When Buck stopped without warning, I almost ran into him. "Something's up there," he whispered. "Listen."
I listened, but heard nothing. Buck pointed towards the hillside to our right. "Up there," he said. "I heard some movement in the brush."
And then we both began to see them first one, then another, then others. Moving very slowly and carefully so that they wouldn't see us, Buck and I eased a few yards up the trail to where we would be concealed by a thick stand of firs. There we could remove our packs and plan our strategy.
For a horse lover, I thought, Buck wasn't so dumb. At least he was right about the elk. A large herd grazed on the brush and grass covered avalanche slope ahead of us. They were in the valley near the Idaho border exactly where Buck had said they would be.
Everything was perfect. It was the day before Montana's early fall elk hunting season opened and we had already found our prey and we had seen no other hunters in the area. Just as important, as far as I was concerned, no horses were around to mar the beauty of the hunt.
(That someone whose favorite books in childhood had included Black Beauty, Smoky the Cowhorse and Misty of Chincoteague should have had such antipathy towards horses and horse lovers even before the denouement of this story occurred will be only partially explained herein. A full accounting would require another story or two.)
During the summer (mid-sixties) before the hunt we played intense games of battleship (Buck: G 4, G 5, B 1, 2 and 3. Me: Son of a bitch, got another piece of my cruiser). We played on yellow, square lined, Forest Service notebooks. We played when we were not needed to inspect concrete pourings on a bridge being constructed across the Clark Fork. And after several consecutive games, when we began to lose our intensity, we argued the relative merits of using horses on big game hunting trips.
Now I should note that as members of an engineering crew for the Lolo National Forest, Buck and I were willing to work hard clearing brush, or laying out future forest roads with level and transit, or balancing cut and fill in the days before computers or calculators were widely available, and so on but sometimes we had no official duties other than to check occasionally on the performance of the contractor who was building the road or bridge we had helped to lay out.
The construction of the Clark Fork bridge was a major project so for weeks we occupied our spare work time playing battleship, swatting mosquitoes, listening for big browns slurping insects off the surface of the deep water flowing beneath the undercut banks near the bridge, arguing about the use of horses during hunting trips, or dozing in the sun. Not very exciting. The big event of a day of bridge construction inspection seldom involved more than the sinking of an entire aircraft carrier on a single turn, or the smashing of a sub with a lucky shot early in the game, or getting to leave work ten minutes early because there was no more inspecting to do.
Buck and I were the only college degreed people in the vicinity of the bridge (this was back in the days when the supervisors of forest engineering crews did not need the signature of a university president to prove their competence). So even though we had liberal arts diplomas, the fact that we were the newest members of the crew meant that we were at the bottom of the local status hierarchy. We were the"graduate grunts." And we were the ones who read "intellectual" stuff like Time and an issue or two of Evergreen Review, and claimed to have read Ulysses, The Brothers Karamazov, Moby Dick, and maybe even On the Road, all the way through. We were the ones with the degreed wives and the someday to be degreed children. And we were the ones who played intellectual games like tennis and chess and battleship.
So we were intellectuals. And like most members of that class in Montana, we took hunting and fishing very seriously (only a few righteous, pre granola Montana intellectuals, mostly single, shunned rods and guns in favor of pitons and climbing ropes, wild flower field guides and cameras). We figured that neither our wives nor our children would ever get much from Ulysses were their only nourishment to come from the concoctions made from cheap cake mixes, chicken livers on sale, rice, potatoes, glacier lily seed pods, and more cheap cake mixes which were about all we could afford. We had to hunt.
Like many other Montana intellectuals (pre granola or not) we took to the woods and mountains in our second hand Volkswagens. Real, six legged Volkswagens the kind you waved at when you were in one and another one passed you on the road; the kind from the back of which you could easily remove the seat and into which you could then stuff a whole bull elk (minus antlers) or bear or two small deer. . . dead, of course.
So the days went by and Buck and I continued to argue endlessly and repetitiously about hunting with horses. Something like this:
Buck: You can go further in, go faster, and stay longer with horses.
Me: Horses tie you down. Like with any possessions, you become slaves to them. You gotta make sure they're well fed and cared for. And worse, they make you trail dependent.
Buck: You don't have to go everywhere on horses. Just use them to set up a base camp. Hunt from there on foot.
Me: They scare the game away.
Buck: Bullshit. They don't scare the game. Other animals are used to horses and horses cover the sight and sound and smell of the people with them.
Me: Horseshit yourself. Horses crap all over the place and you have to watch where you step. Besides, horses tear up the trails, They make a washboarded, muddy mess. Horrible for hikers.
Buck: Big deal.
Me: Horses help destroy the wilderness environment. Their owners bitch and moan about their horses stubbing their tender little tootsies on rocks in the trails. You've seen what happens in places like the Bob Marshall Wilderness [we had both worked there]. Rock drills and dynamite to clear the damn rocks off
the trails.
Buck: Irrelevant point. Has nothing to do with hunting.
Me: Farming, you mean. Anyway, horses compete with elk and other game for forage.
Buck: Hardly significant. Now you're getting desperate.
Me: J 1, J 2 and B 3.
Buck: Got my submarine.
Me: Got any gum?
Buck: Come on, you're in Montana. People been hunting from horseback here for generations.
Me: Yeah, and they crap in outhouses for generations too.
Or this:
Buck: You need horses to pack out large game once you've it.
Me: If you're that feeble. Anyway, a little hard work and suffering are good for you.
Buck: That's self destructive and masochistic, not to mention idiotic. And Catholic.
Me: The worst thing about horses is the people on them. They're about as haughty towards people on foot in the wilderness as old family easterners are towards beggars at a tea party. They're just a bunch of elitist snobs in heels and big hats.
Buck: Come on. You're really getting irrational now.
Me: Horses, like jeeps, trail bikes and those stupid new snow machines, just let the riff raff and the unfit into the back country where all they do is get drunk and litter the landscape with beer cans and empty whiskey bottles and shoot trees.
Buck: Listen to yourself. Haughty, elitist riff raff? You keep lowering the standards of irrationality. Anyhow, riff raff can walk too.
Me: Keep going.
Buck: C 4, D 5 and E 6.
Summer was ending. Lolo Peak had been dusted with snow several times and the early elk season was about to begin and Buck had said he knew of a place near the Idaho border where there might be an elk herd.
We had decided to try our luck there on opening day. No horses this time, Buck had graciously agreed. He didn't have his own horses anyway, so maybe it wasn't all that gracious.
So we had packed sleeping bags but no tent and food that didn't need cooking, and, the day before the season opened, we drove west of Missoula and began walking up a trail to where Wayne thought the elk would be. It was after five or six miles of walking that Buck had first heard the elk.
Cows, their calves from the previous spring, and several bulls foraged on the open hillside above us. As I said, everything was perfect: we had found the elk where Wayne had said they would be; the elk were unaware of our presence; and we had seen no sign of horses or other hunters anywhere in the valley.
Well, not quite perfect. The season hadn't opened yet we still had about twelve hours to go and we couldn't legally shoot anything, not even a tree.
"What do you think?" I asked Buck."It's almost dark and nobody else is around. We would only be a bit early."
"Nah" he replied philosophically.
"Yeah." I agreed. "They're not going to see us here, and they won't smell us since the breezes blow downslope on calm nights like this."
"Anyway, it's getting too dark already, and if we wound something we might not be able to track it down." Buck said.
And so moral virtue, certainty of eventual success, and the arrival of darkness ensured that any early start we got would be legal.
We found what seemed to be a smooth level spot in the forest below the avalanche slope where the elk fed. We unpacked our sleeping bags and crawled into them. But we were afraid to sleep, fearing that we might not wake up early enough, so we lay huddled in our frosted bags on the cold, lumpy ground, checking our watches with shielded flashlights every few minutes, anxiously
awaiting the dawn when we would each take our pick of the herd that was innocently feeding on the brush and grass covered slope above us. All night long we could hear the elk moving about above us. Sometimes the rustling was punctuated by the snorting or bugling of a bull.
The night was long. Only our anticipation kept it from being miserable. Finally, the stars began to disappear. I looked at my watch. "In half an hour we'll be legal," I whispered.
Carefully, we slipped out of our sleeping bags. We didn't eat anything, but quietly fed cartridges into our rifles. "We'll go back to that clearing and check things out." Buck suggested.
We crept to the edge of the clearing, not saying anything. In the dim, pre dawn light we searched the hillside. We knew the elk were still there because we had been hearing them all evening. But we needed confirmation with our eyes. Gradually, as it grew lighter, we began to discern the shapes of individual animals. They all seemed to be several hundred yards away a little too far for sure shots. Each of us would pick out an animal and stalk it to within good range.
"I'll take that bull." Buck whispered, and pointed out an enormous animal whose antlers reached back as far as its rump when it raised its head. I picked out a smaller bull which, I figured, would have tastier meat.
"What do you think, exactly fifteen minutes then we're both free to fire?" Buck asked.
"Yeah." I replied. "That should be enough time to get into position. . . No. Wait a minute. We better make sure there's nothing we haven't spotted between us and the main body of the herd. Don't want to spook them all off."
We strained our ears and eyes for a few more minutes. There seemed to be no elk between us and the rest of the herd."Seemed" had to be good enough; we couldn't take a chance on waiting much longer.
"OK, exactly fifteen minutes." I said. Buck nodded. We checked our watches and then parted.
Such planning. Such coordination. Such patience. Such luck . . . skill . . . perfection. We had done everything right and the rewards were imminent.
I moved away from Buck very slowly, avoiding dry twigs, carefully pushing branches aside, taking advantage of bushes and rocks and fallen logs for cover. The short, rapid breaths of my anticipation condensed into little puffs of cloud that led the way.
I reached the edge of a small clearing. The main trail up the valley ran through it. My elk was visible though partially hidden by low bushes and he was only about a hundred yards away.
Close enough. My breaths shortened. My chest felt lighter. I glanced at my watch. Five more minutes. I released the safety on my 30 06. Several more elk were in sight further up the hill. I had to be careful that they wouldn't spot me as I edged into my final shooting position. Three minutes to go.
Suddenly I heard the hooves of heavy animals pounding up the valley towards me. Damn. Part of the herd must have slipped down into the valley during the night and now they were heading my way.
We had not planned for this; what should I do? I could shoot one of the approaching animals if it spotted me and that might scare Buck's elk before he had positioned himself properly. Or I could withhold my fire and take the chance that on seeing me the animals, in trying to escape, would spook the entire herd anyway, and we might get nothing.
Indecision paralyzed me.
My dilemma resolved itself. Two horses emerged, galloping out of the still dark forest into the brighter edge of the clearing where I was crouched. The horses, snorting the cold morning air like fire breathing dragons, stopped beside me. Two men in big hats leaped off the horses, pointed their big rifles up the hillside in the general direction of the elk herd, and began to fire rapidly.
The elk started to rush up the hill, but before they got very far an answering barrage of fire roared out from the ridge above them, and then more shots rang out from scattered spots in the area.
Our remote valley had become a free fire zone.
Altering its course in response to the newly revealed location of yet more gunmen, the stampeding herd charged towards the only area from which no shots were coming. By the time the last echos of gunfire faded in the cold, dawn air and I had gotten up and brushed off the dirt I had hit, the entire
herd untouched had completed its migration to Idaho.
"Damn," said one of the hunters beside me.
"Damn," said the other.
I said nothing. I was afraid to say anything.
I gripped my rifle tightly, trying to hold the muzzle down, fighting the impulse to raise the rifle, aim and fire. I trembled violently not from the cold, not from the anticipation of shooting an elk, but from anger and, perhaps, from fear of what I might do.
Once again moral virtue won out and I did not shoot even one mounted hunter . . . not even a horse.
I turned away from the big hats who stood with me in the clearing they had just littered with uselessly spent cartridge cases and headed towards Buck.
"Bastards," muttered Buck when I encountered him near where we had spent the night.
"Sons of bitches," I agreed. I had never felt more miserable about scoring a point in an argument. But I said nothing about the vindication of my riff raff theory. Later there would be plenty of time for that.
We hunted half heartedly for several more hours in a side valley away from where the other hunters had gone. Then we headed back down the trail. Our nearly empty packs seemed heavy much heavier than if they had each contained an elk quarter.
During the drive home we probably stopped for a coke or several beers, selfishly using a few dimes left over from our gas money. After reaching Missoula I dropped Wayne off at his place, or he at mine (I don't remember whose beetle we had driven). Then, empty handed, I walked into our apartment.
That evening we ate chicken livers and rice and cake. We had long since finished off the big brown that slurped bugs along the river bank near the bridge.
PS Now, twenty-one years later, we let other people do most of our killing for us; and we don't drive real Volkswagens anymore; and our kids played battleship on plastic, store bought game boards; and there is a new edition of Ulysses with 7000 corrections; and a new threat to the sanctity of the wilderness has emerged: too many people. But some things have not changed. The bridge still arrogantly crosses the (now [new millennium] somewhat cleaned up) Clark Fork, contemptuously bearing the weight of heavy trucks that carry off the dwindling remains of a dark and ancient--some fools call it "decadent"--Montana forest.
PPS And horses are still causing trouble. A young woman living in the countryside nearby recently (late 1970s) became concerned about the loneliness of her horse. It needed its own pet for companionship, she felt. She stole our daughter's cat.
PPPS Visited with Buck in Helena in 1997 where he was a high state government official. He had had more elk-hunting success since I had last seen him in the mid 1960s. And thanks to a phone call from an informant neighbor of the cat thief, we did get Mishi back. And hey! Some of my best friends are horse lovers!