It was the Moon of the Popping Trees. A thick frost covered the tall sage brush and thick bunch grass, ahead up the canyon he saw the stark and naked aspen trees, the white bark glistening in the sunlight of a late fall morning. He slowly climbed up out of the canyon, his destination some 2000 feet higher than the canyon floor. Placing each foot carefully on the sharp, and slick scree slope, testing the hold of his leading foot before shifting his weight from his trailing foot. A slip up here could be fatal, it was about 500 feet to the bottom of the canyon over large, jagged edged boulders. He carried his long fusil in his weak hand, using his strong hand to give him more purchase on the basalt and shale covered game trail. He followed the switchbacks of the game trail up. Climbing ever higher towards the sheltered bowl that his quarry favored in harsh weather. He heard the mocking call of chukar echoing off the rocks somewhere above him on the sunlit south facing slope. Above him his faithful companion rimmed the ridges. The copper color of his coat contrasting sharply with the white, frost laden brush and trees. Whistling loudly, the hunter changed directions and the young dog seeing this, turned in concert with the movement of the hunter below him.
Finally, the hunter broke over the last ridge. Far below, the blue-green colored water of the Tieton and Naches rivers converged, feeding the Yakima further down the valley. The young dog spooked a large, mule deer buck. The deer passed not 50 yards from the hunter. Unaware of the hunters presence, or perhaps not caring about the hunter sitting on a basalt boulder admiring the view below him.
The dog, continued to work the wind. His experience teaching him that the air currents rising from the valley below carried the scent of the partridge resting just below the crest of the canyon rim. The dog caught scent and slowed into a beautiful point skylined, against the blue sky. The hunter hurried to the motionless dog, seemingly standing at the edge of a deep precipice. As the hunter drew closer to the dog, he was reminded that this terrain was as misleading as it was rugged, and a huge covey of about thirty birds flushed from a small saddle below him. He brought the fusil up and fired, white smoke hung in the air and the thundering boom echoed throughout the bowl and off the rimrock as a chukar cartwheeled in the air, landing about 50 yards below. The dog stood steady until the hunter released him for the the retrieve and returned promptly with a fat partridge. Hanging it from his game bag the hunter reloaded his fusil and continued in a clockwise pattern around the rim of the bowl.
As he moved over some rugged basalt flows on the north side of the canyon. He heard rocks clattering below him in the rimrock. He peered over the edge of the canyon cautiously and was greeted by the sight of a small herd of California bighorn ewes followed by a ram, making their way up from the far edge of the canyon. He called the dog to him, and found a spot amongst the boulders where he was mostly concealed. The bighorns moved quickly and nimbly across the sharp, and treacherous rocks. As they topped the ridge and began grazing leisurely in the sun. He studied the ram, he had seen the ram before, and although his horns made a full curl he lacked some mass. The ram had all the outward signs of being in rut, and was trailing the ewes. The normal caution that the hunter had observed in rams up in the rimrock before was not apparent.
The dog next to him whined, but obediently stayed next to the hunter as the herd grazed about 300 yds below in the bowl. The hunter had seen a larger ram in this canyon over the years and speculated on what might have happened to him, and why this younger ram had taken his place. As he was musing over this and watching the ewes and ram interact, he heard a loud snort, and rocks clattering down the rimrock face. Looking up, he saw the unmistakeable silhouette of the monarch of the canyon high on the north rim, moving quickly towards the herd and the smaller ram.
As the monarch ram drew closer to the ewes. The usurper, sized him up. At about 20 yards, the tension between the two rams was evident to the hunter and dog watching from concealment. At about 10 yards, both of the rams reared up and threw themselves forward smashing against the other. Seemingly stunning each other, only to rear up again and smash their massive horns together once more. Twenty or more times this action was repeated. The usurper finally conceded defeat and moved off leaving the monarch with the ewes. The hunter and dog slipped away as the herd moved off to the north east, as the hour was growing late and the lowering of the light and temperature would make the footing treacherous as they made their way off old man Clemens mountain. On the way down, to the west across the canyon they saw a small group of mule deer grazing on the side of the hill. Directly, south across the Naches and near the top of Bethel Ridge they saw a herd of about 200 elk moving to the lower elevations along Oak Creek and the Tieton river.
It was a satisfying hunt, they had witnessed something unique today. As the fat partridge roasted on a spit over the fire, snug in the half faced camp. The hunter with his companion dozing at his feet, thanked the Creator for this day.
Dan'l
Dan
You a talent of being able to paint a picture with your words, As I read your stories I am able to see the county your charters are in. Keep up the good works
all I can do is echo Old Salts words... keep it up we enjoy reading these words
When ever I read one of your stories, I just get a calming sense of being there and enjoying the moment, please more, more, you do indeed have a great talent and thank you for sharing it with all of us
Outstanding, I as well can almost see the land, sky, surroundings.
A book full of such reading would make a good late night camp fire partner.