Where's the horse in all of this?

Where's the horse in all of this?

A gent's coffee would get awful cold before he got half ways finished reading all the different opinions out there on "how to ride a horse", "how to train a horse", "how to saddle one" and the list goes on forever. Heck we should be training the poor critter how to read so's he can learn how to be a horse.

Being a horseman for near 30 years I find it interesting to read up on the views of others, sometimes learning, most times sitting with jaw open in disbelief as I try desperately to absorb the incredible views of the misguided.

I nearly choked on a mouthful of hot coffee this morning when, while trying to learn more about my "Gmail account", I discovered a blog written by a self proclaimed horse trainer titled " I hate your horse".......

This must be one of the biggest contradictions I have ever encountered, a horse trainer publicly stating to hate your horse. Obviously the poor soul is trying to live life as some one they should not.

I was under the impression that a horse trainer was one who lived and breathed horses, someone who couldn't wait to get out of bed in the morning so they could get back to where they left off the evening before. I guess I'm just confused.

The following is the letter I wrote the troubled soul;

How can one that boasts such extraordinary skills with an Equine want those who may actually HAVE an in depth understanding of the animal to realize, within a very short time, that the person sitting behind the key board of their computer boasting, in all actuality has such a limited understanding of true horsemanship they are in fact displaying to the world that it is they that are in every manner the "Poser" they are so eager to knock down.

A true training expert would not spend their time knocking others and their opinions, would not spend their time degrading the foundation of the "American Quarter-horse", telling the world that their understanding of "Graduated" bits and the proper use of training aids such as "Spurs" is so ridiculously limited it is almost painful to see. The true expert would not identify to the world that they are so incredibly limited that they are unable to identify something so simple as a graduating case of "Laminitis", they would be eager to pass on the knowledge they had "EARNED" by standing dust covered and sweat soaked after riding their 8th fresh colt of the day, not so quick to pass on the knowledge they had so easily gained while sitting on their couch watching a training DVD with a mouthful of popcorn and a cup of green tea.

One is easily identified by the manner they portray themselves to the educated world in which they choose to exist. The quiet gent in the dusty Stetson hat, the one riding the 27 year old saddle, wearing the trail worn chaps and drop shank spurs, the quiet man carrying the "Snaffle Bit" head stall that has seen the mouth of over 700 head, the one who has that ability to slide into a pen full of "off the range" horses and within a few short minutes know the mind of each animal that stands before him, it is he who is eager to lend a kind and caring hand to assist those who have not been fortunate enough to spend over 30 years learning the way of the horse, assisting them to grow in understanding and appreciation for the majestic animal they so eagerly want to ride without mishap.

A truly dedicated "Horse Trainer" is eager to LISTEN to every word another has to offer, knowing which to cast aside and that of which to ad to their knowledge base. NO ONE has the ability to gain ALL the knowledge in their short life time and it is through others and the experiences they have endured that knowledge is passed, NOT by sitting behind a computer lashing out at everyone who expresses an opinion.

I sincerely feel a touch of pity towards you when I read your writings, such a bitter life you must lead. Try for once, instead of jumping around talking and working hard to gather attention to yourself, try just standing in the presence of a horse, standing quietly within his space and let his magic heal your bitter soul.


Now I realize I may have been a little brash in my approach but those who know me were quick to realize I have little trouble speaking my mind when I feel the need to do so. It is a sad thing that such people make attempt to school those wishing to learn the art of true horsemanship, an even more disturbing thought is the realization that there are many similar minded people out there telling themselves they are qualified to teach an unsuspecting horse.

Written by;
Ron Arnett

"A Man From The Wilderness"

THE MIGHTY HORSE

In the beginning the Creator made the heavens, the earth and all the creatures within, he stopped on the seventh day taking rest, taking time to cast a backwards glance over his work. With a wrinkled brow he came to the realization that he had made some mistakes in creating mankind and it became obvious that man would require assistance while on his journey through life.

The great Creator gathered unto him all the creatures of the earth and in a kind and gentle voice he explained that man would be in need of assistance as he traveled on his journey through life. Choosing to allow the creatures to decide amongst themselves as to whether or not they wished to help man on his journey the creator stood in silence as the animals pondered his request.

It was the dog that first stepped forth with a wet grin and a wagging tail, looking up into the kind and gentle eyes of his creator the dog said, “It will be I that helps man throughout his journey, I will walk beside him as he travels down life’s road, keeping him company and giving him protection when danger is near.” The Creator smiled, reaching down to softly stroke the dogs head he said, “Man shall consider you his friend and companion from this day forth, I am pleased.”

When the Creator lifted his gaze from the dog’s smiling face his eyes met the steady gaze of the mighty horse. The horse said in a strong and majestic voice, “ You shall walk beside us my tiny friend, walk beside us as I carry man through this world. I shall carry the burdens of man upon my back. I shall pull behind me the weight of his laden carts and plow, leaning into the struggles of man’s life as if they were my own. I shall sacrifice the freedom that I was bestowed in order to help man conquer the difficulties he must face. When man is troubled or unhappy, all he must do is look deeply into my eyes, to feel the warm embrace of my magical spirit and I shall help him feel a strength within.”

The Creator’s eyes flooded with warm tears as he listened to the mighty horse and when the steed’s voice fell silent, the Creator place his hand gently upon the horse’s neck and turned to all the Creatures gathered before him. “I have witnessed this mighty being display courage and fortitude, showing a pure and kindred soul, let it be known amongst you that from this day forth the mighty horse shall hold a sacred place deep within my heart.”

Written by
Ron Arnett
"A Man From The Wilderness

　

GHOSTS OF THE ALPINE

　

Far above the timberline where the alpine meadows and rocky slopes meet the sheer and treacherous vertical outcroppings of the mountain peaks. There, in the place where it would seem nothing could traverse the incredible masses of sky bound rock, it is there that he lives. The great white goat of the Western Rocky Mountains.

As a Guide in the Canadian Wilderness I have led 56 men on succesful hunts for these magnificent creatures. Undoubtably the most physically and mentally demanding wilderness hunts available.

The incredible elevation at which they live and the terrain that must be skillfully navigated in order to enter their domain is a challenge, even to the most seasoned mountain man.

Standing over four feet at the shoulder and tipping the scales at over three hundred and fifty pounds, a mature Billie is, in my experience, the toughest animal in the Rocky Mountains to bring down.

　

The horses were sweat covered and tired when we finally reached the tiny spike camp, a secluded spot set back off the edge of a small alpine lake very near to seven thousand feet in elevation.

With one pack horse and two saddle horses to look after it didn't take me long and they were unpacked, stripped of their saddles and turned loose in the small meadow that surounded our camp.

My client/hunter, a man from New York, had taken a walk while I tended to the horses and while I was in the midst of unpacking our gear he came hustling into camp, his face beaming with excitement.

"There's a whole pile of goats up there above the lake," he said with a huge grin spreading across his face.

"Well buddy, that's why we rode all the way in here," I smiled back. "This is traditional rutting ground and within another week or so the rut will be in full swing, I figured we find plenty of goats to choose from up here."

I think my over all lack of "drop everything and run for my spotting scope" enthusiasm was a little disapointing to Jamie but I had never been to the Twin Lakes Basins and not seen goats on the Southern slopes. I wanted to get camp organized before we got into the hunting, the last thing I wanted to be doing was rooting around through the pack boxes in the dark.



A thousand feet above the lake we camped beside was another, larger basin which also held a beautiful mountain lake and the Southern slopes above the second lake were usually where as many as five or six dozen goats could be found during the late October rut.

When we walked out of the timber and onto the lake shore Jamie pointed up to the second basin and as sure as spittin' the slopes were dotted with the white bodies of a good many goats.

I explained to Jamie that there was a well used trail leading up to the second lake and that within forty five minutes we could be watching the same goats from well within rifle range.

When we reached the half way point of the steep and rocky trail Jamie was certainly feeling the effects of the elevation and the steep climb. His face was red and sweat streaked, he had his coat tied around his waist and his shirt was unbuttoned to his brisket.

"How the hell can you climb around up here carrying that friggen back pack man?" he asked between puffs of air.

I smiled and put a hand on his shoulder, "I do this damn near every day bud, just wait until my pack is full of your goat's cape and meat, then I'll be as red in the cheeks as you are."

When we finally reached the summit of our climb, I urged Jamie to be quiet and to hunker down so we could use the scub alpine trees as cover, slipping into the basin undetected.

We pretty much crawled into the basin and slowly, cautously made our way over to a large rock that was nearly as big as a small car. Once concealed behind the rock I shrugged out of my back pack and carefully dug out my spotting scope, attached it to my tripod and and got things set up.

Jamie was like a kid at the circus. Figiting around, looking this way and that, outwardly amazed at the whole situation. He counted forty one goats in total, his excitement going with every one he counted off.

While I was giving the herd a good overveiw I quietly explained to him that both Nannies and Billies had horns on their heads, both were legal to harvest but we WEREN'T killing a female so I needed to locate a mature Billie before we even considered shooting.

It didn't take long to spy two Billies laying off by themselves on an outcropping of rock, laying in the late afternoon sun watching over the rest of the herd.

The larger of the two Billies was of trophy quality with horns I judged to be over nine and a half inches long. Having said this Jamie asked exactly how the hell I could tell that at four hundred yards.

I smiled at his half hearted disbeleif and took the time to explain how to properly field judge a mountain goat.

A Billie reaches maturity at five years old, when he matures he developes a dark grey or almost black musk gland that lays directly behind his horns. Both sex's of mountain goats have these glands but when a mature Billie gets near the rut his gland swells and give the top of his head a black look.

An adult mountain goat's ears are on an average of five inches long, thus giving a means of judging the horn length. Now body size, length of face and overall appearance also help distinguish sex, color is also a factor. Although all goats appear to be white, a closer look will tell that a mature Billie is usually and off yellow color.

The horns of a Nanny are hooked to some degree at their tips and grow out and away from the base thus, when looking head on at a Nanny, her horns resemble a V on the top of her head.

A mature Billie's horns grow much thicker and straighter up of the head with no obvious hook to them. When they look like a beer bottle, shoot him.

Well, now that we'd found a mature Billie of trophy quality the next step was to somehow cut our range down to under three hundred yards. Jamie was shooting a .300 Win Mag but rarely did I allow a shot of over three hundred yards. To much room for error allows for wounded game.

We decided to crawl our way towards another large rock that lay out in front of us so, with pack in hand we crawled/drug ourselves through the small alpine scrub trees one foot at a time.

Very near to reaching our objective I looked up to see several of the other goats watching us with some interest and although not alarmed yet, if we continued our approach they would certainly start to climb up and away from us which would  get the whole herd up and moving.

I slid my hefty pack out in front of us and told Jamie to get as solid a rest as possible off my pack. Waisting no time he hunkered down in the prone posistion and readied himself.

We were now just a little over what I thought to be three hundred yards from the two Billies up on their perch, less than two hundred from the goats watching us.

I instructed Jamie to ready himself and sight in on the larger of the two Billies, the one laying off to the right. "Don't you shoot until I tell you to and when I do, shoot him in the lungs."

"We'll wait for him to stand and stretch, then we'll shoot, not until." I said over my binoculars. "Just be ready."

　

Finally the goats that had spotted our movement decided to climb up to a more comfortable distance from us and when they did, the smaller of the two Billies stood up, stretched and walked off from his partner.

Immediately Jamie started figiting around and I had to urge him to lay still and concentrate. I wasn't even finished saying that and the larger Billie stood up.

Before the Billie had even the chance to come fully errect Jamie fired and, not to my surprise, completely missed the goat. His bullet smacked into the rocks in front of the Billie and he jumped straight into the air and leaped up the hill a couple of jumps.

Every one of you know what my reaction was to this and I'm sure Jamie's ears are still burning. After I settled down I instructed him to try another shot, aiming about a third of the way down the goats body.

When the rifle cracked for the second time I saw the goat lurch ahead and stumble a bit. "He's hit." I said flatly, "Now bear down and finish him."

With that Jamie fired for the third time and once again contributed to Rocky Mountain copper deposits. Another clean miss, this time his bullet kicked up dust and rocks behind the goat.

I looked over at him and steamed, "Reload and finish him man, why are you just laying there?"

"I forgot my bullets." he said sheepishly.

OK, now my reaction to him shooting without me knowing it was coming was not a good one, the no bullets comment sent me into a tail spin.

"What the F- - - do you mean you forgot your bullets?" I burst.
"How the hell could you do that?"

"It just slipped my mind." he said while staring into my pack.

"Holy S- - - man, now I have to go all the way back down to our camp to get more ammo!?" I frothed.

"No, I mean I forgot them in my cabin in base camp." he said almost coming to tears.

"Well Holy hell, how the F- - - am I supposed to go fetch a wounded goat with no rifle?" I asked while trying hard to settle down. My reaction wasn't going to help the matter, if anything only make it worse I told my very pissed off 'innerself'.

I layed for a few minutes and watched the Billie. I could now see the blood on his brisket and knew full well he'd been hit poorley.

The ground in which the Billie had chose to make his day bed was far from flat, believe me, it was a series of rocky benches and extremely steep grassy splopes. The rocky benches almost looked like a ancient water rings around the basin and while I was looking up there trying to figure out some miracle plan, the wounded Billie slowly started to climb.

The Billie climbed up two more rock shelves and then, choosing a spot, layed down with a heavy thump.

To be honest, I really had no fricken idea what I was going to do, but I certainly wasn't going to just leave that poor critter up there to suffer.

I told Jamie to stay with the pack while I climbed up and tried to figure out how to get the goat.

Obviously he asked what my intentions were and for lack of words and a need to stay quiet I pointed at the skinning knife on my belt.

Jamie was still stammering away behind me as I started off up the mountain towards the wounded Billie.

When I stood up in plain veiw the entire herd snapped to attention and they all started to move quickly towards the outter rims of the basin.

　
My climb was just a little more than steep and when I reach what I thought was near the Billie's elevation, I was climbing using both hands and just the tips of my Scarpa climbing boots.

I was using a chimney type chute in the rocks to not only concele my ascent, but also as a means of finding constant hand and foot holds.

I stoped climbing and looked back down at Jamie to see him frantically waiving and pointing off to my right.

I watched him for a minute, and holding my urge to bombard him with a good ole' fashioned cussin', and decided I'd better move off to the right and see what he was so concerned about.

With more than a little goofing around invloved I managed to climb out of the chute I was in and hoist myself up onto the narrow rocky bench.

Slowly, step by step I eased myself out onto the ledge, inching my way around the rocky bluff until I suddenly found myself standing precariously close to a very pissed off  and very large Billie goat.

Not knowing what to do I gave my four inch skinning knife a quick look, the look was just long enough to realize how rediculous the idea was. Now I stand near six feet and weigh around two hundred and twenty pounds but all that was going to do for me was ensure I bounced all the way to the bottom when Mr. Goat chucked my ass off the rocks with his very sharp and very shinny black horns.

From less than twenty feet the goat looked about the size of you deep freeze and although hurt, was certainly in well enough shape to kick my butt. He held his head cocked to one side displaying his horns and by the look in his eyes had no intention of turning tail.

It didn't take long for me to decide to get off his rock so, with the haste of a purse thief I turned and scrambled off the ledge and back out to the chute.

Still lacking a good plan I climbed up to the next ledge, one about thirty feet above the Billie, and, once I caught my breath,  inched my way out until I could look down on Mr. Goat.

The Billie had turned around and was standing with his head down facing out into the basin below. I looked around where I stood, still trying desperately to think of some way to dispatch the wounded goat when I spied a large pumpkin sized rock sitting on the ledge.

I scrambled over to it, and kneeling before it, started scratching at it until I'd worked it free. Still kneeling, I rolled the heavy rock up onto my lap and somehow got it propped up onto my belt buckle.

It took some wiggling but I got stood up, slowly walked over to the ledge and peered over to see Mr. Goat still standing there below me.

I hoisted the boulder up to my chest and with one hard push sent it over the ledge. To my utter amazement the rock hit the poor goat right at the base of the neck and pretty much flipped him off his lofty perch.

I stood with mouth open as I watched the poor goat bounce and crash his way down the mountain side towards the now frantic Jamie.

Jamie was hooting and hollering while he watched the goat tumble and when the Billie finally came to rest on the shale slope far below me, he never moved.

I worked my way back down through the rocks to the goat and Jamie not sure to feel proud or ashamed for what I had done.

I had done what was needed to dispatch a wounded animal but felt very poorly for the way he had to die.

In any event, I can honestly say, "I killed a mountain goat with a rock."
Written by;
Ron Arnett

"A Man From The Wilderness."

CAMPFIRES

As another day of hunting slowly comes to an end the setting of the West bound sun brings thoughts of the evening's campfire, a place of warmth, laughter and excitement.


The dancing flames of a crackling blaze cast an almost medieval light on the faces of those who sit around the outer edge of the orange light, everyone entranced with the tail that is being unraveled....


"It was the first elk hunt of the fall and my client/hunter was from the mid Western United States, a fella named  Mike. He was a tall man of slight build with thick wire framed glasses that looked like they weighed a couple of pounds.


As I worked at packing our pack horses with his personal gear and the provisions we would need for the ten day trip deep into the back country Mike sat on a near by stump and told me about himself while whittling on a stick.


He had grown up hunting whitetails and turkeys, as most outdoors man from the Midwest had, but had always dreamed of a horseback hunt for Rocky Mountain Elk in the Canadian Wilderness. Now that he was retired and seeing himself a little long in the tooth he and his wife had decided it was time for him to make his dream come true.


Now being a Big Game Guide has always come with a certain amount of pressure, the want to see every client/hunter go home with a filled tag and leaving camp happy and on their own steam, but listening to Mike seemed to add a little more pressure than usual.


With the last diamond hitch tight in place and Mike securely mounted on his horse I took the lead shank of the head pack horse in hand and climbed aboard my big paint horse, swinging him around behind the lodge and onto the horse trail.


The first few miles ride from base camp consisted of a steady but gradual climb up out of the river bottom which presented us with an amazing view of the cascading mountains to the South. Every time I cast a backwards glance to check on the pack horses and their loads I gave Mike and his horse a look as well, I couldn't help but smile to myself at the color in his cheeks and the excitement on his face. He looked as if he'd shed twenty years.


The trip into the spike camp usually took about five hours of steady riding but not wanting to sore him up to much I stopped the string close to half way in, tied my horses up and proceeded to help Mike down out of the saddle.


A stretch and a walk around seemed to limber him up a good bit and I found myself smiling at his excitement again. One of the things I always appreciated about guiding was having the opportunity to experience the thrill of such a trip through my clients eyes and Mike certainly appeared to be having the time of his life.


When I had him loaded up again I swung up on my mount and headed up the trail and into the depths of the valley that climbed before us.


For the eight years prior to Mike's hunt I had taken a good bull every season during the first hunt, thus I had named the valley "Bull Elk Creek" and I hoped this would be the ninth successful hunt.


I had built a small log lean-to a good ways up into the valley some years back, equipping the small camp with a corral set up and a food cashe. I had been into the camp several weeks prior, packing in supplies and horse feed while clearing the trail of any stuff that had fallen over the winter. With that in mind I was sure the camp would be in perfect condition when we arrived.


As we finally reached the big stand of ancient spruce trees in which I had built the camp I gave yet another backwards glance at Mike and could see that the long ride was taking it's toll on him, it was a good thing we'd reached the end of our journey.


I rounded the last bend in the trail only to see a small black bear go scampering out of the camp, a mountain marauder up to no good without doubt. As I rode into camp I was astounded at the mess the bugger had made. He had somehow climbed up into my food cashe even though I had taken the time to nail several lengths of stove pipe around the base of the cashe tree, something that usually kept bears from being able to climb the tree. In any event the little prick had pulled apart the cashe and had spread it's contents all about the camp site, destroying everything except the coffee, a package of tinfoil and a container of yellow mustard.


I unpacked the horses,  stowed the saddles and tack and turned them into the corral to roll and relax while Mike and I cleaned up after our mountain hoodlum.


We could do nothing but laugh at the mess he'd left and after twenty minutes we'd gathered up the trash strewn throughout the brush and had things looking almost normal again.


Luckily I had packed in enough fresh meat, vegetables and bread which gave us enough staples for a few days stay. With any luck we'd have a bull down before our food ran out or, even better, we'd be eating a fat little black bear if chance would have another encounter. I was sure I would recognize him from the peanut butter on his face.


We had arrived in camp in the mid afternoon and by the time we'd cleaned up, made camp ready and tended to our hungry horses early evening was upon us, time for a nice quiet walk up to my favorite look out a half mile beyond our camp.


With my bugle slung across my back and Mike following closely behind we headed up the trail and into the growing shadows of the coming twilight.


Mike struggled with the short walk, laboring with his breathing to the point I asked him if he was a smoker. I hadn't seen him light a cigarette but by the sound of his breathing he must have been a heavy smoker at one time.


Through fogged glasses and a sweat covered face he told me that he had smoked for forty years and had finally quit three months before as a means of preparing for his hunt. Although his intentions were good, a three month leave from his two pack a day habit certainly didn't make much difference to his wind, especially at 6,500 ft. His poor condition quickly raised some serious concerns about our back country adventure as I had absolutely no desire to see him have a heart attack in the middle of no where.


We finally reached my look out spot and I leaned Mike's rifle near where he had dropped his weary butt at the base of a tree.


The shadows had fallen on the huge slide area across the valley from us and I elected to try a short bugle to see if I could raise any interest from the valley's resident bulls. No one had blown a bugle in the valley since the year before and I hoped there was a bull ready to take my challenge to heart.


As the echoing ring of my bugle faded into the valley depths I heard the hoarse grunts of a bull expressing his displeasure high in the dark timber that grew to the North of the slide area we were watching.


I looked at Mike to see if he'd heard the bull and by the distant look on his clouded face he had not. I touched him on the shoulder and whispered that a bull had made his presence known across the draw and I pointed out the dark stand of timber where the sound of the bull's grunts had come from. The look of disbelief  on Mike's face quickly disappeared when from across the valley, almost exactly where my finger was pointing, erupted a long and piercing bugle that was followed by a series of hoarse grunts.


I smiled at the look on Mike's face and watched with satisfaction as his eyes lit up like light bulbs at the experience of hearing his first bull elk bugle.


I lifted my bugle to my lips and cast a short series of soft cow calls towards the bull which were answered even before I took the bugle away from my lips. The bull was obviously in full rut and by the way he had answered the cow calls he hadn't gathered his harem yet.


I continued to cast a few cow calls here and there and much to my, and Mike's pleasure, the bull continued to bugle his face off while he began his descent from his mountain hide away. The bull never made himself  completely visible while he walked down the edge of the slide, never leaving the cover of the timber yet every once in awhile I would catch a glimpse of his yellow body drifting through the trees like an off colored ghost.


When it became apparent that the bull intended to continue his descent  down the mountain I whispered to Mike that we would be better off moving ourselves, heading down to the valley bottom where we would have a better chance at a good shot at the bull if he presented himself.


I snatched up Mike's rifle and quickly, or as quickly as I could manage without killing him, headed down the mountain towards the creek below. In less that five hundred yards we came to a meadow's edge, a spot that gave us a great view of the slide bottom across the creek from us.


I explained to Mike that the bull would most likely keep himself concealed in the timber but with a little enticement with my cow calls he might show himself long enough to judge his rack and if he were a legal six point, hopefully we could get a poke at him.


While Mike and I had made our own descent the bull had become far more vocal, trying to locate our position as he walked down through the timber. I did not answered his call until I had Mike set up across a pile of fallen logs and was hunkered down beside him. Once I was sure Mike understood the game plan, absolutely no shooting until I gave the go ahead and I was confident in his rifle rest, I cast out a short series of soft cow calls.


The bull went pretty much nuts at the sound of my cow calls, let an incredible bugle go and came waltzing out onto the open slide like there was no tomorrow. I think I was equally as surprised as Mike at the bull's sudden entrance but my bugle wasn't shaking like his rifle barrel. Mike was so excited at the sight of the bull that his rifle barrel resembled the end of a jack hammer. I quickly touched him on the shoulder and whispered into his ear, urging him to settle down and concentrate on putting his cross hairs on the bulls ribs.


The bull certainly didn't help my hurried attempts to calm poor Mike down as he walked deliberately over to an eight foot pine sapling and proceeded to rape the poor tree with his massive 6x7 rack. If anything, the sight of the bull's aggressive behaviour made Mike's heart race even faster.


I continued to whisper in Mike's ear and finally, after what seemed like hours, his gun barrel steadied enough I felt he could make the 150 yard shot. I told Mike I was going to blast the bull with a bugle, a move I was pretty sure would snap the bull out of his tree raping frenzy and make him stand erect and when he did to drill him in the ribs.


When I let go with my challenging bugle the bull immediately lifted his head, his rack now entangled with pine limbs and bugled at the top of his lungs. I hissed in Mike's ear "SHOOT" but nothing happened, I looked over at him and he'd taken his rifle away from his cheek and was watching the bull with all the amazement and excitement I had ever seen on a man's face. "Mike, shoot him man",  I again hissed in his ear and he looked at me with watering eyes and said, "I can't."


Now I've found myself confused about a thing or two in my life time but never quite the way I was right about then. "What the hell do you mean you can't?" I asked. "Is there something wrong with your rifle?"


It was then, over the sound of another one of the bull's raspy bugles that Mike said, "I don't want to kill him, I just want to watch him."


Well, I sat back on my heals in amazement, gave him a second look and smiled. "OK, man, it's your call."


It wasn't long and the bull disappeared into the timber, sounding off with a half hearted bugle as he went and it was then Mike looked over at me with tears streaming down his cheeks and said, "All my life I waited for that moment, I dreamt of what a bull would sound like and I tried hundreds of times to imagine what he would look like in my cross hairs but when it came down to it I just couldn't kill him,  I want to keep dreaming about him, my bull, running around out here wild and free."


When the fall season came to an end that year and Christmas time rolled around I mailed off everyone on my client list a Christmas card and a short hello. About mid January I received a letter in the mail from Mike's wife. She told me that Mike had returned home happier than she'd seen him in years, she went on to say that she listened to the story of our adventure so many times she could tell it like she were there with us. She thanked me for helping to make Mike's dream of a Rocky Mountain Elk hunt come true and in closing told me that Mike had died suddenly during the holidays of a massive heart attack.


I've sat around a several hundred camp fires since the fall I hunted with Mike, told many a story while I stared into the flames, but every time I did I thought of him and the bull he let walk away.

Written by;
Ron Arnett


"A Man From The Wilderness"

WHY DO YOU HUNT?

Every morning I get up before the sun begins to rise, get the coffee going and let our tribe of hound pups out of their kennels to run about the yard. It seems that lately I find myself more often than usual in deep thought, remembering back over the last 30 years I spent living the life of a Big Game Guide and Horseman in the Canadian Wilderness.

When I started out as the camp wrangler and "go get it boy" I was at the young age of 14, those were the days when an elk bugle resembled a child's recorder or plastic flute, the days when a .300 H&H was a BIG rifle, the days when we wore wool clothing made made the Hudson Bay Company and carried a wooden framed "Trapper Nelson" pack board with no waist belt.

Our lives as mountain men were full of hardship and adventure, heck just getting to camp was usually an adventure filled with flat deck stock trucks loaded with horses, an old Fargo pickup that didn't go any faster than the loaded stock truck and a road that seemed to love eating truck tires, and on occasion opening up to swallow the whole truck.

The mountains weren't criss-crossed with logging roads, there was no such thing as an ATV, not unless it had four legs that is, and the game wasn't hassled and disturbed. It was after all, still Wilderness.

I  can still recal the smoky taste of fresh moose ribs that were cooked by leaning one complete side of the rib cage near the fire while we worked at de-boning the meat and caping out the head. The laughter and heart felt companionship felt between us and our client/hunters. The horses, the horns and the high country. A life i just can't regret living.

I've heard my own bones break, been kicked, bit, rolled on and seen about every wreck possible out there in the back country. I've been charged by grizzly bears 11 times in my life, 6 times black bears have tried their luck and I've even had a couple of real scuffles with cougars while trying to save the lives of my hounds.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not at all the bragging type, I don't see much sense in that, it's just the way the cards fell. We were after all, men living life in the rugged wilderness and things sometimes got real Western.

Over my 30 years I've lost 3 good friends to the hardships out there and seen the death of 17 good solid mountain horses, a tragedy each and every one but there again, that was the life we lived, a hard one.

My wife laughs at the way I sit and type on this key board, one finger from each hand plinking away, the truth be told I use the only two straight fingures I've got left and I'm real proud of my 16 words a minute.

It's almost sad to see the way things have come about for the world of the hunter, it just seems to a man like me that the real connection with the wilderness and it's creatures has been lost. Trail Cams, 4x4 bikes,( hell you aint somebody unless you drive a 6x6 now), high powered rifles that can shoot 1000 yards, laser range finders, cover scents, 50 different types of camo clothing, the list goes on forever.

Does anybody drift off by themselves into the back country, climb a ridge or mountain side and just sit , watch and listen any more?

What about the creatures that we hunt, could you actually pattern a whitetail buck without your trail camera? How about bugle in a mature bull elk without scents, camo clothing, face paint and 6 different calls hanging from your neck?

We've commercialized our entire way of life. Sad.

I still wear the same old wool clothing, dont even own a pair of camo. Although I use a "Power Bugle" and a "Premo's" cow call I've never used scents nor do I think I will. To me its the challenge of "him vs me" on as even a playing field as possible. I can't imagine enjoying a game of chess when I've got 5 Queens and the other fella doesn't.

A lot of you will raise your eye brows, most of you will laugh at my opinion and most certainly all of you will think of me as some sort of relic after reading this and that's all ok. Just remember this though, when you go steaming up the road driving that beautiful 6x6, wearing $500 worth of camo clothing with your rifle stored safely in that hard case, I'll be out there sitting a way up on that ridge listening to you go by, enjoying my life as a man from the wilderness
Written by;
Ron Arnett

"A man from the wilderness."

BLACK BEARS

"A Mother’s Love”






The Southern slopes were now turning green with their early season foliage, the creeks were swelling their banks and the mountains echoed with the thundering sounds of the last of the great spring avalanches.


Spring was in the air and the excitement of new beginnings was every where.


The glacier lilies were slowly starting to push their way to the surface, the willow and alder bushes were working to produce their new buds and the sun was gathering strength each morning as it climbed the peaks, casting it’s welcome warmth into the dark shadows of the long winter past.


It was there, high on the southern slopes of the great mountain that she, a four year old black bear sow, chose to introduce her new cubs to the world.


She had given birth deep within the confines of her winter’s den, one, a small brown boar and the other, a tiny black female. She had spent the weeks prior to the spring thaws deep inside the dark and musky surroundings of the den, nursing the tiny cubs, holding them against the warmth of her breast, feeling the instinctive bond of love grow with each moment that passed. Every time one of the cubs would stir, struggling to regain it’s hold on one of her nipples, she would feel something stir inside her, warmth and love for her tiny child, a love only a mother can feel.


Instinct had told her when the time was right for her to leave the den the first time, and, leaving the two now puppy sized cubs alone in the darkness, she broke open the entrance with a strong push, stumbling into the fresh air and warming sunshine. She was hesitant to travel more than a few hundred meter’s from the den yet her exploration was enough to tell her that there was enough growth amongst the fresh foliage to support her growing hunger.


The winter months had been long, and supporting her own bodily needs and the growth of her two nursing youngsters had depleted her stores of fat and inner proteins. She needed to feed now and the cubs needed the fresh air and sunlight to help them along with the amazing speed at which they grew.


When she returned to the den she could see the tiny tracks of her boar cub at the entrance, knowing he had now tasted the freshness of the outdoors, tasted the freedoms that awaited him and his tiny sister beyond the confines of the den. An excitement stirred within her as she crawled into the den and a desire to show her children their new world began to burn inside her.






More than a week passed, finding the young mother leaving the den more frequently, traveling further from the steadily growing cubs each time she ventured forth. Each time she returned she could see the evidence that now both of her youngsters were leaving the safety of the den and once she had returned to find them engaged in a wrestling match several meters from the entrance. The time was now upon her to take the pair of inquisitive youngsters on their first full day’s outing, time to show them the amazing world that surrounded them.


As the days grew slowly longer and the sun steadily warmer, the young mother found herself leading her joyous little cubs further and further from the safety of the den, further into the excitement of their new world. She watched carefully over the growing youngsters as she fed in the warmth of the spring, ever watching, feeling a protective warmth grow within her as the days passed and the cubs grew, a mother’s love.


The young boar cub was beginning to gain a confidence in his surroundings and was soon testing his mother’s patience with disobedience and solo adventures, one of which found him hanging in an alder tree with no idea of how to get down. His bawling soon brought his mother to the rescue and after several encouraging grunts he released his frantic grip on the suspended limb, tumbling from his perch to the ground below with a thump.


His little sister was much more reluctant to leave the safety of mother’s side, rarely venturing more than a few meters away from her watchful mother. She did however, spend considerable time watching her brother get himself into all sorts of predicaments, almost enjoying, with a little sister’s contempt, when mother would swat him off his feet for becoming too frustrating or getting underfoot and disrupting the task at hand.


The days grew longer, the spring snows subsided and the growth of the fresh clover in the valley bottoms soon drew the young family down from the safety of the high country, down into the depths of the valley, closer to the ugly brown lines carved into the earth, the access roads pushed into the heart of the wilderness by the timber companies.


Rich clover thrived along the edges of the mountain road and it’s sweet aroma attracted several of the valley’s resident bears, both grizzly and blacks to the lush and tasty feed. The young mother soon found herself feeding on the soft shoots that had sprouted along a shady road way, leading her young family slowly into the depths of an unfamiliar valley, leading them away from the safety and seclusion of the high mountain slopes.




The cubs were resting, nestled underneath the safety of a huge spruce tree and it’s drooping limbs, cuddled together in the warmth of the afternoon shadows while their mother fed quietly and alone along the edge of an aging road way. Suddenly her head came erect, her senses sharpened, a distant and strange rumble in the valley depths had broken the silence, an unfamiliar sound that scared and worried her. She tested the wind with her keen nose, listened to the strange sound as it drew nearer, turning towards the shadows along the creek were she had left the cubs with a fear growing inside her. She hurried towards the cubs when suddenly a horrible burning pain slammed into her side, a cry of pain and anguish burst from her as she thrashed in agony, trying desperately to reach her babies, to protect.


The rifle awakened the cubs with a horrible start and they listened in fear as the awful thunder echoed again through the valley.


The pain stricken moan that escaped their young, loving and protecting mother caused panic in the tiny siblings, and they listened in horror as the echoing thunder was followed by strange and horrific yells a hoops from some strange being.


They waited, trembling in fear, waited for their mother to come to their side, coming to protect them, to save them, to love them. They waited, waited alone until the starvation claimed them both in the dark and ominous shadows of the valley depths.


They waited, waited as dozens of young cubs wait every spring, waiting for their murdered mothers to return, never understanding as they grow weaker and weaker from the starvation and pain that claims their tiny lives.




Written by:




“A man from the wilderness”










It is not my intention with this story to detour you from hunting Black Bear, such a harvest is needed to ensure proper management of the species and to continue to instill the inherent fear of man within the Black Bear as a species.


The Black Bear has learned to co-exist with man and, in many cases, has learned to rely on man as a means of a constant food supply through our trash disposal and poorly contained food supplies while visiting wilderness areas.


I wrote this story with a desire to create a strong realization within the bear hunting community that there certainly is the need for the ability to distinguish the difference between a Boar and a Sow Black Bear while in the field hunting, to instill the fact that there are certain consequences that walk hand in hand with our lack of such abilities.


Tight Cinches & Dry Powder


“A man from the wilderness”




The black bear is without doubt one of the most difficult trophy species we hunt in North America to judge, both in size and gender. Years of hunting and viewing experience still leave room for error and one is never completely sure, unless able to witness a bear in a family unit or, through the event of observing a bear urinate, can the gender distinguished absolutely. Size is never an absolute judgment, small is small, medium is medium, and large is.....well, large is when he comes walking out and "HOLY COW" comes to mind.


The spring hunt is undoubtedly the most difficult time to pass judgment on the Black Bear, largely due to the fact the bears are slimmer in size from the long winter spent within the den and the depletion of their fat supplies, and the fact that the sow will often stash the cubs during the early spring while she is out in the open feeding. Throughout the summer and fall months however, the sow can be more frequently observed with her playful offspring at her side, and sometimes even under foot.


As I stated, small is small, long lanky legs, the appearance of a long neck, small head and over sized ears are all a good indication that the bear you are observing is small and not worthy of harvest.


Medium, well medium will appear to have a stouter body, shorter looking legs, not so long in the neck and ears that don't look like satellite dishes. A mid sized bear will walk with a slight swagger and have a well rounded shape to it's body. This the size of bear that is difficult to distinguish a sow from a boar and the only real way is to watch the bear urinate or to observe it with cubs. I can tell you to watch for a pointed, somewhat up turned snout which would usually indicate a sow, to look for a smaller more olive shaped head and a narrow looking front end but it's all just guessing until you run into big.


Big will cause your heart to skip a beat, your mouth to dry up and your mind to race a little. He'll look a baby buffalo ambling along, appear to have no neck, just a head attached to his body and a belly that nearly drags on the ground. This is big, the one you're looking for. Very few black bear sows ever reach six feet from nose to tail, a measurement most frequently used in the west to determine the size of a bear. A six foot bear is a big sow or an average boar, a six and a half foot bear is a good boar and anything bigger than that is getting into the trophy class. A black bear that measures longer than 7 feet nose to tail is extremely large and considered by anyone to be of trophy quality. This is big and there will be little doubt when you see him.


Over the past twenty five years in the mountains, I have witnessed nearly 200 bears be harvested; many a poor shot and many good ones as well. It is my opinion, and only my opinion so take it for what it's worth, that it is NOT a good idea to try busting your bear in the shoulder. It takes an exact, very precise shot to break both shoulders and I have very honestly only seen this done a very few times. Unfortunately I have seen numerous three legged bears run into the brush, a very disappointing and potentially deadly situation for the fella that has to take the rifle from his client and track the wounded and very upset bear into the thick brush.


Take the time to put a well placed shot into the lungs of the bear. Sight your cross hairs on his elbow, slide back just a couple of inches and squeeze. REMEMBER, a bear will always turn into the impact of a bullet, an ungulate will spin away from the impact. Secondly, if you shoot a bear on a steep hillside and it balls up and comes rolling down the hill looking like a large bowling ball, it is very much alive. Bears are no different than you, even though injured, they will ball up and protect themselves when falling or rolling down a steep slope and chances are that when he stops he's going to get up and run for cover, fast. If, after your shot the bears appears to be rolling down the mountain side in an uncontrolled, leg flailing crash, well he's most certainly been hit hard, there's still a good chance however, he could get up, so stay ready and give him an anchoring shot in the ribs when he comes to a stop. A good rule of thumb to always consider when hunting any big game," They can only go as far as their last breath of air will take them when shot through the lungs, they can seemingly go forever on three legs."
Written By
Ron Arnett
"A man from the wilderness"

NATURAL HORSEMANSHIP?

The phrase, "Natural Horsemanship" has represented some serious deliberation within myself, the source of many miles of deep thought as I rode through the mountains on the back of a trusted horse, leading a string of seasoned pack horses.

"Natural Horsemanship".....well as far as I can figure, there's not one single thing natural about one mammal riding on the back of another. There's not one natural thing about one mammal chasing another one around in a round, cage like structure until the one in flight is forced to accept the idea that it WILL be ridden or forced to pull a laden cart or earth bound plow.

What is natural about strapping a wooden frame wrapped in leather to the back of an animal so another can sit securely thereof and with confidence?  

Please, someone point out what is natural with one mammal forcing a piece of hard steel into the mouth of another so it can modify the behavior of the first?

Man FORCED his way onto the back of the horse, using whips and chain shackles he forced the majestic animal to accept the burdens of his body and load, the animal was not given a choice, it was TOLD.

When I began my journey through life as a "Horseman", I was taught by men of a callous and unforgiving nature. Asking a horse to do something was unheard of. If the animal refused to accept his load, he was shackled, blindfolded, had a hind foot tied to his chest and he was "convinced" that it was easier to give in the the will of man than to resist.

The popular saying "Cowboy Up" was invented by those hard, leather faced men of the West. If your horse took to bucking, you certainly didn't jump off and run for the phone to call the "Trainer" or wait for him to cool from his fit so you could "lunge" him into an easier mind set. No, you hung on for everything you were worth and prayed you could weather the storm for fear of the laughter and ridicule from those you so desperately wanted to be.

So many of the "Old Ways" are now viewed by the horse lovers of today as "Rough" or "Mean" and in most senses I agree wholeheartedly, yet that was the way it was done. You fed him a "Carrot Stick", you didn't tap his bum with it and you wore "Spurs" to get your point across to the strong minded mount you rode, not because you like the sound of them jingling on your heals.

Horses were your ONLY means of transporting you, your clients and your gear into the back country. They were sometimes rough and undesirable just like the country we rode them through, what can I say? It was a harsh and testing world and if one were to survive, he had to become the same.

Over the years I met horses who loved their work, some who hated it. I met horses who loved to be around people and those who tried every trick to escape them. I met horses who would have never hurt a person and those who just waited for the chance. The one thing I learned very early in the game, "Every horse is an individual and has an ever changing mind and attitude."

I've learned an incredible amount about the horse, it's temperament and it's capabilities but I can still, after over 12,000 miles in the saddle, not see what's Natural about a man on a horse. 

Written By;
Ron Arnett
 "A Man From The Wilderness" 

 

A LAND WITHOUT FACES

I walk amongst  you, here in your city, a man from the wilderness,  a man who has spent countless years in the solitude of the mountains, listening to the silence, to the wind, hearing the rivers and the birds. A man who has spent his nights watching the stars through unveiled skies, listening to the distant  and mournful cry of the wolf, listening to the quite of the night.


I walk amongst you, in the midst of your mountains of concrete and steel, your trails of ash fault and cement, listening to the roar of your engines, the wail of the sirens, listening to the deafening pulse you seem not to hear.


I smell the exhaust, taste it in the back of my throat, feel it burn my nostrils as the poison enters my lungs, chocking me, starving me of the once fresh and clean air I breathed so deep and freely, air that was pure, free of the toxins that hang over your great city like a dark and ominous cloud.


I walk amongst you, in your great shopping centers and malls, walk amongst you and watch as I have watched the creatures of the wilds. Watching, learning, hidden from your view while still in plain sight. I have witnessed  many wonders in the wilderness, many sights to be remembered in awe, sights however, that are rivaled by what I see whilst I am among you.


Tall, short, heavy and thin, people of  most every nationality and culture from around the globe, caught in the hustle, the race of their fast paced lives. I watch, silently observe, as those around me push past each other with blank, expressionless faces. Brushing past each other without a fleeting thought or brief acknowledgement of those they encounter.
A life without faces.






Your world of haste begins with the buzzing of an electric alarm, rousting you from your tired, coma like state, a hand hit’s the snooze button while your groggy mind begs the clock for another 7 minutes of sleep. The coffee pot comes alive on the kitchen counter as it’s timer strikes home and it begins to puff and wheeze, filling the room with the familiar aroma of a new day’s beginning. With one eye open you watch the clock, hit the switch a moment before it again comes alive with the sound you’ve learned to despise. Feet into slippers, arms into bathrobe, staggering fuzzily into the bathroom to begin your morning rituals.


Tooth brush hanging from the corner of your mouth you turn the hot water on full in the shower, filling the room with steam as you return to the sink to cleanse your mouth of the mint flavored foam. A few quick adjustments to the water temperature before you climb into it’s steady flow, the sleep driven from you as fill your hand with shampoo. You scrub and rinse as an urgency builds within, climbing from the warmth of the water and into the softness of an inch thick towel.


Hand cream, face cream, tweezers and brush. Blow dryer, styling cream and rat tailed comb, with a whirl of frustration you leave the image of your face in the mirror, muttering to yourself about another bad hair day, silently concerned about the growing bags under your eyes, wondering why.


Back to your bedroom, casting aside your bathrobe as you reach into the closet, tugging free from it’s now swinging hanger an outfit to suit the day, a costume with which to hide your inner self from the world around you.


Down the hall to the kitchen with a hurried step, needing the injection of fresh roasted caffeine, the morning boost your body has been craving since the mist of the shower hit your skin. Before you reach for your favorite coffee mug, hidden on the top rack of the dishwasher, you touch the familiar power button on your laptop, your umbilical cord to the outside world. Filling your mug with strong black coffee, which is diluted with an inch of flavored cream, you hit the menu button on your Black Berry, checking your voicemails,  searching the inbox of your text messages, trying desperately to catch up with another new day and all it brings into your already too busy world.


Gulping down your second cup of near white coffee like substance as you read your emails, chewing slowly on the cardboard tasting protein bar between swallows from your mug you quickly scan the world headlines on your laptop screen. Disheartened at the current status of world affairs you shut down the laptop, slipping it into the readymade slot in your carry bag, a bag stuffed with paper files, pens, USB cords and CD’s, the essence of your professional world.


Shrugging into your leather coat and matching gloves, into your favorite shoes as you slide your IPOD touch into your breast pocket, slipping the tiny earphones into place you shoulder your carry bag, thumbing through your bus passes as you close the locked door behind you.


Welcoming the cold winter air with a frown you hurry down the street to catch the approaching city bus, the first leg of your journey towards the office where you will spend your day far above the busy streets below. Another frowning bus driver, another packed and cramped bus ride to the city train station, a station filled with faceless bodies. Heads turn simultaneously as the next train approaches, people force themselves into line, knowing exactly where their chosen door will open when the button is pushed.


Standing, sitting, cramming into the cramped confines of the train you find yourself turning up the volume on your IPOD touch, drowning the sounds of the train and those within, secretly wishing you could some how stop the smell of the train from entering your nostrils. Again you watch as the Transit Police exit the train with an unwilling patron with no valid pass to produce, looking back to the word game you’re idly playing on your Black Berry, trying hard to pass the half hour you must be on the train.




Finally your stop has come, slipping your Black Berry into your pocket you ready yourself to be pushed out of the train door, caught in yet another human landslide of bodies without faces, bumped and grinded out the door you go, back into the crisp winter air with a frown.


The sidewalk is slippery under your flat soled leather shoes and you begrudgingly clamber your way down the snowy street to your towering office building, considering with every step the growing pile of files on your already full desk. With a nod of recognition the security guard acknowledges your familiar face with a glance over his half read newspaper, the only one to notice your existence since you left the comfort of your home.


Into the elevator, staring blankly at the climbing red numbers displayed over head, 37, your destination, the place you find yourself spending nearly half your life, the floor where the knot in your stomach originated, the tiny 12 x 16 office where you find yourself wishing you were not.


The same group looks away from the morning circle of conversation, their morning excuse for the procrastination they habitually show towards the start of each day, looking over their coffee cups at you with the same bleak, unsmiling faces you see every morning. Nothing seems to change. Caught in the rut of an adventure less life, caught in the rut of a life you once longed for, a life you trained and schooled for.  Living in a land without faces.






Life in the wilderness, a life you may not understand, a life you most certainly will turn your nose up towards, a life you will state you could never live.


Imagine if you will, poking your head from beneath a mound of covers, quickly realizing the fire that once gave the tiny one room cabin its inner warmth has long since burned out, leaving your log dwelling as cold as the frosty wilderness beyond the door.


Frost rises from your breath as you lay preparing yourself for the inevitable flood of cold air that awaits you as you make a hasty exit from the warm depths of your bed. A quick rush across the room to the kindling pile, a huge handful of crumpled newspapers into the now cold fire box, the strike of a wooden match as it is artfully pitched into the awaiting pile of tinder and with staggering speed you hit the depths of your still warm bed to await the pleasant crackle and warmth of yet another morning’s fire.


Once the tiny fire has driven the cold from your cabin you feel it safe to again exit the depths of your handmade bed, shrugging into somewhat frosted clothes, half frozen boots and a coat that feels like it was constructed from cardboard you leave the confines of your tiny cabin, stepping into the sharp and frozen air of the rugged Canadian Wilderness.






Standing on the porch your gaze falls on the beautiful site of the snow covered mountains,  now shinning under the pink light of a clear and cold morning’s sunrise. Frost has blanketed everything in sight, glittering in the new morning’s light. The nearby spring gurgles and dances under the clear coating of crystal like ice, the only sound you hear until you step down from the porch and the frozen snow crunches under the weight of your feet.


Following the tiny path you have shoveled to the main lodge, you find yourself once a again standing in total awe and admiration of the sights that fall before you. Snow covered peaks, spruce trees heavily laden with a burdens of frozen snow, bowing under their burdens as if to greet you in some mysterious and solemn way. 


Shovel in hand you clear another snow drift off of the porch stairs, continuing to shovel around into the wood shed where, setting shovel aside, you load your arm with wood and head back to the kitchen door and into the lodge.


Stirring up a pile of  hot embers in the massive hearth you soon have a blaze kindled that casts it’s smoky heat into the main room of the lodge, driving the cool breath of another winter’s morning from the room while leaving a thick smoky haze hanging in the rafters. Heaping another arm load of wood into the hearth you ensure the birth of another day’s fire and the consumption of  another box load of wood.




The frozen axe handle in your hand burns your palm as you carry it across the yard towards the creek whilst two empty water buckets swing from the other hand. The cold weather freezes the water hole every night so it must be re-opened each morning before the buckets can be filled, two of the six buckets it will take to finish the day. Each swing of the axe sends a spray of sharp shards of ice  and water into the air as it smashes open the water hole once again and soon the buckets are full of beautiful spring water.


With the water buckets in their place on the counter and a pot of coffee starting to pop and hiss on the propane stove the start of a new day is well under way. The lodge is starting to warm and the smell of the smoke is starting to fade all though it never really leaves after 40 years of soaking into the logs.


Broom in hand you sweep the debris away from the front of hearth, remnants from the morning’s fire, and continue to sweep the kitchen and great room while you wait for the coffee pot to rise to a boil. As most mornings, the sound of the coffee boiling over onto the stove top alerts you that you’re once again too late and you make a rush to reach the foaming pot and snatch it off the flames.


A cup of cold water trickled into the top of the coffee pot to settle the grounds and there you have it, the best cup of mountain coffee a person can find anywhere within 50 miles.


Steaming cup of coffee in hand you head out onto the porch of the lodge to listen to the morning as you enjoy your hot black coffee. The calm, the distant silence, the gentle gurgle of the nearby creek, sounds of your world, the world you know by it’s sounds,  by it’s smells and it’s wind.


There are no sirens here, no roar from busy streets nor thick hanging cloak of smog, there is only wilderness. Mountains cascading from North to South, river valleys and ancient Spruce swamps, rocky peaks and dark timbered ridges. This is a land without faces.






After your second cup of coffee is finished attention swings to your morning chores. Horses need hay and grain, fire wood needs replenishing and pathways need shoveling.
These, the morning rituals of a life in the wilderness.


The horses have grazed their way down the valley away from home during the night but they will certainly be on their way back, looking for some fresh hay and a pail of rolled oats. Using a hand drawn sleigh 12 small square bails, each weighing around 60 lbs have been made into 30 piles in a large circle around the meadow. Once the sleigh is put back in its place each hay pile is topped with a large scoop of rolled oats from a 50lb sack, a sack which is empty of it’s contents by the time the circle is completed. With barn swept clean and a new mineral block set out the morning feeding is done.


The firewood pile behind the lodge is a huge stack of log rounds that where cut over the summer months and hauled to camp in the back of an old 4x4 pick-up truck. The rounds need to be individually split into quarters with an axe before being carted to the cabins in the hand drawn sleigh so heavy coat is set aside, shirt sleeves rolled up to the forearms and splitting axe is taken in hand.


The rhythmic sound of the axe solidly smacking into the frozen rounds echoes through the frigid air of the valley and after an hours work the sleigh is ready to play it’s part. Each block of wood was cut at a length of 20 inches in order to ensure a proper fit in the wood stoves in each of the 8 cabins, the blocks cut for the hearth were cut at 30 inches and were piled in a separate pile


With a well stacked sleigh load of wood in tow you round the corner of the lodge to see the horses all standing at a pile of hay happy eating their morning’s break fast. A quick and accurate head count tells you that all 25 head of horses are present, all appearing to be happy and in excellent condition. What a wonderful sight to see the frosty backs of 25 solid mountain horses standing in the meadow, each a trusted friend and companion.


The sleigh is laden with wood cut for the hearth so once parked in front of the lodge steps it is relieved of its burden one arm load at a time. The warmth of the lodge is a pleasant change from the -18 degree temperature outside and you feel your cheeks turn flush in the heat. Eight hefty arm loads of wood are required to empty the sleigh into the waiting confines of the large wood box standing in the far corner of the great room. The box is built to hold two sleigh loads so with a quick exit your headed, sleigh in tow and cookie in hand, headed back to the wood pile for another load.


As you round the corner of the lodge some distant sound catches your ear and you stop in mid stride, head cocked to the side listening with a tuned sense. Again the sound breaks the valley’s calm, far to the North the mournful call of a timber wolf rises in the icy air, the wolves are back, back to reek havoc on the resident moose and deer for a few weeks.


Now you work with one ear tuned to the North, often pausing to listen to the valley, tracking the wolves’ approach by the sound of their eerie call.


The duties of the wood boxes took considerably longer due to frequent stops to listen to the wolves as they drew nearer, but none the less each box was topped up and there was  extra split wood on hand.


The stove burner gives a woof as you lay a match to the gas and the coffee pot is set in place to re-heat, its long past due for another cookie or two from the jar too. With cookies in hand you quietly step out onto the porch of the lodge to listen to the valley. The calm silence of the frozen valley has an unsettled touch to it as you know full well you are not alone, you know that within a few hours the wolves will pass by the camp, pass by the horses.


Boiled coffee always seems to taste better on the second round and the cup in your hand is no exception, steam rising from it’s rim as you step back out onto the covered porch of the lodge, the cup warms your hand against the crisp air,  its amazing how comforting the warmth of a cup of coffee can be when a person will let it be, it almost warms your soul.


The horses’ are all alert, heads and ears constantly turning to the sounds of the valley, they too know the wolves are coming and they will not stray far from the meadow on this day, staying close to the safety of the camp. It is the ears you watch while you sip on your coffee, the horse’s ears are an amazing thing and when a person is observant enough to notice a raised head and pointed ears, it is a sure sign of a nearby presence in the woods.


The frigid air, the blue sky and frost covered trees, the steam rising from the spring, those sights send your mind traveling backwards in time, back over the 30 years you have spent in the mountains living the life of a wilderness guide and back country horseman, back to some of the wrecks you saw on the trail……..