I’m convinced some of you readers think this mountain man is B.S.’n you with my tales of how these boys from the Willow Creek Free Trappers got their names.  Rest assured only true facts are printed in this (APFO Gazette)—now added to the BearsButt.com

My pencil is now leading us into the “Four Hooves” naming episode.  We find ourselves in a hollow, some 25 miles from the metropolis of Logan, Utah.  A nice place with a flowing stream and grassy meadows.  The dirt road leading in and out (one and the same road) is typical of this part of Utah.  Hard as concrete when dry and slicker than a cat’s hieny on a door knob when wet.  We are assembled for the Spring Rendezvous.  A time when trappers bring their winters catch to trade for next years’ supplies and to re-acquaint themselves with old friends and the finer art of partying.

Like past years, we are indulged in the goings-on when the gods of good sport open up the darkened sky and rain mixed with snow pour forth and swell the stream with its “ugly”.  Mud and water are everywhere.  Powder is getting wet!  Leather leggings are dragging from the weight of water and mud.  “Ugly” is too good a word for what it’s like.

When our heads begin to clear, the question is asked—“how the He__ are we going to get out of here”?

The road out is pitched at about a 25 degree angle, rock (boulders) infested—the kind that open their eyes on a rainy day and lay In wait for oil pans to come by—at which time they leap out of the ground and jab their pointed heads through the oil pan causing the contents to drain rapidly and make the owner wish he had a horse.

The decision is made—the weatherman on the radio says it’s going to rain for the next week.  We ain’t having no fun.  Our powder and spirits are wet—let’s try to get out.

Only one among us, my brother-in-law Roy, has a 4X4 and chains.  It will be up to him to pull us out.  We each slide our rigs into position, hook up our trailers, and prepare to “hopefully leave this pristine area”.

The first rig is readied, and the process begins.  As each one is pulled to the top, the road gets worse and worse, but we make it.  Everyone is out of the “hole”!  Muddy and tired but still—Roy got us out with his 4X4 pick-up and the knowledge of its use.

At the next “council fire” he is dubbed and named for all and eternity, wherever mountain men shall meet, Roy shall be known as “4 Hooves”!

Bears Butt

March-April1987

There is a story written about Tracker and how he used to track mud into the house and enjoyed doing it and that that was the way he got his name.  Well his ma may have called him Tracker before he became a mountain man, but here is the true story.

After his ma tossed him on his head in the snow, old Tracker gathered his possibles, dusted the white stuff off his beard and headed into the wilds of the Raft River Range.

We was all there—Wapiti Dung, No Grimace, Cherry, Softball, Four Hooves–even had a few squaws and papooses stomping around.  It was our annual meat gathering hunt.  All are involved one way or another.

“Bout the time old “Ora” (that’s the name we node him by before this trip) got to the mountain meeting spot it was getting dark.  He had met up with a few savages on the way.  Almost didn’t make it.  Said they was all around us—we’d have to be careful at daybreak—keep our heads low and make our shots count.

As the night progressed we had a couple of jug passin’s, chewed on some of the last pieces of jerky in the camp, told tales of past hurrahs and what we had to do next day.  Someone mentioned it seemed odd old Ora didn’t have much of a hat.  Fact was it had a face much like that of a bear, but a bear with no hair and sort of pink—odd looking thing—anyway that’s another story.

Next day came after a chilly night on the mountain.  We woke to find a good 6 inches of new snow.  “Should make it real easy to see those savages huh Ora”?  said No Grimace.  “You bet, and good for seein’ and trackn’ these here mule deer too”, belched old Ora (had too much bubbly the night before, loses his manners you know).

It was a sight to see when day light allowed us to view the scene and all the savages scattered about.  We were surrounded, but they were friendly and allowed us to continue our hunt.  It seems they were hunting meat as well.

As the day progressed, I could see from a spot high on the hill, a nice muley buck run right past our camp.  My wife, Sherry, who was in camp grabbed her rifle and took pursuit.  She came back after about half an hour—no shot and no deer.

I worked my way down through the boulders and dangers of the Raft River Range Mountains back to camp.  “Where did the deer go”?  I asked to Sherry.  “Down in that draw there, it had been wounded by one of them savages—Ora is following it”.  She said.

I gathered up a stump and sat by the warm fire—I’d taken a chill back up on the ridge.  If I recollect right I had a “cold one” as well (had gotten myself a powerful dry working my way back).

Others in our party had come back dragging deer and braggin when we heard a shot down in the draw where Ora had gone.  We all listened for a whoop and a holler, but none came.  In about the length of time it takes to pour powder and ram a patched ball down the barrel, another shot rang out.  Still no whoop or holler.  Then another shot—“Boy, old Ora sure is makin’ meat down there ain’t he boys”?  I said.  Sherry spoke up and said, “Probably fillin’ all our tags, old Ora never misses”.

Bout the time darkness overtook us, here came Ora ridin’ in, a nice 3-point muley strapped on.  “How many more you got down in the draw Ora”? asked Softball.  “None”, he said and told us this story.

“Picked up on a blood trail down the draw about 300 yards.  Sherry had given up on it.  Figured it to be just a flesh would, wasn’t bleeding much.  Well, I took up the task, just no sense having wounded game runnin’ about.  That old buck jumped from rock to rock.  He knew if he left tracks in the snow he’d be found.  Before each jump he would lick the blood from his wound.  By doing that he wouldn’t leave much of a trail.  I followed the scruff marks on the rocks knowin’ it was him makin’ ‘em.  His only mistake was out of his control.  The birds in the trees would fly out when the noise of hooves against the rocks would scare them.  I noted his position and travel direction by the birds flying out and got ahead of him.  Yup, there he was right where I figured.  My old gun came up, sights settled on his neck and I pulled the old trigger.  “POP” went the cap, then “BOOM”—hang fire!  I said to myself—dummy–that’ll teach you to clean your gun after each day’s hunt.

I quickly loaded and watched as the muley made tracks.  He stopped about 100 yards out and down the trail.  I could see a clear opening in the trees and a good view of his shoulder.  Again the sights settled and I squoozze the trigger.  This time “BOOM”, and when the smoke cleared the buck was gone!  Did I miss?  Couldn’t have, I never miss.  I reloaded and approached cautiously the spot I last saw him.  By golly, I see right there laying on the ground next to his tracks my round ball, still as perfect as when I loaded it.  Guess the deer was barely out of range.  Maybe I spilled some of my powder, ain’t real sure.

Now I got excited, it was getting dark and I didn’t know for sure which way the buck went.  I found a tiny piece of bark in the snow next to a rock.  This rock had some moss smeared slightly on it.  I reckon the old buck got real smart, figured out the bird situation, so he clamped tree moss between the cloves of his hooves to soften the noise and headed out from rock to rock.  Pretty smart I figured, but my keen senses picked up on the small piece of tree bark.  His nice wide antlers hit the tree when the moss caused him to slip ever so slightly.  That old buck figured I never would find him now and in his relaxed state of mind only went 200 yards and stopped.  I carefully snuck up to within 10 yards and let the old 50 cal. Do its thing.  Plumbed him”!

“Wow!  What a story”!  Wapiti Dung said.  “After that trickery and your expert seein’ I think we ought to give you a new mountain man name.  How about ‘short shot’ or ‘lacks powder’”?  “Maybe ‘three shots’”! spoke up Softball.  “Nope”, said Four Hooves, “I think ‘Tracker’”.

And from that day forward wherever Mountain Men meet he has carried the name “Tracker”, no matter what his mom says!

Bears Butt

Jan-Feb 1988

Believe this or not—I have a little brother!

Many years ago my brothers and I, along with one of my brothers-in-law, found ourselves laboring up the side of a steep mountain slope in search of mule deer bucks.  As with all the Willow Creek Free Trappers happenings we gather over a few cold ones and discuss who is going hunting and who is bringing what.  This back pack excursion into the wilderness area known as the Wellsville Range was no exception.  Back packing for extended time frames requires freeze-dried foods and minimum weight items.  Each of our packs was loaded comparably with our required items.

We labored up and down the steep mountains and set ourselves up a camp area as night befell us.  We made a “packs off” attempt at finding a deer just at dusk and found ourselves searching in darkness for matches to light the fire.  Once going, the firelight aided our search for the freeze dried supper packages and the small pot to boil water.  As the smell of supper began drifting through the crisp mountain air my brother-in –law “Tracker” (next print story) said—“Boy’s, I reckon before we eat we ought’ have ourselves a little cocktail.  What do ya think”?

Wapiti Dung spoke up just then and said, “You bet—it just don’t git no better’n this”.

“Good deal,” said I and our attention went to Ricky—the designated “bringer” of the “aiming oil”.  (We have named the Devil’s milk, “Grimace”, because of the horrid faces that are pulled after one swigs a drink straight from the jug).  Ricky turns to his pack in search of the jug.

After several unsuccessful minutes of searching and much harassment, Ricky dumps his pack out on to the ground—all of its contents scattered among the fallen leaves.  NO JUG!  Where is the jug? Ricky!!!  Where is the grimace??  “I forgot it”!! He squeakily said after several silent minutes.

Well—we ate in silence, listened to all of Ricky’s excuses and after we had cleaned up the dishes Ricky was officially given his mountain man name.  “From here and until all eternity shall be known among mountain men as “No Grimace”!!

Bears Butt

Nov-Dec1986

Hold fast fans—the next printing of the Aerial Observer will have the history of “No Grimace”.  This writing has priority—please read on.

Those of us who go camping or have gone camping have felt the anxiety of “something is out there!”  Skulking in the darkness waiting to pounce!  With that feeling in mind right now, picture yourself in APFO’s very own Directors shoes.

Deep in the Wind River Range of Wyoming we find Ron Dickson, his wife, another couple and their children.  They have a very pristine camp site away from all except hiking enthusiasts, next to a high country lake, surrounded by pines and the rocks that jut skyward above the tree-line.

During their first night’s sleep Ron is awakened by noise in the camp.  Armed with a hatchet and a flashlight he discovers a large black bear knocking over foodstuff and generally making himself a nuisance.  Ron yells and waves his hands until the bear runs off.

Ron is a hero now!  The bravest one!

As dawn breaks the night-time sky, Ron and his friends are on the lake canoeing.  They spotted a black bear lumbering the shore line and heading in the direction of their camp.  They rowed to the shore and intercepted the bear—in their attempt the bear took exception and charged them.  They easily out maneuvered the bruin in the water, but he continued his gait toward the camp when he reached the shore.  Once again they intercepted the animal and with the help of two dogs they had with them, were able to chase the bear back into the forest.

After a nice supper and the clean-up were done they were all sitting around the fire B.Sing, when Ron’s boy yelled—“There’s the bear!!”  On the outskirts of the flames light Ron was faced with the bruin coming head on into the camp.  Ron was facing the animal and backing away from it.  He finally realized the bear was coming on despite the dogs and all the yelling.  He grabbed a shovel that was sticking up in the ground.  Holding it by the handle like a baseball bat—Ron’s six foot plus frame totally tensed as his concentration was aimed at the head of that bear.  The shovel blade came swooping in as hard as Ron could make it go and struck that animal right on the side of the head.  “ROAR!!!”  went the beast—the dogs and all were terrified.  It made a sweep at Ron with its powerful paw and struck Ron’s leg and knee, bruising his leg, tearing his pants and scratching his knee.  Ron jumped back and the animal went to tearing the camp apart.  All of them scrambled into the rocks above the camp and watched as the bear proceeded to rip tents and eat all their food stuff.  The entire night was a grueling episode for them all.  As dawn began to break, the bear left the lantern light and they assumed it had gone.  Down out of the rocks they assessed the damage.  Two of their tents were torn apart.  Only beer left to drink—even a full bottle of Wesson oil had been drunk.

Very tired they all packed into the only tent left intact and tried to sleep.  None were quite asleep when the bruin returned and tried to get into the tent with them.  Ron had a very tempting moment to stab the bear in the nose with his hunting knife when it had its head under the edge of the tent.  Had he done that I speculate the bear would have gone totally crazy, maybe even hurting one or more of the tents occupants.

The sun found the camp visitor gone and all but a big mess and memories of the Dickson’s last trip to the Wind River area.

We are all grateful that none of them were seriously hurt, and that Ron has earned his Mountain Man name of “Bear Whacker!”

Bears Butt

Sept-Oct 1986

My brother, running partner, and fellow member of the Willow Creek Free Trappers, carries the name “Wapiti Dung”.  (Please keep in mind as this article continues that mountain men never lie).  Us Willow Creek boys are serious when it comes to mountain lure and the like.  Most free trapper groups have handles (names) like “Cat Skinner or “Old Jeb”.  We have members like “No Grimace” and “Softball”.  In coming issues I shall attempt to fill you all in on all the members and how their handles go hung on them.

Back to Wapiti Dung—Somewhere high in the back wood area of the Rocky Mountains we were camped.  It was snowing and had been for a couple of weeks.  We had polished off all our grub and had resorted to boiling our arm fringe to make soup—we had hungered real bad.  Old Wapiti Dung went out after meat.  About 100 yards from the tepee he jumped an 8-point (western count) elk (wapiti)!  BLAM!!! Went his trusty Hawken.  He got the elk, but where he hit it we will never know.  The rest of us heard the shot and ran out in the direction of the shot to help Wapiti skin the critter.  When we finally located him we were amazed to find only Wapiti leaning against a tree picking his teeth.  The snow was covered with small dark oval things and other assorted inner items I won’t mention.  “Where is the animal?” we asked.  “Dang it boys!  I was so blamed hungry when I got that close to fresh meat I ate it”.  “Even the horns?”  “I couldn’t help it!  Here, I saved each of you an ivory toothpick, carved them with my teeth as I knarled those old horns”.  “Is there anything left?”  “You bet—all those raisin looking things scattered about.  They are easy to see laying there in the snow.”  “Ya, but that’s elk poop!”  “I know!  I couldn’t stand to think of eating it even as hungry as I was!”

“Start gathering it up boys—must be better than arm fringe soup—Gee whiz Wapiti Dung soup—I ain’t sure this is going to be worth it—Good grief Wapiti Dung!”

And that’s the truth!!

Bears Butt

July-Aug. 1986