Post your own....I have a few I will post. Some are 100% real, some are 80% factual/20% fictional. Lets also hear yours!

Nostalgia on the Mountains

It was a day of nostalgia especially considering today's sportsman preference for stainless steel, Teflon coatings, and synthetic stocks. I however was armed with a factory stock 1903 Mannlicher Schoenauer carbine that defined the term patina. This rifle was made and scoped in the Steyr factory of Austria before WW1 with bright and clear Kahles optics in a petite little mount typical of many pre-war European guns. My quarry was the Columbian blacktail deer, specifically, a buck from a sparse migratory heard. These deer are special, being migratory and much larger than the typical Columbian blacktail deer. I would be hunting in one of our Nations primitive areas, the Yolla Bolly-Middle Eel Wilderness Area [Yolla Bollys] of northern California. This area of California is noted for producing larger than life trophy bucks, however, they do not come easy, nor are they particularly plentiful.
Just 10 days before the end of the California B zone deer season I left my northern California home to travel to a remote trailhead on the southeast side of the Yolla Bollys. This trip would take me to Covelo California and through the Round Valley Indian Reservation, along the Middle Fork of the Eel River, and upwards to the Wilderness mountains. This Wilderness was first protected in 1931 when it was classified as a primitive area. The Yolla Bolly-Middle Eel Wilderness holds a total of about 150,000 acres of remote and rugged terrain that leaves no question in ones mind why roads were not built into this country.
Every year I try and plan this trip to coincide with the weather, time of year, and life. It really is a hunter’s crapshoot. If all went well I would arrive on the heals of the first severe winter storm that would start the migration of the deer herd from the Wilderness down mountain ridgelines to the valley. It is best to catch them as they leave the mountains when they are still more condensed along traditional trails, and before they scatter throughout the valley in every cardinal direction. However, it appeared this year I was too early and I would have to go deeper into the Wilderness to try and find my trophy.
When I arrived at the nearby campground I checked in with two fixtures of the mountain this time of the year. They were two retired gentlemen that spend every year in these mountains searching out more brotherhood than deer. They spoke with their heavy Portuguese accents about the lack of deer sign and a late fall season. As we spoke of seasons gone by I told them of my plans for this year. They were intrigued, but pessimistic about my ability to find the deer due to the still warm weather that was plaguing the hunting.
When I arrived at my lost and forgotten trailhead I noted that there were still no human tracks or signs of vehicles for yet another year. It has been this way every year I have checked this trail. Although the old Forest Service maps reflect that there is a trailhead there, it has no signs, no maintenance, and is very difficult to find.
I got to my destination a little early and I still had half of the day’s daylight to make my way into the Wilderness, so I began to unpack my equipment. I was still a little worried about my overall lack of belongings I had chosen to take on my trip. In the spirit of nostalgia, I would be wearing a surplus Swiss Army canvas and leather pack with enough dried food for four days. I took very little water knowing that it would be plentiful on the way. I did include a small shelter, but I planned on sleeping under the stars unless the weather forbade me.
As I started up the trail I remembered what my two Portuguese friends had told me about the lack of sign from these deer and noted that not a single fresh deer track existed on the trail. Now a light rain had fallen three days before my arrival, but no tracks had been made on the trail since the rains; certainly some deer had to be in this region? As I made the two-mile trek up the trail to the ridge that would take me to the middle of the Wilderness, I continued to note the lack of sign and it actually began to worry me that my efforts would be in vain for another year.
As I reached the ridge my spirits lifted as a large doe and her yearling sprang from the trail and bolted down the steep hillside. I had not been paying much attention since leaving the trailhead due to the lack of sign, but now vowed to be vigilant as I pressed into the Wilderness.
I did not see another deer during the next mile and a half to the forks of the trail. I was now at a crossroads of sense, because I needed to now decide which plan I was going to take. If I went to he west I would be working my way back towards another trailhead and through familiar country, but the east took me further and further into the Wilderness and farther away from my comfort zone. Begrudgingly I choose to go east to optimize my chances of a trophy.
As I pressed further into unfamiliar territory I realized I had forgotten to give my wife a map and description of where I was going, and where I might be found if I did not show up at home on time. This was my customary fashion, and although I knew she would not be worried, it always gave me a bit of comfort knowing that someone knew where I might be found. She has always had the faith in me that I sometimes wish I could muster myself.
About an hour and a half before sunset I decided to make camp and let myself adjust to the rise in elevation from my home at 160 feet to my current location at nearly 6000 feet. I found it comforting that I picked a location to camp where under the duff of the forest I found an old rock campfire ring. What made this camp very special was the square hammered nails that were found in the ring and imbedded in the fir and juniper around the camp. It made me wonder when the last time this camp was used and how long ago these fires had been light. It was perfect for the night and I even decided to make it my base camp and to leave everything I could except for the needed belongings for an overnight stay.
When I awoke the next day I traveled further out the northeastern ridge until I saw what I had been looking for: open, sparse pines and juniper with no visible ground cover, but when I closely observed the ground I noticed numerous forbs that the deer favored in this area as forage.
I took the day to just walk around and scout for deer sign and make a plan for the following days hunts. This area actually had numerous tracks of large blacktails in the lower portions of the mountain below the winds and weather of the ridges. This would be the area I focused on in the morning, so I took the evening off to make the necessary preparations. I had plenty of time to hunt, so I ate an ample meal of dried salami and black beans and took a hit from my flask of bourbon before hitting the sack for a listless night of sleep before the big hunt.
At 2 am I awoke to the sounds of distant thunder. I was surprised since there had been no mention of this possibility when leaving for my hunt. By 3 am the storm was right over me and my thin shelter was of little comfort as the lightning slammed down from the heavens all around my mountain abode. By the time morning came, I was ready for bed, but instead I pushed myself to gather my daypack and get ready for the morning hunt. After a quick snack, I was on the trail by 6 am, leaving most of my belongings at my makeshift base camp.
As I traveled along the trail further into the Wilderness, I soon found myself above an area sparse in timber, and thick in waist deep manzanita brush. I stopped for the morning and set myself up in a location to scan the dense manzanita entanglement hoping to see a nice bucks rack above the brush. After 45 minutes I could hear rustling in the brush about 200 yards down the hill and to my right. This just happened to be the thickest and tallest portion of the manzanita patch and could easily cover a wary buck. The edge of the brush was only 125 yards away and an easy shot from where I was hiding. As I waited in anticipation the noise got closer and closer until the edge of the manzanita started to move. As I settled my old Kahles scope onto the location of the movement, I witnessed a large boar black bear aggressively push his way clear of the manzanita brush and into the open. Although I had a bear tag, I opted not to take this large bruin. It was a very large load for one guy to handle, and I was desperately intent on getting a blacktail buck from the Yolla Bollys. That being said, this was a magnificent bear.
I continued to scope the brushy hillside as the bear lumbered on his way, never knowing he came so close to being my alternate trophy for the trip, and never knowing he was being watched.
The sun began to poke through the clouds by 9 am and I was back at camp by 1030. By 3 pm that afternoon I was in 40 mile per hour winds with nearly no visibility due to the drizzle and foggy conditions. I choose to reinforce my shelter with cedar brows and branches to help keep the wind out and keep the wind from ripping my shelter apart. I took the evening off again and waited to hunt in the morning, or when the storm broke enough to make a go of it.
When I awoke at 3 am the next morning to use God’s facilities, I was relieved to see stars and only and occasional gust of wind. The temperature had dropped considerably since I had gone to bed, and I was encouraged about the upcoming morning hunt and the possibility that this brief weather had stirred the wildlife into moving from the high country.
When I left camp I was worried that I was late. I had planned to go further out the northern ridge to an area that I had spied from my hunt the previous morning. This area looked as if a small fire had burned there earlier that summer removing most of the manzanita, but in its place was young shoots and grasses.
When I arrived at this location I made a small hide behind a rocky outcropping that I could peer through and scope the burn and surrounding open rocky areas. I was very pleased to see a large game trail cutting right through the middle of the burn and running under my hide only 30 yards away. The trail was about a foot and a half wide and looked like a compacted garden trail from the years of hooves that made their way across it annually. I assumed this was one of the migration paths used by the deer when leaving the high country for the valley.
I have always had difficulty sitting for long periods of time while hunting. The anticipation and the fact that I am looking over the same ground for hours has always pressed me to move on and scope new country, but I managed to sit relatively still and scope out my new found hunting grounds. However, by 0930 I was ready to go, but I had set a 1030 goal to sit and observe this burn. At 1030 I was going to walk along the game trail and follow it further out the ridge and down into the canyon it was leading from.
A thin fog had once again moved into the area making clear viewing more difficult, but as my mind wandered, I started to pick up a faint clicking sound in the distance across the burn. In my head I imagined it would be one of the local hunters that had ridden into the Wilderness on horseback, a common theme in this area, but still no horse appeared. Finally, in the distance I picked up the movement of a gray object. As my excitement rose and time went on I was able to identify that it was a blacktail, but it was still too far off to tell much more due to the range and the fog. At some point I found myself looking at a gray rock and I had lost focus on the deer altogether. That wasn’t the only problem; I couldn’t find the deer for the life of me. There was no movement where there had just been a deer. I worried that somehow the deer had my scent, and with the wind gusting and ripping over the high ridge, it was quit possible. It felt like an hour had gone by when one of the rocks behind my focal point began to move, it was actually the deer, but the mountain mist was so dense I couldn’t make out much more than movement.
As the deer approached, my heart began to beat wildly as my dream was walking slowly towards me out of the mist of the high mountains. In actuality what was walking towards me was a lone black-tail buck with a magnificent rack of antlers. They looked wider than any I had ever shot and taller too, but I scarcely saw a point on either side. I soon realized this buck obviously meet the legal requirement of at least a fork on one side, but beyond that it was a mystery. All I knew for sure was the rack was tall, wide and appeared thick in the mist.
I slowly lowered the crosshairs of the century old Kahles scope onto chest of the approaching buck. Due to the angle of the buck I choose to place the shot between his front left shoulder and his brisket. As I squeezed the trigger, the old Mannlicher cracked softly, breaking the silence of the mountain air. The buck froze in his tracks and softly rolled to the uphill side: dead.
As I approached the buck I could not believe my eyes. The rack was just as I had dreamed, and just as how I imagined looking through the old scope. It was thick, wide and very tall. Much to my surprise it was only a 2X2 with no eye-guards, locally called a “Pacific Fork†and by far my favorite type of antlers on a black-tail. The bullet from my vintage Hirtenberger ammunition had completely penetrated through the buck after hitting exactly where I had aimed and exiting right behind the right shoulder.
The hunt was far from complete, but my dream had been realized. The mist on the mountains had revealed the dream and the nostalgic old Mannlicher had captured it. It was as if I was a passive observer witnessing an epic drama that was scheduled to play out over a century ago.

Magnificent story. Congrats, and thanks for sharing.

KG

thanks....I will post more soon. This last one was an amazing trip, but I am slowly deciding that hunting alone is not always that fun!

Kamo Gari I have been looking for you to post up after the moose and mako adventures. How was the hunting last year?

Hey man,

Last year was pretty tame, due mostly to family constraints (read as the Mrs. Kamo Gari wasn't havin' it for the most part ). I did whack my share of birds and small game, as per usual, and I killed a hog in FL. Along the way I chased and caught a few finned critters, but nothing to write home about, really. Here's a couple shots of fish. Nice to have a hobby to while away the time while waiting for hunting season... And yes, my chosen weapon was indeed a rake in that one shot. Call it a handicap.

Cheers,

Nice fish. The stripers in Jersey this year are huge,they should be up by you soon.

The Skookum Creek incident


My buddy Bill and I decided we were ready to strike out on our own for our first elk hunt without adults that snowy weekend in late November. We were, however young (16 years old each) ready for the rigors of a snow packed high country wilderness elk hunt, or so we thought.
Our planning consisted of raiding our parents refrigerators and pantry’s for whatever wouldn’t be missed, grabbing our guns, knives and bullets, topping off the gas tank and throwing the snow chains in the 2 wheel drive 1966 Ford camper special and heading on up the pass to the Cascade Summit.
We had a trail map and made plans that would take us into Irish Lake and possibly on into Irish Meadows, a long haul on foot in the snow but we were hardy experienced woodsmen, Oregonians, from a long line of loggers, completely qualified for the trip.
Everything went per plans from the kickoff at the trailhead and on into the wilderness until we had Irish Lake in sight where we cut a fresh set of lone “bull tracksâ€, better yet they had an occasional speck of blood in them!
We had a quick discussion right there and decided we were fast and strong enough to out walk this “wounded†elk and make him ours. The elk meandered all over the high country leading us on a grand chase, never finding a bed and never jumping him we assumed he was nearly dead on his feet and afraid himself that if he laid up he would never get up. We knew if we could just pick up the pace he would be ours for the taking.
We kicked our pace into overdrive working up a drenching sweat in the 15 degree heat, soaking our shirts, coats and wrangler jeans. By now it is approaching early afternoon, the sun is getting lower and “our†elk heads straight up and over a ridge and begins his decent into the next drainage, in this drainage we are on the “shady†side and the snow is now crotch deep and full of 3 -6†blowdowns under and over the snow. The temperature takes a deep drop and our spirits fall with it. The elk leads us to the bottom of the tangle of blowdowns where we stand in the middle of Skookum Creek. At the end of the tracks lies “our elk†or what is left of him. Someone has gotten to him first and butchered him and left with the meat!
Damn the luck.
We quickly get our map out and plot our retreat deciding that the swooping trail leading down Skookum Creek is adding too much mileage and we can shortcut our way back up the tangled blowdowns to the ridgetop on to the junction of trails halfway down the trail from Irish Lake to our warm truck.
The blowdowns were bad enough to come downhill through but going back up was insanity. By the time we topped the ridge it is nearly dark we are completely soaked from sweat and snow melting on our jeans and so spent we are in near delirium. Stumbling and rolling around in the snow isn’t helping matters. From the ridgetop we bushwack our way to what we assume is going to be an easy 3 mile jaunt to the truck from the intersecting trails however somewhere we mis-calculated and we’ve come out at the lake ……..yikes!
Now it is really cold, our pants are frozen and stiff and rubbing our legs till they are bleeding, we are down to one candy bar and out of water and we can start to see the stars coming out and the clouds blowing away……..you can almost hear the temperature falling and only 8 miles to the truck!
We stop for frequent rests usually when we have fallen down in the snow and eat snow to quench our un-quenchable thirst, Bill tells me through fumbling lips that the longer he lays there the warmer he feels, funny thing I’m feeling it to.
Suddenly I realize we are in trouble, real trouble and I plead for Bill to get to his feet and he won’t so I have to drag him on his knees until he gets up. We go on like this for hours, no longer able to sling our rifles over our numb shoulders we just loop the slings over our necks and rest both arms on the rifles, teeth chattering and mumbling incoherently about how warm the snow feels when we lay in it.
The trailhead is a welcome sight as is the Ford pickup. When we get to the truck I have a new problem, my hands are so numb from the cold that I can’t get my hands in my pockets to retrieve the keys! Bill helps by holding on to my pocket while I try to drive my numb fingers in but to no avail. I am almost ready to hike up the road where I can hear a guy loading a horse in a trailer to ask him to help get my keys out of my pants but embarrassment keeps me from making the walk. Finally I am able to fling the keys out of my pocket and into the snow it only takes the 2 of us about 10 minutes to find them and with 2 numb hands, no fingers and 4 tries I get them into the lock. Safe in the truck we are spent!
We start the truck and get the heat going and let it run all night sleeping upright in the cab of that truck in our sleeping bags, trying to heat canned chili on the manifold and warming smoked smelt on the trucks defroster.
True story.

quote:

Originally posted by J_Zola:
Nice fish. The stripers in Jersey this year are huge,they should be up by you soon.

Well OK, then they will be joining the big fish already here. The two main SB breeding grounds are the Chesapeake and the Hudson. We get fish from both wintering/spawning areas for sure (as evidenced by littoral society tagged bass from NJ/NY/MD). In any event, we've been crushing them to 40 lbs. If they get bigger by ten pounds or more, I'll be making a visit to the fish taxidermist again.

Thanks, and cheers.

KG

P.S. You ever get up to the Bean, let's have a drink, or something, on me.

quote:

Originally posted by Snellstrom:
The Skookum Creek incident

.

Love it! Awesome tale. You guys know only too well how that trip could have easily been the end of both of you, but think back on it fondly, I'll bet.

I understand *exactly* what you described as far as frozen paws and car keys. One time after an impromptu dunking through the ice on a river in January while alone (you and your buddy are not the only clever ones out there ), I almost didn't make it back to the vehicle. When I did, I found what you did. It took me 15 minutes to manage to get into the vehicle. One minute more, and I was bashing in a window, as I was seriously hypothermic, and knew it, with the sleepiness, slurred speech and the like.

Anyway, thanks for sharing that. Great stuff!

Cheers,

KG

Snellstorm my teeth were chattering by the time I finished reading. Kamo Gari there has been alot of fifty pounders over the rail this year. Not by me but still trying.

quote:

And yes, my chosen weapon was indeed a rake in that one shot. Call it a handicap.

KG, there's no way I'm letting you get away with not telling that story! Come on, what's the deal with the raked fish?

Perfectly Tragic Hunt


As I awoke, I uncurled in my sleeping bag as the weathered metal cot made the floor of the old redwood cabin groan. I looked across the room and marveled at the crackle of the live-oak fire still burning from the night before. This was not a typical hunt for me; I was alone, and not in search of a specific quarry, rather I had California tags for a black bear, a Columbian black-tailed deer and wild pigs. This was a meat hunt to say the least.
I was in no hurry as I stretched my body from the comfort of the sleeping bag and the wool blanket I was using to keeps the frost off. It was a full hour and a half before daylight and the hunting grounds I was after was a mere half a mile away. I had considered getting up earlier in the morning when a quad runner had sped by my cabin deep in the private lands of the timber company who had granted me this opportunity, but warmth got the better of me and I drifted back asleep. I was under the impression that I was alone in this part of the world, but God only knows what biologist or forester might be out conducting one of the vast arrays of surveys needed to harvest trees in California. I told myself not to look a gift horse in the mouth and to just put the intrusion aside; besides, this was a working forest.
As I pulled the creaking door of the cabin open I notice a total lack of moon and the clouds covering the stars. A frigid breeze was blowing in from the northwest making my hunting ambitions questionable, but this weather also excited me because it often meant that I would have opportunity to view animals along the tree lines and within the small groves of oaks and buckeyes that line the prairies and their small ravines.
I spent the morning crawling across a steep open field trying to get within range of two magnificent four point Columbian black-tailed bucks that were below me. This stalk left me with no cover but the dry sparse fall grass of California’s B-4 deer season, therefore, I had to slither stealthily through the grass like one of my native ancestors in order to get into position for a killing shot.
I could clearly see the bucks but estimated the range at over 400 yards. With the cold morning breeze ripping off of the ocean and across the prairies, I did not feel comfortable attempting such a shot. I was bound and determined to get within 200 yards of the bucks for a humane kill. As I slide off of the cattle trail on my belly, I fixated on a small cluster of rocks on a point reaching to the left of the ridge I was on. This point should be within 200 yards of the bucks and viewing right down on the spot where they were feeding amongst the scattered oaks.
As I drug myself across the grass and rocks of the hillside with my goal in sight, I could once again hear the racing sounds of the speeding quad runner as it made its way past the cabin and over my location. Now this was beginning to bother me. I understood that it was a working forest, but I was also lead to believe this would be a peaceful retreat…alone!
Anticipation was getting the better of me and I began to move more quickly as I approached the rocks. When I reached them, I placed my rifle on top of the rocks and in easy reach before peering over the edge. Much to my disappointment there was nothing to look at when I got there. Whether it was my hast, or the speeding quad runner didn’t matter at this point because the bucks were gone and I was more than a little…well, we can leave that out of the story.
I dusted myself off, pulled a couple of briars from my knee, and decide it was time for breakfast. So, I hiked back to my truck and returned to the cabin to take a breather. When I arrived, I quickly started to warm the old cast iron skillet on the top of the pot bellied wood stove. I stoked the fire with two pieces of seasoned wood that sparked easily on the fiery coals left from that morning. This was perfect for warming the mornings coffee and quickly scrambling last nights potatoes with slices of left over steak and a few eggs; sort of a farmer’s omelet.
With a full belly and warm blood I contemplated the rest of the day’s hunt before leaving the comfort of the cabin. This land I was hunting offered a rich array of opportunities. Would I hunt the recently harvested forest, the area that burned in the lightning fire last fall, maybe the creek bottom on the Devil’s Backbone; no I thought it best to stick with the oak woodlands. This was where I had seen a group of feral pigs on the way in the day before, and it is where the two bucks were grazing on acorns this morning. The foresters for the landowner had been gracious enough to provide me with maps of the different tree types and cover classes that existed where I was hunting. Their information was so detailed that I was able to select a location that was dominated by Oregon white oaks. I did this because this tree species was going through a mast year where they were out producing every other oak species for the volume of acorns. I was sure to find one of the three animals I was searching for there.
The location I had selected to hunt was only a mile away on an old 1940s WWII era logging road used to remove Douglas-fir logs from the forest to support the war effort. I decided that it would be better to just leave a little early and walk to the hunting location rather than how I had conducted the morning hunt. In the morning, I had selected the truck to traverse the half-mile simply because it was frigid as hell and I was still fighting the urge to remain in the cabin next to the blistering fire. This evening I would just leave half an hour early and walk along the old road to the point where I would slip out along an old fire-line through the oaks looking for my opportunity to redeem my adventure from this morning’s disappointment.
The walk was peaceful and not as cold as I had expected. Over the course of the day the temperature had risen to nearly 60 degrees Fahrenheit. Since I was new to this area I was uncertain how this rise in temperature would affect my hunting opportunities, but I was soon relieved to see two does feeding with their fawns in a nearby prairie. The closest doe had two fawns close by her flank as she fed. One of the fawns still sported its spots from birth. I choose to not spend any further time there and continued my walk without alarming them to my presence.
As I approached the area where I would leave the road I got the familiar tingle in my stomach I get when the hunting looks promising. This made me think; “the day I no longer feel this excitement about the hunt will be my last day in the field in pursuit of game.†That day was not today, so I crept from the road and followed a shallow cattle trail that entered the sparse oaks. This trail took me to the fire-line that flanked the prairie edge. I was hoping that my prey would be in this area feeding on the plentiful white oak acorns and gathering up the last of the afternoon sun before another frigid nightfall.
I had looked over the map before leaving the old road to see what I might encounter as I went down the hill through the oaks. I noticed that the main prairie actually had a small band of oaks and buckeyes that cut through it leaving the last quarter of the prairie isolated from the top by this narrow strip of trees. Below this isolated location one of the foresters had made a hand notation on the map that there was an old logging railroad below the prairie and above the Devil’s Backbone Creek. I decided that I would sleek through the forest where I could continuously view the prairie edge, but my ultimate location would be this isolated prairie where I assumed few humans had been in recent years.
My research was right (taking all credit for the foresters who had steered me to this location), and as I approached the little isolated prairie I could see the faint outlines of wild pigs through the tall grass. They appeared unaware of my presence and were rooting through the grass and grazing on the acorns from the oak trees. So I set out for a small clump of trees within that narrow strip of timber that overlooked the prairie. As I reached the trees I slid both the rifle and myself into position simultaneously to avoid any unnecessary movement or noise unlike my actions earlier in the day. As I peered through the trees I began the process of confirming the size and sex of the hogs. Before leaving for this hunt I had a mental picture of what would be the perfect hog for the larder. This did not seem to exist in this small group of feral pigs, but I had plenty of time with the topography and wind in my advantage, so I continued my thorough scan.
I was busily adding mystical weight to the little pigs and trying to talk myself into shooting one of them when I heard a snort from another patch of oaks just 50 yards to my right. In my hast to put the sneak on the pigs, I had totally missed a large boar black bear that was either eating acorns himself, or competing with me for a piece of pork.
I quickly shifted positions to get my crosshairs on the now running bear. I was a little dismayed as the boar rushed, the pigs scattered, and I instantly thought my hunt was over. To my surprise the crosshairs of my grandfather’s old Remington Model 700 30’06 Springfield and it’s equally old Leupold 4X scope, quickly rested on the brisket of the bear, where with his rate of travel, would put my bullet in his heart and lungs. Amazed at my steadiness, I lightly squeezed the trigger of the old rifle. The bear’s nose plowed through the oak leaves and came to a stop a few feet from where the pigs had been foraging.
As I sat and stared at the magnificent bear I heard shouting in the distance as another hunter called towards me. The unexpected company in this location shocked me, and I was mistaken when I thought he was as exuberant about the kill as I was. What I mistook for excitement was actually rage. I gave a quick holler for him to come down and take a look while I began to make my incision to remove the viscera. It did not take long for me to figure out how big of a mistake I had made, and how big a problem I had.
I didn’t look up for a few moments after my guest had approached, because I was busily working on cleaning the bear. In a sudden moment I felt an intense pressure in my head and a dull thud resonated throughout my skull. I couldn’t see or even give a scream in pain. I was loosing conscientiousness. I had received a blow from the muzzle of a large caliber rifle as it was jabbed into my temple. At first I thought he had actually shot me, but I was not dead and there was no blood.
He was screaming insanely at me about killing his bear and running off his pigs. Repeatedly he said he was so made he could kill me. Then, his comment changed as he stated, “I am so mad I am going to kill you.†As I stared at him in disbelief I saw his quad runner parked on top of the prairie above. This seemed like a nightmare.
His threats were real and after he chambered a cartridge into his rifle and jabbed his muzzle into my temple for the third time I figured it was now or never. I grabbed the barrel of his rifle and directed it away from me as I shoved it back towards him knocking him off balance. Cursing me he yanked the trigger and shot his rifle in a desperate act to kill me. The blast was so intense I nearly lost hold, but he had missed. As he side stepped to regain his stance I grabbed my bloody belt knife from beside the bear and pulled back on the barrel of his rifle at the same time. It was surreal how easy the Swedish steel of my hunting knife penetrated his clothing and slide easily between his ribs on his left side.
He slumped to the ground without murmuring a word. I quickly rolled him onto his back to check his vital signs, but knew there was little chance after seeing the blood covering his clothing and the ground between the two of us. I waded through his blood to check his carotid artery for a pulse: nothing!
What the knife hit and how it killed him is something I never want to know. I sat in disbelief on what had just transpired. Had I acted appropriately, was this a crime I had committed, did this really happen? These were all questions racing through my mind.
I sat for what turned out to be over half an hour just looking and suffering from mental shock. I wondered what I had done to his family, and what was going to happen to mine. I finally gathered myself, leaving everything in place, and returned to the cabin where I could retrieve my cell phone and call for help.
It was nearly two hours before any help arrived and that “help†took me into custody after one look at the blood covering my clothing. Some was the bear’s and some was my dead assailant’s.
Life was truly miserable for a few months while I was investigated, but I was eventually cleared of any wrongdoing. This incident has not deterred me from experiencing the outdoors or hunting, but I will never hunt the Devil’s Backbone again!

Is this a true tale? If so, wow; that's some serious shit. You did what you had to, and had I been in your shoes and in the same situation (a man with a firearm pretty clearly intent on killing me), I'd have done the same--or at least tried to.

Nope. I had him arrested, but I had that dream the next night and wrote it down. it scared the hell out of me.

Exciting stories, all three of them! Thank you very much for sharing!

Funny one here. As a kid we lived in Moscow ID. One of my dad's friends was a guy by the name of Jim Jackman. Funny as hell, and always doing something silly. They where hunting in the Orchards area south of Lewiston ID. Back then deer and pheasants could be hunted at the same time. Well old Jim had a side by side 12 guage with a 300savage tube right down the top tetween the other two. A pheasant jumps up and you geust it he flicked the safty the wrong way and BOOM!!!! There was pheasant every where. Hell of a shot!

As for my first story on here.......It is with the greatest of sadness that I must report this area will be burnt by Sunday the 2nd of Sept 2012 in the North Pass Fire on the Mendocino National Forest. Although I know fire is needed and natural it will never be the same. It is true...you can never go back!

a fine read, and great looking country

not there yet...but pushing closer