AUTHOR’S NOTE: The people’s names in this story have been changed – to prevent my being murdered. The story is real, as are the events, circumstances, and general locales. And in no way is this intended to belittle or slander those great cowboys and people of the West. At worst, the majority of those I met during this trip, and later on when my family and I moved there, were wonderful. So much so that I’m trying to arrange my final days to be in Oregon or Idaho, if the Good Lord will allow me that?
As you’ll see in a piece titled, “The Flatlanders”, there are some remarkably warm people out there; people who avoid, at all costs, putting on the proverbial dog. The facades there are only in the way of refurbished old storefronts. None of the people alter their true manner or that which they feel in their hearts. They’re really real.
Life in the West is as easy as Sunday morning, but the people do work hard, party hard, love hard, and best of all, care about others “hard”. That first year in Baker, Oregon, I had few financial resources left after the big move. At Christmas time, the people of our neighborhood and surrounding areas made certain we didn’t go without, especially our children. There were gifts of several turkeys; new, even expensive clothing; other gifts of a wide variety, and even checks in our mailbox from unknown folks. Not that all of this was necessary, but just the thought brought my heart to the point where my love for the West remains deep to this day.
I do believe the “cowboys” (or most of them) are somewhat lacking in their ability to shoot a rifle well. This, then, may be one of the precious few things I didn’t like about people out West. My reasons should be obvious, if you’re a hunter. If you’re not, it won’t matter.
Enjoy, then, this rather humorous story and if you’re from the east, bask in the warmth of it; if you’re from the west, don’t take a single word personally, but do pride yourself on being one hell of a fine breed of American. While you’re at it, clean out a place in the hay barn for this old writer/hunter. I’ll be coming home one day soon and I’ll need a place to kick off my boots for a few days. I know you’ll welcome me as an old friend – even if I came as a stranger. Western folks are “funny” thataway…
“One Shot, Thirty-Aught”
My pickup inched close to the deteriorating curbside in front of what could have been the Wild West’s sleaziest saloon. But then, who was I to condemn, as I was there to do a little gumshoe work and attempt to extract some inside information from the natives about hunting hotspots.
Switching on the dome light, I used the rearview mirror to scramble the neatness of my hair into an arrangement that might appear a little more pedestrian. Salvaging a desiccated cigar butt from the ashtray, I stuffed it into a corner of my mouth for the effect I felt I might need once inside, then headed for the rinky-dink front door.
“Idle-Hour” was, tastelessly painted in a hideous, puke-green enamel, apparently by someone with a terrible nervous condition, or maybe they were just drunk at the time. Still, the name seemed grossly symbolic of the kind of talk usually taking place in a joint such as this one, but, I needed information. And I felt I could turn the chatter from idle to vital ….
I couldn’t help but feel a little cut-rate and somewhat guilty, like a lady of the night perhaps, as I approached the front door, but I consoled myself by thinking it was just a rundown Mom-and-Pop establishment showing years of wild cowboys’ wear-and-tear weekends in town. Still, I hesitated as I reached for the old, dented brass doorknob, momentarily wishing I’d had a rubber glove for either hand. I’ve always been one of those uncompromising disciples of the old school who takes lightly those claims filtering out of the medical world that tell “exactly” how certain diseases are transmitted-communicable or otherwise. Always but always, distributing the validity of same….
With that in mind, I stuffed a hand into a jacket pocket and gathered the pocket lining to form into a makeshift glove. The silkish fabric totally lacked sufficient gripping properties and my hand merely slid-no, spun-around the slippery knob without making noticeable progress in regard to getting the latch to retract and allow my entrance. Praise here, if you will, those exercises for the hand and forearm muscles where one squeezes a little rubber ball. I’d done them most of my life, and this, I thought, was the first time they’d ever really come into play during a time of need.
Once inside, I found the smoke was murkier than swamp fog, and the balls on the pool table cracked uncommonly loud, but the talk was at just the right volume, common of the westerner.
Right away, every snuff-tucker in the joint gave me a look, indicating, as certain as death and taxes, I wasn’t one of their herd. I was accustomed to that stare, however, since I really don’t look like I belong anywhere in particular. I chose my seat at the bar and settled in, ordering a Mountain Dew from whom I felt had to be Mom herself. “Howdy,” I said, trying clumsily to sound native, “I’ll just have me a cold Dew, please.”
I fired up the old stogie butt, choked several times, then adjusted my right ear to full cock in the direction of the pool table. I don’t know whether it was because I coughed with every draw of the cigar, or because they knew I was a stranger, but each time they got the opportunity to steal a glance toward me, they did. And each time our eyes met, I’d nod and roll the stogie from one side of my mouth to the other. In my own awkward way telling them, “I’m okay, pardner, you’re okay….” I found myself strangely wishing, I’d rolled around in a mound of horse manure prior to going into this place. Knowing, though, these guys knew I wasn’t a mucker or a westerner.
One, my mustache was well-trimmed and didn’t hang down to the breast pocket of my shirt. And two, my jeans fit well into the category “blue”, and didn’t cling to my lower body so tightly they appeared to be another skin layer. Three, they couldn’t see between my 30-inch legs since they weren’t hideously bowed; and four, there wasn’t the obvious and faded, perfectly-round mark on the hip pocket of my jeans, worn there by constantly carrying a snuff tin. Five, my belt buckle weighed-in well under the 5-lb norm common to these parts; six, the buttons on my shirt were actual buttons and not those fake, pearly snaps trimmed in fake silver. And, shameful seven, my sleeves revealed no real noticeable bicep bulge or Popeye-like forearm bulk. Eight, my face was relatively smooth when compared to the wrinkled, sun-drenched skin of the high-plainsman.
Nine, my shoes, which perhaps should have been boots, didn’t carry an obscene mixture of bull-patty and alfalfa shoots, not to mention that they weren’t viciously pointed like so many western boots, and so, looked alien and civilized, lacking the menacing appearance of footwear that comes to a deadly point at the toes. How often I’ve wondered, just how do four inches of toes fit comfortably into, say, 3/8ths an inch of boot toe? Which brings me to number ten, which was by no means the last reason on my list, but is a good place to cut off with the hope I’ve painted a pretty clear picture. Ten being I had all my teeth, and even though this appeared to be a place with patrons who could easily change that, I fully intended to allow my mouth the joy of retaining all of them. This meant, my being but five feet, eight inches tall, I’d have to maintain an easiness about me and a very low profile.
It wasn’t long until bits and pieces of conversation about mule deer and elk began drifting into my cocked ear. Celestial and musical was dialogue with words such as, “…nice-sized bull…” and “…good-sized herd up above Eagle Creek, near the old burn” and the phrase, “Jake seen a six-pointer up on Red Ridge near Holcomb Creek.” All strange territory to me, and, more and more, I felt I shouldn’t have entered these barroom gates without a peavey strapped to my hip or a fistful of snoose tucked between cheek and gum.
I’d already made a half-dozen mental notes of elk-ridden locales by the time I heard some of my favorite numbers coming from the area near the dartboard. I laughed under my breath as I thought how silly it seemed for men of this size to be playing with plastic-tipped darts? “Aren’t they to be trusted with the real thing?” I thought to myself. But, as I seriously pondered that for a moment, I felt strangely grateful.
There’s this appealing, melodious tone to a conversation involving rifle calibers. The several men playing with the harmless darts spoke repeatedly of the .300 Weatherby, the 7mm Remington magnum and even got into talk about the thundering, .338 Winchester magnum. The talk had me smiling to myself until it dwindled down to the idle chatter and back to elk and mulies.
It almost hurt physically, not hearing a word or two about the venerable ’06 my favorite big game caliber. Not even the incredible .280 -Remington, once called the 7mm-Express which is my second favorite round and perhaps the most efficient modern-day caliber. “The 7mm’s are the most efficient bullets known to modern ballistic experts, what are these guys, brain dead?” I thought. Why this group no doubt spent time with the Army’s artillery units, canoneers perhaps?
The Goliath of the motley crew moved in next to me, sucked something through the gaps between his teeth, then slowly turned to look me square in the peepers. “Whaddya think, Pardner?” He asked.
“About what?” I responded, squinting my eyes to let him know I wasn’t intimidated.
” ’bout what caliber might be best for elk, that’s what! What’s your problem, you deef?”
I could see potential trouble in his bloodshot eyes, no doubt the result of the 3.2-percent beer he’d been drinking all evening? I thought to myself, “In my younger days I would have handed him his beer glass, spun him around and planted my boot right next to his wallet.” This guy seemed abrasive, but at 51 years old and streetwise, I said, “I certainly believe I could kill one with a well-placed .222 bullet, but I’ve sense enough not to try it. Personally, I like the caliber I use for most everything in the way of big game.”
He thought a moment, belched, wiped his lips with his sleeve, then asked, “You’re from back east, ain’t ya?”
“Yep, mountains of northern Pennsylvania, why?”
“Why? Ya prob’ly shoot one of those cute little thutty-thutties, too, right?” He looked around toward his plastic, dart-flinging cronies for laughs of approval of what he thought to be funny stuff and they obliged.
“I own one and I’ve killed several deer with it, but no longer use it.”
“What is it you use, then?”
“A thirty-aught six for deer, and it’s also what I plan to use for elk.”
“Not flat-shootin’ enough for these here parts, Mister. Best latch onto a three-hunerd Winny or a seven mag. Th’old Springfield just a hope for the best round after about the three-hunerd yard marker.”
I said, “That, of course, is your personal opinion only. I recall clearly doing very well with my Army aught-six at the five hundred meter range. Of course, I doubt I’d be so lacking in my compassion for deer and elk that I’d even attempt a shot that far, but I’d have little reservation about taking a shot at three or four hundred yards.”
“Mister,” he said in a louder volume, “you hit an elk at four hunerd with an aught-six and he’ll be laughin’ at ya’ all the way across the Eagle Caps!”
“I think you’re wrong, friend,” I said, turning my attention to the Mountain Dew.
Mellowing some, he asked, “Ever hunt elk, have ya’?”
“Not yet, this will be my first elk hunt out here.”
“Know where you’ll be headin’, do ya’?”
“Not specifically, no. Perhaps I’ll head to Dean’s Creek up on the Black Mountain or over Sumpter way?”
Tell ya what,” he said, “me an’ the boys here could use another man come Saturday if’n you’d like t’hunt with someone who know the country? I like ya, Mister and you’re welcome t’hunt with our gang.”
I scrutinized his crew and realized any one of them could easily pack out an elk on his broad back, then asked, “Do you gentlemen plan on getting all sauced up the night before the opener?”
He laughed, belched, sucked something through his teeth again and said, “Naw, this here’ll be our last fling til the elk’s hangin’.”
I looked up and into his eyes, which were flanked by deep “crows-feet” wrinkles, extended my hand in friendship and agreement and said, “Then gratefully, I accept your kind offer.”
Folks around here call me Bunyon cuzza m’size, what’s your name?”
“Joe,” I said. “Joe Parry.”
“Well Joe, tell ya what. You lay off’n that there Dew til Saturday mornin’ and by golly you can go along with me’n the boys here.” Then he laughed very loudly and added, “We’ll be needin’ another gun for the short shots!” I could feel my ears heating from embarrassment as the five of them laughed in unison. Even Mom, the saloon owner joined in, making it worse…
“Bunyon,” I said, “I’d be happy with any shot at a bull as long as it’s a clean one, regardless of range.”
Well, ya should get that, Pardner. Y’all be at the Truck Corral restaurant on Cambell Street at five in the mornin’, come Saturday, all right?”
“I know the place Bunyon, I saw it as I got off I eighty-four when I came into town. I’ll be there bright and early and thanks for the invite.”
“Well, you’re welcome. Bein’ a Pennsylvania boy n’all, you’ll be needin’ all the help we can give ya. Them elk ain’t a’tall like your pesky whitetails. They’s big, tough, smart, nervous and mighty long winded. Why spook ‘em qnd they’ll run mebbe two mowl before they stop t’look back. But don’t ya worry none, ya just be at the Corral Truck stop an’ me an’ the boys here’ll show ya how ta get ‘er done.”
Back at the motel room, I sat scraping off little specks of snuff that had dried and stuck to my eyeglasses. Bunyon’s way of talking was a bit messy and I laughed to myself as I remembered blinking everytime he used a word with the letter “P” in it; like Pardner and Pennsylvania. And when he hit the word “pesky,” about half of that which he had tucked smashed onto my lenses almost blinding me. But old Bunyon, he seemed decent enough as I got to understand him more, and I fell asleep thinking of elk and their being noisy, tough and smarter than pesky whitetails. Taking a last, sleepy-eyed glance at my old ’06 leaning in the corner, I smiled and was gone…
Friday morning found me walking the streets of Baker in a lonely, bored mood. An old timer pulling a wagonload of aluminum cans advised me as to where to go when I asked him where there might be a rifle range. I felt I should check out the ’06, AKA, the peashooter.
“Ya just head out t’Virtue Flats, take the two-tracker jus at t’bottom of the hill on the Richland road, where it leads up t’bottom of the hill on the Richland road, where it leads up t’th Interpetive Center on the ol’ Oregon Trail. It’s th’ last turnoff out the straight-away b’for ya head uphill. Out ‘thair ya’l see lottsa brass and targets layin’ aroun’. That’ll be it.”
I found the place okay and pinned a target on a box at a stretched 100-yards. Across the pickup hood, the first round centered perfectly and just about 2 ½ inches high. “Perfect,” I said aloud. Then I picked up a few empty snuff tins and set them up at about fifty yards-and proceeded to drill the center of each one. “No work needed here,” I said, and still bored I jumped into the pickup and headed toward town, dodging jackrabbits all along the two-tracker.”
I was at the Truck Corral early and the Bunyon crew pulled in right on time. As Bunyon walked up to the pickup, I rolled down the window and immediately removed my eyeglasses. Just in time as it turned out, for Bunyon blurted out, “Mornin’ there Partner!” A great emphasis on the “P.”
“Y’all ready to kill ya’self an elk there Pennsylvania?”
Bunyon rode with me and we followed the rest of the crew who were riding in Slim’s rig. After we left the paved road, we’d traveled about 30-minutes when Bunyon said, “Be at th’ Five Corners here pretty quick.”
We were just at the threshold of the vast Eagle Caps and I began feeling a bit apprehensive. “Awful danged quiet aint’cha Joe? Nervous are ya?”
“Not really Bunyon. Just thinking about how small a man feels out here compared to home.”
“She’s some kinda big country, alright. Why she’ll eat a man up and mebbe never spit ‘im out! But don’t ya be worryin’ none, me an’ the boys’ll keep an eye on ya.” He laughed and said, “Why we just might even get ya a close shot for that peashooter of yourn!” Enter considerable laughter here…Bunyon’s!
We pulled off to the side of the road behind Slim’s lead. Bunyon announced, and I ducked just in the nick of time “This is it Pennsylvania!” Slim and Bunyon laid out the hunt plans. I was to work a sidehill along what they referred to as Red Ridge, and walk it until I reached the road below where we’d parked “the rigs.”
About a third of the way into the hunt, I heard the unmistakable sound of branches being broken. “No wind,” I thought as I looked into the treetops. I kept walking. Slowly, I pussyfooted my way along through the misty rain. The day was genuinely miserable, the red clay, sloppy and difficult to navigate. I was above the clouds, or what looked similar to clouds, but could have been just been puffy layers of thick fog? The air was still which was good for never did wind aid the hunter’s cause-especially, mine. Hearing another loud “crack!” in the distance, I again looked to the treetops for signs of wind. None! Then “crack!” again. I immediately remembered Bunyon’s final words to me: Elk’r noisy turds…” That’s when it hit me.
“Elk!” I thought aloud. I then scoured the adjacent sidehill across the canyon, then the ridgetop above. That’s when they appeared as giants, ghosting from the thicket of pines. There appeared to be a dozen or more in this herd, but I didn’t know. In seconds, I put all my hunting prowess into play, slid down the side hill a little and got onto a flat rock to sit for my shot should there be one. I settled my elbows between my knees, military style, and cranked the variable scope up to what I later learned was the 6x position. Taking another look, this time through the scope, I could see the lead cow staring back at me.
Through the scope, we seemed to be looking eyeballs to eyeballs. “She sees me!” I thought. Quickly I determined the range to be near four-hundred yards, give or take? Just then a bull, heavy racked, antlers jerking with every bite hee took of whatever it was he was grazing, stepped into the clearing. I settled the horizontal crosshair to show perhaps two-inches of daylight between his withers and the wire, then touched the trigger.
He dipped in the front and simultaneously wheeled around to his right and disappeared so quickly there was simply no time for a follow-up shot. “Son of a gun!” I said aloud, not knowing for certain whether I’d hit him. Everything however, felt and looked good as far as the bull taking a hit. I thought at the time, I was just so accustomed to deer dropping dead in their tracks and this elk didn’t do that?
Moments later, “Hey there, Pennsylvania, who was shootin’? ” It, of course, was Bunyon.
I had my story told before he got to me. “Think ya hit ‘im, do ya?”
Not wanting to sound too eastern, I said, “Yep, I’d say so. Let’s go over there for a looksee, huh?”
“Only shot the one time, did ya?” Bunyon queried.
“Yep. All I had time for. Besides, I’ve never had to shoot twice with this aught-six. But that big bull? I’m not real sure…”
“C’mon Pardner,” Bunyon said, “let’s head on over there t’see if ya hit ‘im at least.”
It took nearly twenty-five minutes for us to navigate the hillside down, then the draw and the other, steep side hill. It was tough going and of course, Bunyon got there first. He yelled, “By juniper, ya hit ‘im alright, looky here.” Bunyon pointed to a tuft of cut hair and a spot of blood about the size of a quarter which was the only visible evidence of a hit. I looked over Bunyon’s shoulder and beyond about 30 yards and spotted my bull about three elk strides away. Hey was piled up near some mahogany and appeared, stone dead.
“There he lays, Bunyon!” I pointed, Bunyon turned to look.
“Well I’ll be dogged!” He said, “Why that’s a good four hunerd crossed that draw. Ya done good, Pennsylvania!” I was unable to avoid the wet snoose spray that time; too tired…
The bull took the 165-grain bullet through both lungs and it never exited. All the shock spent killing him instantly. I stroked the thick, straw-colored coat of the massive bull, awestruck with its size. I gave thanks in my heart and at the moment felt the oldest remorseful feeling known to man, his glazed eye staring back at me created a moment of respectful silence and I wondered again as I had countless times: “Will I ever feel any better about an animal dying?” I wouldn’t. I knew it…
The other members of the Bunyon crew were nearly up the side hill when Bunyon called out, “Old flatlander Pennsylvanian here got ‘im a bull from clean crossed that there canyon with his peashooter!”
I patted Bunyon’s shoulder and curtly remarked, “Like I told ya, Bunyon, one shot, thirty aught!”
The crew in chorus, laughed, and Bunyon squeezed my shoulder saying, “Lucky is all, just plumb lucky!” My glasses catching no spray when he said “plumb” with considerable lip action on the “P.”
We stood there admiring the elk as Bunyon removed the ivory teeth from its mouth. Feeling pretty good by then, I thought I’d have some fun with him and the crew. “You know, of course, Bunyon, that the shot had little to do with luck? I know that old aught six better than I know my wife. Tell ya what, I’ll prove how well she shoots and just how well I know ‘er, how about that?”
He looked up at me with questioning eyes and said, “How?”
Just Watch,” I said, pulling a snuff tin from my jacket pocket. I allowed just its sides be seen, then unshouldered my Ruger. Holding the snuff can, I said, “You see this here snuff can, Bunyon? Well, I’m gonna toss it into the air and put a hole through its middle with old one shot here.”
He looked over at his crew and said with widened eyes, “Ta hell ya are!”
“You just watch, cowboy.” I said.
“Oh I’ma watchin’, Pennsylvania, I’ma watchin’. You hit that there snooze can and me an’ the’ boys here’ll drag out this here bull for ya! Won’t we boys?” They all nodded agreeably…
Slim, the quiet one of the bunch added, “You hit that tin and we’ll drag your bull all the way to Pennsylvania, Joe!”
I reached down and gathered some small stones to place in the can for throwing weight, then sent it sailing high and toward the down slope of the hill. The ’06 barked while still just above my hip. Bunyon ran to get the can just a second after it had hit the ground then returned wearing the look of a little boy who’d just seen a ghost. “Be damned if’n it ain’t got a hole plumb through the middle, boys!” He held it out for everyone to see, rubbing his summer-sausage sized thumb over the hole, almost affectionately…
“Like I told ya, Bunyon, one shot thirty aught!”
I saw no need to tell them the snuff tin was one I’d shot a hole through on Virtue Flats Friday morning. I felt ignorance is bliss and I wanted them to remain happy, for indeed they were a good bunch of boys. There was little need to tell them the real story and I felt it would provide them with a story-telling material in future bull sessions at the Idle Hour. Too, I felt it would give reason to respect the ’06 and Pennsylvanians; all easterners?
The long trip home was peaceful. I was happy with my first bull elk but felt a sense of loss as I strangely missed peering through snuff-speckled eyeglasses. Missing it more than just a little…
I laughed until my eyes teared as I thought about the bet old Bunyon had made regarding packing my bull off that mountain. But, tough as it was, they did it in good humor and short order. A good lot they were…
Bunyon and I exchanged addresses so we might keep in touch and again, hunt together. About a week or so after I’d been home, I received a small package in the mail. It was from old Bunyon.
Inside was a note and a snuff tin with a ’06 hole punched through its center. The note read: “…this here snooze tin fell outta yer pocket when ya bent t’put the rocks in the one ya had in yer hand that day on the mountain. I figured t’let you have yer fun with m’boys but when ya gits back aroun’ these parts, I’ll be expectin’ ya to buy me a Mountain Dew…” Of course, this isn’t the manner in which the letter was written but rather, how I interpret it. And sure, I’ll buy him a case of Dew, but I’m going to be doing some teasing once I return.
You see, he signed his letter, “Your Cowboy Buddy, Bunion.” I can barely wait to tell him how “corny” his letter was…