|
|
|
|
|
"The
Episode at Coyote Hill"
About #$%@* years ago, I had the opportunity to get in on a week long "Survival Outing". Real live Mountain Man stuff! Nothin' to eat but what you shoot or catch or gather. This was in September of 19*#. Starting to cool, but warm enough during the day.
My regular outfit back then was moccasins, breechcloth and legging's. I almost never wore a shirt. I carried my rifle and shooting bag everywhere I went. My camp name or buckskinnin' handle back then was "White Man who falls on Ass" although most called me "Wumwufoa", which is the phonetic pronunciation of the acronym. (W.M.W.F.O.A.) Or just "Wumwuf" for short.
All in all, there were about 12 or 13 of us on this particular outing and things were really looking positive. We were camped in a primitive area, several miles from the nearest road with a couple of lean tos' for shelter. We had a high of 75 degrees on the Thursday we started. And we had our guns and plenty of powder and lead... That's as far as the positive part went...
On Thursday night, it started raining. When we crawled out from under our blankets Friday morning there was 8 inches of fresh snow on the ground. But, hey! We were roughin' it like Bridger and Carson and we were in good shape! Especially, after I borrowed a buckskin shirt so my "stipples wouldn't nick out."
Anyway, we were having a great time except that no one could find anything to kill! I guess the snow storm had run all the critters back into their holes. And being as how it was a wet snow, it didn't take much time to get soaked to the skin. So we spent a lot of time hunkered around the fire talking about how nice it would be not to have to spend all our time hunkering around the fire. And boy, wouldn't it be nice if a big ol' 12 course meal would wander into camp just looking for someone to eat it!
It snowed another 4 inches on Saturday and we decided that maybe we oughtta' start gettin' serious about finding something to kill, before "Fat Jenkins" started getting REAL hungry. Besides being an eating machine, "Fat" was also one of the best stalkers I've ever known. He was 5'6" tall, nearly that wide, and could move like a ghost. He was phenomenal!
Anyway, Sunday morning we split into 3 groups of 4 with one man left in camp to tend the fire and hog tie any stray 12 course meals that happened to wander by. We hunted pretty much all day long and finally managed to take 8 or 9 rabbits. The man we left in camp said he didn't see so much as an after dinner mint, let alone a 12 course banquet - We accused him of sleeping on the job&ldots;
After an unfortunately light meal, supplemented with judicious applications of Taos Lightning and Grumpy's "Moon Juice", we turned in under the light of a nearly full moon. Since my leggings and borrowed shirt had become soaked, I took them off and hung them over a bush at the edge of camp, then crawled between my blankets with my rifle and shooting bag close to hand. (Like a REAL Mountain Man!)
About 4 O'clock the next morning, I awoke to the sound of laughter. When I roused up and asked what the hell was going on, Stinky pointed at a coyote running up the side of the steep hill to the west. I looked and sure as heck, it WAS funny to watch! Every few steps the poor critter would stumble like he was getting tangled up in something, and slide back down the hill a few feet.
All of us were up by then, laughing like fools at the misfortune of that poor, dumb beast. Then I happened to glance at the bush where I'd left my legging's... Then I looked back at the coyote... Then back at the bush - GIMME BACK MY LEGGINS, YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!!
Well, I grabbed my rifle and took off on a dead run. Behind me I could hear someone hollering "Get 'im, Wumwuf, sic 'im boy!" And raucous peels of laughter.
The temperature had dropped during the night and what had been WET snow was now DRY ice. After falling twice I discarded my rifle, considering it to be an impediment to my progress. Not to mention the fact that it hurt like hell when I landed on it! Having lost sight of the coyote, I had no idea that he had dropped my leggins and headed for parts unknown.
The guys in camp were still hollering things like "Sic 'em, Wumwuf!" And "Yer a gainin' on 'im now, hoss!" in between snorts of laughter.
I was roughly half way up the hill (about 250 feet) when I slipped for the third (and last!) time. All I remember is my feet going up in the air and blurry scenery. Needless to say, I came back to camp considerably faster than I left it... Luckily, my breechcloth caught on a snag on the way back down and slowed my progress enough that I didn't slide completely through camp.
...I don't remember who finally fetched my leggings for me, but I do seem to recall that it was a couple of days before I could stand to wear 'em again, what with the Major league rug burns I'd picked up from sliding on the ice. The bright spot was that I killed a nice doe while laying on my blankets in camp later that morning while everyone else was out hunting. (The only thing I can figure is that all the howls and laughter had made her curious.)
All in all, our "survival outing" was a success, although for some reason we never tried it again. The snow had melted almost completely by the time we hiked out, and except for the psychological ones, I have no permanent scars.
Now after nearly twenty years, I still (as you might imagine) have yet to live this episode down. Although the fact that I don't hang around with any of those guys any longer makes the memory easier to live with.
And, oh yes, someone did have the presence of mind to snap a few pictures of my wild "ride". ...But fortunately they all came out blurry...
Don
Jus'Me McCrary, Formerly Wumwufoa (AKA The Kansan)
|
