A HUNTING STORY
MY INTERRUPTED PERFECT SHOT BECOMES FOND MEMORY
A
round September 2002, I went up near
Vinegar Hill with my good friend and
hunting partner, the late Dave Kline.
I say “hunting partner,” but to be perfectly
clear, Dave was more than that.
I hunted, but Dave wore several hats. He
was the camp cook, the outfitter, mule skinner, camp bartender
and a good friend, to name a few.
Dave’s family has a cabin near Vinegar Hill, and for several
years he had invited me to hunt from the cabin during archery
season.
Dave didn’t hunt during that season, but he would use the
time to putter around the cabin, working on small projects,
fixing the horse pen and I suppose taking the occasional nap.
He always had some pack
animals around on the outside
chance I’d eventually kill
something with my longbow and
an arrow.
Many a time I came dragging
only my feet back to camp, and
Dave would meet me with a
Black Velvet and spring water
cocktail.
I’d tell him about my missed
opportunities, and he would listen
attentively with a truly disgusted
look on his face when I got to the
part about a bull being only yards
from me and I didn’t even get a
shot.
Then, like a good hunting partner, Dave would launch into
some story that I’d already heard about 100 times about how
he had shot a magnificent bull on a dead run from 300 yards in
a blinding snowstorm.
Somewhere in the middle of his story, I’d fake a leg cramp
and go refill my drink because apparently the bartender was
now off duty and had put on his storyteller hat.
On this particular weekend, Dave, his beagle Bridget, a
couple of pack animals and I all headed to the cabin for a
weekend of hunting.
The first morning I left the cabin around 4:30 a.m. or so. I
had everything ready the night before, so I did a good job of
sneaking out undetected by Dave or the animals. I had about a
4-mile hike to get where I wanted to hunt and an early start
was essential to my plans.
A few hours after the sun came up, I ran into a “some-time”
hunting buddy named Gerry, and we decided to hunt the rest of
the day together.
Gerry and I only run into each other during archery season,
so about midday we sat down and “BS’d” for a while.
Once we got walking again, we had only gone a short
distance when I saw a spruce tree about 12 yards ahead of me
that just didn’t look right.
Upon further inspection, I realized there was an elk foot
near the trunk of the tree. I stopped in my tracks, and Gerry
nearly ran into me. But like any seasoned hunter, he didn’t ask
any stupid questions — he just waited.
The more I looked, the more the elk foot slowly turned into
an entire cow elk. She was grazing and slowly moving uphill.
Gerry and I had been walking around side-hill, so this cow
was broadside at 12 yards with only a spruce tree between us.
Now it’s worth noting at this point of the story that I am not
a particularly successful hunter. I have eaten more “tag soup”
than I like to admit.
The fact is, I only have two good hunting stories that truly
end in my success; I’ve just learned over the years how to tell
those two stories about six
different ways each. It’s not my
fault if the guys I’m telling stories
to can’t tell the subtle differences.
I don’t figure I’m lying. I just
think they are bad listeners (just
ask their wives).
Anyway, somehow I drew an
arrow and got it placed on my rest
without being detected by the
cow. She just needs to take two
steps now... I lift my bow... Only
one step now... I draw my bow...
She hesitates... I hit my anchor
point... She waits... My arms start
to shake at holding the 60 pound
longbow at full draw. Suddenly
the cow’s head jerks up. She looks up the hill (still not seeing
Gerry and I, just 12 yards away). Her ears move forward then
back, then in an instant the cow and about six other unseen
cows wheel and escape down the hill sounding like, well, a
herd of spooked elk.
About the time I’m ready to ask Gerry what the hell he did
to spook that cow, I hear this snuffling, snorting noise. I’m
thinking, “Fine! I’ll just kill the @#$%@’n badger that just
cost me an elk!”
Then I see her… Dave’s beagle Bridget with her nose to
the ground, completely oblivious to what had just happened.
That dog had tracked Gerry and me over 5 miles and finally
caught up to us at the most inopportune time.
Against my better judgment, I did not shoot the dog.
I grabbed a rope from my pack and made a noose, er, I
mean a short leash, and headed back to the cabin.
Somewhere along the way, Gerry peeled off towards his
camp (possibly anticipating the hostile address I was soon to
give the dog’s owner).
When I got to within about 100 yards of the cabin, Dave
looked up from his putterings and yelled, “Hey, you found my
dog.”
We all know that
hunting stories can be
about the bull or buck of
a lifetime, a life-or-death
situation, or hopefully like
mine they turn into
a fond memory.
MyEagleNews.com
Story by Mike Springer
For the Blue Mountain Eagle
As I got closer, I could hear him saying that his dog Bridget
had run off some time that morning, and he hadn’t seen her
since.
He said he had looked for a while, but figured she would
find her way back.
I clenched my jaw and recounted the story of how I had this
elk at 12 yards and only one step away from me sending my
broad-head tipped arrow into her.
Dave listened attentively.
When I got to the part where his dog entered the story, he
visibly jerked and his eyes blinked several times then his
mouth just hung open.
All was quiet for a second or two then Dave said, “Yeah,
that’s my wife’s dog. I didn’t even want to bring it up here.”
After a few Black Velvet and spring waters from the camp
bartender, I was calmed down enough to laugh at the day’s
events.
I guess we all know that hunting stories can end with the
bull or buck of a lifetime. They may be told about a hunting trip
that turned into a life-or-death situation, or hopefully like mine,
they turn into a fond memory about someone I’ll never forget.
May God bless my old hunting partner.
GRANT COUNTY HUNTING JOURNAL 2017 • 5