Return of the Jedi Masters

Obi-Wan Davis and Darth Fathar (Harrison)

Return of the Jedi Masters

“Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved.”

Helen Keller

  

 It didn’t take long to figure out my mistake.

     We had pushed the cart all the way to Grayling Creek and it was getting dark. It was time to stop and set up camp.  “Hey Pete, I’ve got some bad news.”  I had pulled the tent out of my pack and as it slid out of the top I couldn’t help but notice the flimsy-ness of the thing.  My heart sunk a bit as I realized my own folly.  I had forgotten the tent poles.

    On the list of bad things to forget on a week long moose hunt, tent poles  ranks pretty close to the top.  I figured it wasn’t necessarily a deal-breaker for the trip but I knew that our comfort-level just got bumped down a notch or two.   

    The somber tone of the moment was quickly offset by my brother’s up- beat nature and glass-is-half-full outlook.  “Okay.  Let’s see what we can do.”  

      We decided to rig up whatever we could to make it through the night and then once we caught up with my Dad and Steve Davis we would have more time to mess around with it.  As it turned out, the design we came up that night was a good one and would take us through the entire week-long moose hunt.   I broke down one of the raft oars and we strategically wedged the two 3 1/2 foot poles into the middle of the tent.  Once the poles were in place we staked and guyed-out the tent as tight as we could.  Sleeping quarters were cramped but it proved to be a passable option.

pole less tent.

    I figured that as long as it didn’t dump a bunch of snow or get too windy we would probably be alright.    I kicked myself mentally for the dumb mistake I’d made.

   The next day we packed-up and forged ahead.  We pushed the cart about three miles without stopping.   As we crested a small hill something caught my eye.  “I think there’s some swans over there.”   Sure enough, there were two big tundra swans up ahead of us tooling-around on a small shallow pond. I learned recently that swans mate for life and if one partner dies the other will not mate for years if ever. The bonds of love were strong with these two and it was touching to watch their varied displays of affection.  They were happy snuggling and neck rubbing and seemed generally unimpressed with us as we pushed the cart right by them passing within sixty feet.  

    Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement.  I turned in time to see a cow caribou jump into the air like something out of a cartoon.  It was like she had just been jabbed by a cattle prod. She was with her calf and as soon as she landed they sprinted up the valley past us.  I soon found out why.  Hot on their heels was a lone coyote.  Eventually the coyote gave up the chase and looked over at us as if to say “WTF?”.  He quickly fled.  Meanwhile, the caribou, bounding through the bushes scared up a small flock of ptarmigan.  

    Pete, asserting himself at the top of the food-chain quickly loaded his .22 pistol and took-off into the bushes.  He returned shorty after with two of them.  Their half white, half brown plumage was beautiful.  They would be a nice addition to the curry dinner I had planned.  Thanks Wiley.

Making ptarmagin curry.

 I snapped the bungee cord to the harness and Pete assumed his position in the back of the cart and we were on our way.

    We caught up with the old guys the next day.  They had set up camp in the pass and were hunkered under their tarp-shelter eating lunch.  They had left a couple of days ahead of us and the plan was to meet them in the pass. It was snowing big cornflakes of wet snow.  The wind was whipping through the pass plastering everything with wet sloppy snow.  

Pushing the cart up the pass.

    We greeted them in all the usual ways and quickly found out that they hadn’t been sitting idol waiting for us to arrive.  They had already made two packs into the next valley and weren’t expecting us quite so soon.  They are both 69 years old.

    My Dad Steve Sr. and his long-time buddy Steve Davis met in college back in the sixties at Central Washington University.  They became fast friends and spent a lot of time fishing on the Yakima River in Ellensburg Washington.  

    They joined the Air Force and somehow they both managed to get transferred to Elmendorf Air force base in Anchorage.  This was the beginning of many fishing and hunting adventures.  

     They are the sole pioneers of this moose hunt.  

Steve Davis

It started for them back in the early 80’s and for many consecutive years, the hunt was a steady supply of meat for both families.  Each year the particularly grueling nature of the hunt was soon forgotten in the weeks and months that followed .  Soon enough, planning would begin for the next year’s hunt.

    When we were old enough, my brother and I were finally allowed to go too and it was by-far the hardest thing either of us had ever done. On those early hunts we learned a lot.  

My first

We learned how to hunt, kill, and field dress moose.  We learned how to dress-for and deal with the fowl weather.  We learned how to pitch a tent, set-up and break-down camp. We learned how to lash meat to our pack boards and how to puff-up and paddle a heavy raft.  More importantly than all of that though, we learned how to suffer.  

Steve sr. rockin the red suspenders and a nice
4x2.

    Looking back at those early hunts for me when I was 13 and 14 years old, I can really appreciate that my Dad and Steve Davis took the time and had the patience and understanding to take us under their wing and allow us to be a part of something special.  I can’t imagine that it would be easy or particularly fun to deal with snotty-nosed whiny teenagers on such a tough endeavor.  (I guess I’ll find out first-hand next year when I take my own son.)  Part of this reunion hunt was an opportunity for Pete and I to say thanks.  I think we both realize that the Jedi-training learned on those early trips has made us who we are today. 

Pete's first

   The next day we packed the rest of our things over the pass and into the valley below.  We had to set up camp in the driving rain and settled into our shelter for a nice meal just as the rain turned back into wet snow.

    As a general rule, we have all come to despise freeze-dried meals.  Freeze-dried meals such as Mountain House brand are light weight, neatly packaged, easy and quick to make.  The problem is that they taste a lot like soggy microwaved sawdust.  I’ll have to admit, freeze-dried food has its place in the mountains but on this trip we would have nothing of it and instead decided to pack-in real food and it was wonderful.  

    All four of us are accomplished cooks in our own right especially Steve Davis.  Pete and I wanted to bring in some special ingredients, a move we learned from our Dad.  Here is what we brought:  four pounds of our fresh caribou breakfast sausage ( extra hot), 1 pound of moose bacon,  2 pounds of pork bacon, 6 onions, a dozen jalapenos, a pint of olive oil, half a pound of butter, a bag of bell peppers,  1 pound of summer sausage,  fresh herbs including thyme, parsley, pineapple sage, rosemary (We got all the herbs from Buskirk gardens.)  

    In the dry-goods box we had various soup mixes: basmati rice, cous cous, dirty rice, jambalaya, spaghetti pasta (fettuccine), and pancake mix.  I did pack a few canned goods including tomato paste (for spaghetti) and coconut milk (for curry).  

   Our seasoning kit was stellar:  Yellow curry powder, a black pepper grinder, garlic salt, soy sauce,  Thai seasoning, Tabasco sauce, minced garlic and yes I brought some saffron.

   Pete brought homemade hot buttered rum mix, Captain Morgan's special reserve (rum),a bota box ( Shiraz) and some good beer. The rest of us rounded out the bar with several nice bourbons.
Life is too short to eat crappy food.

   By the way the weather was awful. It snowed or rained on us the whole time except for the last day.  A smidgen of pride was realized after an overnight dump of snow collapsed dad’s tent (with poles) and our own make shift paddle-raft tent stood unflinching although somewhat soggy. Eat your heart out Bear Gryllis. Apparently Dad and Steve had to crawl out of their tent in the middle of the night to clear all the snow and bend the tent back into position. 

     Over the course of the next few days we would divide our time between hunting and moving camp lower in the valley.  We would load all of our gear into the rafts so we could float and drag our whole kit downstream instead of carrying it on our backs. 

The weather never showed any signs of letting up and consequently the majority of our down time was spent trying to dry-out and warm-up under our tarp shelter.  Here we could change clothes, cook, tell stories, and watch passing caribou.  Dealing with this kind of weather was not new to any of us and it felt good to share this experience these particular guys. We laughed a lot, marveled at the shitty weather, and had a few drinks.

   “It’s good to have you guys back.” I said.  We were hunkered in our lean-to eating fresh tenderloin from the kill.  Pete had downed a nice big bull and spirits in camp were high. The rich wine sauce that Davis whipped up was steaming into our faces off of our plates.  Both rafts served as the walls of our lean-to and for now we were sheltered from the storm.  The snow was piling up on top of the tarp but we were warm, semi-dry, and happy.

"It's great to be back." said Steve.

54 inches.  Nice shot Pete!

Pete and I enjoying a happy moment before the work began.

The Harrison boys.