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

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