I swear, the bears up there must have got together this summer and held a class on how to get away from hunters. Last year, we had quite a few that treed in really easy spots, but not a one this year. This year, they’re all heading for the deepest canyon they can get to, and running miles to do it. What, are they crossed with greyhounds or something?

 

 

   

On Saturday, we got onto one fairly close to camp. There may actually have been two from the way the dogs were behaving, but the one that stuck took the hounds for a run. He went down the mountain and out beyond hearing range really quickly, so we split up to get to various high points in the hope that someone could pinpoint them by ear.

 

 

   

We finally found them up in Cherry Creek, in a place with no real roads. There’s a walking trail that parallels the creek for a couple of miles up to a set of diversion gates, so we started on that. It’s a beautiful location, especially after the sun started creeping down the mountain across from us. By then, Junior and Maverick were halfway up the other side. The dogs were much higher than our trail, almost to the top of the mountain on the other side, so they had to go down into the creek, across it, and then straight up. They lost the shooter and a couple of other people to the steep face, but our two best mules were there as always.

 

 

   

As we who were left on the trail kept listening, suddenly the dogs shut up. Oh no. We hoped they hadn’t popped over the top of the mountain, because that side of the country is even more rugged and less accessible. Since we hadn’t heard a shot, we didn’t think the men had got there yet either. Bobcat and I and a few others walked up the trail to try to get an ear on the dogs. We went at least another mile, up to the diversion gates and on around another point up the creek to try to find them, but didn’t hear anything.

 

 

   

We came back down to where they’d left off, back up to the top one more time, and then finally heard a shot and Maverick whooping and hollering, so we knew the bear was down. Once we got them on the radio, it turned out that the bear had come out of the tree and retreed twice, each time right before they’d get there. They had to finally sneak up on him and shoot him, or else they were going to spend all day playing leapfrog like that. They were only a couple of hundred yards upcreek from where they’d gone up; we hadn’t needed to go so far listening for them. The dogs were in a pocket, so we just couldn’t hear them from where we were.

 

 

   

Then the work started. Some of the other guys had got to them by then, so they all helped bring the bear back down the steep, brushy mountain while trying not to kill themselves on the way. We found a rope to hang from our side to help get it (and them) back up the equally steep bank to the trail. The dogs were so tired that it took some serious convincing to get them back across the creek; Queen wouldn’t go back to the truck and curled up to wait for her person at our feet.

 

 

   

Finally all of the men and the bear were in sight. It took the combined effort of all fifteen of them to hand-winch it up the hill. It wasn’t a shabby size, somewhere in the three hundred pound range, so it wasn’t an easy job getting it up through the loose rocks and the poison oak and the vertical sections. Finally they did, and still had three-quarters of a mile to go to get it to the trucks. They lined up on that rope like a chain gang, taking turns and switching off when they had to. Those men hauled that bear out of there so fast that I almost couldn’t keep up with them carrying equipment in the back.

 

 

   

There’s a lot of work involved in getting a bear out even when we can use mule tape and a winch to take the weight off of the guys, but this one didn’t have any mechanical help. It’s a good thing there were a lot of men there; as it was, it was a long day and everyone was worn out. But we got to see some beautiful scenery, we got a nice bear, and we had a real good time, and that’s what it’s all about.

The new kitchen won’t entirely feel comfortable until I do some serious cooking in it. I don’t have a lot of time for that, what with being gone every weekend, but I can squeak a little in here and there. So when the local paper had a recipe for homemade marshmallows in the food section, something I’ve always wanted to try, I went for it.

I do make candy every year, so it wasn’t that foreign to me. The first part is a standard candy-making procedure, melting sugar on the stovetop. No pictures of this phase, as there’s no way to hold the pan, stir, and click without the tripod, which is in the mountains.

 

  

But once it hit the ideal temperature, into the mixer it went. Man, I love this mixer. It took half as long as the recipe said to fluff it up to the consistency of marshmallow fluff.

 

  

Then I spread it out into the pan, sprinkled with powdered sugar to keep it from sticking. I couldn’t keep the sugar up on the sides of the pan and I paid for it the next day, but it wasn’t that big of a deal.

 

  

I let it dry for almost 24 hours and then pried it out and cut it into squares. I dusted the edges with more powdered sugar and ziplocked them with lots more to keep them from sticking together too much.

I hauled them out around the campfire and we made S’mores with a couple. They are more tender and flavored a little more strongly than the commercial variety, but it’s not terribly different. They melt much better, but all in all, I spent an hour and several bucks on something that costs about $1.39 at the grocery store. It wasn’t about the price though; it was about having fun in my new kitchen. They certainly served that purpose.

I forgot to bring the leftovers home; we’ll see if they go stale as fast as storebought marshmallows.

Last weekend as we were coming home from our wedding with two trucks full of kids, we overheard on the radio that one of our more remote buddies was about five hours late coming in. We cruised on by his camp only to find that nobody left there had a base station radio. He’d been up hunting near our camp, an area he doesn’t know all that well, and had his two boys and someone else’s with him. The someone else was getting rather worried but didn’t want to leave camp in case he came back in.

So after a little consulting, we pulled the base station out of Junior’s truck and piled all the kids into that one. He had to get the girls home by a specific time while I happened to have the next day off. We gave the radio to our friend at camp and left a third friend there with a portable to wait for him. Then Junior left out slightly worried while I stayed in the mountains and started driving a search pattern hollering on the radio while our friend went up the other way doing the same thing.

We were worried that he’d got himself hurt or run off the road or lost. I would not be amused if someone knew that my family was lost up there and went home without doing anything about it. It wasn’t even a question that we would stay to help; the only factor was which one of us would do it, and logistics made me the choice this time.

The other guy and I almost met around the other side of the mountain when he called me on the radio. He’d found the guy by radio, who said he was only fifteen minutes from camp. We both hustled back only to find no guy. After sitting and waiting for another hour, here he comes tooling in, completely unconcerned. Apparently he really didn’t know the area, but they’d been out having a good time and didn’t really get that the rest of us thought he was lost.

No harm, no foul, but those guys are going to get better radios next time. I got ours back and booked it on home so Junior wouldn’t worry.

Then last week I got a call from Maverick. He’d turned dogs out on Wednesday morning and they’d gone in back of beyond and were stuck there. It was a wilderness area, so there aren’t any roads and it’s rugged as hell. The signal from the tracking collars bounces off the rocks and gives all sorts of false directions. Maverick was just hoping to find someone coming up before the weekend so he could have some clean clothes; he’d only planned to hunt the day. He keeps enough food and water in the truck to get him through a week, but his shorts were past the point of no return.

I did some calling around trying to find Fran’s number to get his sizes. He’d called from on top of the mountain, so there wasn’t any point in calling him back. I realized while I was doing the calling that the game of telephone was only working so well, and that we should have an emergency contact list of all of us that hunt together that we can keep in the trucks or leave with the family members at home. If we can only get ahold of one of them due to bad phone service, that one should know how to contact the rest of them.

Long story short, Junior was going up Thursday night anyway, so he picked Maverick up some clothes. On Friday morning the two of them left out on a hike into no-man’s land to get the dogs out. It’s country near Yosemite, and every bit as rugged as Yosemite’s back country, only with fewer people. It’s as wild a land as California gets. I’ve been in it farther north on horseback, and it’s brutal and gorgeous. I would have loved to go too, but I am in no shape for that kind of hiking.

After doing some rock climbing and getting around massive granite bluffs, the boys finally found the last two dogs. The tracking collar had indicated that one of them wasn’t moving, but it must have been a collar malfunction, as they got him out just fine too. They came out of those mountains just before I got up there, filthy and sweaty and exhausted. I’m pretty damn proud of Junior; it’s not every man who will drop what he’s doing to beat himself up to rescue someone else’s dogs.

After Junior got back, the nice ladies at camp had cooked dinner for us. We had some really great soup, beans, cornbread, and little homemade apple pies. Everything was great, but after we ate, I got inexplicably worn out. It was weird; I hadn’t been the one busting my butt in the back country. So I went to bed and so did Junior. It wasn’t long after that I started having major breathing problems. I couldn’t catch my breath and it felt like an elephant was standing on my chest. I’d start to fall asleep, stop breathing at all, and wake myself up gasping for air. I kind of mentally wrote it off as an asthma attack, but I wasn’t getting enough oxygen to my brain to really do anything about it. Junior had taken some benadryl and was out too hard to notice, and I wasn’t coherent enough to really wake him up.

I was beat in the morning, but went out hunting anyway. We didn’t catch anything, so when we came home and Junior went to cut wood in the afternoon, I tried to take a nap, but the breathing still wasn’t good. Finally I went out by the campfire and was sitting talking with the other women when one of them mentioned those pies. She was talking about her recipe and mentioned that she adds ground up pecans to the filling.

Oh, crap. I’m terribly allergic to walnuts, and while I’ve never tried pecans, it’s because they are so closely related to the walnut that I avoid them. Since she’d ground them, I didn’t see any suspicious pieces, and the pie became a perfect delivery device of doom. No wonder I was having trouble breathing; my airway was completely shutting down. I never did get the mouth swelling that walnuts give me, so I didn’t know what was going on. I easily could have died.

The next night, I thought I’d be OK. I was acceptable while I was awake and could make myself breathe on command, and I took some benadryl I had in the trailer to get me through the night. It wasn’t long until it started again though. Junior was listening to me breathe and getting worried, and I was afraid to fall asleep in case I woke up dead. We were a good two hours from a hospital and I wasn’t quite coherent enough to tell him what was going on. Finally, he realized that the benadryl we had in the trailer was probably old, and went next door to get some his mom had just brought up. After a half-hour or so, that one kicked in and I was able to breathe. He listened to me long after I fell asleep.

I’ve still got a touch of that allergic reaction going on; things are tight in my chest and I’m drugging up pretty heavily at night. I was pretty close to death that first night though, and I didn’t know it until later. That would have sucked, to lose a spouse on the first-week anniversary. I don’t even have my name changed yet, or my insurance beneficiary. So Junior was a rescueing fool this weekend, and I’m very lucky to have him. I learned a lesson about keeping unexpired antihistamines on my person at all times, I need to talk to my Doc about an epipen, and I really need to watch what goes into my mouth a little more closely. I always ask with things that commonly contain nuts, like cookies and brownies, but who would have guessed it with pie, especially if you can’t taste it? I ruined my whole weekend, and almost both of our lives, over one piece of dessert.

Pie of doom, I tell you. What a strange weekend.

On our first married day we got up at oh-dark-hundred to a knock on the trailer door. We groggily got dressed and then went next door to get the kids up from the other trailer. What, you didn’t think they slept with us on our five-hour honeymoon, did you?

Once we got everyone rolling and it was still pitch dark, we headed out to the usual spot to wait for Grey Fox and Maverick. Our timing was perfect, and we hit the intersection right when they did. The kids were much quieter in the truck than they’d been the morning before; partying will do that to a kid. We’ll have to try that next time.

We had a whole convoy going, at least seven trucks and not a one with just a single hunter in it. We cruised around to the same location as the morning before, and sure enough, got a nice strike just at daylight. As usual, the houndsmen sent off the first-string dogs to see if they’d pick up a trail. They sure did, so the convoy split up in order to triangulate them better. Grey Fox and Dean went on back down the road with the shooters and we went further uphill behind Maverick and Bobcat.

Maverick went on ahead with the locator while the four trucks with us cruised on around. No sooner had he got to the top though, and was getting a good signal on Queen, than Jeff and Bobcat got on the radio. There was another bear sitting right there in the clearing watching them. Now, it was possible that it was the track the first set of dogs were on; he could have backtracked in the night. It made sense to put some more dogs on the ground and see if they met in the middle.

The only dogs Maverick had left were his second-string; the good dogs were all already out. So he put out ol’ Suicide and Holly, and kept his new pup Gypsy in reserve. Suicide left out barking in a hurry, but he always does that so it wasn’t too significant. Eventually these two were clearly going in a different direction than the first set of dogs, so Maverick went back up top to keep them located while the rest of us stayed below. At one point Maverick saw the bear cross the road in front of him, so he put out the only dog he had left in the truck, a year-old pup that he’d never put in on a race before.

And man, did Gypsy shine. She acted like she knew exactly what to do, and when that race turned around and headed back down the way we’d come, she was right on his ass. We spread out in the trucks to try to keep things contained, but the bear wasn’t having any of that. Bill was in the front in that direction, and heard a rustle uphill from him. He saw the bear pop out into the road just in time to slow down a little, but still tagged it and sent it spinning. It kept on going downhill with all three dogs behind; we could see Gypsy in the lead.

So on down to the next road we went. Grey Fox had people at his tree corral one of his dogs to put into our race, and they treed shortly with only one experienced dog, two knuckleheads, and a pup. It was a nice easy creek bottom walk, so I tossed my asthmatic plans of staying at the truck and up we went right to it, with three little girls and Seamus in tow.

 

 

  

The kids were great. I’ve had my doubts about managing safety at the trees with so many to watch (there was an extra little girl but her mom was there too) and it would be more of a problem in steeper country. At this tree, we had room to spread out and the kids all stayed put when they were told to. I gave Seamus my rifle at one point so I could take pictures, and he was fantastic with it, always keeping it pointed in a safe direction.

 

 

  

The bear was in a huge old sugar pine, and not in a great spot for a shot. We’d picked up a couple of shooters during the race, and they got to take their time scoping out a good target. We hollered and whacked on the base of the tree and eventually the bear got unsettled enough to decide to move to a higher branch. That gave me a great shot where I was standing with the camera, so I called the shooter over and he got to it. After a little sign-consultation with Maverick, the shooter decided for a shoulder shot. I was lucky enough to get a good shot of my own, and followed the fall of the already-dead bear from the tree. I don’t get too many action shots like that.

 

 

  

That bear died before it hit the ground and the dogs got their reward. As soon as it was verified safe, the kids crowded in almost as quickly as the dogs. They’re fascinated with the whole thing; these kids will be in on more kills before they grow up than most hunters ever are. It was an easy pull back to the truck, and we all sat around to shoot the breeze while the shooter gutted it. I put Seamus in to help hold a leg; if he wants to learn to hunt, he has to learn this part of it too. He wasn’t willing to get his hands up in there quite yet, but that’ll come.

 

 

   

After we pulled back out to the road, we found the other group. They’d run a smaller bear, and it was coal-black, an unusual color phase for this area. The best part of that one was that the shooter was my friend Jeff’s son, with his first kill of any large game. He’s at that inscrutable age, but you could tell that he was pleased and his dad was beaming from ear to ear.

 

 

   

It’s not every day that you get two races going at once. Five years I’ve been pretty heavily involved in this, and it’s the first time I’ve seen it. I found it a good omen to our first day of marriage, and a hell of a way to spend a honeymoon!

So, we’ve gone and done it. We managed to pull off a wedding that exactly suited our personalities, without having to stress out over details. Since we met in the mountains, it was meaningful to us to get married in the mountains. Most of our friends and family spend the season up there anyway, and importing the rest mostly worked, even with fuzzy directions. The last thing we wanted was a big production, with a church and a hall and fancypants stuff. We’ve both done that before and this wedding was supposed to be about the marriage, not the event.

 

  

We didn’t have to do too much. We picked a date when we’d have the kids during deer season. We got our rings and the license, ordered the pies and picked up the meat. Someone lent us a towable grill and someone else volunteered a porta-potty. All of the camp women (and some of the men) pitched in with food and tables and lawn chairs and ice. Our friends and family swooped in and took the load off of us. Even though we did the bulk of the cooking, we ended up with a potluck sort of event, and it was great.

 

  

We’d gone hunting that morning; none of that “not seeing the bride” nonsense for us. We made it to a bear tree with three kids before we split off so I could recover from an asthma attack and Junior could go cut wood for the campfire. It was in the 20s that morning, so it clearly wasn’t dress weather, but I’d brought a backup outfit and it warmed up enough to shed the jacket even. The bride wore long underwear and hunting boots and the groom had smashed his ring finger on a log and none of that mattered. Attendants were a herd of children perched on lawn chairs in front of us and the father of the groom had just taken the preacher out shooting.

 

  

I was really hoping there’d be a deer or bear hanging in camp for true redneck cred, and when the last guests came rolling in a little late, my wish was granted. They’d seen a three-point buck standing in the road thumbing his nose at them on their way in, and couldn’t resist it. They shot it and tossed it into the truck to get there on time. Since time wasn’t a big issue for us, the whole crowd trooped down to admire it. It looked oddly like a whitetail buck and was still in velvet, so it took a lot of admiring. After I checked to see if the gutting could wait until after the ceremony (it could) we used the chance to round everyone up.

 

  

“Come on up, we’re getting married,” worked to get everyone’s attention without music or an aisle. We picked a spot near the fire, corralled the minister, and got right down to it. Most of the kids jumped into lawn chairs right at our feet; I gave Seamus a wink during the ceremony that cracked him up.

 

  

We hadn’t rehearsed the vows out loud, so I had no idea that they were going to get to me as much as they did. For all my practicality, I could barely keep it together when promising my love to the love of my life. It really meant a lot to us, for all the relaxed setting and casual dress. I couldn’t have found a better man to love for the rest of our lives and marrying him is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

The weekend started off badly. What should have been a relaxing hunting trip really wasn’t. A nice rain that should have brought the deer out didn’t. The trailer roof that should have been watertight wasn’t. And brakes that should have stopped the truck failed to do so.

I haven’t been driving the big Dodge much, so the brakes had slipped my mind. I did just have the transmission serviced and the oil changed, so I wasn’t completely behind, but the slight grinding noise that I thought was steering turned into a horrifying grinding noise when trying to drive down a muddy road in the rain. We turned around and called Junior’s Mom, who hadn’t left the Valley yet, to bring up some shoes and rotors. Then we hopped into the Ford and continued fruitlessly hunting.

 

 It was slicker than snot on those roads, and the deer were wisely holed up. We gave up around mid-morning and came back to camp. Junior tried to wait for a break in the rain to do the brakes, but the break didn’t last very long. 

 

 I felt horrible with him working under my truck in the mud and rain, so tried to keep an umbrella over him to keep the rain off the small of his back. I know that’s a miserable feeling. He’s a hell of a man though, and this wasn’t his first mountain brake job, and he got it done. 

The bear hunters weren’t really out either; it was too wet and rainy for them. Things picked up a little bit that afternoon when they rolled into camp and we played a little dice in the big tent.

 

 Sunday rolled into some beautiful weather. We had one quick race in the morning that went too fast for really good pictures, and a little more hunting in the late morning. I took the Dodge up another Jeep trail and broke a mirror - it just wasn’t that truck’s weekend, and you’d think I’d learn by now. I’m really ready to have the Jeep rolling on the ground, but that won’t be until next year. I hope the Dodge lives long enough to be retired, or at least paid off! 

The whole weekend was sort of a let-down, all the more so when my schedule presents itself for the next month, and this is my last weekend deerhunting with Junior alone. Next weekend is the wedding, and then I’m working at least the next two. He’s hunting out of state the weekend after that, and that’s it for deer season. Fortunately, the end of deer season is just when the bear hunting gets going really good, so all is not lost. I’d planned to make the most of this year’s hunting though, and it’s just not happening due to things beyond my control and that gets me down.