THE HUNTED

The Hunter or The Hunted?

The Hunter or The Hunted?

The raven that circled overhead did nothing to quiet my drumming heart. What a time to have just finished reading Jack London’s WHITE FANG!

There I sat holding the horses, while my son hiked the neighboring slope. The elk bulged from ridge to ridge. We waited, the horses and I. We were no longer hunting, but perhaps being hunted.

The mind processes extreme thought as one waits and watches alone in the wilderness, the minutes pass slowly along. The snow dripped and dropped in the surrounding forest keeping the horses alert.

Alert horses

Horses standing guard

I reasoned, at first, that I could close my eye for a moment and grab hold of those missing moments of slumber. The horses will stay alert!?

To be truthful, I was NOT prepared for this recent adventure into the back country. I did not realize that we would be heading up the mountain. I do have a bear gun, a .44 mag. Smith & Wesson. (You should see the look on the sale man’s face when I buy shells, but that demands its own post.)

Shells-that is where my lack of preparedness begins.  Only one shell remained in the chamber!

Bear spray!  I left it nestled in my saddle bag. Like a lot of good that’s gonna do me! Here bears, come a little closer. I’m gonna spray you!

The crashing through the trees brought me to my feet (wet feet).

Wet Cowboy Boots

Soaked Cowboy Boots

I then heard the shot nearby. Nearby on the mountain isn’t nearby by any stretch of the imagination. Nearby, close to the tree line on the Shoshone National forest is more like an hour-and-a-half of bushwhacking hell, straight up on your hands and knees through the snow, mud and rocks while avoiding the flailing hooves of your lunging horse behind you.

Hunting area

Hunting in The Absaroka’s Shoshone & Bridger Teton National Forest

Now the work began. We had the elk quartered and ready to load. Here is where the true colors of one’s saddle horse comes shining through. I was ready for rodeos.

Those two bugger-horses where amazing. They never jumped. I was going to say hesitated, but that isn’t true. They were scared as hell. My ‘Bay’ would turn and get a good sniff of fresh flesh every chance he could, turn and point his nose to the sky. He’d of howled if he could have.

His load slipped off once, not twenty yards from the kill site. He stood waiting to be reloaded. I have never imagined they would be so good.  I hadn’t planned on bagging an elk and packing it out that day. But as the sun was fading from the afternoon sky, my son and I both agreed we’d best fill our quota.

Cause we weren’t coming back!

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