MISHAPS

A group of orange clad hunters gather at the range just prior to embarking on their dream adventure into the Rocky Mountains. Noticeably, three carried range finders and binoculars while the others rifle cases. One of the guides steps forward and instructs the group to carefully step up to the bench, one at a time, and commence shooting. All are extremely meticulous in keeping their bolts open and muzzles safely pointed with one exception. A slightly disheveled gentlemen, removes his rifle from its cloth case. It is noticeably covered with dust, dirt, and a bit of rust. He immediately loads his clip and chambers a round drawing the attention of all. Then proceeds to shoulder the rifle. The sling is over sized and the rifle immediately drops into a horizontal position. The man proceeds toward the bench and turns abruptly to speak to the others as both guides and hunters alike instinctively dive for cover.

As a professional hunting guide for nearly three decades, I have to admit that 98% of my former clients were true upstanding sportsmen and women, but that remaining 2% still give me the night sweats.  For outfitters and guides, booking hunters is kind of like pulling up to used car lot. The product is offered “AS IS” and “All Sales are Final.”  In fact, I have never spoken to a hunter who was not the world’s greatest shot nor the most physically capable individual in the country.

I am more than certain the same is true from the hunter’s perspective. I have heard nightmare story, after nightmare story regarding unfortunate happenings in the mountains from more than a handful of hunters over the years. A select few of these hunters tend to use the anonymity and reach of the internet and social media to exact revenge upon the guide or outfitter which did not live up to their expectations. Despite the wish that there was a national “DO NOT HUNT” list or ratings website which could caution outfitters regarding prospective trouble makers, guides must act with digression. After all, their livelihoods and the wellbeing of their families depend on their reputations, but I digress.

Yes, that 2% burns an ever-lasting memory in the minds of all guides. The premature rush of adrenaline which pumps through one’s veins at the mere sight of one’s quarry has led to a multitude of precarious situations. I have had bullets fly inches from my head. I have been abandoned mid-pursuit. Forced to tackle and physically remove firearms from trigger happy zealots, and used my knife more times than I would like to admit to ease an animals suffering.

Many years ago, I found myself guiding a gentleman who was new to the sport and not exactly a hardened outdoorsman. His equipment was immaculate. All recently purchased and only top of the line brands. On our first morning in the field, we happened upon a small herd of bachelor bucks. The mule deer ranged from 250-300 yards. Admittedly the gentleman was nervous as he had never taken a shot at any animal over 50 yards, but I assured him that his rifle was designed to hit the mark at that range. We selected the largest buck and he squeezed off a single shot to harvest his first mule deer. A new found confidence soared within both of us as we looked forward to the remainder of the hunt. We were now exclusively hunting for elk.

The weather was perfect. Heavy snows combined with below zero temperatures to drive the elk down into the wintering areas. They had to stay on the move and eat to maintain their body temperatures. It did not take us long to find ourselves in a soon to be tagged-out scenario. A nice bull fed out of the timber, roughly 350 yards out. The hunter settled into his shooting sticks and the bull stumbled hard as the shot connected in the shoulder, slightly forward. I instructed him to shoot again. Adrenaline got the better of him this time. A clean miss. “Shoot again.”, I proclaimed. To my surprise he responded with, “I am out of bullets.” “Well reload and shoot again.”  “No, you don’t understand. I don’t have any bullets.” All we could do was watch as the bull stumbled about and finally bedded down right as shooting light came to a close.

Following a sleepless night, we set out to find that bull then next morning with more than amble bullets. A fresh snow had covered our tracks from the night before, but as I looked around, I began to spot blood and beds in the snow. There was one small area of cover and I instructed my hunter to load up and be prepared as the bull had either expired in that brush or was going to stand up and make a break for it. At less than 40 yards, the bull chose the latter. I looked over to see my hunter, mouth open staring in disbelief as the animal walked away. We waited for about 30 minutes and then began the process of tracking the wounded bull.

At first, the bull took the path of least resistance. Then something or someone spooked him and he headed straight up a rock cliff. It was at that moment that my hunter quit on himself. Not happy, I pointed him to the Jeep, grabbed his rifle and continued my pursuit. Huge flakes began to fall as the tracks filled with snow. Soon I was tracking mere divots and had to kick the tracks to be certain they still contained blood.

Unable to see what laid beneath the snow, I stepped in a hole and felt my ankle pop. I was wet, cold, exhausted, and now reeling in pain. The snow intensified and I began feeling sorry for myself. I was at least 5 miles from the nearest road and had wasted the entire day chasing a wounded bull who just would not slow down. It was time to call it, but I decided to take one last peak into a small furrow in the terrain and then limp my way back to the barn. I put the cross hairs square on that bull’s neck and put an immediate end to the chase. No Bullets?!?

Being over confident and not bringing enough ammunition into the field is more common than one would imagine, but archery equipment can account for mishaps and mayhem as well. One of my archers arrived in camp with a homemade traditional bow and arrows with broadheads fashioned from sharpened spoons. I was very impressed with how well he shot and eager to see how that bow performed in the mountains.

Spring bear season was in full swing and our plan was to use a calf elk distress call to lure a bear to within 20 yards. Ironically finding the bears that week did not pose much of a challenge. The problem was bringing them into range for that home made bow and sharpened spoons.

I make it a general rule, not to call for bears in the timber unless I am familiar and confident in my hunter’s abilities to react and shoot accordingly in close quarters; however, sometimes my own curiosity gets the better of me.  I was leading my archer along a fence line in the dark timber headed toward a hidden meadow. He was following roughly ten yards behind me. We were moving slow and methodically. Fifteen paces, then stop, look and listen. Fifteen paces, then … I looked down at the trail and right there at my feet was one of the freshest, largest, heaping piles of bear scat I had ever run into. Without so much as a second thought, I reached into my pocket and popped a diaphragm into my mouth. Before I knew it, I was screaming and calf calling.

No sooner had I started then he arrived. Popping his jaws, a true monster of a Montana black bear came in from my right. The boar stopped at just over five yards away and the pair of us were locked in the most intense staring competition which I have ever had the privilege to participate in. Knowing my hunter had an angle for a solid shot, I eagerly awaited the flight of the sharpened spoons, but instead of hearing the sound of fletchings cut through the air I heard, “That’s a bear! That’s a big bear!” With each syllable uttered, the giant boar began to swing his head back and forth irritated and nervous at the sound of this man’s voice. Then I heard, “Can I borrow your shot gun?” That was the last straw for my adversary as he broke eye contact, spun and thankfully ran off into the timber. Calm during the moment, a burst of adrenaline hit me after the bear ran off. My legs shook uncontrollably to the point of giving out. I fell to the ground unable to collect myself, as I watched my heroic traditional shotgun hunter frugally attempt to catch up to the fleeing bear.

In retrospect, my most prolific memories as a professional guide revolve around life threatening situations which were self-inflicted by that 2%. Like a fine wine, these tales of adventure get better with each passing year. For it is not the hunt which goes exactly to plan nor perfect shot placement on a Boone & Crockett qualifier that sticks with us for the long haul. No, the stories we share are the ones which remind us that we are alive. So to that 2%, THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart for creating my storybook life.  

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