No self-respecting big game hunter gives away his favorite areas, right? In my case, the answer is, “Well, maybe.” When thinking about hunting with my old friend, Tom, the answer is, “That depends.”
I’m going to start this one with a disclaimer: These events took place roughly fifty years ago. After all the time that’s passed, and given my current age, some of the memories may not be perfectly clear. My friends may very well remember parts of it differently, but that simply means we all have our own versions of the past.
This is the story of my last trip to hunt in the Gros Ventre Mountains of Wyoming. As it happened, we added a third member to our hunting party and there were a few reasons. To begin with, Tom had drawn a moose permit, which was the most difficult part of moose hunting in the state at the time. Moose permits were available only by drawing, and they were relatively expensive.
If you managed to acquire the permit, moose were easy to find, not difficult to hunt, and just one would provide a huge quantity of some of the highest quality game meat for the table. Every hunter who had drawn a moose permit in the village had come home with one.
Here was the conundrum: Our joint hunting trip would mean splitting hunting time. Tom had opted out of buying an elk license, since doing both was more time consuming and expensive, not to mention that bringing home both meant a lot of work and freezer space. We processed and stored our own game at home, since we lived in a remote company village at Table Rock.
During one of our shifts in the control room, one of the company clerks, Steve, dropped by with a proposition. News of Tom’s moose permit had made the rounds quickly. Steve wanted to go elk hunting, and was willing to drive his pickup, which was four-wheel-drive (of course) and had a camper shell. Tom could drive his Bronco and pull the camping trailer, and I could leave my Cherokee at home for anything our families needed to do.
For Tom and me, there wasn’t any reason to even debate the idea. A second vehicle would make a huge difference, especially if we all got lucky in the hunt. As you know if you’ve read my previous Gros Ventre stories, vehicle and driving problems could pop up unexpectedly in that country, so it was a good idea in a lot of ways. And, most importantly, Steve was one of the nicest, most easygoing guys we had the privilege of knowing.
There was one small logistics problem to work out, because the moose hunting area and the elk hunting area were adjacent to one another, but they didn’t overlap. So, the three of us couldn’t hunt elk and moose simultaneously from the same vehicle. We put our heads together and came up with what Steve we thought made the most sense.
We had 3 full days to hunt. Since Tom’s moose was “a sure thing”, we’d hunt together in one vehicle for it. That meant more muscle to get it back to camp and hung properly. We’d spend the remaining time looking for elk in one vehicle when that was done. The rifles of non-active hunters, of course, would be empty, but extra eyes would come in handy.
The trip to the campground was uneventful and we made good time. There was snow on the ground, but not enough to hamper our efforts, so we got the trailer backed in and set up and had a fire going soon. That, of course, was more for ambiance than comfort, since the trailer was well heated. By the way, the word “ambiance” was never uttered in the camp conversation. We were bold, rugged men and such vocabulary was not for us.
We turned in early, and woke before daylight, to get started on the moose hunt. The campsite was within the moose area, so all we needed was coffee and a quick, stir-and-eat breakfast and we loaded up in the Bronco, spirits high and eyes peeled.
Nature, as we all know, has a sense of humor and it’s often a cruel one. I’ll spare you the grisly details of the first two days and give you the abridged version. We hunted high and low, hit all the spots we just knew were going to have moose. We drove, we sat, we walked. We had no success.
As you can imagine, we were all frustrated, and Tom’s mood had completely deteriorated. By the time we pulled into camp at the end of the second day, he was full-on grumpy, and we couldn’t blame him. The campfire conversation was subdued and somber. After some thought, Tom decided he’d just stay at the trailer the next day. He wasn’t hunting elk, and the thought of arriving at home without that “all-too-easy” moose was just too depressing. He was done hunting.
Morning came in cold, and Steve and I climbed into his truck and headed into the elk hunting area. Tom wished us luck, coffee in hand, and dejectedly shut the trailer door as we pulled out in the half-light. There wasn’t any need to discuss what was on our minds. We had one day left and the odds of spotting elk weren’t as high, although we had no regrets regarding focusing on Tom’s now non-existent moose.
Suffice it to say that our luck didn’t change. If there were elk to be found, they were much more adept at hiding than we were at hunting. We stayed at it for as long as we dared, and finally headed back to camp, planning to burn our man cards in the evening campfire.
As we rounded the last curve on the road to the campsite, we saw Tom already had a fire going and was seated cozily next to it. Some distance away from the fire, just at the edge of its light, four, massive, dark shapes hung from the sturdy log frame that had been standing on the edge of the campsite for an unknown number of years.
After we’d congratulated him and marveled at the sheer size of the cow moose he’d harvested, we stoked the fire and settled in to hear his story.
Disgruntled, Tom had resigned himself to the trailer, sitting around in his long johns and flannel shirt, snacking and reading. His boots were dry and sitting next to the door, along with his rifle. This was black bear country, and campgrounds with coolers full of food were a great temptation. None had been spotted nearby yet, but it was best to be prepared. In fact, the State of Wyoming included a black bear tag with all general elk licenses, since they were plentiful in the hunt areas. Encounters were common.
So, when his relaxation was interrupted by the unhurried thud of heavy hooves outside, He’d jumped up and swung open the trailer door. The moose had just crossed directly through our camp and stopped to look back at him, then ambled on its way. He quickly grabbed the rifle and followed it until he was sure he was outside the campground boundary. When it stopped to look again, he dropped it with a clean neck shot.
He’d spent the next couple of hours gutting, skinning and quartering. After that, he’d used a rope and tarp to drag the sections back to camp. He’d tied the rope to the Bronco and hauled each quarter up, tied them off, and bagged them. He’d taken a quick shower in the trailer, got the fire going again, and waited. He was tired, but he was one happy camper and we were happy for him.
We discussed loading up and heading home, but it was late, the night would be cold enough to keep the meat chilled, and we were tired, too. Morning would be soon enough, and a good night’s sleep would make the trip home easier. As it turned out, that decision would ensure that our adventure wasn’t over.
We chatted about the events of the day while the fire died down, then retired to our respective bunks. If anyone snored, no one knew, at least not in our camp.
We woke well before dawn, to snow falling. Not just snow, but huge flakes of wet, heavy snow. There wasn’t any time to waste, and we broke camp, loaded up and hooked up quickly. The moose went safely under the camper shell of Steve’s truck, along with its gorgeous hide. One quick walk around the site confirmed we hadn’t forgotten anything, and we got on the road. I would ride with Tom for the first leg, to the highway, and would spell whoever needed a break from driving on the way home.
It was still dark when we made it to the pavement, and the snow was getting heavier. The highway had been plowed, but was frozen over and the snow was accumulating quickly. Traffic was sparse, the road was slick, and we were taking our time.
A pair of taillights ahead of us swerved, then turned into headlights spinning crazily skyward. The beams twisted, then spiraled downward and settled, coming to rest in the deep ditch beyond the shoulder.
Steve was driving ahead of us, and pulled onto the right shoulder near the lights in the ditch. Tom pulled over close behind, setting the brake and flashers. We heard the wild, panicked screams as soon as I opened my door. There was obviously someone in the upside-down vehicle, it was obviously a young woman, and she was, understandably, scared out of her mind. We both made our way as quickly as possible down the slope, answering the pleas of , “Somebody help me!” with, “We’re coming!” and “It’s OK!”
Steve, who had switched to more comfortable driving footwear, watched from the shoulder, but was ready to help if needed. I asked him to stay there, in case we needed help getting back up.
Assessing what had happened only took a few seconds. She had lost control of her small sedan, slid off the road and her wheel had clipped the edge of a concrete support for a huge storm drain. The impact had flipped her car into a wild spin and it had ended up laying on its roof. Fortunately, the top hadn’t completely flattened, but the doors were wedged in place and she was on her knees in the glass on the inside of the roof.
The driver’s side door was ajar, but not wide enough for her so squeeze through. She’d been doing all she could to force it open, but couldn’t. The dashboard lights were illuminating the interior, and Tom had the presence of mind to ask her to shut her key off. We both went to work on widening the gap on the door, and as soon as it swung free, she shot through the opening like a human cannonball. She scrambled up to the shoulder before either of us could help or check her for injuries. If she was hurt, she didn’t know it.
It’s important to note that this was before we all had cell phones and a network of satellites connecting the world. We needed the Highway Patrol, but there was no way to contact them from where we were. Steve was quick with the solution: He’d drive into Jackson and get help while we stayed at the scene and convinced the frightened young woman to warm up in the Bronco and kept an eye on her. We’d all had Basic Emergency Care training and knew how to treat for shock or other emergencies.
The woman did accept the front passenger seat of the Bronco to stay warm, but there was very little conversation. The bottom line was, she was frightened and confused and yes, probably suffering from mild shock, so we simply kept her warm and alert while we waited for the authorities. They arrived quickly, and Steve wasn’t far behind. We never learned her name, and of course, we’d never see her again. We made it home to Table Rock and our families, with a pretty amazing story to tell.
I suppose the story begs the question of whether we saved a life that freezing morning in Wyoming. Perhaps, but there’s no real way to know. What I can say is that I’m glad we followed our instincts about going home, I’m glad Steve was with us, and yes, I’m glad Tom finally got his moose.
I suppose our young lady has a story or two of her own about that morning.
