We was  gatherin meat fer the winter of 92-93 out in a place called “Rocky Pass”.  As its name implies, it are some bit rocky an at times we wondered if the horses was nuff to cross over the top.  Seems the wind howls thru the area right reglar.  The rocks seem hard nuff-but the wind has carved em up sorta skeery in some spots.  Other places they be rounded, like dumpling bread.

We done decided ta put some gunners on one side of a ridge, an the rest come pushin over the top toward em, skeerin the deer an bear (an such) ahead of us and into the gunners.

It were a mite snowy on the ground when Wapiti, Tracker, Softball, Haaagar and me started our push.  We was spred out movin thru the tall sage an cedar trees an as we got near the top, that ‘ol wind was whippin an a gittin.  Now I done heared ‘o them hurrycanes, but  ain’t never been in one till this one day.  Nows I knowed how they musta got the name fer such a puffy breeze.

My sperience crossin over the top of that hill was most easy, cuz I’m built low ta the ground, but still I had ta use my gun butt ta hold me till I could git my next step planted firm.  It took me nye on ta 15 minutes ta  git 15 yards, I’ll tell ya.

Haaagar had an even worser time.  Wearin a poncho like he do, as he got to the top the wind got under it, picked him up and throwed him back down the hill!  Haaagar fought back, an once agin approached the crest.  This time he was ready.  He had tyed his poncho down round his belly.  Well, some can see the danger in this, but as he bent hisself  inta the wind, down the opening in the neck went the full force, filled up his poncho like a mule fills his belly with air when he don’t want to carry a load, and back down the hill he goed.

Meantime we is all gathered round the horses waitin fer Haaagar  ta come  oer the top.  We figured he had some trouble crossin with that poncho on.  Tracker said Haaagar  probly  was hooked on a branch by some leg fringe  an  the wind  keepin  him  parerlel  ta the ground.  I figured he would be smart nuff ta grab his knife an cut a exit hole big nuff ta let the air out an let hisself down.

Purty soon we seed ‘Ol  Haaagar  trekin round the lee side ‘o that hill.  He had quite a tale ta tell, but he sure was missin a chunk of leg fringe.

Does ya rekon Tracker was closer ta the truth than we knowed?

Bears Butt

Sept.-Dec 1992

Rondeevoo comes slowly here in the Rockies.  We done spend all winter  tryin ta  servive ‘an when the ice flows start jamm’in the rivers it’s a time ta start fancy’in up fer rondeevoo!

Rondeevoo takes the worst ‘o winter ‘an turns them near death times in ta stories of adventure ‘an citment.  Round a crackl’in fire the stories is told ‘an re-told.  Names be made, ‘an lots of powder burned down on the shoot’in range.  Se ya at rondeevoo—end ‘a May in the Blacksmith fork drainage.

It were at rondeevoo of ’92 as I recollect.  We was gathered as usual, it seems there weren’t none of the group gone under.  It were good times.  We even had a few pilgrims share the fire light.  It were shin’in times.  The old forts done kicked butt down on the fir’en line ‘ore the young forts.  An seems ta me we done had near a wheel barrow full ‘a winnins!

The Bears Butt aint usual ta speek fer long times, but this rondeevoo he done a lot—even sang fire songs with a hooter named “G-String”—fine music man.

Bears Butt was asked by the Booshway to come to the council fire and give one of his talkins so down there we all did go.  It was a time what found him ‘an  a  pilgrim down neer the booshway, down at the main camp rondeevoo council fire.  The booshway was talk’in ‘an even mak’in sense  whenst he suddenly turns ta me an says—go down yonder and fetch me one of the geese!  Wall dang—the Butt will do what the Butt’s been asked—I headed out, with my pilgrim friend ‘an down the trail we goed.

Now just  soes  ya  knowed—me ‘an them long neck goose critters aint never been too close ‘an they can read it in the eyes whenst fear is stand’in in front of ‘em.

Me ‘an the pilgrim round a bend in the trail ‘an there they is—must ta been a hunert all corralled up.  Now we is standen there look’in trying ta pick out a perty one, when the pilgrim says “Jump in there Butt ‘an grab one”!  “No way fella I aint about ta git in there-you git in there”!

The pilgrim says –“I don’t know nuthin bout these things”.  I says—“Jjust go ‘or ta tuther side ‘an I’ll skeer ‘em to ya—then just reach out ‘an grab the closest one”.

So he dos, but them geese did not see no fear in his eyes and here they come straight fer me—all 3 hunert of ‘em—chargin—wings flappen and them big ‘ol beaks a tearin flesh.

The first one hit the corral as fierce as could be ‘an the rest just kept comin and pushin.  Purty soon ‘or the corral came the biggest, orneriest, meanestes one and latched holt of my left arm.  Down I goed, knowin full well it were over for the Butt.  I tried pertectin my vitles.  Rollin on the ground, wonderin when the final blow of the knashin beak would do me under—when sudden the weight of the beast was off a me!  I peered out frum under my arm and there stood the pilgrim holdin that fierce goose.

He said – “What’s a matter Butt?  It’s just a goose”!

“Just a Goose”!  I say—“Look at my arm, hardly any fringe left ta a-count fer”!

“Come on Butt—they be a waitin fer us down at council”.

An we start on our way down the trail, the pilgrim leadin and me dust’in off ma dirty leathers.

Just afor the last turn in the trail I say “Pilgrim, let me see that there goose.  The Boosh wanted the Butt ta fitch it, I kint have no pilgrim bringin in the goods”.

So the pilgrim hands over that mean critter ‘an into the light ‘o the fire we went.  I could’nt unload it fast nuff.

Later, or at the little council fire, mungst the Willow Creek Free Trappers, I called the pilgrim ta the fire, cuz I had the talk’in stick.  I told ‘em as best I could recall ‘bout the gitt’in  ‘o the goose, then with the help of past trappers gone under ‘an the great spirit of fair play.  I done raised the talking stick ‘an said—“James, fer the deed ‘o help’in the Butt gather up a goose ‘an from here till eternity, where ever mountain men shall meet—you be called “Goose Snatcher”!

Bears Butt

Jan-Mar 1993

I ain’t one fer figerin stuff out real quick, but sumpin in the wind made some fate cum tagither.  It were back in ’96 an my lodge wuz hungerin fer ven meat.  It had been a long time since fresh meat wuz hung on the meat pole.  Once all the good byins wuz done, we headed the harses fer the high country.  One ol boy, what aint got no name as yet, even came ta try his hand at baggin a Rocky Mountain mule deer buck.

This guy claims ta have his roots clear over on the other side ‘o that one big river,  The one theys calls Miss-sip.  Says he probably even comes from Dan’l Boone blood line.  Ai aint sayin nutin, cuz this boy is big as a mule, strong as boiled coffee and eats purdy much, ta keep his shape an all.  He came out here with some of the dangdest stuff too.  I guess maybe I been in these here Rockys too long.  Since bein borned he dun moved his be-longins ta the Percific water.

Well we hunted hardern ever back in ’96.  Had some little, un sum bigguns runnin round.  Got some shots off, had sum miss begivens happen, what should uv put meat on the pole. You know the kind uv stuff what’s called buck fever, an causes a guy not ta cock his gun, ner cap up.  An these here camp stories wuz the ones we heared bout, not ta say what else went on out there what ain’t bein said.

Anyway, me and this ‘Ol boy who came from the Western ocean hunted hard.  Ever day we wuz lookin and stompin.

Durin a nap, while it wuz still dark on the morning of the last day, I woke frum a dream.  I visionaried a big ol heard of mulies all circled up.  Sum wuz bucks, but most wuz girl ones.  Over theys heads ya could hear some strange fluttie sound, kind ov eary, an my dream kept up till I got up ta ready my harse fer the last days hunt.

No name and I hit it hard all day and I wuz gonna be glad when dark cum, cuz I had pert much dee cided we wuz  gonna eat a lot ‘o muskrat and beaver tail this winter.

At the top of the mountain, the last bit of light wuz fadin fast when there stood what wuz my first chance ta bag a buck.  When the smoke dun cleared, it took till way past dark ta git the buck an us out ‘o the hills and back ta the lodge.  I really think my dream ment sumpin, an the noise those fluts wuz sayin wuz meaning Butt Luck would prevail.

Gotta Go !

I figure sup otta be bout ready.  We be havin steak tonight.

Bears Butt

Oct.-Dec 1996

(The other hunter is now named “Hunter” because of this years hunting)

I reckon ya aint got no doubt bout me tellin ya one more time bout the muley hunt of ’94.

Seems most of the Willow Creekers done had a full cache ‘o fresh meat cept the Fat Duck, No Grimace ‘an me.  So the three of us done headed fer the hills.

We base camped in a purdy spot round 8,000 feet ‘an rode in on 4 inches of snow.  Five long, hard huntin days later we broke camp in 18 inches of snow ‘an proceeded ta work our hosses ‘an wagon on down the trail.  Sudden as a litnin bolt one ‘o the hosses done come up lame.  Weren’t bad nuff ta shoot her, so we sort ‘o dragged er down ta the flat land and tied er up.  We’d hafta come back soon ‘an git her; specially since the snow was a comin hard.

Headin now fer the home lodges we wuz talkin bout the last five days.  Didn’t see nothing with horn ‘an couldn’t believe it.  Good game country too.  Whilst we wuz there a feller we know as “Anderson” stopped in ‘an perceeds to tell us bout a big ‘ol muley he done “hit”, but it raned off.  “ I couldn’t of missed, standin there broadside ‘an all, at bout 10 yards.  Biggest buck in all the land”!

Alls we could say wuz some folks got hosses what are more quiet then others.

Early next morning me ‘an No Grimace done got a sick hoss kinda wagon hooked up ‘an is goin back ta  git the lame one.

We wuz pert near there when I spots a deer.  Woha! Woha!   Lookee there No Grimace ain’t that a purdy one!  Holey Moley he are a big’un.  Does ya reckon ya kin plunk ‘im with one of yer conicals?  Heck ya—easy at that range—400 yards aint nothing fer a “Great Plains Conical” ‘an Ol Missouri.

Well when the smoke done cleared, ‘an No grimace doin most ‘o the draggin I done bagged that same big ‘ol buck “Anderson” had hit some three days afore.  Cept there weren’t no other holes or missin hair.

Bears Butt

May-Aug 1995

It were at a late year rondeevoo back in ’91 ‘an like most rondeevoos we was a havin fun.  Muskrat were booshway ‘an was pullin off one great time.

White Trapper even done shode up ‘an we all pulled tagither ‘an got him a real woman fer ta spend some time with.  We figgered he needed one, cause he weren’t feel’in real good ‘an barrowed some white water frum me ‘an Wine Maker.  Had a whoop-tee-do round the council fire ‘an was found by Tracker ‘an No Grimace early in the morn, stuck to a big rock.

Any who, we was  havin fun as usual when all of a sudden there was this awful yellin.  We looked up and what we seed was a big cloud of dust a com’in fer camp.  None got too skeerd cause the cloud weren’t as big as a buffler stampeed ‘er noth’in like that.  It looked like a “one man” stampeed.

In ta camp it come; round ‘an round ‘an round till finally the man fell with exhaustion.  He weren’t thru tho cuz he was still a holler’in.

A couple runned over ta help him and seed right off it were Mr. Burt, Flying Feathers oldest youngen, what was a yellin.

After a bit when things got all calmed down we done realize that that there cloud weren’t no ordinar cloud, nor dust, nor nutin but a whole swarm ‘o bees—Yeller Jacket bees!!

Mr. Burt had done his self right proud leadin that swarm away frum the little kids a playing just outside ‘o camp, an kilt many of the critters with his bare hands, sepen one what got stuck twinx a couple of his fingers and gave him a welt the size of a buffler eye.

He was patched up ‘an feelin real good when ‘ol Muskrat got the talkn stick and called fer Mr. Burt ta come.  Mustrat said these here words: “He done fought the battle of the bees, an made his self proud.  So wherever in these here Rocky  Mountains this here hoss shall go, he will be knowed as ‘Yellow Jacket’”.

Bears Butt

Sept.-Oct. 1991

Winter is winter, even up here in the Rockys.  Aint much fer a man ta do even if he had the hanker ta do it.  So, like them politisizers back East, we mend our business.  They is sittin back in theys high back chair, writtin words what they kin yell come cherry blossom time.  This time o year is best for that thinkin.  Thinkin back ta last year when they was standin on the apple crate, yellin out words of great thinkin they done last winter.  Almost brings a tear ta the eye.

We, or at least I, is sittin in my lodge real close ta the fire, cause first off I kint see, and second cause they is a draft comin in frum some where.

It be a time fer better acquaint’en you self ta the squaw and the young’ens.  And fer fix’in those leathers fer the up comin trappin season and rondeevoo.  Yes siree, by golly, hot damn if spring aint much away.  Why jest yesterdee I seed a returnin bald bird headin North.

Thas tell’in this hoss the river ice is startin to break up on the Snake.

I best git my mendin all done afor the Willow Creek runs over her banks, cause I sure got me a powerful hunger fer some fresh meat an beaver tail.  I won’t have neither come March, if I don’t mend my ram rod, and straighten the pan on my number 3 jumper.

Gotta go fer now, seems the youngins is gone to watch some yawho run with a woof ‘an the squaw is call’in frum the back ‘o the lodge.  Maybe that’s where the draft is com’in frum.

Bears Butt

Jan-Feb 1991

It were back in ’91 and after a powerful long spell of waitin, Wapiti Dung and me was given word we done had permission to enter into the all sacred Crawferd Mountain to hunt the wiley mule deer bucks.

Now, the Crawferds is some real mean country.  The weather be as harsh as kin be.  When the cold meets the wind, ya best be hid up good on the lee side or your butt ain’t gonna be round fer long.

We woke one morn an it looked like a good time ta head fer the Crawferds.  It were snowin hard in the valley and we knowed the time was come.

Wantin ta go wid us were two famous skinners named “Many Steps” ‘an “Tracker” and we was all welcome to have them company us.

Ridin hard as we could we got ta the Crawferds  an set up camp with still nuff time fer a look round afore dark.

Nows when I tell the secret of the Crawferds big muley bucks.  A hunter who is done after the sort of muley what is bigger than the space he has on is cabin wall ta hang the horns, has got ta be high.  Ya got ta be way up!  I’m not talkin half way, nor three quarter, I’m talkin where no tree kin grow.  When you be huntin the rugged Crawferds and find you is surrounded for near as fer as you kin see with no tree, you be exact where Wapiti and me was on our hunt.

Ever day we seed big bucks; ever day we had em near to run us down; ever day we was as high as a man kin git; ever day we seed the sorta thing what most only passes in a hunter’s dreams.  Septin us, cuz we was livin a dream hunt!

We hunted in cold that froze the end of my nose; when range herds of elk was bowed up like hunch backs trying ta keep what warm was left in theys bodies close ta theys heart.  I’m tellin ya it were cold, cause when it warmed ta zero ya near took ta heat stroke.

When the hunt was done ‘an we was back ta the cabins in the valley we both had some nice horn for the walls.  As it turned out neither of us had ta cut holes ta make the horn fit the space, but we done had seen some what woulda made fer a lotta work addin a room ta make it fit.

We is happy now and kint wait til we kin play in the Crawferds agin.

Bears Butt

Jan-Feb 1992

It were way back in bout ’73 an “Tracker” was hunt’in moose in the North land.  He done traveled pert near all summer ta git where he was.  His adventure tells of catchin monster fish nearly every time his line hit the water.  Of crab near big as wagon wheels.  Deer and elk boundin in all directions as he made his way further northward.

He wasn’t real sure how far he needed ta go,nor what he was after til suddenly he spotted his goal.  Far below in the alder filled valley was the biggest bull moose “Tracker” had ever seed.  All around the moose was wolves an giant grizzley brown bears which was actin like guards for the moose.  Could this be some God of the animals?

‘Ol “Tracker “ sucked em up an made his decision he were takin that moose and horns back ta rondeevoo or lose his hide trying.  So down he went inta that alder filled valley.

“Tracker” kept putting his skill ta test an outfoxed all them guards as he snuck up on that big moose—BLAM—an the moose was his!  But here he is surrounded by wolves an Kodiak brown bear an it’s  gittin dark.

So “Tracker” starts gatherin firewood ta prepare fer the night.  He puts limb after limb, after limb on the heap til he figured he had ‘nuff  fer all night.  Then he gathered more an put it on, an still he got more, an more, til it were too dark ta see.

His keen senses told him the guards was closing in, as his flint an steel sparked in the early night.  “Tracker” done had fire in less than a minute an the brush an timber was burnin bright.

The flames slowly spred up thru the branches an twigs.  As the firelight got brighter  an brighter the heat also got hotter an hotter.  “Tracker” knew he had to back away some.

“Tracker” aint  no dummy  cuz when he moved back from the fire, he dragged his moose with him an as the fire reached its greatest intense fer light an heat ya cud see the glow clear ta Santa Fe.  It were so bright an hot it created some sort of strangeness to the air above the earth an still today ya kin sometimes look North at the glowin lights.

Well, when “Tracker” done realized the fire’s heat was  mellowin  some he looked round an done realized he were only one ridge away from rondeevoo!

Bears Butt

May-Aug 1992

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

Lots of folks figure it sure woulda been nice ta live back in the 18 and 20’s, when life were a big party an there weren’t no worries ner cares.

But this hoss got some thinning fer ya ta thin about.

Before old Ashley an  the boys begun carryin goods to the mountains, men had but two choices ta make.  One: give all their trapped furs ta their best buddy, an send him off ta Taos er St. Looie, ta sell em fer him, or two: go his self.

Now there be definite advantages ta either one ‘o them decidens.  If’n he sends his years trappin, he kin stay in the mountains, fix up the cabin (er lodge) fer the upcoming winter.  Prepare the provisions lodge by makin sure it is bear proof and shoot nuff buffler, elk, bear, and deer ta stock it.

He done also got ta make certain the injuns in the area like him a lot.  So he got ta help them stock their lodges and also have a few shiney mirrors and beads ‘an red cloth fer the squaws.

Now let’s recollect where he done is gonna git nuff powder, ball, caps, salt (fer curin meat) shiney mirrors, beads and red cloth, ta stay the winter!?

Why hellfire—he gonna trade beaver, bobcat, bear and buffler pelts fer it!  Ok fine, ..but he just sent all his pelts with “No Grimace” ta Taos with ‘em.  What if he gits hit in the head on the way, or takes the trade money ‘an heads off wid it?  What den?  Ya know, he aint commin back till next spring, after the deep snows melt and the ice begins ta break up on the river.

Does I have nuff stuff ta stay up here ‘er does I high tail it, ta kitch up ta “No Grimace”??  Big decid’in ta be done.  Stay an possably go under, ‘er go ‘an join the other snow-birds in Taos!?

Think back ta last winter; ya made Chief Wahoo mad fer mak’in a pass at his doughter so he stole yer hoss.

A griz got in yer store house and spent the hole winter.

It could’nt have been colder even if all ya had on were a wet sheet..by golly I done decided—load the mule—we’ll be gone now!  Sides, there be more whiskey in Taos and the girls done got all the red cloth they need up here.

Bears Butt

Nov-Dec 1991