Elk Hunting Humor - A
Pack
and
Unpack
You
r
Gear
Yourself:
There
are
many
jokes
about
hunters
forgetting
to
pack
essential
equipment,
or
for
finding
odd
things
when
they
unpack.
My
wife
and
I
saw
this
story
unfold
while
sitting
looking
out
the
aircraft
window
while
luggage
was
unloaded
in
Juneau,
Alaska.
It
did
not
take
many
mental
gyrations
to
contrive
a
cruel
ending
to
the
story.
A Baggage Handler's Revenge
Pink
and
flowered
silky
undies
tumbled
gaily
with
fluttering flair-
Then
a
white
lacy
thing
marched
down
the
plane’s
conveyor.
Bellowed
German
tourist
Hilda,
rocked
with
childish
delight,
“Da
geht
ein
Bustenhalter”
as
the
duo
passed
of
into
the
night.
The
baggage
handler
snatched
the
pair
with
sheepish
glee
And soon all the left-side passengers could plainly see
That from his shirt pocket the delight dangled so bold,
As
more
suitcases
cascaded
down
into
Juneau’s
rain
and
cold.
First
embarrassment
showed
as
he
looked
up
to
the
plane
Where
fifty
window
pressed
faces
studies
his
dainty
gain.
Then
his
face
relaxed
to
a
grin,
a
smirk,
to
mischievous
delight –
As
if
to
say
“Watch
–
I
think
I’ll
have
some
evil
fun
tonight!
A
hunter’s
fine
cammo
bag
passed
along,
targeted
to
be
snared.
“Coveralls”
opened
the
side
zipper
and
tucked
in
the
orphan pair.
“She’ll
not
miss
these
–
it’s
just
her
poor
luck
or
his
providence,
But
one
poor
chap
will
pay
for
this
incriminating
evidence.
Tomorrow
some
unknowing
guy
will
find
he’d
been
deftly had
After
his
wife
unpacks
the
big
hunting
chief’s
traveling
bags!
No
dinner,
wine,
roses,
music
or
warm
after
work
embrace.
Just
a
terse
note:
“Some
souvenir!
Moved
to
mother’s
place!
”Hunter,
heed
some
friendly
advice
off
observation’s
shelf.
Keep
your
zippers
locked!
Unpack
bags
secretly
by
yourself!
Or,
in
the
future
you
may
pay
the
price
to
innocently
find
Your
self
a
victim
of
a
devious
baggage
handler’s
devilish
mind!
(Copyright1995 P. Groth)
Trail Side Horse Hullabaloo
The hunt continues year round as comrades meet.
Sometimes sharing post-hunt stories straight-faced
with friends over meals can be most difficult. By April
Jerry was suspiciously tardy in communicating. We
met for breakfast and Jerry apologized. The delay was
because he was just trying to get his dazzling ordeals
recollected, disentangled in his mind, and organized
in the proper events and time sequences.
Jerry and one hunting companion borrowed four
horses and drove from Denver to southwestern
Colorado a week before the first elk season. They
intended to cache most of their camp at a remote site
seven miles from the trail head. They scoped the
landscape and saw large numbers of elk grazing the
mountainside near their intended camp area. Elation
grew – this was going to be one heck of an elk hunt!
Little did they know that would prove true. They made
two trips up the narrow creek-side trail, found an
ideal campsite and cached their supplies. A concerted
courteous effort was made not to infringe on
locations used by outfitters. Then they drove the long
trip back to Denver.
The following Wednesday Jerry and two friends were
again at the trail head with four horses. They
intended to ferry the remaining supplies on Thursday
and set up camp Friday. Jerry rode last leading a
packhorse that was not inclined to move with gusto. It
was constantly pulling backward, which greatly
annoyed, but more importantly tired, Jerry’s mount.
Jerry’s horse slowed, shuddered and collapsed on the
trail.
At this point Jerry commenced to worry. The horse lay
on its side with outstretched legs and neck. This is not
the way living grown horses lay. Jerry could not see
the horse breathing, and nudges with a foot
produced no reflex. “Heart attack!” Now I will have to
buy a horse for the owner." Jerry contemplated how
other hunters would be pissed off with a dead,
putrefying, horse-spooking carcass sprawled across
the single, narrow valley trail. They salvaged the
saddle and debated to meet objectives with one less
horse to ride. Somebody will have to walk. In about
half an hour the dead horse began to lightly twitch.
With more time, it wearily stood up. Back down the
trail they went, with Jerry now walking beside his
miraculous resurrection. They decided to give
“Meltdown” a day’s rest.
Friday they saddled, loaded the pack horses and went
back up the trail. They found their camp meadow
occupied by Arkansas hunters with five mules. “We
saw your cache, but did not think you were coming
back for this season”, they said. They had regularly
hunted this area for several years. Good naturedly,
they suggested Jerry’s group camp on the other end
of the meadow.
Two days of hunting proved the elk had completely
migrated out of the area, save for a lonely bull
downed by an Arkansonian. Jerry’s crew decided to
leave, but how can they get their camp out in just one
trip with insufficient horsepower? The kindly
southerners offered them two mules. One of them
would be going down the trail later to take the bull to
a meat processor. He would bring back the loaners.
Here was a perfect arrangement to be tested.
Camp was disassembled and loaded. Down the trail
they proceeded. Frequently they stopped to rest the
horses and mules. It was during one rest stop that a
mule brayed. Then mules left behind in camp brayed
back, and a vocal conspiracy was hatched. The camp
mules broke out of their rope corral and stampeded
down the trail towards their companions. The
oncoming thundering mule commotion spooked the
horses. Jerry saw his hunt mate Steve carried off in a
flash and disappear down the trail. Jerry and his
remaining companion calmed their horses and
adjusted sagging packs after the devilish mules
crashed by.
Soon Steve came walking up the trail. They saw his
ghastly bloody hands as he approached. It seems
Steve’s hell-bent horse went around one side of a tree
and the packhorse around the other side. The lead
rope brought them together with a crash. The
packhorse got a tree branch shoved up under the
pack saddle blanket. It received a big pine needle-
filled gash that Steve tried to clean out with his hands.
The wounded horse did not like this, nor did it like the
pack that had shifted during the foray and now
swayed under its belly. Steve was helpless to
singlehandedly get the cinch loose with the weight of
the pack.
Regrouped at the wounded horse, Jerry decided, “This
is not going to happen again!” He opted to tie his
packhorse behind him with a lighter lead rope, in
particular a nylon parachute cord. That would part if
another tree incident should occur. It did not take
long for the trailing horse to figure out the benefits of
the situation. It bolted, broke the rope and dashed off
across the creek and into oblivion. No amount of
searching could locate it.
The hell-bent mules were angelically waiting at the
trailer with the Arkansas license plate, just as the
muleskinners said they always would do. Jerry’s
packhorse knew nothing of this wisdom. No queried
hunters had seen Jerry’s packhorse at day’s end. A
five-hundred dollar reward was offered to anyone
who found the horse. Jerry drove heavy-hearted back
to Denver. It again seemed that he would have to buy
a horse.
Ten days later, the outfitter called. Jerry's horse was
found at sunup that morning mingling with his
horses. It had tired of its nice little freedom vacation
and smelled hay pellets and grain. Jerry dragged his
trailer all the way back, with five hundred cash
dollars, to get the horse. There he was informed that
the horse had returned with a pack on only one side.
Jerry was once again unfortunate. The side with his
equipment had been scraped off and lost
somewhere. Another loss, not to mention the
veterinary bill for sewing up the packhorse.
The best part of the story is that Jerry is already
optimistically thinking of next year's expected
excellent, better-organized and more successful hunt.
Dedicated hunters naturally somehow rationalize that
way - in spite of historical evidence to the contrary!
That is the only good lesson I can think of for this
story. Well there is another one. Jerry had the guts,
good graces and humor to relate the woeful tale and
allow me to use it with his name on my website.
Remember; always keep on the sunny side of life.
There is less pain there, especially if you develop
humor. PS: Hunters, don not use unknown borrowed
horses. They will figure you out in a microsecond!
Mothers, Do Not Let Fathers into The Birthing Room!
A good, eighty-some years old avid outdoorsman-
hunter still splits wood to heat his house. He reveled
some family secrets which reflect his family ethos .
His two twin grandsons are named Fisher and
Hunter. I can hear the Dean giving out Diplomas
grimace as the announcer call out their names -
Mann, Fisher and then Mann, Hunter, for perhaps
this was one of the graduation day pranks like related
by Garrison Keilor on “Prarrie Home Companion”.
The same untiring 80+ avid hunter has a stepson who
named his two sons Remington and Winchester. Can’t
a mother ever get away from the hunting talk? And
how did that slick Swede sneak into the birthing room
twice to sign birth certificates when his wife was still
under sedation? But then, what did Mom call her
daughters in retribution?
Marital Fuming and Potential Divorce a la 1977
Friends Ken and Joyce came to our hunt area with
high expectations. Joyce was a cute bob only five feet
tall. She was eager to hunt with her husband who had
recently conned her into the elk hunting-camping
situation, and trained her to shoot. He bought her a
bull license to complement his cow tag.
Opening morning, the couple rested on a knoll beside
the trail up the mountain. A super bull came
unexpectedly lumbering up the hill, which Ken
pointed out to Joyce. Ever so eager and fast, Joyce
instantly whipped up her rifle and jammed the
cartridge in the breech. The bull was not waiting, so
Ken brought up his rifle and ended the fumbling
mayhem. Joyce did not greatly appreciate Ken's
impatience. Now after months of preparation her
license was filled! And Ken was illegal and had an
unfilled cow tag she was not going to illegally fill! The
saga emotionally and martially started to cascade
downhill.
Ken told Joyce that she would have to claim she shot
the bull. OK, she was his wife, but that was not going
to preclude getting the best of him! Joyce proceeded
down to camp way ahead of Ken who lagged ever
more behind under burden of the head with a huge
6X6 rack. Camp busybodies saw her coming. This
gave Joyce a chance to properly tip off the entire
valley camp about her miraculous beginner success.
Nobody paid any attention to weary Ken when he
finally arrived. Joyce got the snorts of booze and a
seat of honor at an instantly organized celebration
evening party for the midget Goliath killer. Ken barely
got a can of beer. And he stewed badly - as we work
colleagues knew he was able to do masterfully.
Joyce denied in the field that she ever wanted an ugly
elk mount in her house. Her disposition changed
considerably under the lauding of incoming curious
camp visitors, since the word of her deed had spread.
The weather was warm. The head had to be taken to
a taxidermist. Joyce unilaterally declared one animal
was enough meat, that she could no longer hunt, and
that Ken should take her trophy and her home. Ken
steamed that his hunting season had been only one
hour long because he had taken an illegal shot. The
next day he gladly broke camp and they went home.
Ken was getting really irritated at being ignored while
every ogling Tom, Dick and Harry poised for
photographs with his trim, lovely mate and HER
trophy. The worst part was that Joyce was obviously
enjoying each moment to its fullest extent. Spite can
be cutting if properly applied!
The Joyce lauding continued when Ken and Joyce
arrived home. The neighborhood flocked to see the
bull specimen before it had to be taken to the
taxidermist the next morning. The constant
interruptions precluded Joyce cooking dinner and an
early turn in. Ken found a string of cars parked at his
house after work the next day - Joyce’s girlfriends!
They hardly acknowledged his presence. He
comprehended again there would be no dinner. Then
Ken got the pronouncement from the gals. He should
throw a success party for Joyce when the mount was
returned. He could (and should) have lost more grace
by saying "no", but he had no marital alternative than
to accept the proposal – expecting praise and not
anticipating lower morale to come.
Joyce had been bitten with the outdoors and hunting
virus. Before the party date, she decided her mount
would look out of context in the outdated basement
den. Why not change the motif to something
outdoors-like. In addition, the shabby old furniture
certainly should be replaced with something more in
the decor of a hunting lodge.
Ken had to plead with the taxidermist to get the
mount done in time for the party. The party plans had
grown. There were now too many invitees to change
the date. The afternoon of the party Ken borrowed a
truck and got the mount. He and Joyce forgot the turn
of the basement stairs. Ken roared unkind words and
tore off in the truck to plead (and pay once more -
with a grand tip) to have the antlers immediately cut
and pegged. Disappointment was renewed in the
basement. With the head on the wall in the low
basement, the bull’s large rack forced its muzzle to
hang down over the new sofa back! It was an
unsettling, self-conscious place to sit.
The party was a success for Joyce and the girls. Ken
paid his basement respects and sat most of the
evening upstairs in the kitchen commiserating with a
couple of dragged-along boring non-hunter
husbands.
This story’s misery very slowly unwound in the halls
of our company office. Every time some of us who
knew the whole hunt story would pass Ken, and we
would ask him how Joyce’s bull was faring. Ken would
walk off snarling something like “That, _____ , _____,
money eating, no good _____ humiliating ______ pile of
______! ------- AND YOU ARE A ______ FOR ASKING!”
If we felt especially cruel, we would ask the stinging
parting retort: “Yes, but when are you taking Joyce
hunting again???”
PS - I've always wondered who got the bull mount
during the eventual divorce.
Relax!
You don’t really HAVE to get a trophy –
A memory is far sweeter,
Easier to haul out
Cheaper to mount,
Takes less wall space,
Is More tender to chew,
And it grows without feeding it!
But still, “Good luck!”
© 2016 -2021 Copyright by P. K. H. Groth, Denver, Colorado, USA All rights reserved -
See contact page for for permission to republish article excerpts.