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.

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!

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.

Opening Day was this weekend, an event that’s capitalized in our house and not to be missed for such trifles as moving day or being sick. This is what we live for; we work our butts off for nine months a year in order to play even harder for these next three. It’s not only opening day for deer around here, but also for bear, so there was much fun to be had. We lucked out and had it to ourselves kid-wise, so I took off work a little early and Junior took off from fixing up the house a little early.

Saturday morning started out with a disappointment when we saw that there was logging going on in Junior’s favorite place to deer hunt. There wasn’t last week when we were up there squirrel hunting, but this weekend it was all ripped up. Besides, it was absolutely full of people. So we eavesdropped on the bear hunting channel, and figured out that they were just down the road from us. That was all the excuse we needed to switch tracks, and off with the hounds we went.

The dogs are fresh and excited so they strike at any sign of a bear. Sometimes we can find a track, and sometimes not. Sometimes you turn them out to start one, and it trickles off to nothing and they sheepishly come back to the truck all, “Oops, sorry, false alarm.” They’ll get the hang of it again in a week or two, but on this particular weekend, it took a few starts like that to get an actual race.

Once the race looked like a real one, Junior and I went around to the other side of the ridge to listen over there. On the way, we passed three other sets of hound rigs, with nine dogs out potentially where ours were. It was like Grand Central Station for houndsmen over there; there were more rigs than deer hunters. It seems that someone got the word out that we’d had a real good year last year, and people were coming in from all over the country to take our spot, nevermind that they didn’t know the terrain or the roads, or even basic courtesy.

Those extra hounds burned us too. When we got to the tree, there were three dogs from some other pack, and they were all barking up the wrong tree. As near as we can figure out, the two packs heard each other and moved towards each other, each thinking the other set had something. Or else these other dogs were complete idiots, which is also possible. Whichever, there was no bear anywhere near there. We did get a small bear later in the afternoon.

The next morning, we put the dogs on a track right around daylight. They gave us an outstanding race; we saw them cross the road a couple of times; they ran for miles and miles. We had a hard time locating them when the race moved into an area without accessible roads, so when we stopped hearing them and a few came out, we thought it was all over.

Four dogs were still missing though, so before we left to get home and move, Junior and I headed up to where we turned out to see if any had come back up that way. We’re not a ton of use without a tracking receiver, but they often go back to where they started so it was worth a shot. We spent a little while hollering and honking the horn when we got word on the radio that the signal had been picked up elsewhere and for us to come on back down.

We’d just turned the truck around and started down the road when skipping across the road went a deer, the first one we’d seen all day. We both recognized that it was a legal buck at the same time. I was the only one with a deer rifle on me, so while Junior got out to watch where it went, I jacked a round into the chamber. The deer was not terribly alarmed but was still going the other way, so Junior whistled at him. Deer are curious, which is probably why he hadn’t bugged out when we were honking the horn, so when he heard the whistle, he slowed down, stopped, and then turned his head to see what we were.

That was the end of that deer, as my favorite deer rifle doesn’t miss. It was a good clean kill too; he was dead before we got down to him. We took our pictures (which are still in the camera, see: moving) and Junior dragged him up to the truck while I filled out my tag. We’d no sooned got him up there when word came over the radio that they’d found the last four dogs, but they weren’t just running; they were treed, and all the way on the other side of the country. All of our rigs were spread across 20 or 30 miles, so we tossed the buck in the back of the truck and hauled ass to get down there and help them. Especially with a bear that keeps coming out of the tree, we had to get those dogs off him one way or another. They were exhausted, but that doesn’t stop a good bear dog.

 

The tree was a cluster, as the bear came out again, but at least it was after the first kids there got the dogs tied up. Junior didn’t make it to the tree in time to see the bear, and I didn’t even get to the tree. I’d taken off just a hair after him so I could get the truck locked up, and by the time I caught up to him, he was stopped at a really steep spot that wasn’t worth trying to get me up, so I went back down to the truck. 

By the time I got back down there, Senior (he was right behind us on the road) had gutted out my deer so he didn’t spoil. We tried to listen to the story over the radio while other friends trickled in, but eventually the men and dogs came back and that was good enough. This chase had brought us back down to my camp, so we could pick up the stuff we needed to take from that. Then back to Junior’s camp where Senior volunteered to butcher the deer out after it hung for a day, and on home to start moving after thirteen hours of frantic activity. We were never so glad to see the bed as we were last night.

It was a good start to the season though. I got the first buck in both camps, although there was another one taken later that evening. We got to a tree and saw a good race, and incidentally took four quail and a squirrel on side hunts, which are on the agenda for dinner tonight if I can find the frying pan. It will take us a couple of trips to get back into the swing of this always-on thing on the weekend, especially on those with the kids, but this is our thing, after all. We can’t call ourselves hunters if we don’t actually go hunting, and hunt we did this weekend, and hard.

 

On Friday night, Junior and his Dad took me to do something that I’ve always wanted to do, and that is in fact required to graduate with a Redneck major.

Yes, they took me frog gigging.

And of course, during a prime goofy-picture activity, I was having flash issues, and none of my photos came out.

We left the house about sundown, which is almost my bedtime, and drove out to the canals on the Westside. Once we pulled off the road and onto a canal bank, we all piled out to listen to the bullfrogs sing to see if there were any around. Didn’t hear much, but went on anyway.

One person drives, right up against the edge so another person freaks about falling into the canal. The person in the passenger seat shines a spotlight along the edge of the water, looking for beady little eyes to shine back and keeping her mouth carefully shut to keep the swarms of bugs out. The third person rides on the tailgate with the spear in hand, waiting for the truck to stop, or else sits screwed around sideways to see what’s going on.

When someone spots a frog, he stops the truck, and the spotter tells you where to go – from the front or the back, depending on which way the frog is facing. Then you sneak up on it, hovering the gig tines about six inches above the frog’s back, and then whammo. Shove that gig all the way down to the mud, and hold it there for the other person to get one if there’s another right there.

Then comes the tricky part. The little bastards are tough, and once you pull them out of the water, they’ll take their back legs and push themselves right off the tines, if you’re not careful. So you have to hurry up and yank him off, and toss him in the cooler. You better open that lid carefully though, or all of them will come bailing out, and then you’ve got a rodeo on your hands, chasing bullfrogs in the dark. Sometimes they do get off the gig, and then there’s a lot of hopping around, on both parts. Two full-grown men might be scrambling to re-catch one wounded frog, while someone’s girlfriend giggles helplessly from the sidelines and desperately wishes for the camera.

Junior outdid himself at one point, nailing two at once. They were getting it on and stacked vertically, like frogs do, and he ruined their whole night. They got him back though, and squirted nasty black eggs all over his pants, stinking up the truck to the point where my stomach was revolting. It was either sit on a sweatshirt or take the pants clean off; he sat on a shirt so he could keep gigging without tearing his knees up.

But after a couple of hours and a really good night, that cooler was full and I was having a hard time staying upright. We dropped Dad off, who’d volunteered to clean them, and rolled in home around 2 AM. Somehow, 2 AM is a lot easier to see when you’ve been drinking, and we hadn’t, although I thought that was also a traditional part of frog gigging. That must be in the advanced course.

Those frogs were meaty. A big bullfrog’s got at least as much meat on his legs as a hot wing. Dad cooked up a mess for lunch on Sunday and we ate ourselves silly, and he’s still got two or three good meals’ worth left in the freezer. It’s great meat too; sort of reminds me of clam, but stringier. Maybe a clam-chicken cross? It doesn’t taste at all like canal water smells, as you might expect, seeing where they come from.

I really had a good time too. It’s like hunting, but much faster paced, and you don’t have to be terribly quiet. It’s one of the few things that’s legal to spotlight in this state, and I realy enjoyed being the spotter the most. Gigging was fun too, but getting them off the prongs was a little bit on the gross side. Oh, I did it anyway, because gross don’t stop me, but it wasn’t my favorite part.

One more thing on my resume; frog gigging. Awesome.

I’m no good at keeping secrets, not the fun variety, but I am good at seizing opportunities, and over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been busy trying to do both. Of course, I failed at the first, but I succeeded very well at the second.

I was out working with some linemen last week, when they were shutting off one of my circuits to do some work. One that I didn’t know all that really well (I have at least a nodding acquaintance with all of them, since this place is very much like a small town and their yard is next door to ours) tracked me down specifically to talk about hunting. It seems that Nevada has opened its Mountain Lion season this year to over-the-counter tags, even for out-of-state hunters.

This guy, Shawn, had a tag coming and a good place to go, but he wanted to hunt behind hounds. He knew that I did that, so he proposed a trade of information: if I could talk some of my houndsmen friends into going and letting him hunt behind their dogs, he’d walk us through where to go. That’s one of the biggest hurdles to hunting in a new area; you can look at maps all you like, but until you have a good feel for the area in person, it’s crazy to just go out willy-nilly. You never know what the terrain’s going to hold for you, or if you’re suddenly on private property, or where the good access roads are. It’s always best to start learning an area with someone experienced in it.

I am no slouch when it comes to recognizing a golden opportunity when I see it, so I got as much information right there as I could and told him I’d check with my friends. Already, my wheels were turning. This is one of the things that Junior’s wanted most to hunt in his life, and since it’s not legal in California (which is a whole ‘nother rant,) it would be an outstanding surprise. So by the end of the day, I had thoroughly researched it on the Nevada web site and downloaded regs and applications, talked to Todd, ordered a mess of topo maps from USGS, and discussed making it a surprise for Junior with his folks.

Todd’s all for a close lion hunt. He’s been going to Utah every year, but that’s a long haul. He said that’s how he got started there though; someone knew someone who knew where to hunt, and he just kept it going from there. He had some questions for me to pass on to Shawn, but said that since it’s so close (less than eight hours,) he was willing to go there himself this summer and scout out the area in person. I asked Todd to keep it quiet for now, because I could just see him telling Don telling Bill mentioning it in all innocence to Junior. But if everyone knew it was a surprise, maybe I had a chance of shutting the grapevine down for a little while.

Junior’s folks were surprised to hear from me in the middle of the day, when I knew Junior was at work, but once I explained what I wanted to do, they were all for helping me pull one over on their son. They got me his hunter safety information and other things that I needed for his tag application. We weren’t as sneaky about it as I’d hoped though, and that was entirely my fault. I looked way too guilty when he caught me talking to his dad, and that got his wheels turning. I’d hoped to shush him by laying it on his upcoming birthday, but that didn’t work so well.

All weekend, I kept coming close to blowing it. I’d catch myself starting to tell him that I’d talked to Todd, or something about Nevada. I was getting entirely frustrated, as I was so excited about it that I was about to climb out of my skin, but I had to look perfectly normal. But on Sunday, I almost blew it big time. He’d got on my computer to look something up, and saw the Nevada website on the drop-down menu, which I’d forgotten to clear. I may have overreacted, but he thought I was mad at him for snooping.

My original plan was to say nothing at all for months, and just have a tag show up in his mailbox in June, but that would have involved forging his signature, something that I’m not willing to do. So I amended the plans to presenting him with the maps and a card with a picture of a lion in it for his birthday. That way, I could still see him surprised, but I wouldn’t have to wait so long.

But don’t you just know it, he started digging again last night, on a day when I’d been talking myself out of just telling him already. Once he saw that he was getting to me, he wouldn’t stop, and kept on pushing. If I’d really been trying to hide something, that would have pissed me off to no end, and I would have muled up and not told him shit, but since I really wanted to share it with him, I let him get to me.

Since he knew it was probably a hunting thing, I made him guess. He went through hunts in Nevada that he’d like to have, getting more and more confused every time I told him it was wrong. No, it wasn’t an elk hunt. Nope, not sheep either. Or antelope. Or mule deer – are you kidding? The draw for that for out-of-state is ridiculous.

Finally, he twigged to what it really was, and a grin just about split his face in two. This is something he’s always wanted to do, and to have someone else know that and set it up for him was really a good surprise. So we spent the rest of the evening talking about it, and looking at maps, and laughing about all the times I’d almost blown it. I called his dad to let him know that he could talk about it now, and that Junior wasn’t just fishing for information if he came home and asked for the copy of the regs I’d left there.

And you know what? It was just as good of a surprise in the middle of a regular week as it would have been on a birthday, and now it’s more fun planning with him, instead of scurrying around behind his back. And it’s going to be even more fun as the months go on, with the scouting and the planning and the actual hunting after the first snow falls. It’s sort of a hunt of a lifetime for both of us, and I am ridiculously pleased with myself for getting it set up.

You all know that I like to get up in the mountains in the winter and see the animals that know better than to come out during hunting season. I think it’s just outstanding that I have someone to share that with now, not to mention someone to help get the truck out of the snowbank (where he stuck it.)

So we packed our lunch and headed for the hills before daylight to see what we could see. Early winter is a great time to go up, as the deer are in the rut and they couldn’t care less who’s around; they just want to get them some. The weather has brought the big bucks down from the high country, but the snow wasn’t so deep that we couldn’t get in to most of where we wanted.

And we sure enough found deer; for once, we saw more bucks than does. The does were being somewhat more sensible, but the males were all addled. We hunted strictly with the camera, and discovered that there are trophy animals in California after all. You doubt that, after a while, but they’re here.

It’s a ton of fun to watch their behavior when they don’t care who’s watching. We didn’t actually get to see any getting it on, but we sure saw them trying for it, the big morons.

This one was by far the best. He caught Junior’s eye just at the corner of his attention, and I have no idea how. We’d already gone past him and he wasn’t moving at all, but something tweaked at his subconscious, because he backed up for a second look and there stood this monster. He had his body parallel to us but was facing away. He heard us, we could tell when he twitched an ear, but he didn’t care. It took whistling at him to make him acknowledge our presence and turn around.

And what a rack! The edges of their ears average about 24 inches wide, and even though his ears weren’t out straight, he was well beyond that size. Junior thinks he might have been a 28-inch buck, better than anything he’s shot in Colorado.

He was a confident old bastard, and a tough one. If you zoom in, you can see that he’s got some damage done to his right eye, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He just stood there for a good five or ten minutes, watching us watching him, before he calmly walked behind a little more cover. He acted like a buck unconcerned by vehicle noises, which probably paints him as a Yosemite buck, used to tourists snapping his portrait. Hell, he turned to give us both side views!

He’d have been a good trophy, but I think I’m just as glad that he was smart enough to avoid that, and to come down after season ended to spread his genes around. Those are some good genes; get to it, buddy!

Lower Division Courses 

101. Introduction to Bass Fishing (4 units)

(Formerly: Fishing Principles 101) An introduction to the principles of fishing using the bass as a model organism. The course covers bass boat care and launching, trailer backing, basic knot tying, casting, basic lying, and cold-weather safety. Fish may or may not be caught during the laboratory portion of this course.

Note: Laboratory requires a valid fishing license and semi-public urination. A course for students majoring in Redneck Science.

102. Introduction to Hunting (3 units)

(Formerly: Hunting 101) Prerequisite: Hunting Safety (H107)

A general course introducing hunting principles and wildlife interactions in rural ecosystems, emphasis on locating, killing, and processing large and small game animals. The course covers hunting camp preparation, introduction to tracking, basic butchering and meat processing, and open-fire cooking techniques.

Note: Instruction will consist primarily of laboratory activities of various types. Hunting license required.

103. Applied Deer Hunting (4 units)

(Formerly: Hunting 102) Prerequisite: Hunting Safety (H107)

Emphasis on the application of biological knowledge designed to harvest a mature male Mule deer. Topics include: Preferred deer habitat, seasonal variations, and locating techniques. Various means of harvest will be discussed, including center-fire rifle, pistol, and archery techniques. The course covers hunting camp preparation, tracking, butchering and meat processing, and open-fire cooking techniques.

Note: A course for students majoring in Redneck Science. Instruction will consist primarily of laboratory activities of various types. Hunting license and D-6 zone deer tag required.

104. Introduction to Large Game Hunting (4 units)

(Formerly: Hunting 104) Prerequisite: Successful completion of Redneck Science 103(or equivalent) with a grade of C or better.

This course, with Redneck Science 103, makes up the introductory series for Redneck Science majors. Both courses must be completed with a grade of C or better before students will be allowed to take the second level of required courses in the Redneck Science curriculum. This semester covers dangerous game principles, an introduction to bear hunting, and anatomy and physiology of large game animals. Concepts and facts discussed in lecture will be closely integrated with laboratory observation and experimentation.

Note: This is part of the introductory series for Redneck Science majors. There are weekly laboratories. Hunting license and bear tag are required.

105. Introduction to Hounds (4 units)

(Formerly: Hunting 105) Prerequisite: Successful completion of Redneck Science 104 (or equivalent) with a grade of C or better.

This course consists of beginning hound care and selection. Topics discussed will cover scent hound breed and bloodlines and management in and out of the field, correct use of tracking and training devices, and and introduction to locating concepts. Laboratory observation will be required, with overnight courses occurring at least once per semester on an unscheduled basis.

Note: This is part of the introductory series for Redneck Science majors. There are weekly laboratories. Mode: Lecture and Laboratory.

106. Introduction to Varmint Hunting (4 units)

(Formerly: Hunting 106) Prerequisite: Successful completion of Redneck Science 102 and Redneck Science 105 (or equivalent) with a grade of C or better.

This course completes the introductory series for Redneck Science majors. Redneck Science 106 is designed to be taken in the winter of the students’ freshman year. This semester covers small game applications, including the pursuit of raccoon, fox, and bobcat using scent hounds. Topics include cold-weather tracking, night observations, off-road driving and self-rescue, and cold-camp techniques. Concepts and facts discussed in lecture will be closely integrated with laboratory observation and experimentation.

Note: This is part of the introductory series for Redneck Science majors. There are weekly night laboratories. Mode: Lecture and Laboratory.

JJ seems to have the bear hunting bug, so when he was finished keeping Big Jeff company on his two-week archery hunt, he drove across the highway to our camp. I’d told him that he could stay with me so he didn’t have to sleep in his truck, and I got a little teasing from camp about that, but not too much. They know that those boys are my friends.

So bright and early Saturday morning found me once again following Todd down the old road. I’d see him slip in the mud ahead of me and I’d have an idea about where to put my heavier truck so it didn’t completely bog down, but remember that I’m sort of a beginner at this four-wheeling thing. So I didn’t hit the big mud hole with quite enough momentum to pull myself through and had to rock back and forth to get out of there. That old truck did it though, without having to climb out and break out the winch.

Todd had stopped just in front of me to do a little road clearing with the axe, so I shut it off to go walk up there. Good thing I did too, or I wouldn’t have heard the evil “hsssss” coming from my right front tire. Sure enough, I’d popped the sidewall, probably in that mud. I couldn’t have done it too much earlier, since it was still blowing air out; it stopped that while I was standing there looking at it. Brand new tires too.

 

 

 OK, time to find the jack then. I was in as good a place as I could have been on that road, and I had help. I think JJ might be a little bit of a bad tire-luck charm though–he changed my last flat for me too. Of course, that was more than five years ago, and I wasn’t even in the truck at the time; he was driving it and I was riding up ahead with Dennis.  

 

 

But he’s game, so he got under there with the mud dripping off of the suspension and jacked that sucker up. We got the flat one off and the spare on with hardly any problems. The spare was a little low, so I got to try out my new toy, grinning like a fool for getting to play with it. Whoever thought of putting an air compressor on a winch is a genius, I swear.  

After a whole day of chasing dogs and feeling useless, and the lack of another spare eating away at me, I’d had it. I did not want to be running around on those roads without one, even with my friends all around to rescue me. What a monumental pain in that ass that would be, if something else happened. My patron saint is Murphy, so something was bound to happen. So I dropped JJ off at camp with the food and headed on down the hill. I thought I’d paid for the extra hazard warranty on these tires, so I was hoping to sneak on down to the new store they’d opened and stare at them until they hurried up and put a new one on for me.

Turned out though, that not only did the new store not have that tire in stock, but the whole manufacturer is backordered. It’s a popular tire, and I can see why. I was quite happy with it myself, until I put that hole in it. I was down to Oakdale at that point, so my next best option would have been to buy a used tire to have on there temporarily, or at least to carry as a spare. But are there any tire shops open in Oakdale on a Saturday? Of course not. Ron generously offered up one of his extras, but a little more calling turned up that the lug pattern on a Ford of his year doesn’t happen to fit my Dodge. An older Ford would have, so it wasn’t crazy to think that it might.

I was feeling the time and wanting to get back up to camp by then. I figured I could go on a goose chase in Turlock, the next closest town, or I could go to a place where I knew damn well that they had a used tire in my size, and would be open, as they’re about across the street from my house. I drove all the way home, the long way, and got one of my old tires put back on, and got myself back up into the mountains by dinner time.

Once I was at home, a part of me was kicking myself for making that big circle of a trip. I could have just brought my stuff down with me and stayed at home, but camp was expecting me back, so back I went. Not showing up would have worried the hell out of them. Besides, I wanted to be there.

I was surprised on Sunday morning when all of the shooters and half of the houndsmen bailed on us. It was down to Don’s and Todd’s rigs, and me and JJ. I was really hoping that we’d catch one, as JJ’s put some heart into it lately and I wanted to see him get his. 

I got a little distracted coming back up the Old Road when Todd got a strike near there, and ended up turning into a wrong-way Charlie. My wrong turn was a right turn though, and it put us at exactly the right spot to not only hear the race, we actually saw the dogs flying by, in a strung-out pack, thirty yards from the road below us. Since we’ve been hunting that area so much this year, I had a very good feel for where they were going, so JJ and I took off after them on the main roads to get up around and in front. We ended up out on the end of the Julie road listening to the music down below us. Don and Todd came in at them from other angles and called us down.

I was for damn sure going to get JJ to that tree, so I might have been in a little bit of a hurry, but we got there in plenty of time. They were treed not too far up in the creek where I’d shot my bear last year, and where Junior got his this year, and where we’ve dragged twenty more out. The five of us busted our butts to get there and what a pretty sight we found when we did.

 

 

 He looked big, although it’s sort of hard to tell when they’re treed, and it was open and low enough to get some good photos. Just as cool as can be, JJ pulled out that pistol of his and aimed, and that bear was dead before he hit the ground (we like them to be dead quick like that.) It was a good shot.  

 

 

The best part of this one, even though I really like them all, was getting to see this look on my friend’s face. He and I have been friends for a long time; he and his family got me my first deer. I’d have been thrilled for him even if he hadn’t, but getting to pay him back for that was pretty special.  

 

 

He did a hell of a job, and I have a feeling that now he’s hooked. The bear hunting gets to you like that. I’ve been over the edge for a couple of years now. This is the best part, seeing someone else get such joy out of it.  

I got my first buck seven or eight years ago. JJ took me up to his family’s deer camp, where I was privileged to be one of the first non-family visitors in a generation. We hiked in, deep into the Dardanelles. It took all day to get in; I have no idea of the mileage, but it’s the kind of country where there just isn’t any hunting pressure on the deer. Few hunters get in that far, so they’re not particularly alarmed, although they are more shy of people than the herd that’s around us all the time.

JJ’s grandfather took me to his honey-spot up there, while JJ and his dad went out in their own direction. We were quietly walking around to a bowl when his grandfather spotted three bucks. I sat down and gave myself a good rifle rest, and then just waited. I could see that the largest of the three had walked behind a tree, and was waiting for him to walk out. Eventually he did, not noticing us at all, and I calmly shot him once and he went down. Later, JJ’s grampa said that he wondered if I was ever going to shoot, and pointed out that I clearly didn’t have buck fever.

Well, it’s been a long time since that little forked horn, and I’ve spent a lot of hours deer hunting in between, without seeing a legal buck at a legal shooting time. I’ve kind of moved my emphasis over to bear hunting, but I still deer hunt on the side, mostly after we get back in to camp. Early Saturday morning though, I woke up around five AM listening to the rain plink on my trailer roof, and knew I would be deer hunting that morning. I thought about where I was going, and I laid there awake for almost another hour before I got up and put the coffee on.

I would have liked to go with Jeff and Dennis, who had been up there for a few days. I so rarely get to hunt with them, it seemed a shame to pass it up. But they were driving a little two-seater Gator-type thing, and I had no inclination to ride in the back of that. Besides, when I pulled past their camp just before hunting time, there weren’t any signs of movement yet. I wasn’t going to waste the first storm of the season hanging around waiting for those guys to get up. Fran said, as I left, “Get a big one,” and I said that I’d call for help if I did.

I got past the little section of private land on my way to where I was going just as it became hunting time, a half-hour before dawn. I looked out the corner of my eye, my eyes that never see deer unless they’re standing right in front of me thumbing their noses, and there was an unmistakable sillhouette of a big buck, bedded down right in the open, broadside to me. I stopped the truck and got out with my rifle, and scoped him a little bit. Sure enough a big buck, even though with him facing me, I couldn’t count points well. Spike bucks’ antlers don’t come out past their ears though, not in this country. So I went to one knee for stability, and took a hundred-yard shot. I hit him, he went down, and I started walking over to him.

When I got about half-way there, two bucks stood up. One, a three-pointer, looked so much like the one I’d shot that I was doubting myself for a minute. Did I miss? No, I saw it hit, and there was no way he’d be getting up again. The two compadres looked at their buddy, clearly wondering what the hell was up with him, and walked calmly up the hill. I walked on, and came up on him, with his spine broken but still alive. I wished I’d brought a gun with me to finish him off, but finished he needed to be, and quickly, so I put him down with my knife, carefully, so I didn’t get stabbed with antlers in the process.

Then came the hard part. Down the hill was easy enough, but back up the other side was a bit of a challenge for a fat old asthmatic woman. I kept going back to the radio and calling out, and they kept not hearing me. So I just took it slowly; drag ten feet and breathe. Drag another ten feet, and try the radio again. Another ten feet and a pull on my inhaler. When it came to the steep part, I got him to within my rope’s distance from the truck, threw a loop over his horns and around a tree, and backed up until he popped up on the road. Of course, then he was at road height and the truck tailgate is four feet off the ground, and there was no way I could lift him by myself. So I thought about it, and used what tools were available to me; I dragged him up the embankment on the opposite side (which, come to think of it, is probably where I tweaked both my back and my knee) and backed the truck up that way. Then I could just roll him onto the tailgate, slide him up, and drive on.

I was almost back to camp when my radio and its wrong antenna worked enough to raise my crew. They were just rolling out bear hunting, and when I called asking for a saw and some muscle, they knew. I’d left camp a bare half-hour earlier. Most of us met on the road, and they took my photo. Don was particularly pleased; he knows how long it’s been, and he was proud of me.

 

 

 

 

 Hell, I was rather proud of me too. Wild Man came back to camp with me; couldn’t have asked for a better helper, as he was once a butcher and still has a heart of gold. He butchered out five kills that I saw that weekend; mine was the least of it, as I did the gutting and skinning myself. After we got it into the tree to hang, we caught back up with the houndsmen and went on to have a very good bear race, but that’s a story for the next entry.   

I’m thrilled. It was a clean kill, no bruising of the meat, and he smells so good that I can’t wait to get it back from the locker. He turned out to be the smaller of the two bucks in our camp this weekend, but he’s still quite a respectable size for California. I was considering having the head done, but you can’t mount every one you get, so I’m just going to save the antlers, and the meat, of course, and I’m having the hide tanned too. No waste!

And the best part is that my hunting’s not over. I left the trailer up there for the season, and I get to purely bear hunt until December. I won’t be able to break my habit of looking for deer, but I sure don’t have to haul another one uphill alone this year. I can’t wait to go back.