STORY #2

CLIMB THAT MOUNTAIN

September 1976. Daily Ranch, 25 miles west of Buffalo WY.

In late September of 1976, my father signed me up to deer hunt with him in Wyoming. No one was very happy about this trip, not mom, not my sisters, not my coaches, not my teachers, not the principle, and not the super. Nobody but me and maybe, dad. We left Friday night after the game, headed to Lafayette, to pick up Roger Anderson and Kenny Eckstrand. We joined up with the Howard Huffman group heading west. Our group were in my dad's Silverado Pickup with camper attached. We hit interstate 90 and settled into a steady pace. Me a new inexperienced driver behind the wheel all alone in the cab, with the rest of the guys back in the camper playing cards and taking advantage of the fully stocked bar.

About in the middle of the state of South Dakota, a few flakes of snow appeared, about 20 miles west, the snow was getting pretty thick, still I pressed on. about an hour later, in full whiteout conditions, I pulled over and let the following truck take the lead. The group of card players in the back asked me what I was doing. (In not such a nice manner) I told them that I was letting Howard lead for awhile. their game continued. I kept rolling. well, if rolling is about 15 mph, then I was rolling. Soon the snow was over and in the mid morning when we stopped for gas and breakfast, the bleary eyed card players were shocked to see snow piled up on the trailer and in the truck stops parking lot. I was asked why didn't stop and have one of them drive. I asked them if they would have, in fact driven if I had asked? The answers left me thinking that there was no way that they would have taken the wheel. Looking at their condition I would not have let them drive anyways.

We arrived at the ranch set up camp and prepared our gear. Met the rancher and he loaded us up into his pickup box and drove us around the ranch, well at least some of it. I remember that we came over a little rise and on a fresh cut of alfalfa, half covered with snow, there was at least 200 deer looking at us. I could not believe it. I had never seen that many deer at one time. I was pumped!!

The next morning dad and I headed out and walked a ridge line that looked over a coulee. We spotted a number of nice bucks but the range was a little far so on we went. We topped out on a bluff and looked across the abyss at a small herd of Mule Deer. Dad and I dropped to the ground and propped my Winchester Model 70 chambered for .270 cal. The Jack O'Connor Special and dad with his trusty Winchester Model 88, lever action, .308 cal. I sighted on the biggest buck of the lot, took a deep breath, slowly exhaled and sque....KA-POW!! Roger unleashed the beast! The deer on the hilltop were running in circles. They were just as surprised as I was! I looked through the Redfield scope and tried to spot the big bruiser I had picked out just moments before and in the mass of movement, I could not pick him out! I spotted another and held on his shoulder and squeezed the trigger! The mud flew from his feet as my bullet hit the ground about 10 feet short of my prize. What the heck? I worked the bolt and slammed home another round in the chamber. Sighted and looked for another buck, or the same one, or a bigger one. They were still running around on the hill side. I touched off another round and this time I hit at the deers feet! Cycled another round and elevated above the now fleeing deers backs and let'er rip! I could not see where the bullet hit, or if it hit or what it hit. I looked at the now empty hill top and saw not a deer down, Now, I know that Roger was shooting as well and we both looked and looked at the empty hill. I pulled out my binoculars and looked, nothing. I looked at my dad and he said, "Well. you better run over there and see if you can spot any blood trail.

I took off down the bluff like I was shot out of a cannon! Down I went, and down, at first not so steep, but in short fashion it dropped down at an alarming pace. I was stumbling and cussing and dropping shit left and right. tripped and went down, ass over elbows! Holding on to the rifle with a death grip. Finally on the bottom of the canyon, I puked my guts out. Bacon and eggs and toast everywhere. There was a small creek at the bottom of the canyon, I washed off and looked for a place to cross. Sweating profusely I knelt down and took a swig of water from the creek. The sweetest, coldest water I ever drank. I washed the puke off of my shoes and pants. Now breathing easier I crossed the knee deep stream, with my 8" boots and ambled across the narrow canyon floor to the steep incline that faced me. Up I climbed. Slung my rifle across my back and used both my hands and feet to crawl onward and upward. Now on my knees I strained ever upwards. About half ways up I came to a barbwire fence, (probably not Redbrand) that had rotted or rusted off the posts. It was a barrier that had to be breached. I wiggled through. As well as a 264 lb. sixteen year old can wiggle. I went a few more yards. Gripped a branch of some kind and puked out what was left of my breakfast. Hanging on in an almost straight vertical state I looked back at the old fence and saw a rotting deer carcass/skeleton. Poor deer must have fallen off the same hill I was now climbing. I pondered this fact for a while and was snapped out of my thoughts when I heard my name being hollered from across the canyon. It was my dad, he had lost sight of me and was wondering if I was resting or had died. He also told me to get a move on as he did not want to sit there all day! If I could have seen him, one bullet would have done it. I'm sure.

Upward my journey continued. Foot by foot I advanced, until finally I reached the the top. There on top of the hill were tracks galore, droppings, scrapes, rubs, all the deer sign a guy could ever want, except for blood. I covered every inch of the hilltop, I covered the hill side, I trudged down the backside of the hill. No Blood. I looked back across the canyon from hell and spotted my dad, and hollered "Nothing!" At this point I realized that the distance across the canyon was at least 700 yards! It would have been sheer luck to have hit a running deer at this distance.

As I looked back at dad, and saw him motion with his arm for me to come back, I also realized what a dumb ass I was. Through the breeze on the top of the bluff across the way, I could hear the old man yell. "And don't take so fucking long getting back!"

Damn!

PS. Later on this trip dad took a huge Mule deer Buck 5 x 5, a monster! His biggest deer ever. I also took my biggest buck of my life on this trip. Although it was not even close to as big as dads, monster buck. A fact he never quit reminding me of. EVER!

PPS: A few weeks later I was diagnosed with a bacterial infection in my stomach from drinking bad water. Let me tell you that it sucks playing ball, knowing that your bowels may empty at any moment. Heightens the sense of drama. I also lost about 40 lbs in about 2 months. As a diet I would not recommend though.

Tomorrow!

Spike