It were back at rondeevoo of ’87.  The spirits were high as usual.  People dancing an singin and the reglar carryin on.

There was some last minute work havin to be done back at my lodge in Willow Creek, so my squaw stayed back.

Me and the boys rode on ahead knowin she’d ketch up next day.

Round camp that night folks got askin where the little woman was and I told em.  Come as sort of a surprise when one-umungus spoke up and saz “What is yer squaws name anywho”?  “Hot damn and boy howdy, I ain’t sure.  We been callen her all sorts of names for years.  Reckon a namin is in order”!

As the thinkers began to chunk out names, we all knowed this one had to be good in order to stick.

From the darkness and into the fires light came a face none had seed for bout a year.

It were “Magpie”, happy as a lark he was.  It was back slappin and grinny face good times.

After a bit he asked where my woman was and I tole him.

“Well by gooly dang—break out some ‘o her good wine and let’s toast to her health” he said.

Magpie had hit on sumpin.

Next day on the firen line we run into “Just George”, and after all the nitial  greetins, we aksed if he’d do a naming.  He were mor’en happy.

That night at council fire with all the ara of a good time everwhars “Just George” stood up and calls out for my woman.  She goes down to the fire cautious like.

With the talking stick and all the powers of the mountain “Just George” christened her and from that day forward wherever mountain folks shall meet “Wine Maker” she’ll be called.

Bears Butt

Nov-Dec 1989

Rondeevoo time is special time fer mountain folk.  It’s like one big party with everone doin stuff ta make it happen.  One real special rondeevoo happened in the Fall of ‘89

We wuz ta meet up on the banks of the Curtis Crick bout the time the leaves was turn’in.

As “Many Steps”, “Windy” and me was pullin in, “Wapiti Dung”, “Rut Runner”, “Tracker”, “Bones”, “Little Fawn”, “Cherry” and many more were already camped and havn fun.

It looked to be some real shin’in times.

Twernt long afor everone of the Willow Creekers was there and the fire started with one of last years char sticks.

The booshway “Tracker’ spoke of past days and we all did some yarn tellin.

Now to be the booshway a guy has to out shoot all the shooters at the rondeevoo.  That’s what old “Tracker” had done back in’88.  So to get things roll’in he calls out for the shoot’in ta start.

Fer the next two days we poured powder and rammed ball.  Shoot’in  plumb sometimes and hav’in flighers the next.

Everone had excuses sept’in one and all he did was harangue us older folk.

Now “Many Steps”, he be but a sliver off a beaver sharn and has only been out where we could see him fer 12 year, but that old boy could plumb ‘em ever time.

Shook “Muskrat”, “Cherry” and “Dry Dog” up so much they all three took their patch knives ta lunch.  Somewheres out ahind the firen line there be three pieces of mighty fine “Green River” stainless.

Well it ended with the last shoot fer another year and after all the shoot’in scores was added up the results had “Many Steps” out shin’in all us.

So in traditional mountain fashion “Tracker” handed over the talkin stick and the “silver Slug” to “Many Steps”–            BOOSHWAY FOR ’90!

Bears Butt

Sep-Oct 1989

Old Tracker now, he’s been around some.  Traveled the old Stinky up in Alaska country, even the Yukon, but aint had no trip like the one down the Big Bend of the Bear.

Tracker says the Bear River is the only river in these here U.S. where its beginin and end is so near it makes her sumpin special.  Guess we’ll read about it some day.

Anyhow, we was up near the Big Bend country one summer.  A place where there is sodie water comin right out ‘o the ground.  Dangedest thing you ever seed.  We decided to go float down the Big Bend of the Bear to see what was down it.

Now Mountain Men aint got no money, but what we got is mostly good.  So we conjured us up a free boat.  Kind of flat agin the water, and wide across from front ta back.  Anyhow, we find ourselves floatin down the river singin , “Al a wet a!  Shonta al a wet a”!

We was havin fun.  Us and that ol river.  Sundenly we heard the sound of a water fall or sompin.  We scrambled fer sticks to get to shore, but it were too late, we was caught in the swift current.  Bein as brave as we could we steered her into mid stream and down we went.  Through the suck we went and out the other side, white water for yards beyond.  Ya, we got wet some, but we made it.

After that twernt much river citment, but we sure did see lots of game.  We’d of taken some bulls had we seed’em but all we saw was cows and lots of ‘em.  I suspect the bulls was back in the shade someplace.

One thing certain, as we come silent down the current and rounded a bend we seed the dangest thing ever.  River Geese!  They came off the shore with only they’s bodies, got inta the river and swam with us.  Their heads was three feet infornta theys bodies, but they had NO NECKS!!!  I aint never and probably won’t agin see such a sight.

We beached the fee boat a couple times that day to relieve ourselves, and is sure came as a surprise when we found ourselves sufferin from “Big Boatknees”, sometimes called “Sneesles”.  It’s an ailin that causes the legs to go ta sleep from the knees to the toas and causes ya ta stumble and fall a lot when ya git outa a free boat.

Al a wet a!  Shonta al a wet a!

We was havin a real good time checkin things out, when off the bank come a bunch of Americans to help us, guess they didn’t like our singin.  Grabbed our raft in the swift current which caused it to flip and into the deep river we went.  All our possible was drownin and up we come under the boat.  Course them Americans thought we was drownin.  Kept  grabbin  at  us  as  we drifted until we nearly did drown.

Well, we made her, and won’t never fergit the trip down the Big Bend of the Bear!

Bears Butt

May-Jun 1990

Be careful when you wake those leathers.

We all have our favorite clothes, a special gift shirt, a perfect fitting nice feeling pair of pants.  Us mountain folks have the same kind of deal with our skin clothes.  The difference lyes in how we treat ‘em.

Leathers, as they are called, are genrilly made of deer, elk, antelope, mountain sheep, or goat (if we can get ‘em).  The hides are tanned up, chewed mighty soft by the little woman and form fitted with many try ‘em  ons and tak ‘em  offs.

From  the  first  day  them  leathers  start  tak’en on a special personality.  After wear’en  ‘em for a year or so twinx  rondevouz, they become attached and even have an air bout them.

Back in ’87, I recall Wapiti Dung say’en he was caught up on the Salt River trappin by his self and even carried on all night talkin with his leathers.

Well there does come a time them leathers got to come off.  I was up by the Portnuf and came by some warm water springs.  It was perfect temperature fer a bath.  So I took off my leathers and jumped in.  Boy it was nice to relax in that there water.

After haven cared fer myself I thought I’d rub my leathers down with some special lye soap and soke ‘em in that same water.

Now I’d only been wear’en them fer nine months or so and when I reached fer ‘em the blame things move out!  Each time I stretched they’d move further till I was clear out of the water, buck naked!

I did finally get hold of some arm fringe and got ‘em washed.  It was a battle to the end, but we been good friends ever since.  Theres’ even  been times of late, them leathers told me of approach’en riders at my backside.  Sort of like a  extree  pair of eyes.

The only problem I got with them leathers is wak’en them in the morning.  They is so dad blame ornery.  Won’t even move afore the smell of coffee is in the air.

Bears Butt

Mar-Apr 1989

As the New Year begins and we look forward to more of the same, keep in mind the fact that mountain men never lie.

Halfway up a very high ridge, cold-swept with winter’s fury, I sat with “No Grimace”, both of us looking fer meat.  I offered him a choice of pemmican or plain jerky and he chose jerky.  Said sumpin bout pemmican bein too sweet.  As he chewed he asked where I got such good jerk.  Beins I’m proud of an old-time way of makin it, I was glad he asked.

Started way back in bout ’77 when I was out goofin in the back country.  Not doin anything in perticlar, I found an old waybill sign carved in a billion year-old cedar tree.  It was sort of an odd squiggle, a animal of some sort and an arrow pointing to my right.  So I goes to my right and sure nuff I find a large area where meat was sun dried at least a billion year afore.

Carved on the rock cliff near by and starting quite high were all kinds of wiggly lookin lines, arrows, animals, vessels like pots, people gatherin stuff, fire and smoke and other scratchins.

Since the day was early, I found a nice sittin spot not far from all this scribblin and started to study it.  Twernt too long I had the thing decoded.  Here is what it said:

“Wondering what to do with all that meat now that you have it?  Let’s make jerky!  Start by cutting all the meat into strips, the longer the better.  But don’t toss the little pieces to the dogs as they are great while watching T.V.

Put all the strip meat in a large container.  In a separate bowl combine soy sauce, (12 oz. for 10-15 lbs. meat), Worcestershire sauce (15 oz. for 10-15 lbs meat), ¼ cup salt and tobacco sauce (if you like it), do that at your disgression.  Mix it up so the salt is dissolved and pour it over the meat.  Add enough water to cover the meat and then mix the meat and fluid all up like a tossed salad.

Let it sit for 24 hours, then dry it slowly either in the sun, a dehydrator or your cabin oven.  Turn it once during the drying process.  When it looks done it probably is, so go ahead and eat”!

It was pert near dark by the time I got all that figured out, so I scuffled back to my cabin to try out the recipe.  Ya know, I ain’t  never been able to find that rock cliff since then neither.

Bears Butt

Jan-Feb 1989

We Willow Creek boys don’t mean no disrespect when we give a name to a new comer.  Even old timers can’t escape.

We have one boy who’s been burn’in powder and ram’in ball and he is still generic.  Don’t got no name yet.  Maybe come  rondeevoo.

Be’in modern times and all, most of us have families, nice warm lodges, many horse wagons and pets.

It was at a rondeevoo back in ’88 when she showed up.  If my recollecter is right, it was number two for her.  She really filled a dark hole around the council fire, right brightnin.  Only problem we had was mak’in her acquainted to the mountain folk we’d gott’in to know.

Seems in years gone by when ever anyone went off for a rondeevoo they’d drop off their pet for her to watch while they was away.  She’d take the pet in and baby the thing till the return of the owners.

Now pets aint no dumbies, they know where their stick floats and where their bread is buttered.  She babied them pets so much that if we could’nt find ours we’d go to her lodge and there the little critter would be.  Fact is,  rondeevoo or not, you can go to her lodge most anytime and find her own pooch and no less than two ad sometimes three others, plus a cat or two.

Be’ins how she now takes in these here rondeevoos, we figured she needed a name.  We was sitt’in there, about half the gang, call’in out names when “Bones” hit on the the good one.  Yes siree, even Mom couldn’t escape the talk’in stick come council fire that night.  The tribe and guests were quiet as the fire offered its glowing tribute.  The nam’in went on and from now on where ever mountain men shall meet, Mom shall be known as “Many Dogs”.

Bears Butt

May-June 1989

In most walks of life we keep hearing of “quality this” and “quality that”.  The world of hunting is no different as the drop word is “quality hunting”.

Back in ’88 we was up on the Rock Crick drainage sacrificing warm toes by a nice lodge fire with a good woman and a jug of wine.  We was makin meat to keep our bellies full.  We had plenty of small trouble getin’ in and setin’ up our base camp.  Lost the rear wheels on one of our key wagons.  Did some fish-tailing getin’ in and the trip out was most near a bad dream, but I reckon all in all it boils down to a quality hunt.

Opening day found us loading up our long guns.  For those of you not knowin’, “Long Guns” are rifles capable of makin’ meat from squirl to buffalo and anything in between and smaller.  First the powder is precisely measured, (each of us havin’ our own formula for success) and poured down the barrel.  Next comes the spit patch and round ball.  These two gotta go down the barrel together.  It they don’t, the ball will roll out and you ain’t gonna make no meat.  Now here is where quality come in.  While the others was lubing their patches with regular spit, bear grease (a favorite), store bought fancy stuff and other concoctions home made, I went into the cooking lodge and got some new stuff called “Butter Flavored Crisco”!  I figured it’s made from folks like me squeezin’ the shorts off of vegetables, then pounding the shorts until it turns em into butter-looking stuff.  It’s gota be good.

Loading up was all done before first light and we started our hunt.  After nine days of quality stomping, sneeking, hiking, fallin’ in the snow, getting chased by moose and unfriendly land owners, wadin’ in knee deep water, etc., here are the results:

Wapiti Dung—8 bucks sighted, two dandy 50 yard shots in open country—no hits!

Tracker—18 bucks sighted, only one big enough to take, no shots.

No Grimace—11 bucks sighted, one 100 yard shot, one wet cap hammer drop on a two point at 50 yards, no hits.

Cherry—9 bucks sighted, one snapping cap followed by a hangfire on a nice two point at 50 yards, no hits.

Softball—14 bucks sighted, 3 excellent under 100 yard shots and one running 125 yarder, no hits.

Fat Duck—8 bucks sighted, one popped cap on wet powder at a 25 yard two point, no hits.

Bears Butt—11 bucks sighted, one 130 yard shot, through-the-trees-facing-him-head-on on a trophy class animal—one buck on the camp meat pole and liver in the bag!

All the others saw plenty of game but took no shots.

Now I’m here to tell you if it weren’t for those Crisco inspectors makin sure those vegetable shorts was all off, I’m sure I’d of missed my shot.  THAT’s QUALITY HUNTING!

Bears Butt

Nov-Dec 1988

We was settled inta rondeevoo some time back when sudden as a pole cat, Ol Tracker decides he is heading up north ta git him the worlds biggest moose what roamed the earth.  Now Ol Tracker he didn’t kater to no help, soes he is goin alone.  We tried ta tell him there would be a need for help, special ifn he bagged the biggist moose there was.  But he wouldn’t have any o that.  He headed off with our best regards and ta keep his top knot.

We proceeded ta rondeevoo like there wasn’t gonna be another.

Ol Tracker told us this tale when he got back.  Now listen close, cuz this tale leads inta a nuther real soon.  An you gonna have ta no sum of this ta no what the next means.

He said he left the rondeevoo with just nuff provisions ta make it far north as the edge of the musk keg, and my recollection is it must be sum perty powerful stuff what comes outa that keg.  Anyhow, he was there and outa everthing cept his powder, ball and caps.  He needed food sumpin fierce and soon.

As he pussyfooted amongst the stikery bushes found in them parts, he runned smak inta the moose what he was lookin fer.  Yup, the biggest, meanest bull moose found in the entire world and then sum.  Ol Tracker wasn’t sure he had nuff fire power ta bring that big ol critter down, but he figgered he cum that fer, he better give it a shot.

First off, he dun unloaded his rifle by pokin the barrel inta a deep pool of water and fired it off.  Corse the moose didn’t hear the shot cuz it was muffled by the water.  He did manage ta bag a nice samon, which he ate later in the day.  Next he perceeded ta load a load that would bring that big ol moose ta table.  He pored near all his powder down the barrel, then stuck about 10 round ball down, with only the first one havin a patch.  He was loaded fer moose fur sure and not just fer bar.

Then he capped her up and went ta sneeking right on up and under the nose of that big ol moose.  Now moose dun have eyes that can see out the side o they’s heads,. But no so much down under they’s noses and so Ol Tracker dun figered he was perty safe.  With the hammer cocked he poked that smoke pole right up an under that big ol mooses chin and pulled the trigger!  BLAM!!!!!

The rest is perty much same as any other killin o animals, cept this ol critter was so big.  It took Tracker purt neer a week ta clean it and git it ready to haul down to rondeevoo.  Meanwhiles all the other animals in the musk keg area was smelling the fresh kill and comin in ta git some fo themselves.

Ol Tracker aint no dummy, I’ll tell you, and I knowed him fer sum time and more time ta cum.  At first sight o a big ol grizz cummin his way, Tracker started gatherin sticks frum nearby alder bushes and made a big pile.  Then he flint and steeled a good fire and made that ol grizz run off.  This is when he cooked up an ait that samon he dun shot earlier.

As the fire died down, it weren’t long an Tracker was completely surrounded with grizz, woofs and smaller critters what eat meat.  So he went ta making the fire bigger.  This cauzed the critters ta moove back some, but no go away.  He made the fire bigger an bigger.

Perty soon it was to hot for him an the moose ta be next ta the fire so he hitched his hors up an dragged that moose away frum the fire heat.  But, then came those pesky woofs an grizzes closer yet.  So Tracker dun put more and more wood on that there fire.  Soon the vicious critters was far off an Tracker cud do more work as needed.

After a time, the fire died down sum and the critters had moved in closer.  So this time Tracker made up his mind ta head fur rondeevoo an git away frum these bad critters.  So he put his hose inta gear an it started ta drag that big ol moose down the trail.  Tracker put more wood on the fire and more wood and more wood an moore wood.  It was gittin mighty hot when he decided that would keep the bad critters offn his back whilst he made it back ta rondeevoo.

Back at rondeevoo, we was a hoopin an hollerin up a good ol time.  It was shinin time like never afor and we was makin the best we cud of it.  When one ol boy looked to the north sky an said he ain’t never seed a sky so perdy as that.  An we dun looked up an saw the most amazin thing we cud ever have seen.  The sky was lit up wit blu an green an orange an yeller an ever other culler in the world.  It was perty.

Then we heard Ol Tracker a cummin draggin the biggest giganticus moose we dun ever saw in all the parts aroun.  We wuz happy ta seed him and he the same fer us an we danced and drank and danced and hooted and drank sum mo.  After awhile he dun told us the tale you already heard and I have tried ta recall best I cude fer you.

We sure is glad Ol Tracker made it back ta rondeevoo in time, cuz we wuz just about ta git our things gathered an head back ta trappin cuntry.  We wuz glad he brought that big ol moose with him too, cuz it sure made fer sum good eatin, an we only left the bones fer to tell bout it afor we left fer trappin.

Bears Butt

04-05-06

As an F.Y.I. (for your info) October is just next month.  With it comes the 1987 Mule Deer Hunt and the annual APFO Biggest Buck Contest!  We must keep in mind that Utah’s Fish and Game has put a limit on the dollar amount for the contests we hunters can join—that amount is $500!  Therefore, we can only have that many entries this year..so, remember it becomes a first0come0first-entered event—we stop at $500!!

Some of you have shown concern that I am the only child my folks had that lived (others aren’t sure even that is true).  As a matter of fact, and for the record, I have several brothers and two sisters.  One of my older brothers (Wapiti Dung) has as his oldest son, a tall lanky mid-20-year old who loves the games of baseball, softball etc.  He is good, even if I say so myself—hits homers nearly every game—plays 6 nights each week on 5 different teams.  The boy is awesome—ort of—as far as nephews go.  I’ve never seen him play—only heard his stories after the games.  I’m getting off my story.

His name is Jay and, like I said, he is tall and lanky—likes to box. Too!  He lucked out once in a local bar bout—won a case of Bud:  now he talks about going pro—will he ever learn?

We were all gathered around the fire one night up on the mighty Rock Creek, talking and making fun.  Someone asked, “Where is Jay”?  His wife spoke up and said he had gone down the canyon to play softball—this was a big game, his team was in the play-offs and had to battle a team from Wellsville (wherever that is).

At that time Jas was just Jay in the mountain man gallery.  The jug was passed one more time, and in that instant my wife said “Softball—I think his name ought to reflect his interest in the game”.  Someone else said, “Hold it, what if it gets misconstrued with candy making, where a drop of liquid candy is dropped into a glass of water…”!  “No”, my wife said, “Once they get to know the guy there won’t be any mistake”!

When he came back from the game we got the “talking stick” out, and around the council fire we paraded him, explaining the importance of a name and the earning of same.  He was dazed, numbed into stuttering when we christened him for all and eternity wherever mountain men shall meet…”Softball”!

Bears Butt

Spt-Oct1987

Congrats to the 1987 AOFO Biggest Buck Contest winner—Blake Jumper!  Blake’s deer qualified as a 3X2 with an 11 inch spread.  For the rest of us—all we can do is try to figure out how we can win next year’s contest.  Thanks to all who participated and good luck next year-it’s all for fun!

In the continuing endeavor to introduce you all to the “Willow Creek Free Trappers”, my next choice carries the hint of mystique and magical powers.  My nephew is a young man in his mid 20’s, married, hard worker, enjoyer of outdoor activities, including eating today’s version of “C” rations, as he is an active member of the Utah National Guard.

His Christian name is Tracy and in the world outside of Buckskins, wool coats, and blackpowder, this name is as good as the next—however, when we found ourselves gathered “as a group” at the “Willow Creek Free Trappers Rendezvous” a few years back—“Tracy” just wasn’t a name to be proud of.

Can you imagine at roll call the first mornin’ the feeling this young man had as the “Booshway” (leader) read the roll:  “Wapiti Dung”?  “Here”!  “4 Hooves”?  “Here”!  “No Grimace”?  “Here”!  “Tracker”?  “Here”!  “Bears Butt”?  “Here”!  “Soft Ball”?  “Here”!  “TRACY”??  “Here”!  And as the echo of the calling was still bouncing off the walls of the canyon, the “Booshway” was shaking his head and mumbling, “the boy’s got a real ‘cherry’ for a name”.  At the word “Cherry” a small, but noticeable, “pop” came from the burning embers of the morning fire.  No-one thought anymore about it.

We went about our daily activities seeing who could out-shine the rest in the shooting matches, who could out-bull the rest in story telling and who could have the most fun in camp!  It was a real great day.  When night fell and we had partaken of our daily meat and potatoes, we were gathered around the council fire awaiting the “Booshways” scored results of the days shooting, when someone mentioned the fact that Tracy didn’t have a mountain man name yet.  He was still a “cherry” in this manner.  At that comment, a loud hissing came from the fire and a long string of small embers worked their way toward the heavens.  We all looked at each other in wonder!  Tracy had left the fire area just minutes before the comment was made—probably to answer a great calling at the base of a bush or something.  So, since he wasn’t there, it was decide to name him “Cherry” until we felt a better name had been earned by him.  The “Booshway” was informed.

When Tracy returned and got settled, the “Booshway” announce the day’s outcomes of the shooting and the next day’s general activities.  Once that was done he called Tracy up to stand before the crowd. The Council fire light casting it’s orange glow off all faces in various shades as the Booshway slowly worked Tracy around the fire and spoke of mountain lore and past behavior on both the parts of Tracy and the mountain Gods of the past era; he once again said the name “Cherry”.  In that instant the fire’s embers glowed twice as bright and a HUGE array of small glowing ashes raced up with the smoke 10 to 15 feet over our heads, before burning themselves out, never again to be seen, as the darkness of the night gobbled them up.

We were all awe-struck!  The Booshway stayed calm and slowly touched Tracy on the shoulder, like a King touches a Knight, and these words were spoken:  “Tracy, from this night forward, wherever mountain man shall gather, you shall be named by me and the gods as ‘Cherry’, be proud of the name”.

Believe it or not, when “Cherry” was said the fire once more cast its embers into the sky!  “Cherry” was born at the foot of the Rocky Mountains and “Cherry” will always be “Cherry” wherever mountain men shall meet.

Bears Butt

Nov-Dec1987