A Land Without Faces

A man from the mountains and high country places where blue ribbon glaciers hang like time’s ancient veils.

Dark timbered basins and age hidden trails winding down through the valleys to where the South wind prevails.

The creak of my saddle, a cool breeze in my face, solemnly thankful to ride alone in this place.

A land long forgotten by today’s modern race, hidden from the hustle of life’s hasty pace.

Clear mountain spillways and soft singing brooks, nothing to fear from the world’s guiltless crooks.

High soaring Eagles and free roaming bears, living life’s wonders without debt laden cares.

A land without faces, empty and cold, no place for the timid, the weak nor the old.

A place seldom traveled by the empty at heart, those missing life’s lessons, deaf to the music of a Wapiti’s challenging cry.

I walk amongst you in your buildings of steel, a land without faces where a smile is surreal.

A place far to busy for a youngster to know, the warmth of a home life,  of a kitchen’s welcome glow.

A land without faces, filled with store fronts and greed, passing by the homeless and needy without the slightest of heed.

A land without faces, of multitude races, a land without hope, near the end of its rope.

Jammed city places, traffic that races, sirens wail, the wrong go to jail, gangs on street corners and over worked coroners, in your land without faces where life quickens by.

You pass each other with a cold hollow eye, never as much as a halfhearted “Hi”.

I walk amongst you as you search for your gold; you’re missing life’s treasures, forgetting the old.

With a deep rooted sadness, a life without gladness, you stumble down life’s rocky trail, destine to end up weak, timid and frail.

What of life’s lessons, the forgiveness of transgressions, the joy of helping those in need, the light hearted feelings of forgotten greed.

Your world without faces of small cubical places, has lost it’s

Lustrous glaze, as I find myself bewildered on your streets of a tangled maze.

A door held wide for some oncoming folks, “Yes ma‘am“, “No sir”, “Ma’am if you please”, you cast a sideways glance like I’ve a contagious disease.

Dark and weathered under this black Stetson hat, subject of your glances, pointed fingers and whispered chat. 

I am but a mystery, something odd and untold, dressed like an outcast, from the land of the old.

High topped boots, long riding coat, bright colored kerchief, weathered hat brim, cold piercing eyes from the shadows there in.

I find it now a burden to want to remain any longer in your world of fear and pain, for I long to return to my high country places, to a rough and unforgiving “land without faces.”

Written by;
Ron Arnett
"A man from the wilderness”

BIG DAN

It was late November when the cold air hit that year and when it came, it did so with serious intent, the temperature dropping well below -30 at night and never reaching a day time high of over -25.

 The river banks were already skirted with a layer of ice but when the Arctic air hit the ice thickened in a hurry and soon it reached out from either bank almost a third of the way across the 100 meter span of water.

The situation was this, there were 45 head of horses in the camp and they all had to somehow get across the river in order to be hauled safely to winter pasture far from the grips of a bitter mountain winter.

With the Arctic front intent on staying the situation soon became dangerous, the more the river was given a chance to freeze, the more precarious the attempt to cross with the horses would be for both horse and rider. We had to move them and we had to get mobile and move them fast.

The outfit manager was fairly new to the industry and was a little less than confident around horses so the whole idea of trying to forge the icy waters of the river in such poor conditions was unnerving for the poor fellow to say the least.

There were four men in camp and it was decided that we would all pitch in and halter the horses, tying them along the old log fence and to some of the trees standing in the large pen. Once the horses were all caught up and haltered one of us would then lead 5 horses tied head to tail across the river at a time, handing them off to a man waiting on the far bank.

The outfit had constructed a suspended walking bridge over the river for the men to use and there were several corrals built as a holding area on the far side so we were fairly well set up for the adventure. The only thing we needed was a gent willing to climb aboard a horse and try to cross the river.

I promptly volunteered for the task after a short talk with the other men, we each had our strong points on the crew, mine was being able to stay in the middle of a horse while doing just about anything.

The first horse I caught up was a big solid chestnut gelding who stood an honest 16 hands and was without a doubt the most solid looking mount in the entire herd. The manager of the place rightly told me the horse was an outlaw, that he had piled one of the men hired as summer help and had been turned out and not used again in 6 months.

The animal had a good eye about him, although he stood straight and faced a man without a touch of cowardice he was not a mean horse, I could just sense it from him. I led him to the far corner of the pen and tied him under an ancient pine tree. He stood calmly while I brushed him down and, although never taking his eyes off me, accepted my saddle without grudge. I tacked him snuggly but not tight and left him to stand under saddle while the other horses were caught and haltered.

The adventure of catching up the herd was just that, an adventure and with a little laughter and some serious cussing we had the last one tied off just in time for a mid-morning coffee and biscuit. The whole while we were catching up the other horses I’d kept an eye on the big chestnut standing under the pine and never once did he so much as twitch his tail in displeasure, he’d turn himself to watch the hoo-haa but he never showed a hint of mean.

The camp cook had fresh coffee and hot oatmeal cookies ready when we came into the lodge, that was right about the time the other men started in on how the ole’ chestnut horse was gonna tie me in a knot out there in the yard. The laughter and the teasing were all in good fun but in the back of my mind I already knew that if that big sonofagun came unglued on me I’d have to ride like a mountain lion to stay aboard.

With a gallon of hot coffee gulped down and half a dozen cookies each we departed from the warmth of the kitchen and out into the icy air and eye watering sunlight. The sky was bright blue and there were flakes of frost floating lightly in the air as they fell from the tree limbs above. The frigid air and heavy frost made everything look as if it were part of a painted scene, even the steam rising from the spring seemed to freeze in the air, an amazing day.

A horse can sense a man’s inner most feelings from a considerable distance and I knew the big fella would feel my insides being a little tight. He stayed as calm as a rock when I approached and untied him, never twitching a muscle. I led him out from underneath the trees and walked up into the main yard with him, he acted like he was quiet comfortable with the whole idea and when we stopped in the front yard of the lodge he dropped his head to nibble at some grass that was sticking up out of the snow.

I reached around and gently lifted my stirrup up to the horn and while talking easy to the him I gently gave the cinch an easy tug, he turned his head and looked at me when I gave the girth the tug and when I gave it the second one he dropped his head and rolled his eyes back, exploding into a whirlwind of kicking feet and flying stirrups. There was no way I could hold onto him and I didn’t even try, I just stood in amazement and watch the horse go bucking out of the yard with jumps that looked to be clearing the roof of the lodge. I know the look on my face was that of total amazement but when he came around the back side of the lodge still humped up and bucking while on a path straight towards me, well I can only imagine the look in my eyes then.

The goofy horse had bucked himself completely around the lodge and when he made full circle he came to a stop, snow covered and hair straight back. I eased up to him and once again he stood like a rock and watched me come, never so much as a twitch. Gathering the now frozen lead shank in my hand I led him around in a circle only to have him follow every step without fault.

I had no more time to waste with the consideration of the gelding’s mindset so I warmed the bit of one of my snaffle bit head stalls between my hands and slid it up into his mouth. This was not a good idea as far as he was concerned and with head raised and tongue flailing he proceeded to very agitated. I quickly took down the head stall from around his ears and slid the bit out of his mouth, as soon as I did so he stopped fussing around.

The messing around was starting to get me a little agitated as well so I made a loop of the lead shank around his thick neck and tied it off to the chin of his rope halter. I stepped him out a few steps, pulled him tight towards me and hoisted myself up into the saddle while he was turning sharp, once there in the middle of him I gave him his head and he stopped and stood still.

With both feet in the stirrups and as deep a seat as I could get I urged the big horse to step out with a gentle nudge from both legs. He stepped out without hesitation and never blinked as I rode him around the yard. We quickly decided that the real test for the big gelding we now called Dan would be the river so off we headed, me, Big Dan and three fella’s who were placing bets I’m almost sure. Even the cook decided to come down to the bridge and watch the crossing attempt, camera in hand.

There are several things we forgot to consider during our discussions surrounding the river crossing, the first was how to get the horses out onto the bank ice and once out there, how to get them down off the ice into the chest deep water. The second concerning factor was how to get the horses up onto the bank ice on the far side of the river while trying to scramble up out of the freezing water. Both issues were of serious nature and the situation was becoming more dangerous all the time.

With pick and axe the four of use broke loose dirt and gravel from the overhanging river bank and with shovels made a path as far out onto the ice as we dare for fear of falling through into the freezing waters. The dirt and gravel we cast out onto the ice gave considerable footing and we hoped the discoloration of the ice would help give the horses some confidents in their footing.

It getting past noon and in order to get everyone across the river in the safety of daylight we had to get moving. I once again slid up onto Big Dan’s back while turning him into me and once again he gave no contest. We eased down the icy trail towards the river, Dan’s feet slipping and sliding as we went, never knowing when he would lose his footing all together and crash to the frozen ground and ice below.

The last down ward pitch of the trail before it entered the river had become very icy under our boots, something we over looked in our haste, something we soon realized when Big Dan came sliding down around the corner on his haunches and out onto the bank ice with a crash.

When Dan slid out onto the bank ice his hind end dropped out from under him and we went down hard onto his right side. My leg went underneath him but not to the extent of causing me any grief. As fast as he went down he scrambled up onto his feet, his agility was amazing for such a large animal, I could feel his muscles coiled beneath me like steel springs. He was indeed a horse among horses.

It took little urging to get him to walk out onto the gravel trail we had built on the ice, his confidence was amazing, it was if he knew the challenge the same as I and was eager to play his part in the adventure. He walked like a cat out onto the ice, stopping only when it cracked under his feet as we neared the outer edges. Urging him to take another step was enough and when the step was taken we broke through the ice and plunged into the freezing waters.

The water was stirrup deep in an instant and Dan leaned into the current with a strong shoulder as I turned him towards the far bank, never did he question my intent, he only took to the task with incredible strength of heart. 

The freezing water boiled up around us as Dan pushed ahead, each powerful stride drawing us closer to the distant river bank, with each stride the water climbed his chest as the river’s depth grew, ice sheets floating by us as we moved ahead.

The icy water was considerably shallower on the far side and as we drew near the shelf of ice that skirted the bank I wondered to myself as to how we would manage to climb onto its slippery surface. My question was soon answered as Dan suddenly lifted a powerful foreleg and struck the ice with a solid blow, shattering the ice before us, breaking open a trail as if he’d done it many times before. Several times the big brute struck the ice before us, each time breaking free yet another mass of shattered pieces which were swept away by the current, clearing the path as we labored ahead.

When the far shore was finally reached Dan climbed the bank with a powerful lunge and I climbed down to give his legs and belly flesh a quick check, looking  for any serious cuts that may have occurred while he smashed his way through the ice. Free of any serious injury I once again climbed aboard the powerful horse, turning him back down into the icy waters, heading for the awaiting men on the opposite bank.

Once again when the shelf of ice on the distant shore was reached Dan smashed open a path with his powerful forelegs, sending water and icy shards into the air as he struck the ice with tremendous force and when the ice became thick enough to support our weight he scrambled up onto the surface like a cat on a hot tin roof.

Although the big chestnut was up to the challenges of the river crossing the first string of tailed horses we tried to coax out onto the river ice was far more reluctant and soon the string of 5 became a tangled mess of sliding kicking horses. In an attempt to straighten the mess out I dallied the lead shank around my saddle horn and touched big Dan with a spur, sending him ahead with a powerful lunge. We soon had the string behind us stretched out and skidding out onto the ice and once in the water they settled down right off and concentrated on their footing instead of how hard they could make a fuss.

One string after another we led across the river, each trip taking its toll on Dan and although his heart stayed strong I could feel the icy waters draining the strength from his powerful body. It was the fifth string we had in tow and we were very near to the middle of the river when a large sheet of ice came floating down on the fast moving current and slammed into the side of big Dan sending him sideways down the river with tremendous force. I was almost sure the force of the ice and water would most certainly topple the big horse sending me into the freezing water and in a fleeting effort to free us from the ice I turned him down stream, allowing the ice sheet to roll off his side with the current. The idea worked but the sharp edges of the ice left a nasty gash across his shoulder and once out of the river and free of the string I jumped down from his back to have a closer look at the wound.

When the ice sheet had rolled down his side it tore a gash through the hide of his shoulder and although it looked nasty it was only that, a tear in the hide about 6 inches long with no damage to the muscles below the surface.

The best thing for a cut on a horse is plenty of cold water and the wound in no way put him in any immediate danger so I climbed back aboard the big brute and we headed back to finish the job we’d started.

When we finally reached the river’s edge with the last string in tow the sun had set behind the snowcapped mountains and dusk was upon us, causing the temperature to drop once again to more than 30 below.

I elected to park Dan inside one of the horse trailers for the night out of the wind. With a gallon of grain in front of him and a fresh bale of hay I took my time rubbing him down with handfuls of soft bedding straw all the while talking softly to the big guy, thanking him for is gallant effort and his tremendous heart.

It had been a long hard day for both of us and once Dan was bedded and fed I headed back across the walk bridge towards a hot cup of coffee and my warm and welcome cabin, warmed by the fire the cook had kindled for me an hour or so before. Once out of my frozen chaps, ice cloaked riding coat and gloves I lay back on my bedroll had gave silent thanks for yet another adventure filled day living as a man from the wilderness.

Written by;
Ron Arnett
"A man from the wilderness"

 

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"