Pack and Unpack You r Gear Yourself: There are many jokes about hunters forgetting to pack essential equipment, or for finding odd things when they unpack. My wife and I saw this story unfold while sitting looking out the aircraft window while luggage was unloaded in Juneau, Alaska. It did not take many mental gyrations to contrive a cruel ending to the story. A Baggage Handler's Revenge Pink and flowered silky undies tumbled gaily with fluttering flair- Then a white lacy thing marched down the plane’s conveyor. Bellowed German tourist Hilda, rocked with childish delight, “Da geht ein Bustenhalter” as the duo passed of into the night. The baggage handler snatched the pair with sheepish glee And soon all the left-side passengers could plainly see That from his shirt pocket the delight dangled so bold, As more suitcases cascaded down into Juneau’s rain and cold. First embarrassment showed as he looked up to the plane Where fifty window pressed faces studies his dainty gain. Then his face relaxed to a grin, a smirk, to mischievous delight – As if to say “Watch – I think I’ll have some evil fun tonight! A hunter’s fine cammo bag passed along, targeted to be snared. “Coveralls” opened the side zipper and tucked in the orphan pair. “She’ll not miss these – it’s just her poor luck or his providence, But one poor chap will pay for this incriminating evidence. Tomorrow some unknowing guy will find he’d been deftly had After his wife unpacks the big hunting chief’s traveling bags! No dinner, wine, roses, music or warm after work embrace. Just a terse note: “Some souvenir! Moved to mother’s place! ”Hunter, heed some friendly advice off observation’s shelf. Keep your zippers locked! Unpack bags secretly by yourself! Or, in the future you may pay the price to innocently find Your self a victim of a devious baggage handler’s devilish mind! (Copyright1995 P. Groth) Trail Side Horse Hullabaloo The hunt continues year round as comrades meet. Sometimes sharing post-hunt stories straight-faced with friends over meals can be most difficult. By April Jerry was suspiciously tardy in communicating. We met for breakfast and Jerry apologized. The delay was because he was just trying to get his dazzling ordeals recollected, disentangled in his mind, and organized in the proper events and time sequences. ​ Jerry and one hunting companion borrowed four horses and drove from Denver to southwestern Colorado a week before the first elk season. They intended to cache most of their camp at a remote site seven miles from the trail head. They scoped the landscape and saw large numbers of elk grazing the mountainside near their intended camp area. Elation grew – this was going to be one heck of an elk hunt! Little did they know that would prove true. They made two trips up the narrow creek-side trail, found an ideal campsite and cached their supplies. A concerted courteous effort was made not to infringe on locations used by outfitters. Then they drove the long trip back to Denver. The following Wednesday Jerry and two friends were again at the trail head with four horses. They intended to ferry the remaining supplies on Thursday and set up camp Friday. Jerry rode last leading a packhorse that was not inclined to move with gusto. It was constantly pulling backward, which greatly annoyed, but more importantly tired, Jerry’s mount. Jerry’s horse slowed, shuddered and collapsed on the trail. ​ At this point Jerry commenced to worry. The horse lay on its side with outstretched legs and neck. This is not the way living grown horses lay. Jerry could not see the horse breathing, and nudges with a foot produced no reflex. “Heart attack!” Now I will have to buy a horse for the owner." Jerry contemplated how other hunters would be pissed off with a dead, putrefying, horse-spooking carcass sprawled across the single, narrow valley trail. They salvaged the saddle and debated to meet objectives with one less horse to ride. Somebody will have to walk. In about half an hour the dead horse began to lightly twitch. With more time, it wearily stood up. Back down the trail they went, with Jerry now walking beside his miraculous resurrection. They decided to give “Meltdown” a day’s rest. Friday they saddled, loaded the pack horses and went back up the trail. They found their camp meadow occupied by Arkansas hunters with five mules. “We saw your cache, but did not think you were coming back for this season”, they said. They had regularly hunted this area for several years. Good naturedly, they suggested Jerry’s group camp on the other end of the meadow. ​ Two days of hunting proved the elk had completely migrated out of the area, save for a lonely bull downed by an Arkansonian. Jerry’s crew decided to leave, but how can they get their camp out in just one trip with insufficient horsepower? The kindly southerners offered them two mules. One of them would be going down the trail later to take the bull to a meat processor. He would bring back the loaners. Here was a perfect arrangement to be tested. Camp was disassembled and loaded. Down the trail they proceeded. Frequently they stopped to rest the horses and mules. It was during one rest stop that a mule brayed. Then mules left behind in camp brayed back, and a vocal conspiracy was hatched. The camp mules broke out of their rope corral and stampeded down the trail towards their companions. The oncoming thundering mule commotion spooked the horses. Jerry saw his hunt mate Steve carried off in a flash and disappear down the trail. Jerry and his remaining companion calmed their horses and adjusted sagging packs after the devilish mules crashed by. Soon Steve came walking up the trail. They saw his ghastly bloody hands as he approached. It seems Steve’s hell-bent horse went around one side of a tree and the packhorse around the other side. The lead rope brought them together with a crash. The packhorse got a tree branch shoved up under the pack saddle blanket. It received a big pine needle- filled gash that Steve tried to clean out with his hands. The wounded horse did not like this, nor did it like the pack that had shifted during the foray and now swayed under its belly. Steve was helpless to singlehandedly get the cinch loose with the weight of the pack.​ Regrouped at the wounded horse, Jerry decided, “This is not going to happen again!” He opted to tie his packhorse behind him with a lighter lead rope, in particular a nylon parachute cord. That would part if another tree incident should occur. It did not take long for the trailing horse to figure out the benefits of the situation. It bolted, broke the rope and dashed off across the creek and into oblivion. No amount of searching could locate it. The hell-bent mules were angelically waiting at the trailer with the Arkansas license plate, just as the muleskinners said they always would do. Jerry’s packhorse knew nothing of this wisdom. No queried hunters had seen Jerry’s packhorse at day’s end. A five-hundred dollar reward was offered to anyone who found the horse. Jerry drove heavy-hearted back to Denver. It again seemed that he would have to buy a horse. Ten days later, the outfitter called. Jerry's horse was found at sunup that morning mingling with his horses. It had tired of its nice little freedom vacation and smelled hay pellets and grain. Jerry dragged his trailer all the way back, with five hundred cash dollars, to get the horse. There he was informed that the horse had returned with a pack on only one side. Jerry was once again unfortunate. The side with his equipment had been scraped off and lost somewhere. Another loss, not to mention the veterinary bill for sewing up the packhorse. The best part of the story is that Jerry is already optimistically thinking of next year's expected excellent, better-organized and more successful hunt. Dedicated hunters naturally somehow rationalize that way - in spite of historical evidence to the contrary! That is the only good lesson I can think of for this story. Well there is another one. Jerry had the guts, good graces and humor to relate the woeful tale and allow me to use it with his name on my website. Remember; always keep on the sunny side of life. There is less pain there, especially if you develop humor. PS: Hunters, don not use unknown borrowed horses. They will figure you out in a microsecond! Mothers, Do Not Let Fathers into The Birthing Room! A good, eighty-some years old avid outdoorsman- hunter still splits wood to heat his house. He reveled some family secrets which reflect his family ethos . His two twin grandsons are named Fisher and Hunter. I can hear the Dean giving out Diplomas grimace as the announcer call out their names - Mann, Fisher and then Mann, Hunter, for perhaps this was one of the graduation day pranks like related by Garrison Keilor on “Prarrie Home Companion”. The same untiring 80+ avid hunter has a stepson who named his two sons Remington and Winchester. Can’t a mother ever get away from the hunting talk? And how did that slick Swede sneak into the birthing room twice to sign birth certificates when his wife was still under sedation? But then, what did Mom call her daughters in retribution? Marital Fuming and Potential Divorce a la 1977 Friends Ken and Joyce came to our hunt area with high expectations. Joyce was a cute bob only five feet tall. She was eager to hunt with her husband who had recently conned her into the elk hunting-camping situation, and trained her to shoot. He bought her a bull license to complement his cow tag. Opening morning, the couple rested on a knoll beside the trail up the mountain. A super bull came unexpectedly lumbering up the hill, which Ken pointed out to Joyce. Ever so eager and fast, Joyce instantly whipped up her rifle and jammed the cartridge in the breech. The bull was not waiting, so Ken brought up his rifle and ended the fumbling mayhem. Joyce did not greatly appreciate Ken's impatience. Now after months of preparation her license was filled! And Ken was illegal and had an unfilled cow tag she was not going to illegally fill! The saga emotionally and martially started to cascade downhill.​ Ken told Joyce that she would have to claim she shot the bull. OK, she was his wife, but that was not going to preclude getting the best of him! Joyce proceeded down to camp way ahead of Ken who lagged ever more behind under burden of the head with a huge 6X6 rack. Camp busybodies saw her coming. This gave Joyce a chance to properly tip off the entire valley camp about her miraculous beginner success. Nobody paid any attention to weary Ken when he finally arrived. Joyce got the snorts of booze and a seat of honor at an instantly organized celebration evening party for the midget Goliath killer. Ken barely got a can of beer. And he stewed badly - as we work colleagues knew he was able to do masterfully.​ Joyce denied in the field that she ever wanted an ugly elk mount in her house. Her disposition changed considerably under the lauding of incoming curious camp visitors, since the word of her deed had spread. The weather was warm. The head had to be taken to a taxidermist. Joyce unilaterally declared one animal was enough meat, that she could no longer hunt, and that Ken should take her trophy and her home. Ken steamed that his hunting season had been only one hour long because he had taken an illegal shot. The next day he gladly broke camp and they went home. Ken was getting really irritated at being ignored while every ogling Tom, Dick and Harry poised for photographs with his trim, lovely mate and HER trophy. The worst part was that Joyce was obviously enjoying each moment to its fullest extent. Spite can be cutting if properly applied! The Joyce lauding continued when Ken and Joyce arrived home. The neighborhood flocked to see the bull specimen before it had to be taken to the taxidermist the next morning. The constant interruptions precluded Joyce cooking dinner and an early turn in. Ken found a string of cars parked at his house after work the next day - Joyce’s girlfriends! They hardly acknowledged his presence. He comprehended again there would be no dinner. Then Ken got the pronouncement from the gals. He should throw a success party for Joyce when the mount was returned. He could (and should) have lost more grace by saying "no", but he had no marital alternative than to accept the proposal – expecting praise and not anticipating lower morale to come. Joyce had been bitten with the outdoors and hunting virus. Before the party date, she decided her mount would look out of context in the outdated basement den. Why not change the motif to something outdoors-like. In addition, the shabby old furniture certainly should be replaced with something more in the decor of a hunting lodge. Ken had to plead with the taxidermist to get the mount done in time for the party. The party plans had grown. There were now too many invitees to change the date. The afternoon of the party Ken borrowed a truck and got the mount. He and Joyce forgot the turn of the basement stairs. Ken roared unkind words and tore off in the truck to plead (and pay once more - with a grand tip) to have the antlers immediately cut and pegged. Disappointment was renewed in the basement. With the head on the wall in the low basement, the bull’s large rack forced its muzzle to hang down over the new sofa back! It was an unsettling, self-conscious place to sit. The party was a success for Joyce and the girls. Ken paid his basement respects and sat most of the evening upstairs in the kitchen commiserating with a couple of dragged-along boring non-hunter husbands. This story’s misery very slowly unwound in the halls of our company office. Every time some of us who knew the whole hunt story would pass Ken, and we would ask him how Joyce’s bull was faring. Ken would walk off snarling something like “That, _____ , _____, money eating, no good _____ humiliating ______ pile of ______! ------- AND YOU ARE A ______ FOR ASKING!”​ If we felt especially cruel, we would ask the stinging parting retort: “Yes, but when are you taking Joyce hunting again???” PS - I've always wondered who got the bull mount during the eventual divorce. Relax! You don’t really HAVE to get a trophy – A memory is far sweeter, Easier to haul out Cheaper to mount, Takes less wall space, Is More tender to chew, And it grows without feeding it! But still, “Good luck!”

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