Wyoming: The moment hung empty. Or, maybe I was just that dumb. There were several lessons waiting to be learned that was splashing off my hard head like water off a rock. Yet like a smooth river stone, the water eventually has its effect.
The herd of elk pilfered the short grass at the back end of the basin. They were beyond the tree line where the soft dirt meets shale and rocks.
We followed them into a corner thinking they had no escape. But here, where a man can climb a mountain and continue into the sky, wind currents swirl.
One second they were grazing. We ducked down to crawl closer and a few breaths later – we peeked again – and they were gone. In less than a minute the intended prey caught our scent and vamoosed – up and over.
My hunter was a young man from back East. He could hike, sneak, and was game for whatever his guide suggested.
Now with no thought of quantifying gain versus more failure; I wanted to see where the elk went; and I wanted to see what was on the other side of the mountain.
Texas: In another setting, four outdoor writers shared a camp- fire in my backyard. There were more than 200 people camping on Brune Hill in Shaw’s Bend. People had canvas wall tents strewn from the shooting line to the county road.
Vendors had more tents under the giant Live Oaks and wannabe musicians drank whiskey, sang, and tortured guitars, bass fiddles, Jews Harps, accordions, and banjos at the nightly fires. Meanwhile, Harold Gunn, John Wooters, Bart Skelton, and Grits Grisham retold tales that intertwined their great exploits with the surprising personal poverty of their journalistic field.
It was my place to entertain, troubleshoot, and in the evening accept a friendly nip from a jug at each campsite.
Upon reaching the band of scholars bemoaning the lean price of words, I inquired how a gentleman ever aspired to their lofty positions. They ignored me. So… it was incumbent upon me to listen to their laments, wait for them to imbibe more brown water, and then ask my question again.
This process repeated itself through the burning of several oak stumps. Finally, it got late and Harold Gunn felt compelled to answer me.
“Listen, Brune, you’re going to A&M for journalism. That’s good. Now join the Outdoor Writers Association of America (OWAA) as a student member. You need to go to the writer’s conferences. They’re a hoot!
The conference is once a year and every year it’s somewhere different. Last year it was in Florida and I scuba-dived in a giant aquarium. It was really cool. You’ll meet a lot of folks and figure out the business."
Again, without thoughts of labor versus reward, I wanted to see what was on the other side of the mountain.
Redding, California 1997: Sam, my daughter, and I pulled into the conference not certain what to expect. It was a sidestop before going to a guiding job in Montana’s Absaroka Beartooth Wilderness.
What we found was 1,000 people that were the “Who’s – Who" of the outdoor industry.
Editors were present from every prominent magazine including Outdoor Life, Sports Afield, and Field & Stream.
There were also sponsoring members from Winchester, Federal, Remington, Mossberg, Leopold, Pure Fishing, Berkley, the NRA, the NSSF, and more.
Writers from across America looked me in the eye and shook my hand. It was easy to make friends and in the evenings the sponsoring members held parties, played games, and offered the customary nips from the jug. During the day there were craft improvement seminars, sponsor displays, and a day at the shooting range.
On the last night, the congregation wore jackets and ties for an awards dinner. There was a bit too much self-adoration by the officers and directors for my taste, but the assemblage seemed satisfied not to notice.
In the beginning, I was oblivious to internal rumblings. I considered myself a rookie writer and adopted a laissez-faire attitude towards the notional hiccups and inflated egos that plague organizations.
But – my new section of heaven blew to pieces in June 2004. The Sierra Club gave a dinner presentation announcing they were on a mission to be hunter friendly. The next morning NRA President Kayne Robinson called hogwash saying anyone that spends 10’s of millions of dollars on anti-hunting initiatives ain’t our friends.
The OWAA board of directors objected to Mr. Robinson’s observation and immediately sent the NRA a letter of repri- mand. In January, the NRA and the National Shooting Sports Foundation (trade organization of all hunting companies) pulled their support of OWAA.
Present: The North American Wildlife Conservation Model was implemented in 1937. It provides for the scientific prac tices that have augmented and sustained wildlife populations for 85 years.
It finances state wildlife agen - cies by using hunting and fishing licensing, permits, and federal excise taxes on firearms, am munition, and various outdoor products. Inexplicably, its success is little known.
The sponsored agencies, as well as conservation groups and past generations of outdoor writers, applaud wildlife population achievements without mentioning the model standard that made those achievements possible.
Such omission is a mistake. The wildcards in wildlife conservation are those states that bypass science and use public initiatives/social sentiment to institute game regulations.
When asked, “Who do the Texas Outdoor Writers Asso- ciation welcome to their fold?" The answer is: “Any professional communicator that advocates and promotes the North American Wildlife Conservation Model.
We respect private property and those individual preferences that allow everyone to enjoy the outdoors."
You dance with them that brung you; even when you’re going to see what’s on the other side of the mountain.
On that day in Wyoming, my hunter and I scrambled to the top.
On the other side was a giant 5x5 non-typical bull that I’d chased for three years but never killed.
Maybe, there’s another lesson...
