Very stiff this morning, Kathy's still in bed, think she's as tired out by this last week as I am. Guess having fun is too much work. Better watch what I say, she's gonna be on here a lot more from now on.
I've been working on this since about four this morning, about bug-eyed transferring photos and editing my notes, hope it makes sense. Some of the photos may be little blurred, that’s from being blown up in order to see their object a bit better.
Day one: Drove in Kevin’s monster pickup around the north side of Dos Cabezas Mountains along Interstate Highway 10, hauling four saddled horses in the trailer. I’m not riding one of those, however, as I prefer saddle mules, and another guy in the party is bringing two of those. Darned if I’ll bother with some unknown-quantity critter that might blow up at the first thing on the trail that it doesn’t fancy. About two hours on, we arrived at the junction we were looking for and turned east onto dirt and gravel. Sun was just edging over the horizon as we bounced off the asphalt, stopped for a couple of pictures, then continued on another hour.
Looking southeast from the dirt road into the hills
Saw dust rising from a narrow wash buried in mesquite and cottonwood trees, which turned out to be the rest of the group. Don’t know about anyone else, but I was relieved that it wasn’t border jumpers or smugglers. A hunter was killed by smugglers last year up in the Huachuca Mountains southwest of our location, and you never knew who you might run into out in the sticks these days. Takes another hour to get the animals and riders organized, then onto the trail we go, watch says 0745. The dogs yip and dash off to check the path ahead, never much out of sight but ever anxious for us to catch up with them.
We followed the shallow valley holding the wash, saw deer and jackrabbits scatter into the trees as we startled them. We could hear cattle in the distance, still hidden by the rolling hills, a flash of white on a far slope where a big ranch house and barn are located. Passed by a windmill and water tank, lot of deer and cattle tracks mixed with tire and foot prints around them. The deer are safe for now, as the next general season for this area starts in mid-November. A diesel engine started up near the house, clearly heard, as if it were much closer in the still air. Soon we see a dust tail cross the valley ahead of us, a blue-green truck headed our way. The host rancher stops briefly to say something friendly to our guides, then waves his cowboy hat at us as he drives past toward the road to town. The red-brown flour-dust settles slowly as we move on, coughing into our bandanas and hoping we don’t have any more contact with civilized machinery.
It’s mid-afternoon by the time we reach the main rock tank of the upper range. Fall colors are turning the canyon into a sprawl of wild shades, reflected into the calm pool of fresh cold water. Looks more like a postcard than reality. After a long morning of ride-walk-ride-walk cavalry fashion, a sandwich off of the saddle feels like heaven, though my joints and butt don’t stop complaining any while I’m earthbound. Can’t say I’m not having fun, though.
Tank
Hard to tell that we’ll be in a damper clime as we follow the trail farther up into the foothills, but the mix of foliage is odd even here, desert scrub and cacti with a single juniper or aspen scattered here and there, which will change to Ponderosa Pine farther up. We can see pine needles and reddened leaves in the creek feeding the tank, with trout huddling lazily at its rocky bottom. If nothing comes of the hunt, I’ll easily settle for a day or so of peaceful browsing, with a little garlic and spices for the fire’s spit-cooked meals.
Looking up the trail from the tank
Sure enough, the warmth of the bright day was slowly thinned by afternoon cottonball clouds, the shadows of the increasing trees deepening as we climbed. The southwest turned gray and depressing, the sun throwing shafts of light across the lower desert in rug patterns, a rain shower inclosing the twin-heads of Dos Cabezas like a top hat. It would be a close-run thing to make camp before we got wet. We made it, barely. The rain started as dusk settled over the clearing we had found, tapping on the paraglider-cloth of the tipi-style tents and sizzling against the warming stove pipes. I got one last picture of a sunset rainbow, then ducked inside as a light rain began. Most everyone had turned in as I hung my wet oilskin from a peg on the center post nearest the stove, cased the camera and sat on my cot to eat some crackers and cheese. The rain wasn’t enough to worry about, the majority sweeping to the north toward Bowie and the New Mexico border, but still noisy. One of the hounds crawled over to lean against me, shaking a little from the thunder. I read for a while by LED lamp, ignoring the knats that bounced off its lens in mad rushes, then threw a spare army blanket under the cot for the dog and rolled up in my bag. He snored louder than the other hunters, but I wasn’t listening for long. After a time, the rain seemed to quiet down, and the lightning show passed over the mountains to the northeast…
Storm moving in from the southwest
Posts: 2410 No Commercial Interest Location: Willcox, Arizona, USA
Posted: Mon Oct 22, 2007 3:10 pm Post subject:
Day two: Sunlight hitting the treetops and the smell of breakfast woke me. Tim was cooking the only fresh eggs we brought on the stove as I peeked out of the bag’s hood, not relishing the prospect of emerging into cold air. Might as well get on with it, I thought, but the tent was very warm, not at all like the mornings spent under a tanker’s tarp that I remembered. My cloths felt slightly damp from the night’s humidity, but that was soon gone as I ate and selected my kit for the day’s tracking (I hoped). I didn’t like the extra weight, but the weather was too unpredictable to leave my oilskin coat behind. The hound kept getting in my way as I cleaned up and wandered about the camp, and I was soon being followed by all four mutts. A little irritating when you have to walk out with shovel in hand and find a bit of cover, but their handler didn’t seem to care. Guess I’ve been adopted.
The boys split into groups looking for various game to fill their respective tags, the bear guys heading for country that favored their stalk-and-ambush methods, the ridges that fade down to grazing and water sources from elevated cover and game bedding sites, while the rest followed the first pair of dogs into the higher crags. We’d be going opposite from them, south and staying along the upper hillsides, looking to cross a puma’s scent among the rocks and brush that give good views of potential game trails. Tim stayed with me and one of the guides, hoping his rifle could do what my bow might not be in a position to. The other guide, a White Mountain Apache named Floyd (?), took Kevin and another hunter up higher into the hills, thinking they’d at least have a chance to shove a cat down our way if nothing else. Their dogs ran off snuffling and harrumphing into the morning mists, and ours strained against their leashes, bolting nearly out of sight among the scrub pine as we trotted after them.
Alligator Juniper with weird twisted trunk
Hours later, the wind had come up and a wash that was nearly invisible suddenly appeared at the feet of the dogs, steep and rock-strewn. The two mutts dashed across with no hesitation, splashing the Apache (damned if I could pronounce his name, even if could remember it) and huddling in a bunch on the other side. Tim and I followed more slowly on our mounts, my mule stopping for a drink in mid-stream no matter what I might do. Not that I tried to coax him, I knew better than to rush one of these fellows when he was involved in what he considered a survival action. Besides, they bite. Mine had four tie-and-cut knots in his tail, an old cavalry sign that he’d bitten or kicked someone four times. In the old days that would’ve meant a quick trip to the glue factory, but his owner had told me that was from when they’d used him as a pack mule. I wondered if that was BS for my benefit, but I didn’t take chances or turn my back, either. He finally finished, sloshing like an old drain barrel as he sauntered out of the creek, much to my relief.
Creek
“Looks like they’re on something, got a print here!”
The dogs were moaning, zinging back and forth along the stream bank in a huff, tugging our Indian guide first one way, then another. How the heck they could track in a stiff breeze I’ll never know, but they’d gotten a whiff of a kitty, all right. The prints were obvious in the damp soil and sand, half trampled by the dogs in their enthusiasm but several still clear as we rode up. From the depth of the impressions and the girth, the lion was fairly large though not anywhere near a record.
Tracks
The fact was that we weren’t looking for a big trophy-type, anyway. The younger cats were the problem children, without much of an experience-driven respect for humans or their stock and pets. Just a few weeks previously, a young puma had charged a Border Patrol Agent south of Tucson, apparently figuring that the officer, being alone and paying more attention to the illegals he was trailing than he should’ve, was fair game like any other animal. The agent’s pistol fire didn’t connect but scared off the lion before either had been hurt. A lot of cats were like that now, and more so as people’s homes crept farther into the wilderness.
Tim grinned at me, and I gripped the longbow tighter as we followed the Apache, the hounds leading him into the weaving pines along a narrow trail. We’d gotten extremely lucky, having expected to circle about for sign over a couple of days. Puma territories were vast, and the less mature cats could wander hundreds of miles looking for places that had potential hunting grounds or had few established cats to butt heads with. This one appeared to be a regular around here, and that was confirmed when the dogs went nuts at a rock outcrop that served the local kitties as a territorial marker. Even I could smell the fresh litterbox odor, though the urine stains were dry when we rode up. Our particular lion was probably a day ahead at most.
We spent that night on the only flat part of a stony slope that we could find, huddled under our tarps and sharing our warmed-up ration packets with our guide, whom we had finally taken to calling Tanner. It seemed appropriate since that was the only part of his Apache moniker that we could come close to pronouncing. He’d made it clear that we wouldn’t catch this cat today, its trail still leading far ahead of us as the sun had started to set. All we could do was make sure that we had no shelving points immediately above us that the puma could use to backtrack and pounce from. The Ponderosas acted as a shield over our heads, and the rock ledges above were set back from the flat, so we fed the mounts from their nose bags and tied them to trees that held up our tarps, close enough to touch their hobbles from our sleeping bags. Didn’t like the potential of getting stomped, but the animals were our alarm system in case the cat showed up. Tanner said as we turned in that they would most likely smell the cat if it approached. I wondered about that, the ripe odor of half-digested grass and feed-grain wafting over us. That mule farted any more often, and we’d have to declare a biohazard zone despite the wind. Not that the dogs cared, they just curled up as close between the bags as they could and started ripping logs, better than a fire despite the occasional kick. Sounds like a weird title for a novel, With Dreaming Dogs I Sleep…
Posts: 2410 No Commercial Interest Location: Willcox, Arizona, USA
Posted: Mon Oct 22, 2007 3:56 pm Post subject:
That's me, old technophobe. Not quite as bad as my motherinlaw, at least.
Day three: The fickle mountain winds had eased off sometime in the night, and we had a clear and colder morning to break camp. It wasn’t long before the mutts had turned into hounds on a close trail, howling and barking their hunting song among the crags and stunted pines. Thankfully, we were still behind them and within earshot, though it had looked dicey several times. Tim’s appaloosa was as sure-footed as my mule, but we’d both been nearly stopped cold several times by old slides or a chasm that narrowed the track to almost impossible dimensions. We’d had to pull our legs up to make that one, and the mounts had still scraped leather along its wall. Several hours of the morning were now gone, and we were finally getting closer to all the noise ahead. It was a startling sight just the same, as we climbed into a narrow clearing lined with scrub pine.
Frankly, I was surprised that the lion had treed, considering that there were only two dogs at its back. She was almost fat and had a nice pelt, not pregnant, just recently well fed from the look. Not surprising from what we’d heard from the ranchers here about losing stock. The way she was perched in that pine, she was already thinking that she’d goofed up royally and should jump down before something worse came along besides a couple of noisy dogs.
But she saw us first, and let a hissing scream out that momentarily hushed the frantic dogs below her. I managed to snap a picture, then dropped the camera on its neck lanyard to reach for an arrow. If I didn’t get a broadhead into that thing quick, she could jump, slice up both mutts, gut my mule and be out of sight in the time it takes to say reflex/deflex.
Just before the leap
I never got the chance.
The fletching was brushing against the riser of the longbow, I could actually feel it when I released, as a thunderclap seemed to strike next to my right ear. The limb which the cat was about to launch from disintegrated into bullet-shattered slivers, the lion dropping out from under the passing arrow and hitting the rocky ground feet-first with a thump my deafened ears never heard. All we then saw was a tan blur leaping over a rock outcrop and disappearing into the jumbled granite maze of the mountainside. Nobody, not even the animals, was breathing for minutes afterward. I finally let out a shuddering breath, a cloud of moisture flicking the mule’s ears.
That’s when my cell phone started vibrating. I slowly pulled it out of my jacket pocket, staring silently at Tim as he levered a smoking cartridge out of his .30-30. His face was redder than my saddle blanket.
“Yeah, Kevin?”
The voice on the other end was stuttering with excitement or worry, or a little of both.
“We heard it, man! Wwwwwe heard it, dddddid ya get one?”
I couldn’t say a word, so I hung up.
Day four: We’d gotten back to camp with the dawn, having slept overnight on the trail back. Since the noise and commotion of our “hunt” was likely to have startled every puma within three counties out of the neighborhood (and I was flat out too disgusted at the moment), I told Tim to see if he could catch up with the rest of the troop and try to fill his cat tag in fresher territory. Tanner didn’t look too thrilled about leading Tim around, but he didn’t have much choice either. At least I didn’t have to hold myself in when looking at my cousin-in-law for a couple of days. I don’t think he wanted to stay in my company anyway, since I’d gone quiet. Tim hadn’t been around me that often, but he seemed to know that the fuse was burning and he had better make himself scarce for a while.
The winds had come up again and, though the camp was fairly tidy by military standards, I still had to scramble to fully secure the tents and other loose equipment, hopefully without mixing up people’s personal gear. I just stuffed everything inside the tipis, figuring they could sort it out when they all got back. Nothing had disturbed the bear-proof ration boxes, thankfully still hanging in a big Ponderosa pine by a block-and-tackle, so it didn’t take too long to straighten the area out. I finally sat back on my cot against my sleeping bag and relaxed with a history book, trying to get yesterday out of my mind.
While puttering around the campsite, it had suddenly occurred to me that we’d escaped more than just an unhappy puma. If both our animals hadn’t simply frozen in place out of sheer fright when the shot had gone off, instead of leaping out of their skins, the ranchers would’ve been scraping us off the rocks below the cliff. Neither horse nor mule had been trained to stay calm when a gun was fired from the saddle, at least as far as I know even today. They do have a natural tendency to freeze when confronted by a predator, though, and the round going off may have just cemented that instinctive reaction at the opportune moment. Well, it was a good guess anyway. We were still kicking, and that’s what counted. I spent the rest of the day fielding cell phone calls from the guys and from family members, relaying how each hunt was progressing, but saying little about how my own had concluded even when I called Kathy. Or had it? We’d just have to see about that, wouldn’t we…
Posts: 254 No Commercial Interest Location: Willcox AZ USA
Posted: Mon Oct 22, 2007 4:58 pm Post subject:
that last pic is a stock photo which i found for him, according to steve very like what he tried to take, but he'd forgotten to change memory chips by that time. told you i had to show him how to work that camera.
Club: N/A Bow: Browning Micro Midas III Sight: none Arrows: Carbon Force Accesories: stab and release
Berniethebolt Moderator
Posts: 1963 No Commercial Interest Location: Gilford, N.Ireland
Posted: Mon Oct 22, 2007 6:41 pm Post subject:
You know how to bring a man down Kathy
_________________ Don't look down on anyone unless your helping them up.
P.S Bernie is short for Bernadette lol
Posts: 2410 No Commercial Interest Location: Willcox, Arizona, USA
Posted: Mon Oct 22, 2007 11:44 pm Post subject:
Day five: Hosted a couple of the boys in from the hunts up north, fixed breakfast and sent them back out, telling them I’d probably not be here later on as I had plans to explore the area by mule-back and would camp out overnight. They went back to the mountains feeling sorry for me, not knowing that I’d come to the conclusion that a little solitary venture was nearly as fulfilling as collecting a puma skin. Nobody else had caught even a glimpse of a mountain lion as yet, and I didn’t really expect much more than that unless somebody glassed one across a valley.
I saddled Kickme (Honest, that’s his name, and quite appropriate for a mule.), glad that I’d insisted on borrowing an Australian/McClellan saddle instead of a heavy Western style (http://www.aussiesaddle.com/Aussie%20leather.html), and idled out of camp after leaving a note telling of my intention to travel back south along our original trail. The morning mists clung to the pines, dew tapping the branches and weighting the needles with its tears. Squirrels chittered and scrambled in the undergrowth, looking for last-minute winter rations among the scattered Ponderosa cones. Turkey geeked across the trail like pedestrians warily navigating a crosswalk on a busy street, one fluffing in display for some hidden birds. The sour smell of a bear-rub made the mule nervous until we passed out from under the trees into open sky. Still, no hurry getting anywhere. I wanted to feel the passage of the season, the routines of wilderness without rushing about in a huff.
Turkey
By the time we had wandered several miles down the valley, I had three squirrels hanging from the saddle rings, enough for a good stew that evening. The ultra-light small-game arrows I’d made up had worked well, and standing in the stirrups gave me enough altitude to pick the little rascals off the lower branches. I stopped off when we reached the weird mixture of juniper, cactus, aspen and cottonwood below the main tree line, took a plastic bag and stuffed the meat in it, after I skinned and cleaned the carcasses in the nearby creek. I left the remains on a stump as far off the track as I could without getting lost, an offering to the locals for their brothers’ sacrifice, then went on. I saw ravens waiting in the trees as I left, eying the residuals for a scant meal. They grumbled amongst themselves, probably discussing whether to keep following us was worth possibly wasting their time or grab the remains first, and the squawking continued long after we ambled away. I doubt if they left the treat alone for long.
Ravens
The recent rain had swollen the creeks, and the ground was softly slippery as we traveled, the mule making disgusted noises whenever his hoof skidded a bit or sank too deep in mud. I could tell that he was happier when the trees thinned and more desert flora began to appear. The puddles, frozen this morning but now thawed, became scattered and I could feel the moisture evaporating in the drier air, though it held a chill within the shadows. Down in Willcox, the day would be warmer, while up here it was already near-winter and you didn’t take your coat off unless you had to work. Many layers always work best in the bush.
We finally arrived at the tank, and I immediately placed the bag of meat in the water, weighted down to chill until dinner time. After hobbling the mule in a place he could graze easily, I then set up my tarp in lean-to fashion several dozen paces from the water, using rain poncho and mattress as ground-cloths. Since the wind would likely blow at any time up here, I rigged break walls to either side, made of deadwood and grass weavings. Somebody had constructed a tiny fire pit or trench of rock, well used over time by the look, so I gathered more deadwood as fuel and piled bark shavings and dry leaves in it for the coming meal. I filtered a small pail of water, made a back brace to relax against, and did other camp chores as I watched the sun go from 1300 to 1600 by my watch. A slight breeze began to blow down from the canyon above, the trees rustling and bowing slightly, an invisible whirlwind spinning a few multicolored leaves into the tiny lake. Walden Pond never could’ve looked more serene. All I needed was Thoreau’s famous cabin and I could stay a year or two, but the only building nearby was an old miner’s shack, long disused and smelling of skunks and rodents. A couple more days in the mountains wasn’t worth expending energy on a wikiup, but I’d keep the option in mind for an emergency.
Fire pit and accessories
Instead, the shavings were lit by fire piston and felt tinder, the meat tossed in the pail to boil with wild onions and a few spices, and I watched the spectacular sunset that Arizona was so well known for, its eerie light turning the landscape Mars-red for a few fleeting minutes. Almost on cue with the last flash of light, the wind eased as the temperature dropped and the toads joined in a chorus greeting the oncoming darkness, the red sun having left behind a sky painted in cake layer-shades of violet and purple. An owl hooted up in the canyon, and the scrounging of fearless packrats made the evening seem alive with many feet. A fish plopped out in the tank, disturbing the watery mirror in an expanding ripple that made the first star reflected in it seem to dance a jig.
It all seemed so familiar, rousing memories of the elk and bear-hunting journeys of my youth, and I half-expected the dry chuckling of my Uncle George to sound from the remuda, while easing some nervous horse’s fear of the night. Those cold evenings among the northern Rockies along the Idaho/Canadian border, filled with quiet laughter and wood-smoke and tales told by the Nez Perce wranglers of city-hunters brought out to the wilderness, were wrapped in the memory of Hudson Bay blankets and saddle pads before a fire. I could feel the scratchy warmth of hand-me-down wool shirts and army-surplus field pants, the hard security of ancient leather chaps and saddlebags under my tired head, the sweet-tart smells of horse-sweat, saddle soap and fresh dung, the loud snap and sudden spark of wood quick-drying in the flames, the hiss of a snowflake landing on a cooling iron griddle, the trusty reassurance of a gunstock beside my bed roll. So real, yet so far away in time and place.
So the ghosts of old treks rose and fell, leaving a few tears drying on my cheeks along with the Arizona dust, while shadows danced across the water of the tank, turning the juniper and aspen trunks a sullen orange-red. I fell asleep, awaking once and looking out to see Orion wheeling into sight above the black mountains. Another old friend, his dog-star trailed through many a clouded evening among the hills of my youth. The owl seemed to become louder in its calls as I dozed off again, greeting the celestial archer as a welcome companion on its own hunts…
Steve B Admin
The Original Archers Rest Webmaster & Co-Admin Australasia Area Rep (ABA - IFAA)
Posts: 4103 No Commercial Interest Location: Victoria, Australia
Posted: Tue Oct 23, 2007 7:21 am Post subject:
Steve, Bro, fantastic stuff. Your field notes are very like the way Fred Bear does em I am enjoying this very much thankls for sharing the story, Trouble is the "ladies" keep butting in
Club: Phoenix Field Archers of Sale. Victoria , Australia Bow: Bowtech Commander Sight: Copper John Ants Arrows: Gold Tip Pro's Accesories: Carter Just-B-Cuz
Berniethebolt Moderator
Posts: 1963 No Commercial Interest Location: Gilford, N.Ireland
Posted: Tue Oct 23, 2007 7:25 am Post subject:
It's that what where here for Steve B lol
That last Photo is lovely
_________________ Don't look down on anyone unless your helping them up.
P.S Bernie is short for Bernadette lol
Posts: 254 No Commercial Interest Location: Willcox AZ USA
Posted: Tue Oct 23, 2007 1:16 pm Post subject:
it's alright, steve, he's used to us by now. he can't sleep on his 'back' at the moment, so i think we might have this to ourselves today, office chairs being what they are.
oops, spoke too soon, he's on the net box. goodee, can fix breakfast now.
Club: N/A Bow: Browning Micro Midas III Sight: none Arrows: Carbon Force Accesories: stab and release
segolden Moderator
Posts: 2410 No Commercial Interest Location: Willcox, Arizona, USA
Posted: Tue Oct 23, 2007 1:45 pm Post subject:
Day six: The dawn was chilly and damp, with ice-dew dripping on the tarp from the juniper overhead as the sun touched it. Ground squirrels popped out of their hidden dens and wondered if I was a danger to them, then tentatively dashed for cover in the brush. It was a good time to pray, I’d told myself while washing my hands in the cold lake water and saying the blessing. The rituals seemed so much more meaningful when out under God’s sky. It was almost disappointing to put away the shawl and phylacteries, the air hushed as if in reverence and the sun looking hesitant to peek through the pines far above in the canyon. Perhaps a strange place for a Jew to be, but my kind have wandered the earth for millennia and always found Him wherever we happened to be. It’s not the place that counts, only the moment.
The night’s coals barely glowed among the ashes, but I stirred them up, placed a few sticks on them and polished the pail in the stream for a morning soup, throwing a packet of Raman chicken noodles and a few meat scraps into it as the fire caught. While the meal warmed, I washed a bit and scratched where my beard was starting to grow out again. The cold water made my face ache, but got some of the dust off. At least I didn’t have any ticks or fleas that I could find, and the mosquitoes were gone along with the warmer weather.
It was as I stirred the soup that I heard something break a branch deeper up and into the canyon. A sharp snap, much too loud to not be a thing of some size. I strung the bow and found a broadheaded shaft, just in case, then carefully walked along the edge of the trail. Kickme wasn’t too happy about being left in hobbles when he obviously smelled whatever it was, but I didn’t want him taking a hike if I needed him, so he’d just have to stand there and make obnoxious noises until I got back.
The slight wind was in my face, and I smelled him myself long before I caught a glimpse of him, cautious and hesitating among the brushy undergrowth. He was pretty young, barely out of cub-dom and vanished immediately when I yelled, but typical of most black bears. He must have been used to seeking food at campsites to get so close, as bear-hunting was common in the mountains and should’ve made him more wary. Maybe he’d learn his lesson this time, ducking from the noise and rocks I tossed at him. I still had another night up here, and I didn’t need a clumsy bruin keeping us up all night and wondering whether he might attract others. I never saw or heard his like again, however. Good thing really, as I didn’t have a bear tag, and the longbow wasn’t heavy enough in draw weight to be bear-legal under Arizona law, though I knew better. Anything that can deck a puma or deer will rock a black bear’s world, but that’s a bureaucrat for you. They need a hunting season for idiots in suits around here…
While I was investigating my visitor, I ran across several interesting rock outcrops along the track, and decided to do a bit of amateur geology later on after breakfast. I found a nice geode and a couple of quartz crystals, wrapping them in my towel and packing them into the saddle bags. I’ve found some pieces of petrified wood and other stuff in the hills before, and now had a few more specimens to add to the collection. Kathy will like these, as long as I do the dusting. Wish she were here to see all this…
Geode
One or two cottontails jumped out of the grass as I walked about, and seeing that they were much more numerous than around the old homestead, I nocked an arrow again and slowed myself to a stealthy (for me) pace. Rabbit is very nice and much tastier when wild, though still much too lean to eat without some additional things in the pot. As usual, I shot over the next rabbit on my first effort, but the following coney gave me a nice broadside target as he galloped to my left. It was great fun, almost like swinging a shotgun at clays. By the time I could see the sun a hand’s width above the Dos Cabezas Mountains to the west, two more cottontails were in my game bag, ready to be butchered and bagged before dinner. I’d nearly lost one arrow that shaved the backside of another rabbit in its flight, but it wasn’t much of a problem finding it, thankfully. We’d all be out of the area next day anyhow, and I now had enough meat for several more days if things got unexpectedly rough. With mountain weather, you just never took chances.
Time had passed unusually quickly as I snooped around the area, hoping among other things to find a few signs of the Indians who had no doubt used this place themselves, but nothing turned up. Arrowheads and pottery shards are plentiful in many places scattered among the mountains, but I couldn’t have taken anything home, even though this was private property up here. Silly laws and Native-American politics make souvenir hunting inadvisable these days. It was fun to explore, though, and it passed the time through an MRE-lunch and near to dusk. Before the light faded too much, I loosed an arrow into the trees above the tank, a sort of tribute to the Old Ones, Red or White, who had made the mountains their home and whose bones even now might be looking down upon me from hidden burials among the rocks. The metal head and feathers wouldn’t last too long out here, unlike flaked stone and worked clay, but the carbon shaft might be around to puzzle some future archaeologist.
The idea of fishing recurred, and the taste of fresh trout was a pleasant thought in my mouth for a few moments. The tank lazed in the fading afternoon, an expanding ripple here and there on its surface as a fish rose to snag an insect, but it was getting late for that kind of hunt, and I hadn’t brought any fishing arrows or sufficient line. If I’d been staying longer I could’ve made fish traps, but it wasn’t worth the labor at this point. As the rayed light cast final shadows over the hills around, I got the fire going. A hodgepodge of items from the ration leftovers, sweet pine nuts and the last of the squirrel meat, spitted and wrapped in fresh-ground cornmeal flour, settled me nicely into my sleeping bag, to watch the galaxy spin into sight as the red sunset ended and gradual darkness framed a panorama of stars. The owl liked what it saw, hooted a few times and went silent. A rabbit squealed its death song, feathers rustled the fallen leaves nearby, and I drifted off while musing that life and death were a constant out here, that we all had to feed on something…
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Better watch what I say, she's gonna be on here a lot more from now on. 
good thing i taught him how to use the camera first, at least he didn't break it, heh. 
