The television flickered and incessant whispering woke me. A bearded fat guy lay prone on the ground looking through a rifle scope. He mumbled to his partner that was peering through a spotting scope.
Then he’d look over his shoulder and address the cameraman, aka the TV audience, with breathy hushed accusations. The scene changed and showed what had everyone’s attention.
A black bear was on the side of a mountain presumably fill ing up in a berry patch. Maybe I dozed off again but the shot made me open my eyes. The bear fell where it was feeding and another unseen bear ran out of a nearby coulee. The camera panned back to the shooter and he was fist-pumping in the air.
His buddy reached down and patted his shoulder and they both whoo-hooed at each other. The slow minimization of the 20X magnified view to the point of origin made the bear appear to be a mile away.
“How far was that Lester?” asked the fat guy.
“Nine hundred and eighty yards!”
Congratulations were shouted but their exuberance sounded disingenuous.
I frowned and drifted into memory. Chip, the outfitter, had me riding a blue roan colt. It was mostly broke, friendly, and was a good ride. He wanted to show me where the horses grazed while we camped at the mouth of Rock Creek on the Sun River. We toured down the North Fork of the Sun and he mentioned points of interest and showed me where the ponies would stray.
It was an easy day and we poked along enjoying the sunshine. At Horse Hill he we stopped and surveyed the long grassy slope. It was a half-mile to the top with a small grove of aspens in the center.
As we dawdled we noticed a black bear wandering above the trees. I stepped down and tightened my cinch. Chip nodded and stepped off his big buckskin gelding to do the same. The bear was a youngster. It loped towards us, stopped and reared onto its hind legs trying to see us. The thought crossed my mind that it was unsure and mistook us to be elk.
We trotted up the grade, uncoiled our lariats, and separated with Chip going to the left and me to the right around the mot. The bear didn’t realize what we were until we were all even. It darted straight down the hill through the quakies and I let out a whoop spurring my mount after the fleeing critter. The blue colt knew the game and the race was on! I swung my rope and did my best imitation of a screaming Comanche.
Caution was gone and my pony headed down the steep hillside at a dead-out run. The bear’s hind legs were coming up past his ears and it was doing its best to change counties –but we were catching up fast. My war whoops changed to laughs and I focused on where to stick my loop.
The plan was to fit a loop on it, dally to check it, and then let it go. The grass was tall enough to trail along and find my rope back. I began checking the distance and knew we weren’t going to make it. As I dashed into chunking range, the bear made it to the pines along the river. There was no way to continue the chase and I reined in.
Chip thundered to rest beside me and we rolled in our saddles guffawing at our exploit. “You’ll never have to worry about that rascal being a camp robber! That little bear just learned to keep a safe mile between him and riders!”
The television flickered again and my thoughts shifted to mule packing. My thoughts mingled with dreams and old lessons. There are numerous ways to pack elk quarters on mules. My education was with the Decker Pack Saddles that was invented in the North Country near Glacier Park and the Bob Marshal Wilderness. Chip preferred to use basket hitches coupled with our version of a crow’s foot. I was a couple of inches taller and taught myself to use a barrel hitch on hind quarters. Whereas the basket hitch was subject to slip, I’d never had a barrel hitch get away from me.
Once loaded the hind quarters stayed loaded. Of course, it’s all done with ropes and there are only a million ways to tie a knot.
But – mule packers don’t tie knots – they throw hitches and take a mighty bit of pride in the way they pack. Farther south the packing is done with Saw Bucks, panniers (bags), and lash ropes for top packs.
The old timers were known for packing everything into the mountains from hay equipment to bridge timbers, to pianos. It’s an art that is disappearing with each passing generation.A motor revved on the TV and I was awake. Some fellows wearing ball caps, full camo, and snake boots were loading a whitetail buck into the back of an ATV. These boys had missed no meals.
Their buggy had a corn feeder on the front and a high seat over the rack where they were putting their deer. The rest of the show had them puttering away from a tower blind, down a dirt pasture road past food plots and finally winding up in the lodge parking lot. There were shiny four-wheel drive trucks standing in a row and not one darn horse or mule. I turned the television off.
Laying in the dark another thought percolated through my noggin.
Somewhere along the way I got left behind.
