Stories of a Guide's life

"Life in the Wild"

I walk amongst  you, here in your city, a man from the wilderness, a man who has spent countless years in the solitude of the mountains, listening to the silence, to the wind, hearing the rivers and the birds. A man who has spent his nights watching the stars through unveiled skies, listening to the distant  and mournful cry of the wolf, listening to the quite of the night.

I walk amongst you, in the midst of your mountains of concrete and steel, your trails of ash fault and cement, listening to the roar of your engines, the wail of the sirens, listening to the deafening pulse you seem not to hear.

I smell the exhaust, taste it in the back of my throat, feel it burn my nostrils as the poison enters my lungs, chocking me, starving me of the once fresh and clean air I breathed so deep and freely, air that was pure, free of the toxins that hang over your great city like a dark and ominous cloud.

I walk amongst you, in your great shopping centers and malls, walk amongst you and watch as I have watched the creatures of the wilds. Watching, learning,hidden from your view while still in plain sight. I have witnessed many wonders in the wilderness, many sights to be remembered in awe, sights however, that are rivaled by what I see whilst I am among you.

Tall, short, heavy and thin, people of most every nationality and culture from around the globe, caught in the hustle, the race of their fast paced lives. I watch, silently observe, as those around me push past each other with blank, expressionless faces. Brushing past each other without a fleeting thought or brief acknowledgement of those they encounter.

A life without faces.

Your world of haste begins with the buzzing of an electric alarm, rousting you from your tired, coma like state; a hand hit’s the snooze button while your groggy mind begs the clock for another 7 minutes of sleep. The coffee pot comes alive on the kitchen counter as its timer strikes home and it begins to puff and wheeze, filling the room with the familiar aroma of a new day’s beginning. With one eye open you watch the clock, hit the switch a moment before it again comes alive with the sound you’ve learned to despise. Feet into slippers, arms into bathrobe, staggering fuzzily into the bathroom to begin your morning rituals.

Tooth brush hanging from the corner of your mouth you turn the hot water on full in the shower, filling the room with steam as you return to the sink to cleanse your mouth of the mint flavored foam. A few quick adjustments to the water temperature before you climb into its steady flow, the sleep driven from you as fill your hand with shampoo. You scrub and rinse as an urgency builds within, climbing from the warmth of the water and into the softness of an inch thick towel.

Hand cream, face cream, tweezers and brush. Blow dryer, styling cream and rat tailed comb, with a whirl of frustration you leave the image of your face in the mirror, muttering to yourself about another bad hair day, silently concerned about the growing bags under your eyes, wondering why.

Back to your bedroom, casting aside your bathrobe as you reach into the closet, tugging free from it’s now swinging hanger an outfit to suit the day, a costume with which to hide your inner self from the world around you.

Down the hall to the kitchen with a hurried step, needing the injection of fresh roasted caffeine, the morning boost your body has been craving since the mist of the shower hit your skin. Before you reach for your favorite coffee mug, hidden on the top rack of the dishwasher, you touch the familiar power button on your laptop, your umbilical cord to the outside world. Filling your mug with strong black coffee, which is diluted with an inch of flavored cream, you hit the menu button on your Black Berry, checking your voicemails,  searching the inbox of your text messages, trying desperately to catch up with another new day and all it brings into your already too busy world.

Gulping down your second cup of near white coffee like substance as you read your emails, chewing slowly on the cardboard tasting protein bar between swallows from your mug you quickly scan the world headlines on your laptop screen. Disheartened at the current status of world affairs you shut down the laptop, slipping it into the readymade slot in your carry bag, a bag stuffed with paper files, pens, USB cords and CD’s, the essence of your professional world.

Shrugging into your leather coat and matching gloves, into your favorite shoes as you slide your IPOD touch into your breast pocket, slipping the tiny earphones into place you shoulder your carry bag, thumbing through your bus passes as you close the locked door behind you.

Welcoming the cold winter air with a frown you hurry down the street to catch the approaching city bus, the first leg of your journey towards the office where you will spend your day far above the busy streets below. Another frowning bus driver, another packed and cramped bus ride to the city train station, a station filled with faceless bodies. Heads turn simultaneously as the next train approaches, people force themselves into line, knowing exactly where their chosen door will open when the button is pushed.

Standing, sitting, cramming into the cramped confines of the train you find yourself turning up the volume on your IPOD touch, drowning the sounds of the train and those within, secretly wishing you could somehow stop the smell of the train from entering your nostrils. Again you watch as the Transit Police exit the train with an unwilling patron with no valid pass to produce, looking back to the word game you’re idly playing on your Black Berry, trying hard to pass the half hour you must be on the train.

Finally your stop has come, slipping your Black Berry into your pocket you ready yourself to be pushed out of the train door, caught in yet another human landslide of bodies without faces, bumped and grinded out the door you go, back into the crisp winter air with a frown.

The sidewalk is slippery under your flat soled leather shoes and you begrudgingly clamber your way down the snowy street to your towering office building, considering with every step the growing pile of files on your already full desk. With a nod of recognition the security guard acknowledges your familiar face with a glance over his half read newspaper, the only one to notice your existence since you left the comfort of your home.

Into the elevator, staring blankly at the climbing red numbers displayed overhead, 37, your destination, the place you find yourself spending nearly half your life, the floor where the knot in your stomach originated, the tiny 12 x 16 office where you find yourself wishing you were not.

The same group looks away from the morning circle of conversation, their morning excuse for the procrastination they habitually show towards the start of each day, looking over their coffee cups at you with the same bleak, unsmiling faces you see every morning. Nothing seems to change. Caught in the rut of an adventure less life, caught in the rut of a life you once longed for, a life you trained and schooled for. Living in a land without faces.

Life in the wilderness, a life you may not understand, a life you most certainly will turn your nose up towards, a life you will state you could never live.

Imagine if you will, poking your head from beneath a mound of covers, quickly realizing the fire that once gave the tiny one room cabin its inner warmth has long since burned out, leaving your log dwelling as cold as the frosty wilderness beyond the door.

Frost rises from your breath as you lay preparing yourself for the inevitable flood of cold air that awaits you as you make a hasty exit from the warm depths of your bed. A quick rush across the room to the kindling pile, a huge handful of crumpled newspapers into the now cold fire box, the strike of a wooden match as it is artfully pitched into the awaiting pile of tinder and with staggering speed you hit the depths of your still warm bed to await the pleasant crackle and warmth of yet another morning’s fire.

Once the tiny fire has driven the cold from your cabin you feel it safe to again exit the depths of your handmade bed, shrugging into somewhat frosted clothes, half frozen boots and a coat that feels like it was constructed from cardboard you leave the confines of your tiny cabin, stepping into the sharp and frozen air of the rugged Canadian Wilderness.

Standing on the porch your gaze falls on the beautiful site of the snow covered mountains, now shinning under the pink light of a clear and cold morning’s sunrise. Frost has blanketed everything in sight, glittering in the new morning’s light. The nearby spring gurgles and dances under the clear coating of crystal like ice, the only sound you hear until you step down from the porch and the frozen snow crunches under the weight of your feet.

Following the tiny path you have shoveled to the main lodge, you find yourself once a again standing in total awe and admiration of the sights that fall before you. Snow covered peaks, spruce trees heavily laden with burdens of frozen snow, bowing under their burdens as if to greet you in some mysterious and solemn way.  

Shovel in hand you clear another snow drift off of the porch stairs, continuing to shovel around into the wood shed where, setting shovel aside, you load your arm with wood and head back to the kitchen door and into the lodge.

Stirring up a pile of  hot embers in the massive hearth you soon have a blaze kindled that casts it’s smoky heat into the main room of the lodge, driving the cool breath of another winter’s morning from the room while leaving a thick smoky haze hanging in the rafters. Heaping another arm load of wood into the hearth you ensure the birth of another day’s fire and the consumption of another box load of wood.

The frozen axe handle in your hand burns your palm as you carry it across the yard towards the creek whilst two empty water buckets swing from the other hand. The cold weather freezes the water hole every night so it must be re-opened each morning before the buckets can be filled, two of the six buckets it will take to finish the day. Each swing of the axe sends a spray of sharp shards of ice and water into the air as it smashes open the water hole once again and soon the buckets are full of beautiful spring water.

With the water buckets in their place on the counter and a pot of coffee starting to pop and hiss on the propane stove the start of a new day is well under way. The lodge is starting to warm and the smell of the smoke is starting to fade all though it never really leaves after 40 years of soaking into the logs.

Broom in hand you sweep the debris away from the front of hearth, remnants from the morning’s fire, and continue to sweep the kitchen and great room while you wait for the coffee pot to rise to a boil. As most mornings, the sound of the coffee boiling over onto the stove top alerts you that you’re once again too late and you make a rush to reach the foaming pot and snatch it off the flames.

A cup of cold water trickled into the top of the coffee pot to settle the grounds and there you have it, the best cup of mountain coffee a person can find anywhere within 50 miles.

Steaming cup of coffee in hand you head out onto the porch of the lodge to listen to the morning as you enjoy your hot black coffee. The calm, the distant silence, the gentle gurgle of the nearby creek, sounds of your world, the world you know by it’s sounds,  by it’s smells and it’s wind.

There are no sirens here, no roar from busy streets nor thick hanging cloak of smog, there is only wilderness. Mountains cascading from North to South, river valleys and ancient Spruce swamps, rocky peaks and dark timbered ridges. This is a land without faces.
After your second cup of coffee is finished attention swings to your morning chores. Horses need hay and grain, fire wood needs replenishing and pathways need shoveling.

These, the morning rituals of a life in the wilderness.

The horses have grazed their way down the valley away from home during the night but they will certainly be on their way back, looking for some fresh hay and a pail of rolled oats. Using a hand drawn sleigh 12 small square bails, each weighing around 60 lbs. have been made into 30 piles in a large circle around the meadow. Once the sleigh is put back in its place each hay pile is topped with a large scoop of rolled oats from a 50lb sack, a sack which is empty of its contents by the time the circle is completed. With barn swept clean and a new mineral block set out the morning feeding is done.

The firewood pile behind the lodge is a huge stack of log rounds that where cut over the summer months and hauled to camp in the back of an old 4x4 pick-up truck. The rounds need to be individually split into quarters with an axe before being carted to the cabins in the hand drawn sleigh so heavy coat is set aside, shirt sleeves rolled up to the forearms and splitting axe is taken in hand.

The rhythmic sound of the axe solidly smacking into the frozen rounds echoes through the frigid air of the valley and after an hours work the sleigh is ready to play it’s part. Each block of wood was cut at a length of 20 inches in order to ensure a proper fit in the wood stoves in each of the 8 cabins; the blocks cut for the hearth were cut at 30 inches and were piled in a separate pile

With a well stacked sleigh load of wood in tow you round the corner of the lodge to see the horses all standing at a pile of hay happy eating their morning’s breakfast. A quick and accurate head count tells you that all 25 head of horses are present, all appearing to be happy and in excellent condition. What a wonderful sight to see the frosty backs of 25 solid mountain horses standing in the meadow, each a trusted friend and companion.

The sleigh is laden with wood cut for the hearth so once parked in front of the lodge steps it is relieved of its burden one arm load at a time. The warmth of the lodge is a pleasant change from the -18 degree temperature outside and you feel your cheeks turn flush in the heat. Eight hefty arm loads of wood are required to empty the sleigh into the waiting confines of the large wood box standing in the far corner of the great room. The box is built to hold two sleigh loads so with a quick exit you’re headed, sleigh in tow and cookie in hand, headed back to the wood pile for another load.

As you round the corner of the lodge some distant sound catches your ear and you stop in mid stride, head cocked to the side listening with a tuned sense. Again the sound breaks the valley’s calm, far to the North the mournful call of a timber wolf rises in the icy air, the wolves are back, back to wreak havoc on the resident moose and deer for a few weeks.

Now you work with one ear tuned to the North, often pausing to listen to the valley, tracking the wolves’ approach by the sound of their eerie call.

The duties of the wood boxes took considerably longer due to frequent stops to listen to the wolves as they drew nearer, but none the less each box was topped up and there was  extra split wood on hand.

The stove burner gives a woof as you lay a match to the gas and the coffee pot is set in place to re-heat, its long past due for another cookie or two from the jar too. With cookies in hand you quietly step out onto the porch of the lodge to listen to the valley. The calm silence of the frozen valley has an unsettled touch to it as you know full well you are not alone, you know that within a few hours the wolves will pass by the camp, pass by the horses.

Boiled coffee always seems to taste better on the second round and the cup in your hand is no exception, steam rising from its rim as you step back out onto the covered porch of the lodge, the cup warms your hand against the crisp air, it’s amazing how comforting the warmth of a cup of coffee can be when a person will let it be, it almost warms your soul.

The horses’ are all alert, heads and ears constantly turning to the sounds of the valley, they too know the wolves are coming and they will not stray far from the meadow on this day, staying close to the safety of the camp. It is the ears you watch while you sip on your coffee, the horse’s ears are an amazing thing and when a person is observant enough to notice a raised head and pointed ears, it is a sure sign of a nearby presence in the woods.

The frigid air, the blue sky and frost covered trees, the steam rising from the spring, those sights send your mind traveling backwards in time, back over the 30 years you have spent in the mountains living the life of a wilderness guide and back country horseman, back to some of the wrecks you saw on the trail……..

THE KILLERS OF WINTER

Far above the timberline where the alpine meadows and rocky slopes meet the sheer and treacherous vertical outcroppings of the mountain peaks. There, in the place where it would seem nothing could traverse the incredible masses of sky bound rock, it is there that he lives. The great white goat of the Western Rocky Mountains.

As a Guide in the Canadian Wilderness I have led 56 men on successful hunts for these magnificent creatures. Undoubtedly the most physically and mentally demanding wilderness hunts available.

The incredible elevation at which they live and the terrain that must be skilfully navigated in order to enter their domain is a challenge to even the most seasoned mountain man.

Standing over four feet at the shoulder and tipping the scales at over three hundred and fifty pounds, a mature Billie is, in my experience, the toughest animal in the Rocky Mountains to bring down.

The horses were sweat covered and tired when we finally reached the tiny spike camp, a secluded spot set back off the edge of a small alpine lake very near to seven thousand feet in elevation.

With one pack horse and two saddle horses to look after it didn't take me long and they were unpacked, stripped of their saddles and turned loose in the small meadow that surrounded our camp.

My client/hunter, a man from New York, had taken a walk while I tended to the horses and while I was in the midst of unpacking our gear he came hustling into camp, his face beaming with excitement.

"There's a whole pile of goats up there above the lake," he said with a huge grin spreading across his face.

"Well buddy, that's why we rode all the way in here," I smiled back. "This is traditional rutting ground and within another week or so the rut will be in full swing, I figured we find plenty of goats to choose from up here."

I think my overall lack of "drop everything and run for my spotting scope" enthusiasm was a little disappointing to Jamie but I had never been to the Twin Lakes Basins and not seen goats on the Southern slopes. I wanted to get camp organized before we got into the hunting; the last thing I wanted to be doing was rooting around through the pack boxes in the dark.

When I had our beds laid out in the little three walled lean-to and the rest of the gear set out where I thought it should be I readied myself and, for the sake of the effect, asked Jamie to lead me off and show me the goats he'd found.

A thousand feet above the lake we camped beside was another, larger basin which also held a beautiful mountain lake and the Southern slopes above the second lake were usually where as many as five or six dozen goats could be found during the late October rut.

When we walked out of the timber and onto the lake shore Jamie pointed up to the second basin and as sure as spittin' the slopes were dotted with the white bodies of a good many goats.

I explained to Jamie that there was a well-used trail leading up to the second lake and that within forty five minutes we could be watching the same goats from well within rifle range.

When we reached the half-way point of the steep and rocky trail Jamie was certainly feeling the effects of the elevation and the steep climb. His face was red and sweat streaked, he had his coat tied around his waist and his shirt was unbuttoned to his brisket.

"How the hell can you climb around up here carrying that friggen back pack man?" he asked between puffs of air.

I smiled and put a hand on his shoulder, "I do this damn near every day bud, just wait until my pack is full of your goat's cape and meat, then I'll be as red in the cheeks as you are."

When we finally reached the summit of our climb, I urged Jamie to be quiet and to hunker down so we could use the scrub alpine trees as cover, slipping into the basin undetected.

We pretty much crawled into the basin and slowly, cautiously made our way over to a large rock that was nearly as big as a small car. Once concealed behind the rock I shrugged out of my back pack and carefully dug out my spotting scope, attached it to my tripod and got things set up.

Jamie was like a kid at the circus. Fidgeting around, looking this way and that, outwardly amazed at the whole situation. He counted forty one goats in total, his excitement going with everyone he counted off.

While I was giving the herd a good overview I quietly explained to him that both Nannies and Billie’s had horns on their heads, both were legal to harvest but we WEREN'T killing a female so I needed to locate a mature Billie before we even considered shooting.

It didn't take long to spy two Billie’s laying off by themselves on an outcropping of rock, laying in the late afternoon sun watching over the rest of the herd.

The larger of the two Billie’s was of trophy quality with horns I judged to be over nine and a half inches long. Having said this Jamie asked exactly how the hell I could tell that at four hundred yards.

I smiled at his half-hearted disbelief and took the time to explain how to properly field judge a mountain goat.

A Billie reaches maturity at five years old, when he matures he developes a dark grey or almost black musk gland that lays directly behind his horns. Both sexes of mountain goats have these glands but when a mature Billie gets near the rut his gland swells and gives the top of his head a black look.

An adult mountain goat's ears are on an average of five inches long, thus giving a means of judging the horn length. Now body size, length of face and overall appearance also help distinguish sex, color is also a factor. Although all goats appear to be white, a closer look will tell that a mature Billie is usually and off yellow color.

The horns of a Nanny are hooked to some degree at their tips and grow out and away from the base thus, when looking head on at a Nanny; her horns resemble a V on the top of her head.

A mature Billie's horns grow much thicker and straighter up of the head with no obvious hook to them. When they look like a beer bottle, shoot him.

Well, now that we'd found a mature Billie of trophy quality the next step was to somehow cut our range down to under three hundred yards. Jamie was shooting a .300 Win Mag but rarely did I allow a shot of over three hundred yards. Too much room for error allows for wounded game.

We decided to crawl our way towards another large rock that lay out in front of us so, with pack in hand we crawled/drug ourselves through the small alpine scrub trees one foot at a time.

Very near to reaching our objective I looked up to see several of the other goats watching us with some interest and although not alarmed yet, if we continued our approach they would certainly start to climb up and away from us which would certainly get the whole herd up and moving.

I slid my hefty pack out in front of us and told Jamie to get as solid a rest as possible off my pack. Wasting no time he hunkered down in the prone position and readied himself.

We were now just a little over what I thought to be three hundred yards from the two Billie’s up on their perch, less than two hundred from the goats watching us.

I instructed Jamie to ready himself and sight in on the larger of the two Billie’s, the one laying off to the right. "Don't you shoot until I tell you to and when I do, shoot him in the lungs."

"We'll wait for him to stand and stretch, then we'll shoot, not until." I said over my binoculars. "Just be ready."

Finally the goats that had spotted our movement decided to climb up to a more comfortable distance from us and when they did, the smaller of the two Billie’s stood up, stretched and walked off from his partner.

Immediately Jamie started fidgeting around and I had to urge him to lay still and concentrate. I wasn't even finished saying that and the larger Billie stood up.

Before the Billie had even the chance to come fully erect Jamie fired and, not to my surprise, completely missed the goat. His bullet smacked into the rocks in front of the Billie and he jumped straight into the air and leaped up the hill a couple of jumps.

Every one of you knows what my reaction was to this and I'm sure Jamie's ears are still burning. After I settled down I instructed him to try another shot, aiming about a third of the way down the goat’s body.

When the rifle cracked for the second time I saw the goat lurch ahead and stumble a bit. "He's hit." I said flatly, "Now bear down and finish him."

With that Jamie fired for the third time and once again contributed to Rocky Mountain copper deposits. Another clean miss, this time his bullet kicked up dust and rocks behind the goat.

I looked over at him and steamed, "Reload and finish him man, why are you just lying there?"

"I forgot my bullets." he said sheepishly.

OK, now my reaction to him shooting without me knowing it was coming was not a good one, the no bullets comment sent me into a tail spin.

"What the F- - - do you mean you forgot your bullets?" I burst.

"How the hell could you do that?"

"It just slipped my mind." he said while staring into my pack.

"Holy S- - - man, now I have to go all the way back down to our camp to get more ammo!?" I frothed.

"No, I mean I forgot them in my cabin in base camp." he said almost coming to tears.

"Well Holy hell, how the F- - - am I supposed to go fetch a wounded goat with no rifle?" I asked while trying hard to settle down. My reaction wasn't going to help the matter, if anything only make it worse I told my very pissed off 'inner self'.

I lay for a few minutes and watched the Billie. I could now see the blood on his brisket and knew full well he'd been hit poorly.

The ground in which the Billie had chosen to make his day bed was far from flat, believe me, it was a series of rocky benches and extremely steep grassy slopes. The rocky benches almost looked like a ancient water rings around the basin and while I was looking up there trying to figure out some miracle plan, the wounded Billie slowly started to climb.

The Billie climbed up two more rock shelves and then, choosing a spot, laid down with a heavy thump.

To be honest, I really had no fricken idea what I was going to do, but I certainly wasn't going to just leave that poor critter up there to suffer.

I told Jamie to stay with the pack while I climbed up and tried to figure out how to get the goat.

Obviously he asked what my intentions were and for lack of words and a need to stay quiet I pointed at my skinning knife on my belt.

Jamie was still stammering away behind me as I started off up the mountain side towards the wounded Billie.

When I stood up in plain view the entire herd snapped to attention and all started to move quickly towards the outer rims of the basin.

My climb was just a little more than steep and when I reach what I thought was near the Billie’s elevation I was climbing using both hands and just the tips of my Scarpa climbing boots.

I was using a chimney type chute in the rocks to not only conceal my ascent, but also as a means of finding constant hand and foot holds.

I stopped climbing and looked back down at Jamie to see him frantically waiving and pointing off to my right.

I watched him for a minute, and holding my urge to bombard him with a good ole' fashioned cussing', and decided I'd better move off to the right and see what he was so concerned about.

With more than a little goofing around involved I managed to climb out of the chute I was in and hoist myself up onto the narrow rocky bench.

Slowly, step by step I eased myself out onto the ledge, inching my way around the rocky abutment until I suddenly found myself standing precariously close to a very pissed off mature Billie goat.

Not knowing what to do I gave my four inch skinning knife a quick look, the look was just long enough to realize who ridiculous the idea was. Now I stand near six feet and weigh around two hundred and twenty pounds but all that was going to do for me was ensure I bounced all the way to the bottom when Mr. Goat chucked my ass off the rocks with his very sharp and very shiny black horns.

From less than twenty feet the goat looked about the size of you deep freeze and although hurt, was certainly in well enough shape to kick my butt. He held his head cocked to one side displaying his horns and by the look in his eyes had no intention of turning tail.

It didn't take long for me to decide to get off his rock so, in the haste of a purse thief I turned and scrambled off the ledge and back out to the chute.

Still lacking a good plan I climbed up to the next ledge, one about thirty feet above the Billie, and, once I caught my breath, I inched my way out until I could look down on Mr. Goat.

The Billie had turned around and was standing with his head down facing out into the basin bellow. I looked around where I stood, still trying desperately to think of some way to dispatch the wounded goat when I spied a large pumpkin sized rock sitting on the ledge.

I scrambled over to it, and kneeling before it, started scratching at it until I'd worked it free. Still kneeling, I rolled the heavy rock up onto my lap and somehow got it propped up onto my belt buckle.

It took some wiggling but I got stood up, slowly walked over to the ledge and peered over to see Mr. Goat still standing there below me.

I hoisted the boulder up to my chest and with one hard push sent it over the ledge. To my utter amazement the rock hit the poor goat right at the base of the neck and pretty much flipped him off his lofty perch.

I stood with mouth open as I watched the poor goat bounce and crash his way down the mountain side towards the now frantic Jamie.

Jamie was hooting and hollering while he watched the goat tumble and when he finally came to rest on the shale slope far below me he never moved.

I worked my way back down through the rocks to the goat and Jamie not sure to feel proud or ashamed for what I had done.

I had done what was needed to dispatch a wounded animal but felt very poorly for the way he had to die.

In any event, I can honestly say, "I killed a mountain goat with a rock."

Written by; Ron Arnett
"A Man from the Wilderness."



                                                                            
                                                     BIG DAN

It was late November when the cold air hit that year and when it came, it did so with serious intent, the temperature dropping well below -30 at night and never reaching a day time high of over -25.

The river banks were already skirted with a layer of ice but when the Arctic air hit the ice thickened in a hurry and soon it reached out from either bank almost a third of the way across the 100 meter span of water.

The situation was this, there were 45 head of horses in the camp and they all had to somehow get across the river in order to be hauled safely to winter pasture far from the grips of a bitter mountain winter.

With the Arctic front intent on staying the situation soon became dangerous, the more the river was given a chance to freeze, the more precarious the attempt to cross with the horses would be for both horse and rider. We had to move them and we had to get mobile and move them fast.

The outfit manager was fairly new to the industry and was a little less than confident around horses so the whole idea of trying to forge the icy waters of the river in such poor conditions was unnerving for the poor fellow to say the least.

There were four men in camp and it was decided that we would all pitch in and halter the horses, tying them along the old log fence and to some of the trees standing in the large pen. Once the horses were all caught up and haltered one of us would then lead 5 horses tied head to tail across the river at a time, handing them off to a man waiting on the far bank.

The outfit had constructed a suspended walking bridge over the river for the men to use and there were several corrals built as a holding area on the far side so we were fairly well set up for the adventure. The only thing we needed was a gent willing to climb aboard a horse and try to cross the river.

I promptly volunteered for the task after a short talk with the other men, we each had our strong points on the crew, mine was being able to stay in the middle of a horse while doing just about anything.

The first horse I caught up was a big solid chestnut gelding who stood an honest 16 hands and was without a doubt the most solid looking mount in the entire herd. The manager of the place rightly told me the horse was an outlaw, that he had piled one of the men hired as summer help and had been turned out and not used again in 6 months.

The animal had a good eye about him, although he stood straight and faced a man without a touch of cowardice he was not a mean horse, I could just sense it from him. I led him to the far corner of the pen and tied him under an ancient pine tree. He stood calmly while I brushed him down and, although never taking his eyes off me, accepted my saddle without grudge. I tacked him snuggly but not tight and left him to stand under saddle while the other horses were caught and haltered.

The adventure of catching up the herd was just that, an adventure and with a little laughter and some serious cussing we had the last one tied off just in time for a mid-morning coffee and biscuit. The whole while we were catching up the other horses I’d kept an eye on the big chestnut standing under the pine and never once did he so much as twitch his tail in displeasure, he’d turn himself to watch the hoo-ha but he never showed a hint of mean.

The camp cook had fresh coffee and hot oatmeal cookies ready when we came into the lodge, that was right about the time the other men started in on how the ole’ chestnut horse was goanna tie me in a knot out there in the yard. The laughter and the teasing were all in good fun but in the back of my mind I already knew that if that big sonofagun came unglued on me I’d have to ride like a mountain lion to stay aboard.

With a gallon of hot coffee gulped down and half a dozen cookies each we departed from the warmth of the kitchen and out into the icy air and eye watering sunlight. The sky was bright blue and there were flakes of frost floating lightly in the air as they fell from the tree limbs above. The frigid air and heavy frost made everything look as if it were part of a painted scene, even the steam rising from the spring seemed to freeze in the air, an amazing day.

A horse can sense a man’s inner most feelings from a considerable distance and I knew the big fella would feel my insides being a little tight. He stayed as calm as a rock when I approached and untied him, never twitching a muscle. I led him out from underneath the trees and walked up into the main yard with him, he acted like he was quiet comfortable with the whole idea and when we stopped in the front yard of the lodge he dropped his head to nibble at some grass that was sticking up out of the snow.

I reached around and gently lifted my stirrup up to the horn and while talking easy to the him I gently gave the cinch an easy tug, he turned his head and looked at me when I gave the girth the tug and when I gave it the second one he dropped his head and rolled his eyes back, exploding into a whirlwind of kicking feet and flying stirrups. There was no way I could hold onto him and I didn’t even try, I just stood in amazement and watch the horse go bucking out of the yard with jumps that looked to be clearing the roof of the lodge. I know the look on my face was that of total amazement but when he came around the back side of the lodge still humped up and bucking while on a path straight towards me, well I can only imagine the look in my eyes then.

The goofy horse had bucked himself completely around the lodge and when he made full circle he came to a stop, snow covered and hair straight back. I eased up to him and once again he stood like a rock and watched me come, never so much as a twitch. Gathering the now frozen lead shank in my hand I led him around in a circle only to have him follow every step without fault.

I had no more time to waste with the consideration of the gelding’s mindset so I warmed the bit of one of my snaffle bit head stalls between my hands and slid it up into his mouth. This was not a good idea as far as he was concerned and with head raised and tongue flailing he proceeded to very agitated. I quickly took down the head stall from around his ears and slid the bit out of his mouth, as soon as I did so he stopped fussing around.

The messing around was starting to get me a little agitated as well so I made a loop of the lead shank around his thick neck and tied it off to the chin of his rope halter. I stepped him out a few steps, pulled him tight towards me and hoisted myself up into the saddle while he was turning sharp, once there in the middle of him I gave him his head and he stopped and stood still.

With both feet in the stirrups and as deep a seat as I could get I urged the big horse to step out with a gentle nudge from both legs. He stepped out without hesitation and never blinked as I rode him around the yard. We quickly decided that the real test for the big gelding we now called Dan would be the river so off we headed, me, Big Dan and three fella’s who were placing bets I’m almost sure. Even the cook decided to come down to the bridge and watch the crossing attempt, camera in hand.

There are several things we forgot to consider during our discussions surrounding the river crossing, the first was how to get the horses out onto the bank ice and once out there, how to get them down off the ice into the chest deep water. The second concerning factor was how to get the horses up onto the bank ice on the far side of the river while trying to scramble up out of the freezing water. Both issues were of serious nature and the situation was becoming more dangerous all the time.

With pick and axe the four of use broke loose dirt and gravel from the overhanging river bank and with shovels made a path as far out onto the ice as we dare for fear of falling through into the freezing waters. The dirt and gravel we cast out onto the ice gave considerable footing and we hoped the discoloration of the ice would help give the horses some confidents in their footing.

It getting past noon and in order to get everyone across the river in the safety of daylight we had to get moving. I once again slid up onto Big Dan’s back while turning him into me and once again he gave no contest. We eased down the icy trail towards the river, Dan’s feet slipping and sliding as we went, never knowing when he would loose his footing all together and crash to the frozen ground and ice below.

The last down ward pitch of the trail before it entered the river had become very icy under our boots, something we over looked in our haste, something we soon realized when Big Dan came sliding down around the corner on his haunches and out onto the bank ice with a crash.

When Dan slid out onto the bank ice his hind end dropped out from under him and we went down hard onto his right side. My leg went underneath him but not to the extent of causing me any grief. As fast as he went down he scrambled up onto his feet, his agility was amazing for such a large animal, I could feel his muscles coiled beneath me like steel springs. He was indeed a horse among horses.

It took little urging to get him to walk out onto the gravel trail we had built on the ice, his confidence was amazing, it was if he knew the challenge the same as I and was eager to play his part in the adventure. He walked like a cat out onto the ice, stopping only when it cracked under his feet as we neared the outer edges. Urging him to take another step was enough and when the step was taken we broke through the ice and plunged into the freezing waters.

The water was stirrup deep in an instant and Dan leaned into the current with a strong shoulder as I turned him towards the far bank, never did he question my intent, he only took to the task with incredible strength of heart. 

The freezing water boiled up around us as Dan pushed ahead, each powerful stride drawing us closer to the distant river bank, with each stride the water climbed his chest as the river’s depth grew, ice sheets floating by us as we moved ahead.

The icy water was considerably shallower on the far side and as we drew near the shelf of ice that skirted the bank I wondered to myself as to how we would manage to climb onto its slippery surface. My question was soon answered as Dan suddenly lifted a powerful foreleg and struck the ice with a solid blow, shattering the ice before us, breaking open a trail as if he’d done it many times before. Several times the big brute struck the ice before us, each time breaking free yet another mass of shattered pieces which were swept away by the current, clearing the path as we labored ahead.

When the far shore was finally reached Dan climbed the bank with a powerful lunge and I climbed down to give his legs and belly flesh a quick check, looking  for any serious cuts that may have occurred while he smashed his way through the ice. Free of any serious injury I once again climbed aboard the powerful horse, turning him back down into the icy waters, heading for the awaiting men on the opposite bank.

Once again when the shelf of ice on the distant shore was reached Dan smashed open a path with his powerful forelegs, sending water and icy shards into the air as he struck the ice with tremendous force and when the ice became thick enough to support our weight he scrambled up onto the surface like a cat on a hot tin roof.

Although the big chestnut was up to the challenges of the river crossing the first string of tailed horses we tried to coax out onto the river ice was far more reluctant and soon the string of 5 became a tangled mess of sliding kicking horses. In an attempt to straighten the mess out I dallied the lead shank around my saddle horn and touched big Dan with a spur, sending him ahead with a powerful lunge. We soon had the string behind us stretched out and skidding out onto the ice and once in the water they settled down  right off and concentrated on their footing instead of how hard they could make a fuss.

One string after another we led across the river, each trip taking its toll on Dan and although his heart stayed strong I could feel the icy waters draining the strength from his powerful body. It was the fifth string we had in tow and we were very near to the middle of the river when a large sheet of ice came floating down on the fast moving current and slammed into the side of big Dan sending him sideways down the river with tremendous force. I was almost sure the force of the ice and water would most certainly topple the big horse sending me into the freezing water and in a fleeting effort to free us from the ice I turned him down stream, allowing the ice sheet to roll off his side with the current. The idea worked but the sharp edges of the ice left a nasty gash across his shoulder and once out of the river and free of the string I jumped down from his back to have a closer look at the wound.

When the ice sheet had rolled down his side it tore a gash through the hide of his shoulder and although it looked nasty it was only that, a tear in the hide about 6 inches long with no damage to the muscles below the surface.

The best thing for a cut on a horse is plenty of cold water and the wound in no way put him in any immediate danger so I climbed back aboard the big brute and we headed back to finish the job we’d started.

When we finally reached the river’s edge with the last string in tow the sun had set behind the snowcapped mountains and dusk was upon us, causing the temperature to drop once again to more than 30 below.

I elected to park Dan inside one of the horse trailers for the night out of the wind. With a gallon of grain in front of him and a fresh bale of hay I took my time rubbing him down with handfuls of soft bedding straw all the while talking softly to the big guy, thanking him for is gallant effort and his tremendous heart.

It had been a long hard day for both of us and once Dan was bedded and fed I headed back across the walk bridge towards a hot cup of coffee and my warm and welcome cabin, warmed by the fire the cook had kindled for me a hour or so before. Once out of my frozen chaps, ice cloaked riding coat and gloves I lay back on my bedroll had gave silent thanks for yet another adventure filled day living as a man from the wilderness.

Written by; Ron Arnett

"A man from the wilderness"



Valley of the Wolf

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I had decided to travel once again to Northern British Columbia, returning to the place of my birth, to the origin of many of my childhood memories, wanting to re-kindle the fond memories I carried of the adventures I shared with my younger brother and my father while growing up on the edge of the North Country's vast and unforgiving wilderness. The mountains of the North were far gentler than the rugged Rocky Mountains I had spent the last twenty seven years guiding hunters in and the change added to my silent excitement. Strangely I felt like I had returned home and an inner peace seemed to warm the depths of my soul. The rolling hills were covered with aspen trees in the height of their fall colors and the cascading views that fell before me added to my deep appreciation of once again being fortunate enough to stand in such an incredible place. I chose to make my small camp on the banks of the Pine River and once settled in I began to drive through the country, allowing my mind to take me back over the decades to a time when grouse hunting and snaring rabbits was my life’s passion. I found myself in a remote valley, the home of several small cattle ranches and my memory told me that I had spent time on one of the ranches as a small boy. I arrived at the door of the ranch house, seeking to gain permission to cross fenced land and to my surprise the vaguely familiar face of an elderly woman appeared in the doorway. I told her who I was and she immediately invited me in as she had been a good friend of my parents so many years before and remembered me as the small adventurous boy that I was now trying to come in contact with. After several hours of good fellowship and a couple pieces of thick apple pie I had learned that the Timber Wolves had taken over the country and were playing havoc on the tiny ranching community and their livestock. The winter passed, the small group of ranchers had banded together and hired a so called wolf expert from Poland to come hunt the wolves in hopes of decreasing the predator's population. His efforts had been fruitless and not a single wolf was harvested over the numerous baits he had laid. As I left the small ranch with a promise to return before my journey home, I couldn’t help feeling the woman’s sense of concern for her small herd of cattle and what the long winter months would bring. I returned to my small camp on the Pine River and settled in for a quiet evening around a small fire. Before I headed to bed I decided to return to the hills that surrounded the small ranching community as the fields held great feed for the deer and the chance of finding a good buck was as good as anywhere I had seen in my travels thus far. I started my morning with a pot of boiled coffee and left my camp well before daylight, headed back to the hills behind the ranch I had visited the day before. I drove in the darkness on an old logging road the kind woman had made known, driving slowly until I could see the lights of the ranch houses below me and then parked my truck at the edge of a small clearing in the aspen and spruce forest. The sky was beginning to turn gray with the approach of dawn as I quietly left my vehicle and headed South along the timbers’ edge. Daylight was now upon me and I had walked near a mile from my truck as I traveled the timbered ridge far above the small ranches that lay in the valley below. I stopped in mid stride as the mournful sound of a Timber Wolf’s howl broke the silence of the crisp morning’s air. The animal was not far off and my senses sharpened with the thought of the large predator’s presence. It had snowed the evening before and just like I , the wolf was hunting the dark timbers’ edge looking for something to give chase. I slipped behind a small spruce tree and quietly knelt down, taking my rifle from my shoulder as I did so. Never taking my eyes from the spot on the timbers’ edge where I’d heard the wolf’s howl I slowly chambered a round into my 7mm and waited. Several minutes had passed since the wolf’s howl had broken the early morning silence yet I saw no movement as I scanned the timber with my binoculars. I let my field glasses fall into place against my chest and slowly rested my rifle against the tree which behind I was hidden. Cupping my hands around my mouth I raised my head and returned the wolf’s lonesome cry. I’d barely taken my hands from my mouth when my call was answered by not one but two wolves still hidden in the dark stand of timber. I slowly shifted my body so that I could lay flat on the ground against the bottom of the small tree that concealed me and placed my rifle before me in the snow, making sure to make no sudden movements as I did so. Again the silence was shattered by the howl of one of the wolves as if it was searching to know where the stranger had gone. I waited in the silence, not answering the call, just lying there in the snow scanning the timbers’ edge with my binoculars. Suddenly the gray silloet of a large wolf appeared in the timber not 200 yards from me. The animal had materialized from the shadows and stood motionless staring directly at the tree under which I lay. I made no move for my rifle, lying still, watching, and waiting. It was then the second wolf emerged from the shadows much like its partner had done, seeming to appear from nowhere. Both wolves were of equal size, standing well over 3 ft. at the shoulder and they appeared to be almost identical in color, twins it would seem. The first wolf that appeared took one step forward, lifted his head and howled. I could see the frosted breath rise from it’s mouth as it’s lonesome call echoed through the timber. I drew myself up on my elbows, staying hidden in the lower branches of the small tree and returned the wolf’s searching call. Without hesitation both animals slipped back into the timber and started towards me. I could see the outline of their bodies as they drifted towards me like two ghosts, stopping every so often as if to reassure themselves that their approach was the right thing to do. As I watched them approach I gently raised my rifle and began to follow them in my scope, never taking my eyes off their shifting shapes. When they re-emerged from the safety of the timber they were less than 100 yards from where I lay. Both animals walked completely out of the trees and stood side by each staring in my direction, looking for the invading wolf they had heard. It was then I ended it. My crosshairs rested on the chest of the first wolf and I touched off my first shot with gentle ease. The second animal jumped at the rifle's report and the sudden fall of his companion, standing in confusion only a few yards off, presenting me with a broadside shot. As I approached the fallen wolves I felt no joy or great satisfaction but a sense of solemn respect, for they were the ultimate predator here in the High-country. It was unfortunate that these creatures of the wild had resorted to killing livestock, adding strength to the hate that the Northern Ranches shared for these incredible creatures. Both wolves were adult males and I estimated their weight to be in excess of 140 lb.  Although they were adults they were not as large as these Northern Timber Wolves were reported to grow. I’d heard of large males weighing as much as 175 lb., standing over 40 inches at the shoulder. It was little wonder that these creatures could kill an adult moose weighing over 1800 lb.. Their teeth were razor sharp and were considerably longer than a domestic canines’ which gave me a deeper respect for their ability to kill. Although there are dozens of urban legends with regards to the wolf, there has not been one recorded attack by a wolf on a human being in the wild. They are a hunter of incredible skill, not deserving of their horrible reputation that man’s ignorance has tarnished them with. I returned to my truck and finding an old road bed, drove much closer to the where the wolves lay. After considerable effort I was able to drag the pair to the truck and load them into the box whole. I headed down the mountain to the small ranch I had visited the day before to show elderly woman my mornings work. As the old woman peered into the truck box she displayed a huge smile and shouted “Oh what a victory! “. My efforts were rewarded with a huge breakfast which she prepared on her wood cook stove and while I ate the terrific meal she called each of her neighbours’ with the news. I had now become the talk of the valley. One of the nearby ranchers reported that he had spotted several wolves in his pasture that morning and asked if I would come and try my luck again that evening. I agreed to do so and spent the rest of the morning splitting and stacking wood for the old woman as she was alone and had no one to help her prepare for the long winter that was fast approaching. My evening was spent hunting the ranch where the wolves had been spotted that morning and although I saw none of the illusive creatures, I found several sets of tracks in the early morning’s snow. The one set of tracks was so large that it seemed not possible to be real as the stride was longer than 36 inches and the foot print was so big it made me think of a creature from the movies. I agreed to return to the ranch the following morning in search of the wolves and headed back to my tiny camp in the darkness. I arrived at the ranch house well before daylight and could not refuse the warm invitation to another farm style breakfast and some good company. Over our hot meal the rancher told me that he had seen the wolves the previous morning while he was feeding his cows so I volunteered to help him with his morning’s chores with hopes of that we would see the wolves again. As we neared the north end of the ranch I spotted one lone black wolf loping along the fence line heading for a timbered hillside. We stopped the old farm truck as we watched the animal disappear into the trees and it was decided that I would continue on foot enabling me to make a silent approach. I could hear the old farm truck clamber off into the distance as I slowly walked down the fence line on the opposite side of the field from where we had seen the black wolf disappear. There were several large brush piles in the center of the field that the rancher had made with his dozer in an attempted to clear more pasture so I chose to use one of them as a cover. I climbed into the brush pile and situated myself so that I could see the timber line where the wolf had disappeared and found a protruding log that would serve as a shooting rest. When I had settled into my position I cupped my hands around my mouth and sent a long lonesome howl into the morning air. To my amazement the entire hillside erupted into a carouse of howls sending a shiver up my spine. There had to be better than a dozen wolves scattered across the hillside before me! The thought actually went through my mind that I didn’t have enough bullets with me. I sat and listened to the wolves as they continued to howl, it was a sound that I’ll never forget. When I finally returned with another Howl the carouse abruptly stopped and I knew they were coming. Within seconds the timberline was scattered with the shifting shapes of wolves in a variety of colors and sizes. I immediately sighted on a huge black that seemed to dwarf the two males I had killed the day before and watched as the entire pack trotted towards me with little concern. The big black had taken the lead and was approaching me at a quick and steady pace with the others not far behind. It was an amazing sight to see. I kept my scope on the black and when he finally stopped the advance he was just a little over 100 yards out. He had no sooner stopped when I planted him with a perfect shot square in the chest and then swung my sights to another black that was off to his left. Some of the wolves were now running back to the safety of the timber while others were still standing unsure of what had just happened. The second black I had sighted on turned half ways broadside and was looking back at its fallen comrade when I fired my second fatal shot, killing the second wolf with a slightly misplaced shot to the face. It dropped where it had stood without a kick. The rancher had heard my shots and returned in the old farm truck displaying his pleasure with my mornings hunt by nearly knocking me off my feet with a slap on the back. “Good work son!” he said with a broad grin, “How the Hell did you kill two of them? I explained my method of howling the wolves as we drove back to his ranch house and he returned my words with a queer grin and said, “You’re half wild yer' self aint ya.” We hung the largest black on the ranches old style butcher scale and I was amazed to see that it weighed an incredible 168 lbs and measured 7 ft 4 inches long. Truly an amazing animal. I returned home two days later with no deer in the truck but the hides of four trophy wolves certainly made the trip well worthwhile. Without a doubt I will one day again return to the” Valley Of The Wolf" Written By; Ron Arnett "A Man From The Wilderness Catch and Release "It was the first elk hunt of the fall and my client/hunter was from the mid-Western United States, a fella named Mike. He was a tall man of slight build with thick wire framed glasses that looked like they weighed a couple of pounds. As I worked at packing our pack horses with his personal gear and the provisions we would need for the ten day trip deep into the back country Mike sat on a near by stump and told me about himself while whittling on a stick. He had grown up hunting whitetails and turkeys, as most outdoors man from the Midwest had, but had always dreamed of a horseback hunt for Rocky Mountain Elk in the Canadian Wilderness. Now that he was retired and seeing himself a little long in the tooth he and his wife had decided it was time for him to make his dream come true. Now being a Big Game Guide has always come with a certain amount of pressure, the want to see every client/hunter go home with a filled tag and leaving camp happy and on their own steam, but listening to Mike seemed to add a little more pressure than usual. With the last diamond hitch tight in place and Mike securely mounted on his horse I took the lead shank of the head pack horse in hand and climbed aboard my big paint horse, swinging him around behind the lodge and onto the horse trail. The first few miles ride from base camp consisted of a steady but gradual climb up out of the river bottom which presented us with an amazing view of the cascading mountains to the South. Every time I cast a backwards glance to check on the pack horses and their loads I gave Mike and his horse a look as well, I couldn't help but smile to myself at the color in his cheeks and the excitement on his face. He looked as if he'd shed twenty years. The trip into the spike camp usually took about five hours of steady riding but not wanting to sore him up to much I stopped the string close to half way in, tied my horses up and proceeded to help Mike down out of the saddle. A stretch and a walk around seemed to limber him up a good bit and I found myself smiling at his excitement again. One of the things I always appreciated about guiding was having the opportunity to experience the thrill of such a trip through my clients eyes and Mike certainly appeared to be having the time of his life. When I had him loaded up again I swung up on my mount and headed up the trail and into the depths of the valley that climbed before us. For the eight years prior to Mike's hunt I had taken a good bull every season during the first hunt, thus I had named the valley "Bull Elk Creek" and I hoped this would be the ninth successful hunt. I had built a small log lean-to a good ways up into the valley some years back, equipping the small camp with a corral set up and a food cache. I had been into the camp several weeks prior, packing in supplies and horse feed while clearing the trail of any stuff that had fallen over the winter. With that in mind I was sure the camp would be in perfect condition when we arrived. As we finally reached the big stand of ancient spruce trees in which I had built the camp I gave yet another backwards glance at Mike and could see that the long ride was taking it's toll on him, it was a good thing we'd reached the end of our journey. I rounded the last bend in the trail only to see a small black bear go scampering out of the camp, a mountain marauder up to no good without doubt. As I rode into camp I was astounded at the mess the bugger had made. He had somehow climbed up into my food cache even though I had taken the time to nail several lengths of stove pipe around the base of the cache tree, something that usually kept bears from being able to climb the tree. In any event the little prick had pulled apart the cache and had spread it's contents all about the camp site, destroying everything except the coffee, a package of tinfoil and a container of yellow mustard. I unpacked the horses, stowed the saddles and tack and turned them into the corral to roll and relax while Mike and I cleaned up after our mountain hoodlum. We could do nothing but laugh at the mess he'd left and after twenty minutes we'd gathered up the trash strewn throughout the brush and had things looking almost normal again. Luckily I had packed in enough fresh meat, vegetables and bread which gave us enough staples for a few days stay. With any luck we'd have a bull down before our food ran out or, even better, we'd be eating a fat little black bear if chance would have another encounter. I was sure I would recognize him from the peanut butter on his face. We had arrived in camp in the mid afternoon and by the time we'd cleaned up, made camp ready and tended to our hungry horses early evening was upon us, time for a nice quiet walk up to my favourite look out a half mile beyond our camp. With my bugle slung across my back and Mike following closely behind we headed up the trail and into the growing shadows of the coming twilight. Mike struggled with the short walk, labouring with his breathing to the point I asked him if he was a smoker. I hadn't seen him light a cigarette but by the sound of his breathing he must have been a heavy smoker at one time. Through fogged glasses and a sweat covered face he told me that he had smoked for forty years and had finally quit three months before as a means of preparing for his hunt. Although his intentions were good, a three month leave from his two packs a day habit certainly didn't make much difference to his wind, especially at 6,500 ft. His poor condition quickly raised some serious concerns about our back country adventure as I had absolutely no desire to see him have a heart attack in the middle of nowhere. We finally reached my look out spot and I leaned Mike's rifle near where he had dropped his weary butt at the base of a tree. The shadows had fallen on the huge slide area across the valley from us and I elected to try a short bugle to see if I could raise any interest from the valley's resident bulls. No one had blown a bugle in the valley since the year before and I hoped there was a bull ready to take my challenge to heart. As the echoing ring of my bugle faded into the valley depths I heard the hoarse grunts of a bull expressing his displeasure high in the dark timber that grew to the North of the slide area we were watching. I looked at Mike to see if he'd heard the bull and by the distant look on his clouded face he had not. I touched him on the shoulder and whispered that a bull had made his presence known across the draw and I pointed out the dark stand of timber where the sound of the bull's grunts had come from. The look of disbelief on Mike's face quickly disappeared when from across the valley, almost exactly where my finger was pointing, erupted a long and piercing bugle that was followed by a series of hoarse grunts. I smiled at the look on Mike's face and watched with satisfaction as his eyes lit up like light bulbs at the experience of hearing his first bull elk bugle. I lifted my bugle to my lips and cast a short series of soft cow calls towards the bull which were answered even before I took the bugle away from my lips. The bull was obviously in full rut and by the way he had answered the cow calls he hadn't gathered his harem yet. I continued to cast a few cow calls here and there and much to my, and Mike's pleasure, the bull continued to bugle his face off while he began his descent from his mountain hide away. The bull never made himself completely visible while he walked down the edge of the slide, never leaving the cover of the timber yet every once in a while I would catch a glimpse of his yellow body drifting through the trees like an off colour ghost. When it became apparent that the bull intended to continue his descent down the mountain I whispered to Mike that we would be better off moving ourselves, heading down to the valley bottom where we would have a better chance at a good shot at the bull if he presented himself. I snatched up Mike's rifle and quickly, or as quickly as I could manage without killing him, headed down the mountain towards the creek below. In less that five hundred yards we came to a meadow's edge, a spot that gave us a great view of the slide bottom across the creek from us. I explained to Mike that the bull would most likely keep himself concealed in the timber but with a little enticement with my cow calls he might show himself long enough to judge his rack and if he were a legal six point, hopefully we could get a poke at him. While Mike and I had made our own descent the bull had become far more vocal, trying to locate our position as he walked down through the timber. I did not answered his call until I had Mike set up across a pile of fallen logs and was hunkered down beside him. Once I was sure Mike understood the game plan, absolutely no shooting until I gave the go ahead and I was confident in his rifle rest, I cast out a short series of soft cow calls. The bull went pretty much nuts at the sound of my cow calls, let an incredible bugle go and came waltzing out onto the open slide like there was no tomorrow. I think I was equally as surprised as Mike at the bull's sudden entrance but my bugle wasn't shaking like his rifle barrel. Mike was so excited at the sight of the bull that his rifle barrel resembled the end of a jack hammer. I quickly touched him on the shoulder and whispered into his ear, urging him to settle down and concentrate on putting his cross hairs on the bulls ribs. The bull certainly didn't help my hurried attempts to calm poor Mike down as he walked deliberately over to an eight foot pine sapling and proceeded to rape the poor tree with his massive 6x7 rack. If anything, the sight of the bull's aggressive behaviour made Mike's heart race even faster. I continued to whisper in Mike's ear and finally, after what seemed like hours, his gun barrel steadied enough I felt he could make the 150 yard shot. I told Mike I was going to blast the bull with a bugle, a move I was pretty sure would snap the bull out of his tree raping frenzy and make him stand erect and when he did to drill him in the ribs. When I let go with my challenging bugle the bull immediately lifted his head, his rack now entangled with pine limbs and bugled at the top of his lungs. I hissed in Mike's ear "SHOOT" but nothing happened, I looked over at him and he'd taken his rifle away from his cheek and was watching the bull with all the amazement and excitement I had ever seen on a man's face. "Mike, shoot him man", I again hissed in his ear and he looked at me with watering eyes and said, "I can't." Now I've found myself confused about a thing or two in my life time but never quite the way I was right about then. "What the hell do you mean you can't?" I asked. "Is there something wrong with your rifle?" It was then, over the sound of another one of the bull's raspy bugles that Mike said, "I don't want to kill him, I just want to watch him." Well, I sat back on my heals in amazement, gave him a second look and smiled. "OK, man, it's your call." It wasn't long and the bull disappeared into the timber, sounding off with a half-hearted bugle as he went and it was then Mike looked over at me with tears streaming down his cheeks and said, "All my life I waited for that moment, I dreamt of what a bull would sound like and I tried hundreds of times to imagine what he would look like in my cross hairs but when it came down to it I just couldn't kill him, I want to keep dreaming about him, my bull, running around out here wild and free." When the fall season came to an end that year and Christmas time rolled around I mailed off everyone on my client list a Christmas card and a short hello. About mid-January I received a letter in the mail from Mike's wife. She told me that Mike had returned home happier than she'd seen him in years, she went on to say that she listened to the story of our adventure so many times she could tell it like she were there with us. She thanked me for helping to make Mike's dream of a Rocky Mountain Elk hunt come true and in closing told me that Mike had died suddenly during the holidays of a massive heart attack. I've sat around a several hundred camp fires since the fall I hunted with Mike, told many a story while I stared into the flames, but every time I did I thought of him and the bull he let walk away. Written by; Ron Arnett "A Man From The Wilderness"