When it comes ta livin here in the Rocky Mountain, ever day seems like a adventure.

I never klaim ta do nutin sep be normal, like the rest; trap, fish, an be social ta them what wish ta social wit me.

Point bein, some days be more venture-some than others ‘an  I’d like ta tell ya of one ‘o them days.

Keep in mind a mountain man don’t tell no lies—never have—never will.

“Tracker”, “Wapiti Dung”, “No Grimace” an me was in the rugged Wellsvilles one fine fall day, just doin stuff, when “ol sharp eye ‘No Grimace’” done spots  sumpin under a tree.  He moved the fallin leaves and pulls out a mighty fine lookin jug, what still has a cork.  We spect it close ‘an figure the contents must be OK FINE.  “No Grimace” hoists it ta his lips and sips a big ‘ol slug.

(Nows when my tale seems a bit strange cuz we left that jug just as we found her, after we all done took a shot).

“No Grimace” handed the jug ta “Wapiti  Dung” ‘an made a real strange sound, like a bar first wakin from hibernation, then he falls down, eyes wide like a hoot owl—does a little quiver—his coon skin hat popped off ‘an quick as a wink, went a runnin up the near by tree!  Went kleen ta the top!

‘Ol Wapiti looked at the goins on and sez “Is you OK ‘No Grimace’”? Who is just dustin off his leathers–”Boy Howdy that is good—where be my hat”?

So, up goes the jug ta Wapitis’ lips and down another slug slides.

The rest is near to hard ta tell cuz I know ya  aint  fer  frum  sayin  I’m  ly’in, but I seed it wid my own eyes.

About the time it wood a took the sip ta hit his belly—‘Ol Wapiti was hangin on ta the barrel of his 50 cal.  The rest of the gun twinxt his legs like he were ridin a hoss.  It were plain ta see he was just tryin ta survive as round an round he rode that gun til it fell wid him still astride.

I ain’t much on drinkin whiskey from a jug, but I took my turn with a lip lock.  Caint say as I amember much, but I do recall my rear end a hurtin ‘an the skin on my leathers sure was hot ‘an thin.  They said I hit the ground, seat end first and went up the trail wid both hands and both feet in the air—just kickin up a dust storm.

‘Ol “Tracker”, he was the smart one, he put the cork back in the jug ‘an put the whole kit ‘an caboodle back under that three.

We aint been back since, but the next guy ta find it probly won’t believe what happens ta him.

Bears Butt

Mar-Apr 1992