COMING FULL CIRCLE AFTER A YEAR ON THE ROAD

It is time to head home. Canada was grand this year but I have both an elk hunt and sheep hunt left in Northern Nevada. I descend through the Canadian Rockies back through Idaho stopping at Ketchum to pay my respect to Ernest Hemingway and the life he lived but killed so young. It was a year ago I remember fishing Silver Creek and praying beside Ernest's grave . It was in September but this year I would visit him in November.

He was bigger than life and set the beat generation on the move much as the Beatles and Woodstock did for the hip generation. Hemingway made it OK to let the demons out loose on the sporting fields without the trapping of correct behavior. He did not care what others thought and killed himself when he couldn't produce to his liking. Gusty but selfish.

I took a pic of the two hunting dogs next to Hemingways grave site and the I place my Holland and Holland Royal Ejector 12 bore that took many phesants and grouse across his grave. I can tell you that Ernest thank me and told me where to fish Silver Creek. I wish I didn't have to be Elk and Sheep hunting so soon

I think he would like very much his great grandson's generation and clearly would despise the hip self centered generation of the 1960-70 who elected two Bush's, Bill Clinton and maybe a second Clinton. talk about being dumb without imagination.

I will enjoy Sun Valley visit friends have some good coffee eat where Hemingway had his last meal and prepared mentally for the Elk and Sheep hunt.

I am already thinking of out Arizona bird hunting trip with my son and Ellen and our trip down to Mexico for fishing, beaching and touring Zacatecas. The Warmth of the Sun....

MY HUNTING DOGS

My wise father said, "You are not hunting without dogs you trained, " and how true he was. Training you dogs to be what they are wired for is an art form that require an everyday routine with keen insight into animal behavior. Do it right and every day and you shall be rewarded beyond measure. One must have an understanding about the nature of the animal in question and above all the ability to accept the bond that the dog is capable of giving. Many can not handle that commitment and the dog becomes just a tool to amuse Dogs are breed for work, hunt, companionship and are as close to perfection, a gift from the heavens and truly angels on four legs. I train my dogs well esp. the force fetch phase because I base my beginnings on trust and imprinting. My dogs think they are like me human most of the time. Unlike my training dogs, my falcon are encouraged with food and then the trust and bond follows but in the end the hawk is killing and for itself out of hunger

I am partial to black labs although we have had many shorthairs, springers and pointers. The black lab seems to be the most intelligent of the dogs and a olfactory beyond belief. My present lab is the queen of the house and she pretty much dicates our routing. Here younger sister is a very pleasant mild manner German Wirehair that looks like if just came out of the Bavarian Forest. Together they are a team and the wirehair is depressed without the lab unless she is afield. They go everywhere with us and if we can not take by auto we do not go

HEADING WESTWARD BACK TO THE BEGINING

As the Indian summer had streak well into October and being alone for several weeks in the forest, I yearned for the open space of the Prairie. I would head west to find more Huns and Sharptail and visit with long time friends. And so I left the Northwood filled with wonderful memories, plenty of shooting and great ruffed dinners. I would head toward Alberta hunt the Praise again and pass through the States from the Canadian Rockies.

This drive is always special from sunrise to sunset. as the skies were alive with the constant flocks of geese staging for the south. I was in the area I wanted to hunt when there were no more blue phase geese just pure white Arctic geese. I was back in the the western flyway

FI had to stop by Lake Diefenbaker and catch some LUNKER rainbow trout on fly rods. For many years I have been camping by Diefenbaker hunting was superb and so was the fly fishing. I was ito my friends home for an evening of visiting, watching the world series or Corner Gas, catching up on the family and a home cooked meals. The rye flowed with pepsi as did the Molson or Pilzner. How grand these small town were and all over the province I was constantly being cooked for and entertained by the wonderful hospitality of the farming community. You see up here the hunter is a respected endeavouring

PUSHING INTO THE FORREST

To the Northwood’s.

I knew the forest grouse numbers were way up this year but the number were ridiclous and I often had to stop grouse shooting within the hour as not to exceed my limit of twenty. I enjoyed the quiet isolation of the deep forest impregnated with the scent of the black spruce and poplar trees. I could think of the French trappers and Jesuits who explore this land in the 16^th century and the vast numbers of fur animals that thrived in this lush place but mostly I dreamed of flushing ruffed grouse as they disappeared into the thick forest stands.

This habitat is where the German Wirehair Fe Rey thrives and excels. She can point or flush and will even point the tree the grouse lands in. She is an incredible dog after many years of hunting she is perfect for flushing and the retrieve of the ruffed.

I was up north of Flin Flon when the rain stopped. There were no hotels for a hundred miles and I was cozy in the Lance overlooking a lake filled with loons and song birds with the wolves howling at night. Within a minute or so I flushed a covey of ruffed. My new Holland and Holland Royal swung through the flush and the birds just continued to fly with it sortie. Not a good beginning but I would later learn to keep my head down on the Holland. Fe was off again into he bush and managed to flush to cock ruffed over me and the open bore Holland and Holland royal cut loose with a string of lead. She was on it quickly and brought it back to drop it at my feet. Fe would get and extra ration this evening.

Camping here is beyond explanation being alone in wild and pristine habitat where it could snow a foot over night. I knew I could handle anything except deep mud in the Ford Diesel with the extra weight of the Lance. The Lance was awesome totally self contained with dual batteries fuel by a new solar panel I installed. The queen size bed was perfect for a good night sleep and I could sleep comfortably even as the temp dipped below 0. I had my cabin the woods and the dogs as companions and I was experiencing the joys of the wild living off the harvest

IT RAINED DUCKS

This afternoon it rained green heads. The decoy spread stayed in the pea field after the morning shoot. Morning shoot had plenty of blues phase Arctic, giant Canada’s and few lesser. The coffin blinds worked wells but the 4 dozen big foot and light snow pulled them in. We would have duck and goose breast for supper in a Currituck sauce. Even the dogs where chomping their lips. The low clouds, impending snow where fast cutting across the flat prairies building in the south. It would be a good afternoon duck shoot. Who could have imagined what was to happen after lunch. The pea field comprised a half section near the Cree Res. The whites leased the land from the band and they were more than willing to let us hunt the fields for a piece of the action. They also enjoy ducks and geese feed on the grain fields but we stopped at giving away the whisky

Field peas, very high protein souce and soil nitrogen fixer, are a rotational crop as part of wheat cycle. After combining they are shipped to feed lots for cattle fattening and also to the Mid East for pulse, a staple in their diets. Migrating water fowl prefer these fields to barley and wheat.

One of my hunting friends was a southern man with an III as suffix to his name. He was fifth generation and could tell you which battle his ancestors fought in the “war of Northern aggression.” He was willing to take on the northern yankee flight of ducks with valor. By 4:30 a ight drizzle had begun and there were fifteen mallards down. By 5:30, a limit. The Winchester model 21 duck models handled the 3-inch bismuth with ease and birds fell from upwards of 50 yards. Most important was the dogs working to retrieve all the sailors’ birds. Belle found eight birds in the deep cover and her feet were almost bloody from the stubble in the next field where many ducks tried to escape to. She would come back with two ducks in her mouth

THE ISLAND BOYZ

My first day visiting Sykes was hard on the dogs. I had to chain them up in order to keep them from wandering the countryside . Something they were used to doing down on the Prairies. This was the parkland and the bush was loaded with whitetail. IT won't take much for the hunting dogs to stray.

When I arrived after a filling Fall dinner at Herndon, The Wheeler Island hunters belonged to a duck club down near the California Pacific coastal range. The were straight out of California , the north thank God and all had been duck hunting together for many years. They were very excited about having a natural gas field under their marsh. Although, they were not uber dog guys they had labs back home and one even managed to sneak a cute little springer in named Jack. Jack thought he had died and gone to dog heaven with all the birds.

The patrons were two fathers and their sons who were on a return trip with Sykes. Jim and Harold were the senior members of the group and I thought at first were brothers they way they related to each other. Harold’s son, Derik was the most forthright and engaging being very transparent and great winger shooter. Harold enjoyed his duck shooting but it was the spicy “Bloody Marys" made by Derik that set the tone with Jim curing his mallard breast in a tasty jell sauce. After the morning shoot and a bloody Mary this crew spent the remainder of the morning hand cleaning ALL their birds for transport back home. They reaped the cornucopia of game.

At once, I held these hunters apart from the other American I have been with and hunted with who so often come and go with little respect for the game they harvest. Although I decided not to hunt until the mallards were further mature in 10 days or more . I enjoyed their enthusiasm for the process. Rarely had I witnessed the American caring for their birds in such a professional manner. Jim and his three sons truly had the times of their lives leaving the pressures of the Bay traffic and pressure to add value to their portfolio for at least this week. All of them came together without one cross word and truly a treat to see family and friends enjoy one another.

I enjoyed being akin to the Cal scene again, albeit for just a short time. Great wines, talk of expensive hunt clubs, winter ski trip and attempts at fly fishing, founder shares, Series A and B rounds and pre money valuations. I recalled quickly what I didn't miss about the Bay culture.

Jim Sr, a meticulous man, brought some great vintages and daily prepared mallard "de jour" marinated in a Currituck sauce worthy of my duck club in North Carolina. Well into the weeks and Sykes tiring of two daily shoots, I decided to show these gentlemen hunter the Quills Lakes, the reason for such abundance of waterfowl in good water years. And so Sykes who aimed to please his clients packed up my Weber gas grill with pressed duck breast, Jim’s excellent choice of a Napa Cab and off we were to watch the sun go down, the witness ducks hop from one slough to another and the White geese leave by the millions to feed on the left over field peas and barley. We would have a California gathering on the Quills

At the end of the week they parted happy campers and vowed to return. I hope the waters returns next year for it was an exceptional season for ducks. I will stop in to see Sykes when I go back to the Parklands next year.

Yikes with Sykes

Yikes with Sykes

Sunday October 5

I was in an up beat mood after chasing Huns and Sharp tails in southern Saskatchewan for a week. I will return to these grounds later in the trip when the grouse have bunched up and the white fronted geese are fat and excellent for roasting. Daughter, Cate was back safe in San Francisco after her Oxford University Studies. She and the two boys traveled with me many times during there home schooling years they all appreciate the warmth the Prairies exudes. Catherine is an independent strikingly handsome woman being 6’ tall a little less than 130 lbs. She is becoming a scholar with wide breadth of writing and analytical skill. Our two sons are immersed with engineering courses at the University. So it was just I and the two dogs that were traveling this year. I love being alone not having a schedule and spending time where I wish. Ellen was busy with a new analysis project and the hunting dog were ready and so was I for the cool season to change the ducks from drab color to mating plumage. I would visit around the Quill Lakes with friends until the 2 week and if the weather held go up north to the wolf poplar black spruce country to camp deep in the bush hunt ruffed and spruce grouse, and be alone. I could return to the central part of the province to shoot geese and ducks when the northern greenhead and snow geese blanketed the pot hole and the decoy shooting is fit for a King.

I meant Sykes while fly fishing Oregon. He asked me to visit his waterfowl lodge in Saskatchewan close to my traditional duck hunting area. Sykes was short on good help although he had a talent Mennonite cook his guides were locals and didn't until Sykes trained to determined if the geese were feeding or ready lift off and stage to the next larger pot hole. I agreed to introduce him to some of my farmer friends and show him the Quills but I couldn’t hunt or guide for him as I was very busy this fall. Still he wanted me to come up and stay with him and give him some advice on hunting strategy. And so I arrived around the first week near my hunting grounds. Sykesd was in the midst of his frrrirst gruop and to working 12 hours a day. He was nonstop but most important knew how to deal with clients and Sykes.

This year the spring rains and runoff had recharged the soil and there were pothole filled with ducks and geese as I hadn’t seen in 20 years. The farmers had been draining the shallow slough and seeding them for so long that when the rains water did show it ripped a new river down to a basin lake and flooded out vacation homes at Fishing Lake My farmer friends around the Quills all tell me that the ducks were back and like the 1950. They were dead on and the shooting esp. later in October was nothing but spectacular

The duck population around the Quill had exploded and so I would take some time to visit Sykes before the real Duck shooting been in the 3 rd week. Sykes is a one man operation with energy to match. He enjoys the center of attention and is very charming his clients. I enjoyed him and stayed in the background as he showed some very good hunters a very good series of hunts. I arrived at the d3ewveloing lodge after s fall dinner at Henedon. I was filled with home cooked garden reared veggies, ham, and deserts. When I entered Sykes place they were being served desert of apple crumb pie and the aroma hit me as the door swung open. Sykes was at the table, Filson hat lifted well above his brow and the quietkly introduce me to his group of family duck hunters from the Bay area. I would watch with amusement for the next week as Sykes and these close knit group of duck hunters day after day enjoyed to the fullest what the Quill had to offer.

The outside of lodge was in development but the inside was taking shape as a first class destination for the hunter. I thought it might need a woman touch but that impression quickly faded when I enter the lodge to a vaulted ceiling supporting a rock façade fireplace and an impressive clockwise twisted juniper tree that anchored the bar. His dinning room was wonderful; rich color and the mud room w big and warm. Sykes was the chief, court jester and guide wrapped into a single human. He was well on his way to build a first class lodge within an hour of the world’s finest goose duck hunting assuming the water and pot holes stay filled. He had all the equipment from go devil Jon Boat to dozens of Zinks coffin blinds, big foots and field duck decoys to lure the duck hordes. Sykes wanted me to help him scout which I did towards Foam Lake and the Quill but I could not take money and I was way to involve with other commits to begin the process.

It's Time to let the Dawgs Loose

Let the Hunts Begin

The back roads are always empty in southern part of the Provinces. They had a dry summer and the crop was off early but the prices are high. I find a place near the bottom lands that always produced Huns and grouse. I am using my new old Holland and Holland Royal ejector with Damascus tubes and a new leather pad I had installed. The game gun fits me to a tee and with open bore over pointing dogs, the Holland is deadly. My farmer friends who shoot more practical guns have Mossberg pumps and one even splurged to use a Remington 870. They and their boys always join me hoping to see me shoot my Hammerguns but they are satisfied as I am using Damascus. This will be a morning shoot and the birds are plentiful and mature. By noon we have bagged twelve Huns and four grouse. I have to tag mine as a Alien non residence, typical over use of terms by gov types, while the rest of the natives just fields dress them for tomorrow nights supper.

The dogs are watered as we head back to the farm for a noon dinner. The Mrs. has prepared a feast of Saskatchewan table fare and although next week is the Canadian Thanksgiving, Lorrie she pull out all the stops from her garden we feast on fresh butchered chickens, red mashed potatoes, buttered turnip pirogues and heaps of ripe sweet tomatoes and cucs. I bring Ellen’s pickle and the readily pass the test. Ellen is invited to move up here and garden. Ellen would be happy with a high sped internet connection and a loamy silt soil for her gardens. Saskatchewan is bettered wired than the US and there is wireless even “out yonder.”

Table talk ranges from the early harvest and the fields having no moisture to weather the winter to Bush and Cheney getting us into Iraq and the overwhelming debit and credit crash. I am not an apologist for Bush and it is tough to hear how angry many are up here about America is toppled as the leader of the free world. They believe as I that the armed forces are the finest with a task hard to due but in the end they will prevail as the Canadian Force are doing in Afghanistan. I’ve had enough of CNN and “fair and balanced Fox and Limbaugh and I turned my attention to the living room to watch the teenage boys roughing on the floor it with my dogs. They can not get enough of them and their playfulness. They are used to farm dogs that keep the coyotes and foxes away from the poultry. They love the lab especially for her retrieving abilities on cripple but Fe the wirehair is so wolfish looking they enjoy her antics and hunting powers but fear her a bit.

Late afternoon after a siesta from the food we load the dogs and Jack will get into waders. We throw five greenhead decoys into the back of the dodge and the three pickup head down the grid road to the five acres pot hole that was bursting with mallards. The tactic k is to first scare off the ducks quickly surround the tree lined water and safely shoot the greenheads as they return beckoned by calls and a few decoys. It is almost like shooting ducks in timber. Within ten minutes the mallard’s ducks begin to trickle back. We are mindful that Susie shooting is fines and so we pass several hens before Belle is sent to retrieve two ecliptic mallards. There are seven of us and the limit is 56 and these farmers still enjoy roast and Bar B Qed duck like mother used to cook. I love my Duck

Its was Time to Travel Back those 70 years

I recall clearly, my Grandparent’s farm on the rattlesnake butte near Bonesteel, South Dakota near the Missouri river. Grandfather, a lawyer practiced law in Bonesteel South Dakota and represented the Lakota tribal members in front of Congress. Patrick Joseph, PJ, was a 9 times delegate to the Democratic National Convention and when he died in 1943, FDR sent grandmother a personal note of condolence and the Sioux nation gave him a tribal burial after the local catholic Priest said the last prayers. He was the only white man ever to be given title as chief by the Dakota Sioux.

PJ and the family lived in town with a hired man and his family to live out on the farm. He'd drive his Ford everyday during the cropping season to watch the cattle grow and the corn and alfalfa mature. He loved the farm and it kept his five daughters and 2 sons, all college educated, in food during the deep depression when cash was scarce.

Visiting the dry prairies of South Dakota as a child was completely foreign than the lush green river hill of my northern Illinois upbringing. For one, people were few far in between in Bonesteel and the continual silence of the grandparents’ big pririre house scared me at night. You always seemed alone and on your own with nothing to do unless you went swimming or watched my grandmother, aunts and mom play bridge. Even walking to Mass on Sunday was an outing I looked forward toward.

This cycle repeat itself every year until I was 14. We took the Hiawathia from Milwakee to Siouz City each summer visiting for 2 month the Aunts and Uncles in Nebraska and South Dakota. My father stayed in Illinois and wouldn’t invade this space unless he was willing to comitt to playing bridge or being the dummy.

I have 34 first cousin and all our aunts behaved like Mom. There was little I could get away with and I used to tell the Dominican Nuns at St. Anne’s in Barrinton that another of my mums was pregnant somewhere out in Nebraska or South Dakota.TheNuns understood these closeknit Irish families of the upper Midwest and approved.

The heat of those Dakota days eased somewhat at night and then the locust would begin their incessant buzz. Sleeping without covers was the only way to fall asleep on hot the upper screened porch that often housed 6 to 10 cousins who where visting the Praire house. I never got accustomed to the Locust noise or the lightning and thunder at night. To this day, those sounds have never abated and so before sleep even in the dead of winter I listen to the TV or radio to fall asleep.

And the day light stayed forever. Falling asleep at 8 with the sun still out was trying at best. We were all well feed with fresh corn, snap beans and tomatoes from the farm. It seemed we had steak or pork ribs most night and so hot dogs and chips with cold orange Kool Aid was special. My mother was home here at theis three story praire home with her four sisters sometimes a brother or two playing bridge 24/7 talking and gossiping and visiting like small town folks can master. I was happy because Mom was very happy.

The short grass vastness and silence and the small town talk infected me like a polio virus. I never knew how bad it was until years later I ventured to the Canadian Prairies with my own family seeking a peace I had lost during my intense graduate work and research projects. I felt comfortable in Saskatchewan with prairie farmers and town folks. These town support the farmers and were the size of my grandparents’ town and farm back in the 1950’s. I found Indiana like my northern Illinois roots but the great vistas of the Dakota could only be satisfied with the compelling landscape of the West. I tried but couldn’t find or feel that sense of place in America as small towns and sense of community had vanished under the weight of modern Agriculture and the corporate tax structure. Crossing to Saskatchewan was revisiting my youth and I have been traveling there 6 weeks each fall for the past 20 years.

Up to the Yellowstone down to Cody on the way to Canada

Cody Wyoming onto the Saskatchewan

It was years ago, as a Purdue grad student yearning for the clear waters of Yellowstone, that I often drove through Cody on my way to fly fish the Madison River. I remembered Cody as a dusty and windy town at the base of the eastern or leeward side of the Yellowstone Plateau. Nothing had changed in Cody except for the expansion of the Buffalo Bill Museum. As I climb eastward up the ancient crater Yellowstone Lake past our trailhead to Clear Creek, past memories of wonderful trout fishing days swelled and I was back to those earlier days when nothing could go wrong. My son, Nick now 24, was baptized in Clear Creek. My wife Ellen with our fathers hiked into the stream after Ellen gave birth 3 weeks before. She was a new mother but fly fishing was a passion and she would not be denies but she had forgotten diapers for Nicholas. My father in law, a wonderful man a fly fishing nut, Ph.D. educated and out of West Point whom I continual sought his approval for marrying his eldest daughter accepted me after I guided him there to witness thousand of 18” cutthroats willing to grab and dry fly especially huge yellow humpies. It as the golden era of trout fishing before lightweight module rods created a multitude of choice. When Helen Shaw and Dale Clemens and Charlie Brooks were the gurus of fly tying, rod building and western stream fly fishing respectively. But that was then and I was heading up to Canada to participate in another golden time.

The new highway carries me up to the east entrance with towering peaks that transport me back to the Southern Alp Fjorlands of New Zealand for the briefest of moments. I like it when I transport in geography from my global travels.

I needed a provenance letter for my Duck Model Winchester Model 21. The Model 21 Duck is an exceptional handling weapon during the waterfowl season. There is a feel to the gun that exudes confidence to its handler and it is difficult to explain how well it feels in the hand. It swings like there is not weight to the weapon yet can handle heavy load without a care. This Winchester was commissioned by to General Omar Bradley in 1947 who supplied the timber from root stocks taken from French Walnuts near Normandy after the D-day invasion. I wanted the info about date of order and delivery.

I parked on a back alley in Cody. I am an expert on urban camping and by 7:30 I was falling asleep to the “Tom Clancy’s “The Hunt for the Red October” starring Sean Connery. “The Hunt,” a movie I must have watched over a 1,000 times puts me to sleep. And within minutes of playing, I and my dogs are asleep. I am awakening around 3 am with the howling of the winds and the Lance is rocking back and forth like a schooner tacking around the Horn. I turn on the “The Hunt” and within minute I am asleep.

Morning comes quickly again with the winds and I located an espresso shop where I’m informed the Rockies might make it to the playoff. How could this be and the Latte triple shot latte was just right and life is good very good. Cruised over to the Sierra Trading Post and nothing of interest as it has morph into a REI without gear. Across the street is the Buffalo Museum and within minute after asking for the gun records I was escorted down to the basement where a woman with an earphone was busy handling a request scrolling through microfiche on her computer. She repeats the information for a model 1897, and with in minute she has my information. There is no charge and I learn that indeed the “duck” was made as a bespoke gun for Omar Bradley in 1947 who supplied the wood in 1946 that Winchester air dried. It had Fleur de leys pattering with grade B checkering. It was ordered in June of 1946 and delivered in March of 1947

The rest of the Museum was a combination of 4 themes. There were many Winchester models 21 and almost all makes of weapons. I did notice that I was the only person without too many gray hairs. It was comforting to see many couple enjoying the Cody museum many in their 70’s drinking soda pop, high carb foods and even s desert of two. I thought the Museum was way to simplistic esp. about the natives, but enjoyed the tribute to Buffalo Bill but I needed fresh air and was on the road heading to Billing and up to Malta and Saskatchewan. I had to move on and get up to the pure lands of Saskatchewan where I would work with the Canadian Nature Conservancy and witness the fall migration truly an event of epic portions

Yellowstone Plateau to Cody Wyoming

September 2007

My drive across Utah from Great Basin National Park and up through thru Salt Lake City is uneventful even the traffic was not too bad. I call Lorin my friend who has housed Tom and me as we toured the Temple one year and had meant us in Saskatchewan for a goose hunt. Big mistake as he and his friends returned to that location and affected the hunting. Lorin is a paradox, an intellectual who is a Bishop with in the LDS congregation. Lorin was a an attorney who did his mission in Peru but couldn’t handle the combativeness of lawyering so he morphed into a mellow innkeeper and above all a devoted Father and Husband who passed on his love for the outdoors to his children.

As I pass eastward over the summit toward Wyoming, the rains quickly change to snow the last I would see for awhile I hoped. The big Ford 350 crew cab with tandem wheel housing the famous International built Navistar 7.3 Diesel climbs steadily and handles the large Lance camper with ease. I am in love with this machine and am at ease knowing she’ll handling the many miles ahead to Arizona and Mexico in the winter. I will checkout the Teton and hope to get a glimpse of the fall colors of the cottonwoods lining the Teton River and I will pass up through Lake Lodge onto Cody.

The fall colors are a peak and best of all the traffic is almost non-existence. The Teton are shrouded again in clouds and I recall Alan Ladd in Shane riding to town with the Tetons as a back drop to square off against Wilson played by Jack Palance. There are many antelope alongside the roadway. This Wind River highway is well designed and I assume Chaney was able to help steer funds back home. Also oil monies help Wyoming thrive but I am disappointed with the price of diesel at $2.78.

I climb up the Yellowstone plateau pass Old Faithful; I stop in to check out the restoration and it still well done. The crowds are all grey hair retired couple enjoying their time together like young honey mooners. I do checkout my room where I honeymoon and remember what a grand time we had fishing and having the lodge prepare our catch. Those days are way past. I pass lower biscuit basin and I watched an old man hook a nice rainbow. He was using a BWO and each time a cloud blocked the suns rays the trout came to the surface to feast on emerging mayflies.

I have the roads to my self as I travel to the Northeast entrance. Hayden Valley is vacant from animals. Conspicuously absent from the valley the Gibbons canyon and around Lake are the Elk and the numerous Bison. Reminds me of the Madison in 1996 when the rainbow disappeared and they blamed whirling disease for the collapse. Between not having the bears anymore, I wonder how much more regulating the biologist will do up here to restore the Park to its natural state; I fear there will be little to talk about in the coming years regarding animals probably a combination of hard winter and wolves.

The drive forth from Reno on highway 50, the loneliest road in America lulls me toward sleep. I had to slap myself hard just to keep between the lines. I was mean to myself and it stung. I guess it must be the pent up stoic anger. I know a few folk that would gladly have held my right hand swinging away. It stung only for the briest of time and I had to pull off on a pass where the winds howled. We had a week of low pressure off the coast and it was swinging through the Great Basin again bringing snow to the peaks. The moon was waxing and in a few days it would be full. Bull elk would begin their roar and the necks of many a man who drew the coveted Nevada bull tag would also begin to swell.

My friends were already up in the mountains looking at road conditions for the upcoming winter hunt. The herds would migrate here and poor Dave, a kindly barrister would have to outwit these magnificent creatures. Dave was not a trophy hunter, just a guy who had been putting in for 18 years and finally got enough bonus points to draw. He had no idea what was lay ahead but somehow he’d manage.

Kelly another swollen neck hunter had drawn an elk tag for the Table Mountain area. He was determined to make this hunt a lifetime adventure and with the help of several friends and pilots, Kelly would siege the mountain early November when the roar was finished and the bull elk became solitary again.

I left the group and head west on 50 through the Great Basin National Park. Just awesome but I decided I would do it with ELLEN.

Onwards through some of the finest valleys out west. Breathe taking I transformed my rig into the STAR SHIP ENTERPRISE put on Lorena McKinnett and I was sailing across virgin space with almost no traffic except for a traveling couple. This land is still remote and I feel light years away from the Sierra’s