Grace And Beauty

I was trying to figure how to put all my hunter’s gear on two pack horses, it would be easy if I didn’t take a tent and my personal gear. In frustration, I walked up to my boss and told him I’d need another horse to pack all my hunter’s gear. He shrugged his shoulders and told me to use Maxine, a Quarter Horse pony cross that could carry her share of gear, but was plagued with the mutton withers of the old style Quarter Horses, back before, they started breeding the high Thoroughbred withers that help keep a pack saddle centered while traveling in the mountains.

He told me I had an important customer, who knew a lot of big time hunters in New York City.

Big time talkers were cheap enough in the guide business, so I was just barely paying attention when he told me to go ahead and tack up the gear and that she would be out of the lodge when it was time to leave.

I was thinking about the breast plate and britchin I’d need for Maxine’s pack saddle when that word struck home.

“She… what do you mean she?”

“You are guiding one of our more famous hunters Skook, I am counting on you. She is an experienced hunter; you don’t need to worry about that. Just take her up in the mountains, do your typical guiding job and you will be just fine.

He turned to walk into his log lodge to have drinks and settle the accounts with hunters leaving for home and those about to depart for the mountains.

My boss always told me I was adaptable and that’s why he stuck me with all the more radical hunters. I’ve guided Saudi princes and Mexican millionaires who would have had me shining their boots if they had their way, but my job description only went so far, shining someone’s boots wasn’t part of the deal.

I made camp, took care of the horses, cooked, found game, finished wounded game, packed out the meat and trophies, and took pictures of the hunters with their cameras; those responsibilities kept me busy and I didn’t need any other little jobs along the way. Some of the hunters would pitch in to help and others liked to watch other people work. Most of the guys who had made their own money, as opposed to the ones who were born into a life of wealth, were the ones who liked to help with chores. It was nice to work for guys like that, but it wasn’t really what they were paying for and it was never expected.

Sometimes hunters would lose their nerve when it was time to actually shoot the game and the guide would shoot the animal, some guides provided this service, but I refused. It just didn’t seem right for me to take an animal’s life so that a man could hang the rack on a wall and tell lies about his hunting abilities. If they wounded the animal, it was my responsibility to kill the animal. Sometimes it meant tracking the animal all night. I’d usually take the customer back to base camp and tell him to fix himself some dinner.

I always hoped the wounded animal would lay down to rest and stiffen up before he heard me tracking him. This part of the hunt is neither noble or exciting, it is just a necessary part of the job. If it is a wounded Grizzly you are tracking, it is a very dangerous part of the job.

If the hunter was really spoiled, he’d complain about the prospect of cooking his own food and being alone for a few hours. I usually smiled and told them that the wounded bear or elk was having a much worse time of it and was waiting for me to help them along.

The metaphysical reasoning confused the self-centered hunters who were used to being treated with false respect by “Yes Men”, but patronizing people isn’t part of my personality. I’d tell the hunter to stay in camp and if they wandered off there was almost no way to find them in the bush. That convinced most of them to stay in camp.

Looking for lost hunters was a waste of hunting time. Losing hunters could get a guide fired.

Being a guide was challenging and could be rewarding, but holding someone’s hand (metaphorically speaking) who was afraid or insecure is not a part of the job that people like to talk about.

Not all guides are fearless; most of us have our own personal fears. I have a fear of being swept away in fast water under thin ice. Many of the native guides are afraid of bears; I think it is a fear handed down through generations after losing so many people to the Grizzly. Some guys are afraid of mice or ravens. As a guide, especially the head guide in charge of several guides in camp, it is essential to display confidence and keep your personal fears in check, for fear is contagious and dangerous. For instance, I almost always call out to announce myself when walking into camp after dark. If a bear has been in camp or Grizzlies are in the area, there is always the chance that a scared hunter could mistake you for a bear.

I didn’t like mistakes with firearms; after witnessing three accidental discharges by hunters, I insisted that hunters not have a round in the chamber until game had been sighted. I always had a round in the chamber, but I have never had an accidental discharge. The possibility of losing a human or horse far outweighed the advantage of a hunter being able to react instantly when seeing game.

Now, I was being asked to guide a woman hunter. I’d heard of husbands that took their wives on a hunting trip and met a guy who took his teenage daughter on a black powder bear hunt, but I had never heard of a woman hunting by herself and she was in the boss’s cabin/hunting lodge having a couple of drinks, this trip was not looking good to me.

I laid out my hunter’s gear and noticed that she had all the best gear along with silk long johns. I kept the more feminine articles hidden from the other guides as I weighed out everything and separated it into the four panniers her two packhorses would carry. There was also a bottle of red wine for each night in camp. That made for a lot of extra weight. Most hunters packed in a bottle or two of liquor: I’d never seen wine in camp.

I went into the lodge to tell my boss the horses were packed with 148 pounds a piece and it was time to leave. He was talking to my hunter and she was a looker. She was about 5’10” with blonde hair and striking features. I’d have judged her to be in her late twenties or early thirties, not that I was an expert on women, but she was surely as pretty as the women in the magazines.

My boss told her that I didn’t like my horses standing around with their packs on and that if she was ready it was time to leave.

She drank the last of a cocktail as the boss introduced us; she flashed a big smile and gripped my hand with nearly the strength of a man. Making me feel like a fool, since I am so cautious not to hurt weaker people with my huge right hand.

In the culture of handshakes, she caught me flat footed and I ended up looking like a wimp. I’d be cautious with this one; in the mountains, it was imperative for me to maintain control of the situation. Most hunters are successful people and used to being in control; consequently, it is hard for a country boy with limited experience and education to maintain discipline, without appearing pushy or creating ill feelings. This one was several years older than me, wealthy, poised, beautiful, and seemed highly educated; it was going to be challenging hunt, that was a sure bet.

She followed me out to the staging area where guides were packing horses and a few hunters were watching and asking questions. The activity stopped as I walked through the horses and men with my hunter. They all stared at us as I untied my hunter’s horse and held it while she mounted.

Now there is a secret among horsemen, whether they ride mountain horses or compete in Olympic disciplines; horsemen and horses make a quick assessment of your riding skills when you throw a leg over and settle down into the saddle. If you sit down hard like a sack of potatoes, your skills are relegated to the level of novice rider or gunsel, no matter how much BS you toss around: if you settle into the saddle softly as if you are riding on a carton of eggs, both horses and horsemen will grant you a certain amount of instant respect. You have shown empathy and respect for the animal’s back, an animal that has consented to carry you rather than buck you off and kick your head while you are in the air.

She settled into the saddle with a softness that I had rarely seen; she was obviously an accomplished rider. I had the three packhorses tied head to tail, I held on to my lead horse’s lead rope and mounted my horse saddle horse and we were off to the mountains.

Some of the other guides had these stupid grins on their faces and raised their eyebrows as we rode by. They made me uncomfortable and I am sure they made my hunter uncomfortable.

Her name was Marcella and she rode along next to me until the trail narrowed. She lived in New York City and was some type of editor for a fashion magazine. She had grown up on a ranch in Idaho and hunted with her dad. Horses and hunting, as well as travel to exotic cosmopolitan locations had been a part of her life since she was a girl. She had hunted in Africa on safaris and in other many other places. This was her first hunt without her father and it was very sad for her.

The humble horse and a mountain trail usually causes people to open up and tell you about themselves and what is bothering them the most. I have heard many troubling things that I had never considered in my young life, but the issues I was hearing from Marcella alluded to the fact that even very successful, beautiful women are vulnerable to insecurities that are tied to self-doubt. I don’t pass judgment and rarely offer advice unless asked; instead, I reply with these meaningless skim milk phrases: that’s a tough one, worrying over a problem can make it seem worse, things always get better, or after a hunting trip you often feel refreshed and have new ways to attack problems. She was worried about turning thirty and being unmarried and not having any likely prospects on the horizon.

I thought to myself, those men in New York should have been on their hands and knees walking behind her sniffing like hunting dogs, but didn’t say anything for fear of being too gamey with my language and thoughts for a sophisticated lady. I often say things that are too earthy in polite company, not by using crude language, but by referencing the most natural functions of life, things that are considered “delicate” by genteel people or people who weren’t raised strictly in the company of men.

Marcella was plagued with self doubt, I assume it was why she needed the cocktails at the lodge. If she were a close friend, I would have told her she had looks, brains, money, prestige, and a professional standing in life; how much do you need to have confidence in yourself, but I was just beginning to learn of the intricate personalities of women and it was increasingly more obvious that intelligent beautiful women seem to have more problems than most.

My boss had guaranteed her that I was a professional that would be a decent conversationalist and provide an excellent hunt; so far, I had proven myself to be an excellent listener. Rather than listen to even more intimate details of her life, the kind that cause a young red blooded male to lose his concentration, I decided to redirect the conversation.

I told her that I would try to find game, but sometimes the luck ran against you and you wouldn’t see anything.

She laughed and said that it was the hunt itself that she enjoyed, seeing game or getting off a good shot was just a bonus.

I began to like this lady. She was obviously taught to hunt by a man who loved the outdoors and understood nature’s whims.

The trail began to choke down and I told her to wait until the packhorses passed by and to fall in behind them. We just had three more miles to our camp and we would make camp and plan for the morning’s hunt.

We arrived at camp about an hour before dark. I had to work like a madman to get everything setup and dinner going before dark.

I stripped the horses of their tack and walked them out to the meadow to feed. I tied four of them with a bowline under a front fetlock, the rope was a throw cinch 34 foot long and it was tied to a three or four inch sapling. The fifth horse could wander around loose as long as it wasn’t a camp quitter or a horse that would strike out on its own. As long as the majority of horses are controlled, the others will stick with them. In every pack string there are leaders and followers. Most leaders wont leave without some of their followers and most horses wont leave the herd. It’s those independent types that don’t necessarily follow the rules of herd instinct and they can mess you up. Being herd animals is one of the many genetic features of a horse that is used by the packer in the mountains to control his pack string.

Humans are very susceptible to this same herding instinct. There are the same followers and leaders; the followers are often easily manipulated by unscrupulous leaders; instead, of a cowboy with a domineering instinct and a sense of fair play and horse savvy.

The 34 foot throw cinches that are used to secure a top pack to the top of the panniers or pack boxes that the packhorses carried, were used to tie a horse to a sapling. These horses rarely managed to get in trouble with a rope, they were trained almost to the point of learning to play checkers and could be consulted in dicey situations on the trail.

I tied them to poplar saplings with three to four inch butts. The tree acted like a fishing rod and would flex and move as the horse fed in a thirty foot circle around the sapling. I hate using hobbels, unless it is unavoidable. Unfortunately, some horses can run like deer with traditional hobbels, so when I use hobbels, I usually employ the Scotch hobble and tie one hind fetlock to the rope connecting the fronts. I’ve never seen a horse outwit this combination.

When I came back from picketing the horses, Marcella had already caught a large Dolly Varden and was displaying it with pride. We were having fish for dinner so I made a vegetable fry with Yukon potatoes, Bermuda onions, and Green peppers. I cut the fish in four sections stuffed it with onions and coarse black pepper and rolled it in aluminum foil smeared with butter.

Marcella said she enjoyed the meal, but I ate most of the grub. I think she was overly conscious of her weight and didn’t want to risk eating much. I don’t think she knew what kind of walk I had planned for her in the morning, a hike that was calculated to test the limits of her endurance and wear down some of this exuberance and marathon talking ability of hers.

I situated her bunk next to the small wood stove after clearing the ground of stones, sticks, and roots. I started a fire and told her it would be her responsibility to feed the fire every two hours or wake up to a cold tent in the morning. She asked where I was going to be and I said I’d sleep close to the fire outside to keep the neighbors from talking. I laughed at my joke, but stopped when I noticed she was staring at me with an un-amused look on her face.

I told her to tie the front flaps to the tent if she needed privacy and I would wait outside; otherwise, I would carry in firewood and carry on with the hundred little tasks and chores that were necessary to run a good camp.

She told me she would need a bucket of hot water to bathe with every night at this time. I filled a three gallon bucket and put it on the fire; while wondering how hunting with a woman was going to pan out. I used a small cross cut saw to buck up firewood and then split it with an ax. It made some great firewood and I was sure it would be toasty in the tent for Marcella, if she could keep the stove fed every two hours or so. I figured she must be done with her bath and called out that I was coming in with a load of firewood. She was sitting nude behind the bucket and still washing her self with a wash cloth. I dropped the firewood and turned around without saying a word. I spent the night outside and let her straighten out the firewood. I was mortified to have walked in on her, but I told her to tie the tent flaps closed, when she needed privacy. It was quite a shock for me to walk in on her in the nude; although, for a few fleeting seconds I was treated to a vision of beauty that was so rare for a country boy like me to see.

The next morning, we had my regular breakfast, fried eggs with onions, bacon, beans, biscuits, potatoes, and coffee. I figured I had all the major food groups covered and it would stick to your ribs until late afternoon. We were saddled up and on the trail with two horses about a half hour before sunup.

My intrusion wasn’t mentioned and I treated it like it never happened.

About an hour after daybreak, left the horses to feed in a lush valley with a nice spring for water beneath a high ridge. It was steep, but required no climbing over rocks, just a hard walk up a steep hill for two thousand feet or so. I thought I was fit, but she made the climb and talked the whole way. I was breathing deeply and the last thing I wanted to do was engage in an ongoing conversation, but she was undaunted and wasn’t going to let a little thing like a mountain slow down her talking. Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed her conversation, but there is a time for talking and a time for walking.

About a hundred yards from the top, I turned to her and said we had to be quiet from here on out; because, at the top we were going to glass for elk and we didn’t want to spook them with “our” conversation.

Finally, a little peace and quiet, all I could hear were my own footsteps, my labored breathing, and the pounding of my heart. I pushed for the summit too hard and was now out of breath. My average hunter would be on the verge of a coronary if I pushed them this hard, but when I looked at this hunter she smiled and asked if I was alright. I turned back around without answering, thus observing our code of silence and refusing to be humiliated more than necessary.

At the summit, we approached the edge in crouched position and glassed the other side in the prone position to keep from being seen from below. Her binoculars probably cost over a thousand dollars and mine looked pretty shabby next to those fine German glasses. Life is like that, we work with what we have to work with.

I was breathing through my mouth and exhaling through my nose to get my wind back. I said we might move further to the left and see if there was game.

That’s when she said, “Wait, I see a big bull elk about a mile down valley to the left. I didn’t see anything in my binoculars, so she loaned me hers and after receiving direction sure enough, there was a big royal bull. I felt foolish, it is my job to find the game, not be directed toward the game.

We ducked down from the summit about fifty yards and walked along the edge for a mile or so and once again looked out over the edge. There he was, but there was no cover for us on the other side and he already looked half spooked as he was looking around instead of feeding. It was a downhill shot of at least 800 meters. I’d consider it difficult for an expert hunter. She was adjusting her scope and said she was going to put it on 600 meters. I said it is closer to 800. She told me it was a straight downhill shot and the bullet wouldn’t drop like a horizontal shot. I said it is still 800 meters and a bullet runs out of propulsion and asked if she was going to negate gravity, she better set her scope for 750 meters. Then I thought what in the Hell am I doing, I need to get her closer to make this shot. She asked if I felt any wind. Strangely, there wasn’t enough wind to blow out a candle. I told her we needed to get closer and she said, “Alright, 750 meters, you better be right.” Yep, she was used to being a boss alright.”

A bullet drops and slows at this range and the wind has more of an impact on a slower bullet, a slight mistake can mean a clear miss. Something told me she had done more hunting at these ranges than me.

She carried a 7mm mag, it was the right weapon for this kind of shooting, a light bullet, with a flat trajectory, it might work. She fired and I saw she had her shoulder relaxed as the recoil threw her shoulder back a couple of inches. She appeared to know how to shoot. I quickly looked to the bull hoping to see the impact. There was a small puff of dust off the back and then nothing. She watched through her scope and I watched through her binoculars for the longest time. She ejected the brass and slid another round home and took aim once again.

Suddenly, the elk staggered, took one step and fell over dead. I looked at her and said, “Good shooting,
Hawkeye.” She smiled and seemed pleased to hear the compliment.

Now we had a dilemma, the bull was on one side of the mountain and needed to be field dressed as soon as possible. The horses were feeding down below on the opposite side. If I field dressed the elk and then crossed over the mountain to pick up the horses and rode them back and walked leading the horses it was going to be a long day.

It would have been nice to tell her to get the horses and bring them over the mountain, but there were too many variables, not to mention the possibility of Grizzlies.

It was a beautiful elk near the end of his productive life. I field dressed the elk and caped him, but while I worked the snow started coming down and the temperature dropped steadily.

By the time I was finished, the conditions were so bad, I didn’t consider it safe to walk back up the mountain: we might get stuck on the top if the conditions worsened. The wind was blowing hard in the valley and it was sure to be blowing much harder up on top of the mountain.

I found a slight trench or coulee and lined it with spruce branches. I then placed some limbs over the top and laid the fresh elk hide over the branches with the hair side down. I stacked up more spruce branches at one end and built a fire at the other end.

She gathered firewood with the remaining light and I cut off some fresh elk steaks and put them over the fire using green sticks as spits.

Our new little home was going to be primitive and cramped, but we would be alive in the morning.

The steaks were tasty. I noticed Marcella had a much greater appetite after the day’s hiking and hunting.

I made some toothpicks so we could clean our teeth and we washed down our steaks with cold water out of a near-by creek. She was getting cold and that was understandable the temperature had probably dropped to twenty below. I told her to take off her jacket and crawl into our little home. She looked at me like I was crazy, until I took my jacket off.

I crawled in after her and placed half her jacket over her legs and placed my jacket over her upper body. The shelter was only about two feet high, just wide enough for us to lay next to each other on our sides. With the jackets acting as blankets, our body heat began to warm us.

We were both on our right sides and I was up against her back. In a few minutes she reached behind her and grabbed my left wrist. She placed it on a breast the size of a large apple and pulled me closer to her. My temperature shot up dramatically in a few moments and I am sure she felt warmer also.

She slept soundly through the night while I hugged her to me and gently kneaded that breast now and then through her long johns.

In the wee hours of early morning she woke me and whispered that there was something outside our shelter. I grabbed her rifle by mistake and spun around in the little shelter so that I would face the intruder head first rather than feet first.

The gray light of dawn was shrouded in a white fog, but I could make out the form of a large Grizzly eating at the gut pile. I pulled the bolt back and noticed that I had the wrong rifle.

The bear heard the clicks of the bolt and turned toward the noise and stood up to see what was going on. He was big, he stood at least ten feet high and he started that funny two step shuffle toward me. I tried to fire the rifle, but the safety was on and I didn’t know how to get it off. The bear was less than 30 feet away and coming closer all the time. I’d look at the rifle and then at the bear, for the life of me I couldn’t figure out where the safety was. I froze in fear and the bear kept coming suddenly, my rifle was slammed into my side by Marcella, I looked into her eyes and saw a wild fury and disgust that I had never seen before, her eyes were on fire and I felt like a moron. I grabbed my rifle, knowing that I always kept a round in the chamber ready to fire, I slipped the safety off and raised the rifle and put one in the center of his chest. The old guy bellowed out in shock and pain, turned to his right and dropped to all fours. I put another round behind his left elbow through the heart and lungs and the great beast’s life was over.

Now that it was over, my hands were shaking. I stood looking at the giant bear that I didn’t really want to kill and felt the depression from killing such a fine animal without actually hunting for the animal. I also wondered at my own paralysis from fear when I couldn’t get the safety to work on Marcella’s rifle and how I came to my senses when she shamed me out of my cowardice. Life is funny, I have never frozen up in fear before or since, but on that early morning I was locked up in fear.

Marcella asked me to skin the bear as quickly as possible; she was through with this hunt and she wanted to go home.

She had lost all respect for me and probably no longer felt safe.

The next day we made it into the base camp and on the whole trip back she didn’t say more than a dozen words to me.

I felt terrible, I had never had a customer get mad at me for losing my courage, because it had never happened before. Back at the lodge, I loaded her gear on the boss’s truck and turned around to find her standing behind me.

She hugged me and kissed me on the lips and got in the truck and drove away out of my life.

It was a sad story that went from bad to worse. Some years later, after spending many hours wondering what happened, I read where Marcella took her own life.

Sadly, that was one episode in my life that would remain a conundrum for the rest of my life.

Losing the respect of those around you is the step before complete failure as a leader. Politicians and military officers can never show fear or incompetence in front of those they lead.

The mission is doomed to failure if this level of trust is broken, those who follow will never place their trust in such a person ever again. Our current administration has lost that level of trust among too many of those who place their hope and trust in their leader. There are too many failures and nonsensical policies to forgive.