light fog lifted over the inky water. Naturally, the angler in me scanned the swirling pockets and slicks for rising fish. I felt good, alive, and refreshed, as the last of the fermented grapes perspired into the atmosphere. I was getting hungry and thirsty, though, and was delighted to find a familiar bramble of perfectly ripe blackberries alongside the road. The juicy fruits provided hydration and sustenance, and I resumed my jog.
My eyes wandered from my path as a flock of parrots flew overhead, and at that moment my foot landed in an unseen pothole and I rolled my ankle rather severely. Years as a pickup rebounder and defensive specialist had relieved me of much of the attaching fibers in my right ankle, but I had just managed to sever a few more. The landscape was bathed in full sunlight now, and I assumed my crew must be astir back at the lodge. “The damn sign to the entrance had to be just ahead?” I refueled with more blackberries and limped forth. The first truckload of locals on their morning commute approached and the driver slowed down to get a better look. The rig was an old modified flatbed with roughly 20 souls riding in the back. The entire congregation turned their heads in unison to gawk at the purple, hairy gargoyle limping down the road. I’m sure there was some debate as to whether to offer aid to the poor critter, or hit the gas pedal, and in the end, the driver made the latter decision.
The am traffic increased along with my anxiety and the growing realization that I may, somehow, have become lost on a straight road with no arteries. My suspicion that I had overshot the lodge was confirmed when another truckload of workers passed and I locked eyes with a local wearing a Cheshire grin…and my t-shirt.
At that point I stopped running and the gravity of my dehydration set in, along with the intense throbbing in my ankle. Meanwhile, back at the lodge, I was most certainly tardy for my own crew call and my colleagues were likely beginning to ponder my whereabouts. Unbeknownst to me, a search party had been dispatched to be on the looksee for something suspicious.
A white van rolled up alongside of me and a group of highly amused Chileans instructed me to get in the van. The driver, who spoke much better English to my Spanish, asked me if I had any idea how far I was from the lodge? The kilometers piled up on the trip back and I arrived to a zero’s welcome, my cohorts awaiting my arrival in front of the main entrance, boats loaded, with their gear all-shipshape.
By all estimations, I had likely completed my first marathon in the wee morning hours in the Chilean countryside. I had so enjoyed myself, that I sprinkled a little “nightmarching” into the schedule on future forays into unfamiliar territory. I ran in the dark in regions across the country and in many foreign lands. Despite the obvious risks associated with solo night-jogging in places like Guatemala, nightmarching was a great way to stretch out and gain bearings following international travel itineraries.
Henceforth, I brought neon t-shirts along, packed sustenance and fluids, and made a more careful mental note of the locale of our accommodations. I cut back my miles from that initial exploit in Chile, and ran with the confidence that, in a pinch, I could survive on local flora until somebody found me, wet and hungry, and returned me to my rightful owners.
Bewildered in Bear Country, an Alaskan Escapade
We’d drained our water supply hours ago and I felt the initial twinge of a cramp in my tibialis anterior-the outside of my calf. I was one awkward motion away from a debilitating spasm, and I carefully dropped my meat-laden pack. Experience had taught me that if that particular muscle went into revolt, the rest of my leg would follow. Crippled and smelling of fresh blood, I stood about the same chance of making the beach as a wounded seal in the Red Triangle. Just then, I remembered the ever-present but seldom-utilized water filter buried in the bottom of my pack, and my salt buffer tablets. I gulped down a large Nalgene of creek water and a handful of the pills. I refilled the bottle and handed it to Bill. My body demanded more water but filtering was laborious and time-consuming and it was almost nightfall in Alaska. Somewhere between our position and the tangled creek bottom that eventually led to the extract point on the beach was a car-sized brown bear and we preferred that our paths didn’t cross in the dark.
Several hours prior, we’d spotted a thick-bodied, heavy-horned buck feeding up the mountain, with two smaller bucks in tow. A half-mile of tundra and steep topography separated us, but the approach would certainly be the easy part, I was more concerned about the descent. Willows, poplars, Devil’s Club, and other progress-impeding, thigh-gouging flora that I’d come to abhor in my brief stint hunting Sitka blacktails on Kodiak Island lined the route between us and the beach, where a Zodiac would arrive and take us home to the mother ship anchored just offshore. Then there were the bears, of which we’d seen several. The largest bears on earth. Taking all this into consideration, Mike Hanback, my hunting companion and the host of the show, opted out and I continued uphill with Bill, my great friend who had the dubious task of videoing this hunt for a television show.
We reached a comfortable shooting distance from the buck, which was attentive to the sparring session of his juvenile companions and oblivious to our presence. He was a blocky specimen-not your average Sitka buck. His belly nearly reached the ground and his rack was as tall and wide as the antlers I’d seen mounted in the hotels, bars, and airport in the city of Kodiak the day prior. Though horn-size has never weighed in on my personal decision to pull the trigger or release the arrow, we were, after all, filming an episode for a show called “Big Deer” and this buck fit the bill. I ranged the buck at 260 yards. As soon as Bill gave me the green light for videography purposes, I eased the trigger on my dad’s .257 Roberts, the same rifle I’d shot my first buck with nearly thirty years prior. Bill confirmed that the first shot was a solid hit and the buck limped downhill and turned facing us as he started to bed down. I fired again and the buck rolled over, stone still. Now we had to work quickly. The bears here are well-conditioned to associate rifle shots with fresh meat. I had just rang the Alaskan “dinner bell.”
In addition to being the senior cameraman at our company and excellent at his trade, Bill was a consummate woodsman. Too often, his true talent was wasted sitting in treestands, ground blinds, and bass boats. He’d put boots to country in every environment on earth. Here, with a challenging task at hand, he was in his element and though he humored me with how steep and tough this country was, I knew that I was more concerned about the next few hours than he was. In a precarious outdoor circumstance with a heavy load, you want a guy like Bill along.
Our expectations were that a Sitka buck would probably weigh an easily manageable 120 pounds but clearly, the animal on the ground was in an entirely different class. This was confirmed when we first attempted to move the deer, which had a dense anatomy, similar to a black bear. We inched him up out of the thicket and found a relatively open slope along the spine of the ridge to drag him down. On the final steep pitch, we let the deer go and he rolled out of our sight and into an interwoven thicket. Now we were in for it.
We found the buck entangled in a tree within an impassable alder forest, and our only option was to take him out in pieces. I stuffed the backstraps and tenderloins in a game bag and slung the rear quarters on my pack. Bill already had a full pack of cameras, lenses, batteries, and a large tripod. He constructed a yoke with rope for the head and shoulders and like an Ox, pulled the front half through the waist-high “elephant grass”. It wasn’t the fastest system but given the circumstances, we were making progress.
Distance was extremely difficult to judge in this terrain. What appeared as a relatively flat field of grass was in fact laden with multiple hidden folds and ground cover so thick and high you had to put your head down and plow through like a running back behind a wedge. Our progress came to a screeching halt when we reached a dark, thick island of alder trees, surrounded on all sides by steep ledges and rushing creeks. It was then that my legs began to quiver from all of the abnormal pulling, dragging and lifting associated with packing out literal dead weight, and we deemed it necessary to hydrate and assess our circumstances, which were, lost in the dark on Kodiak Island and reeking of fresh meat.
Bill set off to utilize the Alaskan twilight in attempt to find a negotiable route, or perhaps, he was strategically distancing himself from me, a wounded chunk of bear bait. I radioed the mother ship in hopes of attaining some navigational advice. Our crew on the boat asked me for my coordinates and I pulled my old Garmin 12 GPS from my pack. This unit was a quarter-century old and I used it for simple “go to” procedures and UTM navigation, but the settings were all wrong for the task at hand. I couldn’t calculate accurate latitude and longitude data to relay to the boat. I was embarrassed and frustrated that here in a dangerous situation, me, a lifelong hunter, was lost and perplexed…just another city slicker in Alaska.
The one useful gadget I did have with me was a Surefire torch. This little flashlight produces mass lumens and I aimed it skyward. Christian, our other cameraman, came over the radio with the welcome news that he had my position now, and we were just a few hundred yards from the coastline. We were instructed to follow the stream, literally, and rendezvous near the creek mouth. By headlamp, we waded into the swift, icy water up to our waists. I floated the deer behind me and Bill did his best to keep his camera gear dry. We moved cautiously to avoid sweepers and any sudden drop offs, until we cleared the forest and the river stretched out into an alluvial fan on the beach.
Back “home”, aboard the Arctic Endeavor, we refueled with delicate backstraps, (some of the best venison I’ve ever tasted) and fresh halibut. Thanks to good friends, the awesome crew of Ninilchik Charters, and a little luck, I would be going home with plenty of both.
Months later, just before Christmas, a package arrived in the mail. It was a new GPS with this note attached: “Thought it might be time for an update”.
-Bill
Winter Steelhead and Bottomfish on the Oregon Coast
Here’s a link to an episode of Go RV’ing, which aired on the Sportsman Channel in 2015, featuring a fishing adventure on the Oregon Coast with a couple of good friends!
https://vimeo.com/237327089/c4f1bcf332
A Television Expedition in Hawaii's Grand Canyon and an Unexpected Grand Finale
I’ve never been an arachnophobe, but these unidentified spiders gave me the creeps. Every hundred yards or so, one of their glistening webs guarded the goat trail which, obviously, hadn’t seen much foot traffic of late. Too often, smack dab in the middle of that snare, would be a palm-sized critter that closely resembled a protagonist from an outer space horror film. Their fangs were particularly menacing and we took turns clearing the way with a machete on our search for the elusive Hawaiian trout high in Kauai’s Waimea Canyon.
We were on assignment for the Trout Unlimited TV series “On the Rise”, led by the president of the local TU chapter, a gentleman named Deane Gonzales, whose hospitality was only matched by his eccentricity. Deane split his time between the relative hustle-and-bustle of Maui and a remote cabin stashed a mile above the Pacific coastline in this enchanted rain forest. We were “Deano’s” guests for the week and every morning we rolled out from our hammocks and couches at his pad to the sound of a blender churning banana smoothies for the entire crew, which consisted of Matt and Nate (cameramen), Jed (host), and me.
While these adventure-productions were always interesting with the inherent unpredictability of a road trip in the Mystery Machine, we had a job to do, and this one was proving difficult-two things that aren’t conducive to recording with television cameras, deluges and rappelling, and we were gearing up for a day of both. My job title on this production was twofold; I was Producer/Audio Technician, which meant that, at once, I acted as GM and janitor. The audio vest was a tangled, electronic octopus of wires and cords that allegedly, recorded crystal-clear sound for the editor, but it was the bane of my existence. I had lugged this thing around on enough outdoor productions to know it wasn’t designed for forays into soggy jungle-canyons.
Worse, I was hard-lined via audio cable to Nathan, affectionately known as the “Baby Gorilla”. Rappelling in the mud with this cumbersome device strapped around my chest, attached to a guy who moved with all the grace of an inebriated moose, was dreadful. I’m no gazelle myself, and together, we were like the head and the ass of a horse costume. No amount of mushy plantains, served by a Gonzo in a bathrobe, was going to brighten my mood on this day.
With precarious game trails etched into knife-edge ridges and game check stations along the winding access road, these mountains had much in common with places I’d hunted deer and elk (here, hunters pursued feral goats and boar). Throughout these canyons free-flowing streams, which were originally stocked with rainbow trout in the 1920’s, rolled down the mountains to the sea. During our visit, they were doing so at a rapid pace, and likely taking the fish with them. It had been raining hard for days, and given our position adjacent Mount Waialeale, we were experiencing a thorough dousing in one of the wettest places on earth. I’m all for optimism, but by day three, your lenses would have to be pretty damn rosy to believe that we were going to discover any trout on this mission.
After we had gathered all that we could in terms of the fine work the local TU chapter had done to improve habitat and access for trout and trout anglers, Deane enlisted the services of a local fly fishing guide, Nigel, and we set forth to find some finned stars to sprinkle into this flyfishing production.
The weather finally broke and we checked some other lowland streams around the island but the situation was the same, turbid water would flow for the duration of our stay and it was time to think outside of the trout fly box. We entertained the notion of trying to fish the ocean flats on the other side of the island; there were big bonefish and Giant Trevally present.
This concept was partially rooted in my hidden agenda to fish these fabled waters myself, but after Nigel explained the scenario, involving chest-high wading and precarious footing, the idea of capturing the adventure on film seemed reckless, and we had already pushed the envelope of sensibility just enough. Over breakfast, I began researching other fishing options, and came across a local lake stocked with familiar largemouth and smallmouth bass, and the exotic peacock bass, an Amazonian Cichlid transplanted to Hawaii. Given the weather pattern, fishing guests were in high demand and the guy that ran the place gave us a great deal on two boats, one for Jed and Nigel, and one for us, in exchange for a little exposure in the television program.
The “talent” boat was an intimate setting, and at 6’5” Jed fit nicely up front in the bathtub while Nigel manned the motor and breathed down his neck. The fish were here, and as per usual, Jed found them. He caught the aforementioned familiar bass species, some other odd silvery fish that resembled a tilapia, and then, the peacocks.
This was my first experience seeing these predators anywhere other than a fish tank, and they were cool! They followed the fly near the surface like a roosterfish in Baja, often all the way up to the boat before eating it. Though none of them broke the 3-pound mark, we were all excited just to see some fish.
The skies darkened as another menacing storm rolled in off the Pacific. We concluded that we had pulled a rabbit out of a hat gathered what we needed to slap together an entertaining episode. We returned to Lihue, grabbed hotel rooms, and hit the town like a TV crew on a wrap-day will do. We still had another day left on our itinerary and the following morning we all convened for a Bloody Mary breakfast and watched the rain fall in sheets out of the hotel bar window. By the time our second drinks arrived, we had hatched a plan.
Miracles appear in the strangest of places. I went outside to get a better look at the beach, and nearly bumped shoulders with Johnny, a guy that I had guided and fished with extensively in Oregon but hadn’t seen in years. He was here on an extended surfing mission, and the probability of our paths crossing on a Hawaiian Island was even with catching a trout here. “JZ” was the final missing piece we needed to perform an Opus. We now had the entire cast of characters, the proper set and weather conditions, 2 professional cameramen, and just enough tape to finish the job. The end result eventually ended up in the prestigious Fly Fishing Film Tour. Some men dream of fame and fortune. My dream was to reenact the final scene in a classic surfing/bank robbing movie. Henceforth, everything is gravy!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CIb2ExDWHcA
"Winds of Change"-Colorado Bow Hunting Video Link
In 2013, Lauren and I were struggling with a work relocation and the Midwestern life but we weren’t about to miss an elk season in the mountains. We picked a spot on a map, bought an over-the-counter tag, and drove to Colorado. Copy and paste this link to watch the full story!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppM8UVTrpPk
Montana's Mountain Whitetails
I cursed beneath my breath as I scanned the ground for the spent brass. I was still not convinced that I had missed the deer cleanly, though the buck exhibited no signs to the contrary. I replayed the scene in my mind, the buck slipping through the dense timber, wary, but not startled, appearing, then disappearing through my scope until he passed through an opening and the crosshairs settled on his chest. The first shot seemed too easy to whiff and I was sure the buck must be dead-on-his-feet, though he headed for higher ground sans any visible limp. The follow-up shot clearly found tree bark before he vanished into the timber.
The lack of blood at the scene, and the undeniable recall of the buck’s reaction, or lack thereof, to the shot told a story that I didn’t yet want to believe…somehow, I had just missed a chip shot at the biggest whitetail of my life.
On the somber walk back to my buddy’s truck I had plenty of time to identify a scapegoat and concluded that I had brought the wrong rifle with me. Though our intention was to intercept whitetails moving into the Bitterroot foothills from the Clark Fork river bottom, this was Montana, and opening day for elk too. I had opted, at the last second, to pull my .300 out of the case that morning in lieu of my favorite deer rifle, thereby jinxing myself and guaranteeing that I was prone to miss a deer with my elk gun.
As I pondered this cosmic blunder, I caught movement on the horizon just above our truck. A cow elk paused at the sight of the pickup and surveyed the scene. I tucked into the base of a tree and took a rest on a limb. One-by-one, a succession of cautious cows and calves appeared on the ridgeline and followed the lead cow. I waited and hoped for a set of antlers bearing brow tines to appear. In the timber behind the herd I caught one more set of legs belonging to an elk seemingly reluctant to follow the group and risk exposure. I waited, and waited. Finally, the elk emerged and my suspicions that the final holdout was a bull were correct. My one and only opening-morning bull died within fifty yards of the truck. The dark cloud over my blown whitetail hunt lifted and I was sure glad that I had the .300 in my hands.
Several years later my buddy and I followed fresh elk tracks into a mess of waist high deadfall at the end of a long day of fruitlessly searching for elk high in the rugged Crazy Mountains of central Montana. It was a miserable end to the day, and my legs were starting to cramp up and the light was fading when we finally emerged from the blowdown. We entered a clearing and immediately locked eyes with a whitetail buck that threw up his flag and darted for the timber. I had just enough time to drop to one knee and emit a whistle. That old trick worked again, as did my elk rifle, and the tenderloins made for a delicious appetizer that night in the wall tent, while we planned another morning assault on the elk.
When I moved to Montana a decade-and-a-half ago, primarily to dedicate more time to the primitive sports (hunting and fishing), I expected to shoot plenty of mule deer while chasing my favorite quarry, elk, through the high country. Whitetails, on the other hand, were a denizen of the low country and I could hunt that deer in the river bottoms once my mountain tags were filled.
However, my pre-conceived notion of whitetails as a bottom-dweller were thrown into question on my first outing as a Montana resident, when I jumped a pair of nice whitey bucks at 9000 feet while bowhunting elk. More-and-more, I kept running into whitetails in my wapiti-wanderings and once I shot my first buck and tasted the backstraps, I was hooked.
I love mountain hunting, why I love elk hunting, and sitting in a treestand just ain’t my bag, but following a set of whitetail tracks through fresh snow along the spine of the Continental Divide sure is! I now have another excuse to head to the high country to fill the freezer; even after my elk tag is punched. For the ever-adaptable whitetail, there’s plenty of room to roam between the floodplains and the alpine in Big Sky country.
A variety of tactics work, and don’t, for mountain whitetails. Whiteys at the timberline are no less wary and I’ve sent far more deer fleeing into the timber than I’ve snuck up on. At first and last light I often set up in ambush on high saddles. From a good vantage I may catch a buck feeding out in the open, warranting a spot-and-stalk approach. Most of the time, however, I find them in the dark timber and it’s a game of who sees whom first. Sneaking through the whitetail woods, one slow step at a time, with my head on a swivel, has made me a better midday north-slope elk hunter as well.
During the rut, from mid-November through the end of rifle season, is obviously the peak period of buck activity and one of the best windows to kill a Montana buck. Thanksgiving means friends, family, and a store-bought bird to most folks, but my most memorable holidays have been spent solo, packing wild meat back home.
Packers Versus Boners
I spied a lone bull on the ridgeline, basking in first shooting light, and my intentions for an abbreviated morning hunt evaporated like the soft flakes touching dry ground. I settled into prone, steadied my nerves and concentrated on the application of consistent pressure on a familiar, yet stout, factory trigger. The shot felt good, but the bull didn’t react for several long seconds while I chambered another round. Before I could shoot again he did an about-face and dove into a dense north-facing canyon. I couldn’t tell if I’d hit him or not. Fortunately, the climate was cooler on that north side, allowing a dusting of snow to betray his condition and escape route. He was barely ambulatory when I caught up to him shortly afterward and applied the kill shot, when I experienced his last breaths; deep, mournful sighs that bounced around the canyon and into a hunter’s heart. The hard part was over and the work was about to begin. At 9:00 AM, I had a mature elk on the ground several miles from the rig in the same mountains where William Clark complained, "I have been wet and as cold in every part as I ever was in my life." I was hoping for a different experience.
My truck was parked at the trailhead only 20 minutes from home, but it might as well have been on the other side of Montana. The best-case scenario had me home by dark. If need be, I could overnight a quarter high in a pine tree worry-free in wolf country and return tomorrow to a nicely chilled hunk of meat, but I had looming work and parental obligations. I needed to enlist some help.
I could see town from the kill sight and had plenty of cell service, so I sent out an exploratory text to see if my self-employed friends had anything better to do on a Thursday morning than get some solid exercise. Two of my buddies signed up and agreed to meet me early afternoon for the return trip. I had two fine blades, game bags, and plenty of food and water. Things were looking up.
While I was in the process of reducing the elk into manageable pieces, my buddy called me with a proposal “Hey man, I know you don’t like boning out your elk, but we could get all that meat out of there in one trip with the three of us,” he offered.
As far as I was concerned he said all that I needed to hear in those first few lines. “No, I don’t like boning out my elk, ain’t gonna’ happen cap’n. Come prepared to haul a full rear quarter or don’t come at all, your call bud, we’ll deal with it either way.”
Though my well-intentioned friend has killed lots of elk and has a strong back, he’s a boner and I’m a packer. I don’t bone for several reasons. Foremost, I’m very meticulous when it comes to my hard-earned game meat, and I insist on getting the rear quarters home intact, so I can put them on the butcher table and cleanly separate and label individual cuts. Further, my dog needs the thighbones for clean teeth and a positive attitude heading into the heart of bird season and I need the shanks to serve up a holiday dish of Osso Bucco. This is the one time of year that I get to be stubborn, unchallenged, and I have the rest of the year to recover from the physical exertion of hauling rear quarters.
It’s a frequent argument in elk camp, To Bone or Not to Bone? For many hunters it comes down to circumstance; distance from camp/vehicle, weather conditions/temperature, health/conditioning of the hunter(s) and time of day being the deciding factors on whether or not a hunter decides to haul quarters or loose meat. But all those things being equal, it comes down to the amount of effort that one is willing to exert. I understand that leaving the bones behind reduces the weight of the pack, but at what cost?
I’ve boned out several elk in the field. One of my childhood hunting mentors was a big proponent of the method and it made sense to me then in the downright nasty canyons of eastern Oregon where I cut my ivories. In one case, many years ago, we boned a bull out that I shot during a backcountry summer bowhunt in high heat because that was the only way we were going to salvage the meat and avoid the dreaded bone spoil (in hindsight, I shouldn’t have been elk hunting in those temperatures in the first place.) I’ve assisted other boners with the process, rather begrudgingly on one occasion when the elk was so close to the truck that I could have hit it with a limp 5-iron (and I’m not a golfer).
The fact is that boning exposes more meat to air and in most cases; all sides of cuts have to be trimmed and cleaned while processing. Under ideal conditions, 30-40 degrees works for me, I like to age my quarters for about a week. Try this with boned out cuts and you’ll have to cut thick rind off of all sides, a wasteful process.
During most of my rifle hunts the temperature is conducive to leaving the hide on for the pack-out, which protects the meat from dirt and air exposure. As long as the temperature holds, I hang my quarters with the hide on until I’m ready to butcher.
In less than ideal conditions, which often occur during archery and early rifle, I will skin the quarter and bag it, taking the other necessary and obvious precautions in the field to keep the meat cool, such as dipping in a creek, hanging in the shade, and transporting in a cooler. Then I’ll butcher it as soon as I get it home.
Quarters are very pack-friendly with the bone in, the foreleg acts as a perfect lever that can be wrenched to relieve pressure on the lower back and shoulder straps of your backpack/pack frame; as if this is how nature intended them to be hauled on the human back. To my mind, the extra weight is negligible. The femur and tibia of a cow elk weighs about 6 ½ pounds, a bull maybe 8? Granted, I’m only 40 and still in my packing-prime, and when I’m not, I’ll hunt closer to the truck, and still keep my meat on the bone.
When I returned to the truck with the first load, one of my friends was right where he said he would be. On the initial move I’d hauled a game bag with backstraps, tenderloins, sweetbreads, all the loose neck and rib meat, and the top of the skull, which harbored my tag and proof of sex. We returned to the kill site and packed a rear quarter to the nearest closed logging road, then went back and grabbed the other quarter and the shoulders and aimed for the truck. I was on the verge of leg cramps when a headlamp came up the trailhead; my bone-happy buddy finally arrived, four hours late. I was glad to see him, he had water and a pack and I directed him to the other quarter, which was easy to find in country familiar to him.
Long story short, I finally went in search of him and when he materialized from the woods, he had my quarter all right, boned out and covered in dirt and hair. He certainly taught me a thing or two that night, don’t bother a boner when I kill an elk, call a packer!
