The great hunter's delusion
My sons, sons-in-law and grandsons are out in the woods as I write this. They think they are having fun but thankfully . . . I know better.
It is NOT my age. It is an "enlightened philosophy" and "accumulated wisdom" which allows me to avoid spending more than one night away from piped hot water, innerspring mattresses, recliner and chairs and a remote TV control, located within self heating quarters.
Yes . . . leaves are falling, frost is on the pumpkin, there is snow in the high country, and food gatherers of the west merrily join the quest of the winter's meat. By bagging a nice fat buck within dragging distance of the road last time I hunted, perhaps the final nail was driven into the coffin of my youthful attitude toward "the pursuit."
It is easy to recall those opening days 50 years ago. Almost always, first light found me in the wilderness with a rolled up hunk of canvass for a bed, couple pounds of dried fruit, six candy bars, and a change of socks as my complete backcountry outfit. Got sort of ruined in 1964 when it snowed two feet the night before "opening" up the South Fork, and there I was, snug as a bug in a rug inside Bill Patterson's newly invented pickup camper. It's been downhill ever since, in my transformation into a world class . . . candy fanny.
On the other side of the coin, there are those who think they are real hunters but not man enough to admit they are a bit sissified. They have enough money to go after game with outfitters who can set up the running hot water, innersprings, and other comforts . . . down to the mink lined toilet seat liner. Most such outfits now haul it in and haul it out, but I can remember one time coming off a smokejumper fire in the Selway Wilderness of Idaho and finding what looked like the "Club Med" of hunting camps, silently awaiting the opening day of the coming season.
Those fancy spreads are now "no nos" because of the Wilderness Act, but the foresters are still finding evidence of super sissy operations. Few years back, one such site was found in the Rattlesnake Peaks of Washington state. There was over a ton of abandoned equipment, which wealthy hunters had flown in with helicopters. This is in he William O. Douglas Wilderness where copters are forbidden; so seasonal Forest Service workers hauled all that stuff out on foot. Took 'em three years and God knows how many tax dollars. Guess is, there are still a few such camps hidden away in that Forest.
Got to thinkin' about all this when my two son-in-laws spent opening of bow-season in a primitive camp and came home after three days because the weather was "too nice for good hunting." They're probably back up there someplace among the ding weeds, shivering around a smoldering fire in a snow storm, forty miles from the nearest flushable, and thinking they are having the time of their life. Those boys are in their 40s now, so I give 'em another 10 or 15 years to wise up.
The days of youth are wonderful . . . even though filled with great delusions.
Will have to quit writing now because Iris is baking my favorite casserole. It is time to put on my slippers and have a medicinal touch of brandy before the World Series game gets underway.
G. George Ostrom is the news director of KOFI Radio and a Flathead Publishing Group columnist.