AT THE DUMP WITH DUSTIN OR HOW TO SPEND A RAINY AFTERNOON

With great expectations I booked a hunt in Northern Saskatchewan with a well know bowhunting guide. Unfortunately, my guide couldn't make it the week of the hunt and I ended up with his novice brother.

It rained and rained. Finally the last afternoon we went to town and bought some beer thinking that hunting was over and we'd just chill out.

Just for the heck of it, we decided to sit at the local dump which was on the way back to camp and check out the dump bears. And then... I saw him!

I climbed out of the window of the pickup (the electric motor was broken and quietly crawled around to the drivers side of the truck (where Dustin snored).

As I eased along, trying to "re-find" the giant bruin in the trash of a whole villiage, I was carefully putting my feet between beer cans and pampers, when I heard the unmistakable snap of a pop top behind me.

Slowly turning to peek over a rusted-out washing machine, I spotted the "King of the Dump", sitting on his haunches, enjoying a Royal Crown Cola that he had just dug out of a now ripped-up Hefty brand trash bag. Red stained noodles from some discarded Chief Boyardee circled his broad brown nose. A tampon was stuck to his left shoulder and a 4' strand of garden hose was tangled in his right rear foot.

What a trophy. His coal black coat was only slightly marred where he was apparently rubbing it when he climbed in an out of the 1982 Datsun truck that he used as his den. I dropped to the ground, careful not to disturb any of the dozen whiskey bottles at my feet, stooped low and crawled through some old library books to a freezer resting on its side.

The perfect bow shot presented itself. Low and behold, a toilet with the water tank broken off was right beside the bear. The seat was raised, framing his vitals.

I drew my 70# recurve with the excitement building (as was the stench). If I could just slip a broadhead through the raised seat and put it an inch or two below the string dangling from the tampon, I'd have him.

"Boy!" I whispered to myself and a few maggots, taking a deep breath in an attempt to get my heart to stop pounding, this dump hunting is the best. In retrospect, taking a deep breath there was about as hazardous to my health as mustard gas. Won't do that again! Anyway....

With my heart under control, and successfully holding down a projectile vomit with a gag practiced and perfected as a resident of a fraternity house for four years, I picked a spot and released. Dead solid perfect!

A short tracking job later(blood shows up well on Clorox bottles and hub caps) I found his massive hulk wedged between a rust brown sofa (love those earth tones) and a couple of tread-separated Firestone radials.

Then the work began. Taking cues from Robot wars and whatever the reality show is on which guys build stuff from a junk yard and race it, I pieced together a ingenious cart on which to tote my trophy. I found a lawn furniture set and broke the table top off its legs. Then I put the top on a red wagon that still had two rear wheels. Finally, I found a tricycle and wedged it in the tongue and handle of the wagon.

And I pulled. Going was easy until I got to the mattress pile, but a detour of 30 yards got me around that mountain of conception pads (Oh! What stories those stains could tell).

Finally I reached my drooling guide, still asleep in the cab of his truck, popped him a brew from the cooler in the pickup bed and presented him with the "King".

Boy was he proud (after puking once). And so was I. We had teamed up to tackle the dump bears and, after months of study, planning and practice, we had prevailed. (Well, maybe a couple of hours of lying and beer drinking....)

After wiping the carrots and peas from his chest, Dustin, always the intrepid guide, respectfully fell out the door from his seat into a puddle, wiped the mud off of his butt, blew his nose without the benefit of tissue and said to the bear: "Old fellow, it was them Twinkies that got you."

Always respectful of the game he takes, Dustin wiped some marinara sauce off of the bear's nose and gave him a final kiss, sending the bruin to bear heaven with love.

Somber now, but not necessarily sober, having committed the bear's spirit to a better world, Dustin turned to me and said, with more than a little slur in his voice,"Please don't tell my brother about this shit, huh?"

Very Good, and even if it is not true it should be.

Very Good!
Christer you need to make-up a suitable photo to go along with the story!

Man what a story, I thought there for a moment you must be from Oklahoma. Us Okies can sure spin the BS. It just goes to show the first liar does not have a chance. Man you boys really know how to spread it. I expecially like the shot through the toilet lid and placing the shot just behind the tampon.
Thanks for the story.

Checked your profile, Georgia I knew it had to come from one of us ole southern boy's cause a yankee could'nt have embelished the story that good.