Memorial weekend may have passed us by the time the homing-bird gets this to you, but at any rate, I figured you’d like to know there will be a rendezvous up on the Rock Creek that weekend.  For those not knowin’ the place, you go up Blacksmith Fork Canyon to Hardware Ranch—stay on the dirt road leading North—continue to the second drainage.  We’ll be raizin’ hell just off to the left.  Shin’in times!  Lots of trading, shootin, and drinkin—bring your stuff and plan on an over-nighter.  Expect to see the regular guys—Muskrat, Just George, Road Kill, Snake, Gert , Rut Runner and others.

Speaking of names, have I told you about “Dry Dog”?  He’s a real nice compliment to the Willow Creek Free Trappers—works hard when he works, plays hard when he plays.  Always does his part….well, almost always.

Once we were “makin meat” up near the Kurl Ranch in the Bear Lake area.  He was assigned the packing of the mule for an all-day’er away from base camp.  We needed essentials like, meat, potatoes, and beer.  Any form of these three items is acceptable, and accouterments like ketchup, mustard, chip dip, gravy, etc. are welcome.  After all—just having to be out in the wild, cold, snowy mountains looking for game to keep our families alive was  enough yet alone be without a few of the necessities of day-to-day living.

We headed for the top of the mountain, trudging through waste deep, cold, wet snow, finally halting among the thick aspen forest for lunch.

“Hey Steve” (his Christian first name) “What we havin’ for lunch”?

“Hot dogs cooked over the open fire.  We’ll use willows to hold the weenies while they cook”.

“Great, let’s get started”.

Not much better than a crackling open fire and the smell of a cooking hot dog on a stick.  Makes for some good conversation, and beer don’t taste too bad neither.

“Hey Steve, where’s the buns and stuff”?

“In the sack”!

“Got the buns and chips, how about ketchup and mustard”?

“O-a-a-ouch, they’re back at main camp, I set them on the cooler top, sorry guys…guess I forgot to put them in the sack.”

“Boy Tracker, these hot dogs sure are hard to swallow when they are this dry.  I wonder if putting potato chips in the bun would moisten them up”?

“Hey Bears Butt, that isn’t half bad that way—beats the heck out of ‘dry dogs’”!

“’Dry Dog’,–Hey Steve, how do you like that name? ‘Dry Dog’”?

And at the council fire that night the jug was passed, and wherever mountain men shall meet forever more “Dry Dog” he shall be.

Bears Butt

May-Jun1987

The day the fat duck came into camp was very memorable.  Most of us were dog-tired after a hard full day of trying to make meat for the rest of the year.  It was early in the season, so we had passed up some smaller jerky carriers hop’in for bigger.  Ain’t much better fer the ego than a store house full of good ‘ol jerk and a hat rack to brag on that just fit through the lodge door.  Specially when it’s cold out and all the folks is gathered in your lodge for grim and jaw’in.

Now some say a mountain man smells bad, looks ugly, can’t see fer beans and hears even worst.  I’m here to tell ya them leathers we wears smells purdy as a mountain ash fire and sweeter than a dry’in rack of buffalo hump jerky.  Down inside we be good lookin dudes.  All us be’in where we is cuz we was fear’in get’in captured by some fool squaw down on the flat land.

We got eyes that kin see an eagle open his lids at 3 miles out and with these here eyes we kin plumb dog a 54 cal Hawkin ever time we raise her to make meat or take a bet.

Come hear’in, well, I useta  could hear a fool hen pick up a chokecherry at 200 yards. But since time does go by and after much shoot’in and get’in muzzleblast in the ears my hear’in ain’t quite what it was.

We was pass’in the jug bout dark that night when Tracker asked where Cherry might be.  Last any of us had seen him he entered a thicket up top of Barns Canyon when they heered a blast from this 50.  That were a good hour ago.  Well we decided to give him another 30 minutes or so then we’d go look’in.

We sat there jaw’in and pass’in the jug and bull’in each other about the bets we’d made on shoot’in the big buck when out of the darkness we saw Cherry com’in in with a nice 4-point muley.   Bout then Stevie, as they called him down in Taos, spoke up and said:  “Just goes to show you boys it ain’t over till the ‘Fat Duck’ walks back into camp”.  I looked up at Tracker who had the jug.  He looked at me and we both smiled and toasted without a word.  That night, after a warm meal of venison liver, we had a little parley without Stevie.  We got out the talk’in stick and Tracker done the honers of call’in Stevie up to the council fire and forever more, wherever mountain men shall meet, he be called “Fat Duck”, “Fat Duck”, “Fat Duck”….”!!!  What a celebration we had!

Bears Butt

Sept-Oct 1988

Ya know Wapiti dung aint a bad guy—but he does have a better half.  In the days before she started venturing in mountaineering camps, her school chums and family called her Marla.  Even today that name will be used–mostly when there is a small crisis on the rise.

One time up on the Rock Creek drainage, about a days ride from Fort Buenaventura, we was havin fun and jawing with other trappers.  The bets were on and the shootin’ was going strong.  Our party made several plumb center shots, so we knoed there would be a great council fire celebration that evening.  The jug was passed early and most all enjoyed its contents.

Now then—in the mountain, especially when wagons roll one behind the other on wet ground, the roads (as flatlanders call them) become “rutted”.  These ruts are caused by the wagon wheels as the horses pull the weighted Conestoga along and the mud from the rains is forced from its natural lie. (For a further explanation read—“The Physics of Mud Dispersion” by Bog,I.Ben-1793).

As the council fire licked the dark night sky it was noted the moon was non-existent.  Away from the fire all things remained un-seen—dark—black as pitch.  Some were smart and brought with them small lanterns and other light sources with which to aid their travel back to their lodges after council fire.  Others brought only whiskey.  The council fire was over after much merriment, singing, bet pay offs, and shoot prizes passed out.  All were happy.

Wine Maker and I gathered our stuff and made our way back to our lodge.  About half way there we could hear voices ahead in the darkness.  We slowed our pace because we couldn’t tell if the people were comin or goin.  As we got closer we recognized the voices as Wapiti and Marla.  Wapiti said to her—“Just stay in the rut and keep goin’ the same direction as me”.  Marla was unsure.  We did finally get her back to camp safely and around our own small council fire a naming was in order.  The talkin stick was gathered and Marla was called into the fires light.  From this time forward and wherever mountain men shall meet “Rut Runner” shall be your name.

Bears Butt

Jul-Aug1988

Rendezvous—Memorial weekend—2 miles north of Hardware Ranch!  Come on up—you can’t miss the spot—look for teepees and smok’in rifles!  Bring your sleeping bags, you won’t want to leave.

There aint no escaping the inevitable, even the women-folk who play in the Willow Creek gang get their names.  This here story should prove to any doubting Thomas that the Gods are looking out for the nam’in and aint about to let a “Bad” name be ever attached to a “Good” person.

When this here hoss was just a young’un I recollect my younger brother “No Grimace” and I would tease our youngest sis.  Back then she was 11 years, maybe 14, in the mak’in of a woman and she was just start’in to take shape.  We’d circle her in young boy fashion calling our “Tubby Tubby Two by Four Can’t Get Through the Bathroom Door”!  Then run like He__ to not git caught.

Now I have to say that wasn’t much of a name for her and the Gods of naming must of knowed.  So after a few knots on our pea heads “No Grimace” and me changed her name to “Boney Monie”; after a poplar song of the time.  At least when we called out her name we didn’t have to do a 300 yard dash and hurtle the five strand barb wire fence out by the barn.

As time went on and people be’in people—the name “Boney Monie” got shortned to “Bones”.  I recon her womanhood had some to do with that cause she went from a 4’8” X 4’8” 14 year old to a 5’2” 110 pounder in 3 years.

Any how we was all sweat’in in 100 degree heat one day and “Bones” was drivin the team.  We was putting up the hay fer winter feed and damn if she don’t drive the wagon right off into a “bog”!  STUCK nigh up to the hubs and them hosses couldn’t begin to lift the load out.  Took us well into dark to get another team over to pull the rig out of that there bog.  Well we’d worked hard and during the time “Bones” got a re-namin:  “Bog Woman”!!!

As time went on the name began to wear off and within just a few short months most of us were back to callin her “Bones”.  Some in the group never heard us call her “Bog Woman” it was so short lived.  The Gods were a-smilin!

I amember back to the rendezvou of ’85—“Bones” had got herself a real nice coat made from a 4 pt. blanket—perty as a speckled pup.  Light blue and had a wide stripe around near the bottom.  One of the finest capotes in the land.  She was proud to be awear’in it—so much so that at the council fire that night we drawed upon the talk’in stick to giver her the new name of “Capote”.  Well let me tell you—them Gods got all upset.  When the stick was raised all heck broke out.  In other camps around we seed the Dog Soldiers gather’in up trouble makers—even had the sheriff there with his barred wagon to tote some off.  T’weren’t real pretty—then we heard the name “Capote” had already been give to another.  Well so be it.  If the Gods of nam’in are that goll dern set, then it’s back to basics and where ever the Willow Creek gangs finds themselves you’ll always see “Tracker” and “Bones” shar’in their lodge.

Bears Butt

May-June1988

The question arose a few weeks ago about whether the young folks among the Willow Creek Free Trappers have mountain names.  I’m here to say in typical Utah language—“You Bet”!

I reckon it’s rather common for everyone to get a nickname attached to them as they grow up—often times the nickname will get modified and eventually the person passes on to the great rendezvous in the sky forever in eternity to be stuck with whatever name they left earth with.  (Perhaps the Gods have a sense of humor and they get new names at their first rendezvous up there?)

(By the way—if anyone REALLY knows about that, let me know—otherwise I’m libel to have some wild concocted story to make up about it).

Well mountain life ain’t no differ’nt.  The young folks get their names as they do their best to “act big”.  Many moons ago at a council fire we had a “big name’n” party.  All of us older folks pow-wowed for days until we conjured up most likely names for all the young’uns.  At the fire that night the Boshway called each one of them up by their Christian name and dubbed them with their mountain handle.  Each in his or her turn was proud as punch—it was a real treat.

Now names is names and most can change either legally or otherwise and my youngest son had his changed just last year.  We was up on the Beaver Crick shoot’en and pass’in the jug with some fine mountain folks from the Cache.  We hand’nt been there too long when it started pour’in rain.  We had hitched the horses and put the last stake in the ground when she hit.  Sherry had busied herself inside making grub whilst my oldest “Many Steps” and my youngest “Little Knife” and me tied up the loose stuff.  We hurried inside our lodge and wolfed down Sherry’s vittles.  The rain poured on as darkness came.

It weren’t long an we noticed folks were gatherin in “Old Muskrats” lodge.  So being neighborly we joined ‘em.  Cause of the rain the traditional council fire was not to be—so folks being folks do the next best thing.  We was greeted and entered the lodge, but beings how this was our first invite to the Beaver Crick there was folks we didn’t know.  Muskrat did the intro and we met new mountain folks.  When “Little Knife” was introduced he was shook some cuz of the excitement and in that split second pause between both parties names being said and the general handshake young “Little Knife” broke wind.

Now there is a time when a guy is grow’in up he passes between being a youngster and being a kid.  “Little Knife” was well into being a kid and he got down right embarrassed.  Muskrat did me proud when he broke the silence with “Ho DEE Doe—I think we just got ourselves a new mountain man and with him comes a new name—what do you think about that “WINDY”?

Rather red faced he came out from under the table grinning—said he was sorry and we all laughed.

This guy just turned 10 years old and I ain’t saying there aren’t other names he’ll be tagged with, but the next night at council fire he was called up by “Slow Bear” and with the touch of the talk’en stick dubbed “Windy”.  He is proud of the name and let’s keep it his and our secret as to how it came to be.

Bears Butt

Mar-Apr. 1988

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