Saturday, October 3, 2009

Good News/Bad News


Quick update on Elk Hunt 2009. First the good news. Dad talked to Ray who spoke with a couple of boys from Kentucky who were hunting around Black Mountain during the muzzle load season. They said the found a ton of elk back in Roaring Fork and said we shouldn't have any problem bagging an elk this season if we head back in there. Roaring Fork is a little harder hunting and more remote than than our "Honey Hole" under Bear's Ears but I'll take it if there's wapati to be found.

The bad news also came from Ray who called Dad from the road on his way out to Utah. His route took him right by Craig and said it was "butt cold" out there and it looked as though the mountains were getting hammered with snow. Not good at all. If the snow gets too deep up in those mountains, the elk will high-tail it out of there and head for lower elevations. Which means we'll be S.O.L.

Over the last couple of days, I've become obsessed with monitoring the weather on weather.com. Right now the forecast for Opening Day keeps changing. One minute it's 60% chance of rain and snow, an hour later it says Clear and Sunny. I'm hoping Mother Nature decides to cooperate with us and the white stuff holds off at least for a few more days.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

9 Days To Go


In just a few days I board a jet plane headed for Colorado. Elk season is just around the corner and I absolutely can not wait. This year's hunting season down here in Georgia has been pretty much a bust so far. I lost my hunting property down in Coweta County. (The owner of the land is letting a buddy of his bow hunt the property this season, which translated to: TOUGH LUCK RICK) I found some other property up near Madison, GA that I could hunt, but the weekend I was heading up there, the GREAT FLOOD OF '09 hit. After that I came down with the head cold from Hell and was laid up in the house for several days coughing my head off. I'm hoping the Georgia rifle season goes a little better.

But none of that matters now-elk season is upon us and right now nothing else matter in the world than preparing to hunt the elusive wapati in the Colorado high country.

This season however is already looking like it's going to have a few speed bumps. First off Dad recently had a really bad kidney stone attack and has been in and out of the hospital over the last couple of weeks. The bad news is that he still hasn't passed the stone and is having random pain attacks. I'm praying he gets all of it out of his system before opening morning. Secondly, we've had reports from friends who went out the Bear's Ears' to bow hunt a few weeks ago and said there was NO ELK. Apparently the sheep herders were still in the mountains with over 8,000 head of sheep which have spooked the elk elk herds. Not good at all. So the fact Dad not 100% this year means that if I'm going to kill a big one, I'm going to have to hunt hard by myself.

But at the end of the day, elk season is really all about enjoying the beauty and majesty of the Rockies and spending time with my Dad. Even if I never set eyes on Booner, it's still worth the price of admission.

There simply is nothing quite like Opening Day of Elk Season.

Friday, July 31, 2009

New Kicks


I can't wait to try out my new elk hunting boots, a pair of legendary Schnee pac-boots, that Dad got me for my birthday. Even though it's 93 degrees outside and it's still July, I'm going to be wearing these babies around the house for the next couple of weeks to break 'em in. I'm hoping for cold temps and a little tracking snow in the Colorado high country by time October rolls around.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

Freaking Out The Neighbors

With just 9 weeks remaining until the kick-off to archery season, I decided to engage in a little target practice this afternoon. But I needed to take my skills to the next level. So I drug my climbing stand out of the basement and strapped it to the big hickory in my backyard. I climbed up about 20 feet and commenced to shoot at my Block target from about 20 yards. I thought by actually shooting from my stand it would simulate shooting at a whitetail in the field and would force me to take in account the angle of elevation instead of just shooting from the flat ground.

It worked. I found that I needed to hold my pin a little higher from my elevated position since my arrows were hitting a hair too low. ( I assume this is why I didn't put down that 8 Pointer last season)

After shooting my quiver empty in the sweltering Georgia heat, I took a moment to relax in my stand before climbing down. There was a nice breeze blowing and I kinda enjoyed sitting 20 feet off the ground-it allowed me to view my backyard from a whole new perspective. Anyway, while I was chillaxing and soaking up some rays in my stand, some Yuppie couple from down the street walked by and I noticed they paused and looked at me like I was crazy. I'm sure they thought I was some kind of hillbilly-psycho/militia/survivalist kook getting ready for the Apocalypse. After staring at me for several seconds they took off back up the street with a noticeable quickened pace.

I love freaking out the urbanites.

Monday, May 25, 2009

The Hear Attack Buck


Several years ago two old boys from back home used to routinely sneak on to the Biltmore Estate and poach deer. I don’t condone poaching but I can sympathize with these two individuals since there are some pretty amazing bucks running around the Vanderbilt’s property. Now since the purpose of this book isn’t to incriminate anyone, I’ll follow the advice of Sgt. Joe Friday and change the names to protect the innocent. We’ll call these two guys Larry and Gerald.

One evening Larry and Gerald snuck onto the Biltmore Estate to do a little spotlighting. Around midnight, the two of them shot and killed a nice sized buck. They quickly field dressed the animal and hoisted it up on Larry’s back and started high tailing back over the mountain to their truck before the game wardens got wind of their illegal actions.

Before long the terrain of their escape route started getting pretty steep and soon both men became pretty winded, especially Larry who was carrying a 100lb whitetail on his back. Combine their brisk pace with the fact that the adrenaline was pumping through their veins pretty rapidly; their blood pressures were fairly elevated. Just as they reached the top of a steep ridge, Larry started screaming like a banshee.

“GOD ALMIGHTY, GERALD! HELP ME, I’M HAVING A HEART ATTACK!”

Larry dropped the deer from his back and began clutching his chest like Fred Sanford preparing to meet his deceased wife Elizabeth.

“I’’M DYING GERALD,” he screamed. “MY PUMP IS GIVING OUT. DO YOU KNOW CPR?”

Gerald, a no nonsense ex-Army Ranger who had fought the Red Chinese in the Chosin Reservoir in Korea, turned and walked casually back towards Larry, who was by now convulsing like a Pentecostal minister who had just received the Holy Spirit.

“HEEELLLLPPP, MMMMEEEEE,” Larry stuttered, his hands shaking skyward as if pleading to his maker.

Gerald simply stood there in silence and calmly watched his partner in crime shake uncontrollably. Eventually, Gerald coolly spat on the ground and let out an annoying sigh.

“You’re not having a heart attack,” Gerald said dryly. “You’re sanding on an electric fence you idiot. Now get that deer back up on your shoulders and lets get out of here, since you’ve done went and woke up every game warden in the state with your dern hollering.”

I would say if there was a lesson to be learned here, is that when poaching deer, keep one eye open for game wardens and the other for high voltage fences.

DAD

With Father’s Day just around the corner, I’ve decided to post an old story I wrote back in English class during my freshman year in college. I had forgotten all about this, until Mom dug up a copy of the story and presented it to me last Christmas. As I recall, I received a C- minus on the paper, which was either a reflection on my writing skills or the fact I chose deer hunting as my topic. Probably a little of both, but I do remember my English teacher being a flaming liberal hippie, and I’m sure he didn’t approve of the shooting of woodland creatures with high-powered rifles.

Anyway, like all of my writing, I apologize in advance for the grammatical errors. Enjoy.


DAD


Frost covers the barren mountainside as the November sun slowly rises over the frozen mountaintops. The icy rhyme glistens sin the crisp air. The barrel of my Ruger 243 was still smoking as I climbed down the side of the dead oak tree, which served as my stand. I could feel the piercing pain run through my numb feet as I touched the forest floor. I raced across the ridge where my slain buck was lying in a steaming pool of blood. I ejected my empty shell from my rifle’s chamber and quickly fired two shots in the air.
Within minutes my Dad emerged from the underbrush. His cheeks and nose were scarlet red and sweat dripped down his brow from exhaustion. His breath encircled his face like a frozen mist. His thick neatly trimmed beard was covered with patches of ice. His face was filled with excitement and a large grin quickly appeared on his chubby face as he glanced down at my trophy. He knelt down almost losing his balance because of his short stocky body and began inspecting the deer. “He’s an eight-point all right!” he shouted with excitement. “Look at this spread; it must be at least 18 inches.” He was so full of excitement. He was 41 years old, his hair was starting to turn grey in places, but he was acting like a kid on Christmas morning opening his presents. He sprang to his feet and wrapped his arms around me in a huge bear hug almost lifting me off my feet. Then suddenly realizing what he was doing and that I was almost thirteen years old, he stepped back, shook my hand with a firm clasp and simply said “Good job.”
Dad helped me hoist the blood-soaked carcass onto my back as we set out for the long journey back to the house. He slung both our rifles over his back and helped me balance the deer on my shoulders, even though he didn’t need to, as we walked along. We reached the house just after 9 o’clock. Water was beginning to drip from the trees from the warmth of the morning sun. Dad opened the door to the shed as I slowly went inside. The back of my hunting coat was now stained with blood. Once inside Dad stripped off his rugged old jacket, which smelled like dead leaves and sweat since he never washed it, said it would take the luck out of it, and took out his trusted hunting knife. Coming from a family rich in mountain heritage and whose roots grow deep in this area, my Dad passes down the knowledge to me that he learned from his father and his father before him. He grew up as a member of a poor, hard working farm family. His mother and father worked long hours just to put food on the table. He and his brothers and sisters were responsible for many chores. So instead of playing football or basketball with the other kids after school, my Dad came home to an afternoon of hard labor. His only form of recreation was hunting and fishing.
“First cut the hide around the end of the leg and then pull it back until the tendon is exposed,” he instructs. I watch him carefully as he cuts with precision and skill. Together we lift the deer onto the hooks hanging from the ceiling. “Now comes the fun part,” he says sarcastically. “Stand back.” I stand directly behind him as I watch him thrust the knife into the deer’s belly and cut downward. Foul odors and aromas begin to mingle in the crisp air. The stench overwhelms me and I step back in shock, but Dad keeps on working like a master craftsman unfazed. Once the chest cavity of the deer is cleaned out, Dad turns to me and hands me the knife. “Your turn.” I stood their horrified; I had never skinned a deer alone before. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you just how Paw showed me.” With that, I took the knife and walked up to the deer. Standing behind me, Dad guided my hands, showing me where to cut and where not to.
By noon, the deer was completely cut up except for the cape and the head, which would be mounted later. All the meat was packed away in the freezer except for one pack of freshly cut steak, which Mom would cook for supper and a pack of ribs that Dad would secretly barbecue on the grill just for him. “You ready to go?” Dad asked while washing the blood off his calloused hands. “Go where?” I asked in astonishment.
“You mean to tell me that you go and kill the biggest buck in the valley this morning and you’re not gonna go show him off. I think Paw would be pretty upset if his grandson killed an eight-point and didn’t bother showin’ it to him.” With a smile on my face and an eight-point buck in the back of the old pick-up, we started on our way to Paw’s house.

Monday, May 4, 2009

The Big 6-0



This past weekend, the family celebrated Dad's 60th Birthday. Danielle, Ridge and I drove up to Mills River late Friday evening where we met up with Joe and his family to surprise Dad. All of us pulled into the driveway around 9:30 PM and crept around to the front door and rang the doorbell. Dad and Mom were half asleep on the couch watching TV. You should have seen Dad's face when he opened the door to find all of his grandchildren standing on the front porch.

Dad spent the following day playing with the kids, taking them on hikes and rides on Paw's old tractor. That evening, Mom had ordered several racks of baby backs and chopped pork and we gorged ourselves into a self-induced barbecue coma.

After supper, it was cake and presents time where Joe and I surprised Dad with a new hunting rifle. It was a gun he had been talking about non-stop for over a year now-a Remington 700 with a synthetic stock and detachable magazine, chambered in a 7MM. It's a great light-weight mountain rifle, perfect for knocking down elk in high altitudes. To say Dad was flabbergasted when he opened the box would be an understatement. (In fact, when I think about it, I believe this is the first time in my life I've actually used the word flabbergasted in a sentence. ) Dad, will never admit it, but I think he even got a little teary-eyed over the gift.

It was the least Joe and I could do. I mean for over thirty years, Dad has shelled out so much cash for us in order to satisfy our hunting addiction. Hunting licenses, elk tags, property leases, taxidermy fees and in some cases even game warden fines. The list goes on and on. A new elk rifle is our small way of saying "thanks." But to be fair, Dad is directly responsible for me and Joe's costly deer addiction. If he hadn't introduced us to the sport when we were small, hadn't made us pose in dead deer photo ops when we where just toddlers and hadn't showed us the proper way to sit a deer stand when we were just in grade school, we would have never caught the hunting bug in the first place.

But we are really grateful he did.

Hopefully, Dad's new 7 Mag will put a nice 6x6 on the ground this October when we head to Colorado. Happy Birthday Dad!

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Grandpappy

One of my grandfathers best friends was a fellow by the name of Lloyd Cairnes. Paw and Lloyd were big hunting buddies and used the hunt the upper reaches of the Watershed together back in the '30's and '40' when the two of them worked for the Big Creek Wilderness Camp. When he wasn't deer hunting with Paw, Mr. Cairnes loved to write. The following is a story that he wrote and submitted to Outdoor Life back in the '50's. As far as I know, the story was never published, but what do editors know? I thin the story is great, plus it features my grandfather as one of the main characters, so I've decided to publish it for the first time here on the blog. I'm also including the cover letter that accompanied the manuscript when Mr. Cairnes sent it to Outdoor Life. Enjoy.


The Editor
Field & Stream
515 Madison Ave.
New York 22
N.Y.

Dear Sir:

I respectfully submit for publication at your regular rates the attached original manuscript.

I have attempted in a humble way to set forth a story which is true in every detail – affidavits if requested – which happened to Mr. Robert F. Bryson, Horse Shoe, N.C. and myself this past November.

No doubt you have cognizance of the State managed deer, bear and boar hunts which are held each year on the Pisgah, Sherwood and other public Forest of North Carolina.

True, they are relatively small potatoes when compared with the hunts of the North and West, but they afford a very great deal of pleasure to thousands of hunters who would otherwise never have the chance at big game.

The Southern highlands are a beautiful place in the Autumn, and also afford some of the finest deer hunting in the country. Shooting accidents are perhaps at the lowest rate of the entire country, due in large part to the proper management by the N.C. Wildlife Resources Commission both from and educational and cooperative program.

If there is in your mind any reason why this manuscript is unfit for publication, please take the time to tell me what it is. If there is none, may I hear from you within the near future?

Respectfully yours,
L. W. Cairnes

December 4th, 1951


Grandpappy

The north side of Rich Mountain was dark and cold this November morning. The mountain laurel leaves were curled up into little round tubes which rattled slightly in a movement of air. Overhead, high up on a dead chestnut snag, a woodpecker drummed out a sharp, machine gun – like tune. Far across the heavily wooded valley, the Pisgah Lodge shone in the early morning sun. In the upper edge of the dense laurel thicket through which we had just climbed, following the old Ball-Hootin’ log trail, Bryson and I staring at each other, finally expelled a deep breath and sat down. Except for these sounds, and the dying echoes of three shots rolling now over the far rim of the Big Creek watershed, our forest world was quiet again. Just above us in the trail leaves and dirt were freshly stirred where Grandpappy had been standing. Grandpappy had – but I’m getting ahead of my story.

For more of our years than we can remember, Bryson and I have hunted, fished and wandered over a large area of Western North Carolina known as Pisgah National Forest. It is mountainous plateau from which rises the Pisgah Ridge, or Lodge as we know it, and is drained by the headwaters of the French Broad river. One of these is Big Creek which has its source under the eastern face of Mt. Pisgah. The watershed thus formed is the famed “Big Creek Wilderness” where each year is held a three weeks deer and bear hunt.

The Pisgah deer is a very wary, long-legged, black-muzzled variety of the Virginia Whitetail. For sheer cunning and elusiveness, the Pisgah bucks have few equals. The antlers are erect and round-beamed with upright spikes rising sometimes as much as ten inches or more above the beam.

Grandpappy was a twelve-pointer with a twisted front hoof – as sly and sharp a buck as ever made a track.

We first became acquainted with him in the Fall of 1946 while grouse hunting. Through the glasses we counted his spikes, each glistening like polished metal in the sun. Suddenly, as silently as a ghost, he was gone.

The following year, we spotted his tracks again in the same area during the deer season, but only a fleeting glimpse of him. Stories came in now from other hunters about the great buck. Some claimed to have shot him but the tracks from that twisted hoof were there each year.
We hunted every year and had to be satisfied with other heads, but always I think we left each year with a little bit of disappointment. Grandpappy was still there.

This past October we made our plans as usual, except that this year it was going to be Grandpappy or nothing. Well, you know how the routine goes:

As soon as the trout fishing season is over, the little woman heaves a sigh and allows as how she’s glad that’s over with. Maybe the old man will get his mind back on trying to dig up some new customers. And what is the old man’s mind on now? Counting the days till opening day of hunting season!

He takes long lunch hours and spends it down at the local sporting goods store. “Better let me have a box of 30-30’s Joe.” He slips them inside his bed roll that night. He gets his hunting license and carefully tucks it in the “secret” compartment of his wallet. The first Saturday that he finds himself alone in the house, he takes the rifle out and oils it up. Practices drawing fast beads on the eight-pointer over the mantel. Also practices avoiding all mention of deer hunting when the Mrs. is around.

When the crispy frosty mornings arrive, he begins to go past his driveway and comes to himself at the end of the block. His wife observes that the lawn needs the leaves raked off. He has to don leather boots, flannel shirt, hunting pants and cap before making the long journey to the garage for the rake – which has already been placed where he will trip over it. After looking over the old tent, the camp ax, all his cooking utensils, coiling up a new cord (the old one might not be strong enough to hold Grandpappy to the pole), he finally announces at the back door that he can’t find the rake.

Such was the state of affairs on November 16th, 1951. I came home from work, began talking about the business. The Mrs. listened attentively and went on eating. After supply without warning she remarked that she was spending next week with her sister, for me not to forget to sign my hunting license, that one of the shells had a nick in it, that I’d better get a new joint or pipe for my camp stove and that she had already patched the hole I had burned in the tent last year. My first thought was that if I did no better job of fooling “Grandpappy” then I did her my name would be mud again this year.

The next thing that remains clear in my mind was three days later at 5:00 A.M. Bryson was wanting to know how many eggs I wanted for breakfast. As I returned to wakefulness, the ten years span of the past twelve months came to an end.

By daybreak we were scrambling across a fallen log over Big Creek at the mouth of Rich Cove. High above was the top line of the mountain silhouetted against the eastern sky. We were headed for the high branches above the head of the cover just under the top.

The air was clear and cold, and underfoot the frosty leaves from the hardwoods were covered with a think frozen coating of snow from two days before. Every step sounded like crunching ice. It was no day for stalking, so we figured we might as well get up to the benches as quickly as possible and still-hunt until the frost melted.

We slipped along as quietly as possible but were still making plenty of noise. The going was getting steeper now. Frequent halts were made to avoid getting completed winded. Deer tracks were everywhere and one deposit of dung still glistened on the snow. Common sense told us to take a stand here, but the lure of the heights where our big buck hung out pulled us on.

The floor of the valley began to drop away from us. We passed the old trestle where the log skidder had once stood. What had been the fairly even grade of the logging railroad had now become the steep ball-hootin’ trail down which some three decades ago the virgin logs had been slid by gravity down to the loading dump at the railhead.

Numerous rains had turned this trail into a two foot deep trough filled with leaves, over which it was impossible to move quietly. We followed the edge, holding onto saplings, and about halfway up I was panting like the engines which had hauled away the timber. Stumps of chestnut as much as five feet in diameter stood like monuments all around us.

We had stopped to rest on a little rise, when two does fled up the other side of the cover, their white flags marking their course. Overhead, the woodpeckers had begun their morning tune-up. We should have been in our favorite stands by this time, but for me that mountain seems to be getting higher and steeper with each passing year. Bryson didn’t used to have to wait for me to catch up like he does now. He’s never said anything about it though – just acts like he’s tired too. But he can still carry a 200 hundred pound buck back to camp and never falter.

Just at sunrise, which on the north face of the mountain was about 9 o’clock, we entered the last heavy laurel thicket. The trail still led upward, and we knew that as soon as we had climbed through this last thicket we would come out onto the open almost flat benches that were to be our stand that morning. We were counting on Grandpappy to use this natural crossing over the benches that morning too.

By now we were perspiring freely, and that spells cold once you have taken a stand, but our goal was now in sight. Just before emerging from the upper edge of the laurel we sat down on a fallen log to regain our wind. The old logging trail knifed through the thicket to make an ideal shooting lane, but with no visibility to either side.

We had been sitting on the log for not over three minutes when I felt Bryson’s elbow in my ribs. He was pointing to my right with his head turned sideways listening intently. I bent my city-deadened car in the direction he was pointing, but it was several seconds before I heard the sound I had waited twelve long months to hear. The unmistakable “jab-jab-jab” of a deer walking over frozen leaves. Could this be the mighty buck we had so carefully planned on seeing this morning? Or was it an eager spike-horn or curious doe?

We were in “buck country” as we call the high ridges. The walking continued and I knew the deer would cross the trail about seventy yards above us. In the heavy growth bordering the trail I knew I would have no glimpse of him until he entered the opening to cross it. I also knew if it was the old monarch we were hunting, he would in all probability stop just before entering the opening and after satisfying himself that no danger was there, go streaking across in a mighty bound that would carry him to the safety of the other side.

The steps halted at the edge of the trail. I strained my eyes and ears but could find no target. I looked at Bryson. He pointed silently at a huge stump which blocked his vision up-trail. When I looked away from Bryson and back to the trail I froze mentally and physically. There in perfect range, head and shoulders protruding from the laurel stood Grandpappy! There was no doubt about it – there just couldn’t be two such bucks on this one range. The utter magnificence of that head simply paralyzed me. I don’t know how long it took me to raise my rifle. I don’t even remember if I took aim. I don’t recall hearing any shots. But I do remember seeing the most magnificent buck ever to show himself to me turn in the edge of the trail and vanish as completely as if he were a ghost. And there were the three empty shells lying on the snow crusted leaves – time honored symbol of “no venison.”

Long, long after I saw all this, the last echo’s of three shots registered on my ears. Bryson and I stopped staring at each other and started breathing again. He picked up the three empty shells and put them in the pocket. I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. After a long minute Bryson said it was a long way back to camp and we better get started.

When we reached the mouth of the cove again back at the creek, we turned to look back toward the top. The sun was now shining brilliantly over the north side of the divide. The laurel sparkled and glistened like millions of diamonds. Somewhere along the broad band of impenetrable thickets Grandpappy had bedded down for the day.

Somewhere in the opposite direction Bryson and I were headed for another twelve months of waiting. For just as long as we are able, no matter how much higher and steeper Rich Cove gets with the passing years, we will start the old routine all over again each Autumn.

Did I have a successful deer hunt? Only you can say. I’m sorry if you thought this was going to be one of those: “….. and the mighty buck fell like a pole-axed steer, drilled at two hundred paces with one shot from my trusty rifle.” Sure I like to bring home the venison, but I don’t always do so. Neither do more than half the guys who go each year. Aren’t they entitled to a story once in awhile too?

Sunday, April 12, 2009

153 Days


153 Days: 23 hours:58 minutes :54 seconds.

That's the exact time remaining until the opening of Archery Season here in Georgia. While the rest of the Bryson Family napped on this glorious Easter Sunday, Daddy got out the bow and started practicing in the backyard. Above is a picture of my first shots of the year. I was shooting from 20 yards away from my deck. I definitely need more practice- my grouping is no where near as tight as I'd like it to be. I'm not going to have a repeat of last season and lose another buck due to mediocre accuracy. I learned the hard way last year, that bow hunting is a game of millimeters.

I've decided to hunker down and get serious about my archery skills, so that by time autumn rolls around I'll be able to drive nails with my Fred Bear. John Rambo ain't gonna have nothing on Yours Truly- I'll going to be able to pick off AK-47 toting, Viet-Cong commies in the middle of rice paddies at 80 yards by time I'm finished. Not that I'll be hunting VC Charlie any time soon, but if the occasion should present itself, I'll be ready. In any event, I should be able to put down a whitetail on any given day if I can in some serious practice time.

September can't get here soon enough.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Partying On Franklin Street





"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking; we've just touched down at our destination. Thank you for flying Tarheel Airlines."

Coach Williams and the Heels are cutting down the nets in Detroit tonight. YEAH BABY! What a fantastic game! We defeated the Spartans of Michigan State, 82 to 69 in what was pretty much a blow-out from the opening tip. All of our starters scored in the double digits and Wayne Ellington was named the game's MVP.

It's been one heck of a season and in the end the Heels got 'er done. They brought the National Championship Trophy home to Chapel Hill, where it belongs, and will now hang yet another banner from the rafters of the Dean Dome. Congratulations Tyler, Ty, Wayne, Danny, Bobby and the rest of the boys in blue. Thanks for the ride.

Now that my nerves are completely shot and my blood pressure is coming down to normal levels, maybe I can finally relax. Though I doubt I'll sleep much tonight. Too excited.

And now, dear readers, back to our regularly scheduled program: I think it's time to start practicing for bow season.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

For All The Mables

A quick update from my previous post-the Heels defeated Villanova last night 83 t0 69, and will now face Michigan State in the Championship Game on Monday night. Tip-off is set for 9:21 Eastern Standard Time.

Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking: please buckle your seat belts, we're in for some rough air ahead.

Go get 'em Heels.

Nerves

I know this is a hunting blog, but tonight I'm deviating a bit from the topic of shooting four-legged woodland creatures. I'm going to touch on another topic of interest that is near and dear in the hearts of the Bryson Family: Tarheel Basketball.

As I'm writing this, it is currently Halftime during the UNC/Villanova NCAA semi-final game. The winner of this game advances to the NCAA Championship Game against Michigan State. We're leading at the half, but that doesn't give me much comfort. I've seen the Heels squander large halftime leads a couple of times in this year. Once Halftime is over, I'm about to endure another twenty stress-inducing minutes, which really sucks. As much as I love Tarheel hoops, I really hate games like this. I would love to be enjoying a nice, relaxing evening with my family, but instead I'm pacing the floor and screaming at the TV.

To me, watching an important Carolina game is like experiencing a bad case of turbulence while on a trans-continental flight. Allow me to expound.

It's 1AM, I'm on a red eye from LA to Atlanta and somewhere over the Rockies at 30,000 feet, the 747 I'm on his a pocket of rough air. The aircraft begins to buck and shake ferociously. Now for some seasoned air travelers, this doesn't affect them at all, but for someone like myself who HATES flying with a capital H, suddenly my stomach is in my throat, I begin to shake erratically and my breathing becomes shallow. I literally begin to stroke out. I do my best to take my mind off the turbulence and calm down, but nothing works. I can't read, I can't watch the in-flight movie. I can't listen to my iPod. All I do is fidget and worry.

This is essentially what it's like for me when I watch an important Heels game. And on a scale of 1 to 10 of important games, this one is a solid 9.5. And now that we are just minutes away from playing in the Championship, my imaginary aircraft has just entered into a category 5 hurricane.

I've been pacing the entire first half and doing odd jobs around the house (mopping, vacuuming, dusting) anything to take my mind off the Heels lack of offensive boards. Danielle loves games like this-it's better than having a maid, she says.

Dad is the same way. He has a hard time watching games of this caliber, and often he won't even watch. He forces himself to go to sleep so he's not walking the halls all night like me.

I'm really hoping Roy and the boys can win this one and redeem last years performance against the Jayhawks.

Let's GO HEELS!

Friday, March 20, 2009

The Claw Hammer Deer

I had to leave early for work this morning and when I left the house it was still dark. While driving to the MARTA station, I rode with the window down, breathed in the cool morning air and watched the sun come up over the city. It was one of those glorious Spring mornings where everything just felt fresh and clean, even if it was Atlanta. For some reason, no matter how old I get, mornings like that remind me of my grandfather. Maybe it's just fact that Easter is around the corner, but it brings back memories of standing beside him at Sunrise Services atop Whitaker Cemetery, looking out over the Mills River Valley while Pastor Sitton read the story of Christ’s resurrection from the Gospels.

My Grandfather, or Paw as we grand kids called him, was a lot of things. A loving husband and father. A deacon in the Mills River Baptist Church and a believer in Jesus Christ. A fire chaplain and a farmer. But above all things I remember my grandfather as an outdoorsman. Of course by time I came along, he was long past his prime as a woodsman and hunter. Arthritis and thirty years of working at Cranston had taken it’s toll on his old worn out knees and by the time I was ready to hunt the steep slopes and narrow mountain ridges of our mountains, Paw simply wasn’t what he used to be.

But he always had a good story. Great stories. Stories about the old days, when he ran traps lines, cut timber and guided deer hunts at The Big Creek Wilderness Camp. Stories when he was a young man and chased whitetails all over God’s country.

One of the more infamous of his stories involves a claw hammer and one unfortunate whitetail doe.

As the story goes, one day Paw was out checking his trap line up on the North Mills River. It was during the early 1960’s, and what money Paw brought in from mink, coon and muskrat hides was an important supplement to the family income. Paw was just above the confluence of the North and South Mills River, checking one of the muskrat traps, when he heard a loud commotion coming from up river. It was the sound of a pack of dogs barking and moving fast in his direction. From the way the dogs where carrying on, Paw knew they had to be running a deer. So he slipped quietly out of the river and concealed himself in the bushes just along the waters edge. The barking grew louder and louder until eventually Paw could hear the splashing of water as well. The dogs were pushing the deer right down the middle of the river. Paw began to hear the splashing of a single, large animal coming straight towards him. Suddenly a large doe came bounding down the river running for her life from the pursuing pack of hounds. The doe leaped right in front of the spot where Paw was hidden. When she caught sight of Paw, hiding in the bushes, she froze out of sheer shock. Obviously, she wasn’t expecting to see a man standing on the side of the river, just inches from her face.

Now of course Paw never said this, but I imagine that old doe probably looked up at my grandfather with eyes full of panic, as if to say, “Help me, dear sir. These dogs are after me and I’m so tired” And I’m sure, other individuals at that moment would have valiantly leaped into the river in front of the pursuing dogs and attempted to save the poor frightened deer.

But not Paw.

As the deer stood up to it's knees in the water, trembling in terror, Paw reached into the back of his hunting coat, pulled out a small metal claw hammer that he used to repair broken traps, and brought it crashing down right between the old does eyes-killing her deader than a door nail.

He then pulled her lifeless body up the river bank and loaded her into the back of his waiting pick-up, much to the chagrin of the barking dogs.

Now before any of you PETA or Humane Society nut-jobs out there get your panties in a wad and start thinking that my grandfather was some heartless killer, you need to consider that that particular deer meant food for his family. Back then, times were hard, and you got food where ever you could get it. Even if it meant knocking a whitetail on the head with a hammer like a Wack-A-Mole at the State Fair.

That’s one of the most important things my grandfather ever taught me-Killing an animal just for the sheer fun of it, is a sin. You always eat what you kill. (With the except of groundhogs of course)

I have no doubt, that my grandmother whipped up some of her usual culinary magic and prepared that doe into one heck of a feast for the Bryson clan. As of this writing, I’ve killed deer with rifles, shotguns, bows and arrows. I’ve even killed a few with a pocket knife. But I have yet to knock one down with a claw hammer. Paw’s still got one on me in that category.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Today Was A Good Day


Ice Cube said it best- Today was a good day.

Today Danielle and I found out that we're having another boy. I couldn't be more excited. Not that I would have disappointed if we had learned we were having a girl, obviously we just want a healthy baby, but the thought of having another boy to be a buddy to Ridge just puts a big goofy smile on my face. Plus, as an added bonus, I still don't have to pay for a wedding twenty years form. Cha-Ching! But it does mean a second hunting rifle in about ten years. I'll take that over paying for a wedding reception any day.

All in all, today was one of those days where I could feel God's love all around me. Today was perfect example of how Life is indeed good and that God truly wants us to be happy. Forget the economy, the stock market, bills, mortgages, and the depressing fact that the start of bow season is still over six months away -forget all of that. Today was a day where I simply sat back and enjoyed the simple things in life.

Two boys. Gosh, it seems just like yesterday I was a kid myself. It's a dang short movie, how did I get here so fast?

Another son. Another deer rifle. Another life-time hunting license. Another pair of Danner boots. Another bunk in elk camp.

Life is good.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

The Horse Whispherer

Usually around the second day in elk camp our livestock is delivered. When hunting the remote regions of the West, one aspect that is crucial to a successful, and in my opinion, a truly enjoyable hunting experience is the employment of horses. Horses are used in elk camp for two primary reasons, to expand a hunters range and to for packing out meat. To me, there is nothing more exhilarating than riding horseback through the Rockies in the predawn light, your rifle slung at the ready in a leather scabbard by your side and the shrill cry of a bull elk in the distance. It’s enough to cause one’s imagination to conjure up images of what it must have been like to live the life of old Jim Bridger or Liver Eatin’ Johnson, sleeking through the aspen groves on their trusty mountain steeds keeping one eye open for big game and the other for hostile Crow warriors.

Now when enlisting the services of horses, I would advise that there be at least one horse expert or seasoned rider in camp. This will cut down on the buckings, kickings, and nasty horse bites that novice riders may endure. In our camp, this responsibility falls squarely on the shoulders of my father, an experienced horseman who has worked around the unpredictable four-legged beasts most of his adult life. He likens himself to Redford’s character in the THE HORSE WHISPER, but in reality he’s more like THE HORSE YELLER, THE HORSE INSULTER, or more accurately THE HORSE PUNCHER. I don’t mean to paint a bleak picture of my father, he really does love horses, but let’s just say has a short temper when it comes to dealing with them. Spare the 2x4, spoil the horse, he would always say.

Every year there’s usually at least one member of our party who’s hesitate to get on the back of a 1,000 lb animal who’s natural speed is used to gauge the power of professional race cars. A few years ago that individual was my 3rd cousin Mikey. He had been nervous about the idea of horses ever since we began our long road trip to Colorado and at some point along the way, he pulled my father aside and expressed his concern. My father promptly asked him what, if any, experience he had had with horses. Mikey thought about it for a moment and proudly announced that he had once owned a VHS copy of THE BLACK STALLION. Dad knew he had his work cut out for him, but set Mikey’s mind at ease by promising him that he’d personally pick out a nice, gentle horse for Mikey to ride.

Once in camp, my father went to work immediately. We had rented a total of four head of horses from a local ranch outside of Craig and for over the course of the next several hours, he rode each and every one; carefully observing their individual temperaments and disposition, looking for any erratic behavior or flaws in personality. Finally, he made his choice, and led a little bay mare over to Mikey and handed him the reins.

“This little gelding is the sweetest of the bunch, Mickey. She’s perfect for you. Take her for a spin.”

My father helped Mikey into the saddle and watched him walk the horse in figure eights behind the cook tent for several minutes. It wasn’t long before Mikey had her trotting and loping up and down the length of camp, his confidence soaring. My father beamed a wide smile and nodded with contentment of his accomplishment and his newly acquired status in the annals of premiere horsemen, ready to dethrone Marty Roberts himself as the quintessential horseman.

With Mikey, relaxed and now galloping in the saddle, my father turned and entered the cook tent to help the rest of us prepare the evening meal. We had just begun peeling the potatoes for the stew, when we heard what sounded like a ten year old girl screaming at the top of her lungs in sheer terror. We rushed outside just in time to see Mikey atop the gelding, but now looking as if he were competing to the title of bucking champion in the National Rodeo Final in Vegas. Mikey was wailing like a banshee, desperately trying to stay in the saddle, while the mare bucked and spun with the ferocity of professional rodeo stock. It looked as though Mikey was a goner for sure.

Suddenly, without warning the mare broke into a full, flat out sprint down an embankment toward the road. Mikey gripped the saddle horn and hung on for all he was worth. Then as if on a dime, the mare spun abruptly to the right.

Mikey, unfortunately, went to the left.

As if watching a slow motion sports reel, and we watched in horror as Mikey’s body became silhouetted against the cobalt blue Colorado sky, hung in mid air as if he were Michael Jordan and then came crashing down like a sack of soggy potatoes into a sharp, jagged pile of sandstone boulders.

As his limp and seeming lifeless body landed amidst the rocks, each of of immediately began thinking of what passage of scripture we’d read at Mikey’s funeral. Corinthians 3:12 would be a nice choice, I decided. We rushed to his side and miraculously he was still alive and conscious. Fortunately for Mikey we always brought along as a member of our hunting party, a professionally-trained medical physician just in case of such an emergency.

Unfortunately, Mikey was that person.

Mikey was a EMT who flew in medical helicopters back home in Asheville, NC so under his semi conscious guidance, he instructed Cousin Ray in the proper way to pop back into place his dislocated shoulder.

In the end, Mikey only suffered a dislocated shouldered which Cousin Ray quickly popped back into place. His sore shoulder didn’t keep him from hunting and on that particular trip, Mikey killed the biggest bull in camp, a nice 6 x 6. For the next two seasons, Mikey would show up in camp and each time would ask my father to pick him out the gentlest horse in the corral and over the next two years Mikey suffered a slight concussion from being thrown, was bitten in the left shoulder, and kicked repeatedly. Mikey still hunts with us but has sworn off horses forever much to the chagrin of my father.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Papa and Doc


I never knew my great grandfather but his name is spoken in almost hushed reverence in our family. Over the course of my life I’ve heard numerous stories about the man, from the time he was kicked out of the Methodist Church, or “churched” as the old timers called it, for partaking of too much corn liquor or the time he whipped my twenty something year old grandfather with the mule reins just for back-sassing him while the two were plowing. By all accounts, Papa Bryson, as they used to call him, was quite a colorful character, personally I always imagined him to be a cross between John Wayne in Hatari! and Tommy Lee Jones in Lonesome Dove.

But it was Papa Bryson’s skill as a deer hunter that set him apart from other men. My grandfather once said that Papa Bryson, was undoubtedly one of the finest deer hunters in all of Mills River Valley.

Pappa Bryson died in 1948, one year before my father was born. My Dad never knew his grandfather but I wanted his name and legacy to live on. So on May 7th, 2007, when my son, William Ridge Bryson, was brought in to this world, we named him after my Great Grandfather. I’m also hoping that by giving him his first name, a little of Pappa Bryson’s deer hunting magic will rub off on the little guy.

***
Now it wasn’t that long ago, when deer season meant a great deal more to the residents of the Mills River Valley than just mere recreation; it literally meant survival. Hunting put much needed food on the table for dozens of poor, hard working families. The Bryson’s were no exception. My grandfather used to tell us stories of when he was a boy, sneaking into the woods with Pappa Bryson to hunt deer out of season just so they could make it through the winter. Together the two of them would set out on foot from their home on South Mills River to a small hunting cabin located at the head of Turkey Springs- a journey that totaled some ten to fifteen miles in length. They would return home weary and exhausted several days later, their hunting coats over flowing with fresh venison tenderloin, shoulders and hams; enough to feed the large clan of ten.

Now shooting deer out of season to feed a hungry family was one thing but trespassing on another man’s property to simply satisfy your desire to have a large trophy rack hanging over your fireplace was something entirely different. And apparently Pappa Bryson had a fairly notorious reputation in the community as a trespasser.

Now by most accounts, Pappa Bryson was an educated man, he could read and write as well as other folks, but for some odd reason he had a hard time deciphering signs which read, NO TRESSPASSING and NO HUNTING- a reading deficiency that routinely landed him in hot water with local game wardens.

A story that is still told around dinner tables in the Bryson family is the time Papa Bryson and Dr. Greeenwood had a run-in with one particular game warden while trespassing on the Biltmore Estate. During the turn of the Century, the Vanderbilt Family, who constructed the world renowned Biltmore House, owned practically all of Western North Carolina, some 125,000 acres in total. Nearly every square inch of their properly was prime deer hunting land and strictly off limits to the general public. To enforce their No Hunting policy and to discourage poachers, the Vanderbilt's employed a small army of private game wardens who systematically patrolled their vast property on horseback.

Now Papa Bryson routinely snuck onto the estate to hunt with his good friend Dr. Greenwood, who at the time served as the local doctor for the community. Dr. Greenwood was known a gifted physician, who as the story goes once amputated a man’s leg with a carpenter hand saw and a kitchen butcher knife. He also served as head of the Mills River social club with he and his wife hosting extravagant parties at their South Mills River home. He was known far and wide as a fine, upstanding citizen, a pillar of the community. But the good doctor also had another reputation, that of a fanatical trophy hunter and sometime outlaw poacher. Apparently when it came to deer hunting his addiction knew no boundaries nor property lines.

It became common knowledge throughout Mills River that come deer season, Dr. Greenwood and his partner in crime, Papa Bryson were usually to be found somewhere creeping around the Vanderbilt Estate in search of big game. In fact, they had so man encounters with the estate's game wardens, the two men actually became somewhat close acquaintances with many of them.

On one such trespassing, er, I mean hunting trip, Papa Bryson and Dr. Greenwood were sneaking along a path somewhere deep within the Biltmore estate, when they spotted the head game warden coming their direction on horseback. Without being seen, the two quickly slipped off the trail and concealed themselves in a laurel thicket. They pulled bandannas up over their faces to hide their identities in the even they were spotted and had to make a quick retreat. As the warden passed by the spot where the two men were hidden, without as much as turning his head the warden said out loud, in an almost friendly greeting, “Hello Bryson. Hello Greenwood,” and merely continued on his way.

As a kid, every time I heard that story, I could help but to think of the coyote and road runner cartoons. After so many times of trying to catch those two, the warden finally accepted the fact that Papa and Dr. Greenwood was a fact of life and went about his day.

Friday, March 6, 2009

Trail of Tears


I've never been what you'd call a violent person. Like the old saying goes, I'm more of a lover than a fighter. I've only been in one actual fight in my life and that was with Frank Painter in the 6th Grade. Frank had refused to become a casualty of war after I clearly riddled his body with invisible bullets from my plastic Uzi sub-machine gun during a backyard reenactment of Rambo: First Blood Part 2, and so the two of us went fisticuffs.

Since that day, I've never had any reason to fight or do bodily harm to another human being, except for the time I was tempted to shoot my Cousin Ray in cold blood after he walked me and two others to complete and utter exhaustion while on an elk hunt in Colorado.

It was 1997, my first ever elk hunt, and on the second or third day out, Dad and I heard Ray shoot several times down around Saw Mill Creek. The two of us hiked to the edge of a high ridge from which we had heard the gunshots, but there was no sign of Ray or any dead elk. But several hundred feet down below us, at the bottom of a steep, rocky gorge, we caught a faint glimpse of what appeared to be the body of a dead bull.

"Oh Dear Lord," sighed Dad shaking his head, "Ray's done went and killed an elk down in that hole. It'll be midnight before we get back to camp."

After spending the better part of an hour, maneuvering, and sometimes sliding uncontrollably, down the side of the mountain, Dad and I arrived at the bottom of the hole, where we found Ray and his son Junior gutting the elk. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was already on its downward slide towards the horizon. The decision was made, after the elk was field dressed, for Dad and Ray to head back to the top of the mountain to get the horses in order to pack out the elk before nightfall. Junior and I would wait buy the elk until they got back.

In hindsight, Junior and I should have started the long process of skinning and quartering the animal in our fathers’ absence, but this was our first hunt and there was still plenty of daylight left to do some more hunting. Plus, we figured, how long could it really take to hike back and fetch the horses? This was our first experience of judging distances out in the West, where things appear much closer than they actually are.

It was close to dark by time Dad and Ray returned with the two packhorses. An hour and a half of backbreaking work later, we had the panniers loaded with elk shoulders, hams, and tenderloins.

"You boys ready to climb?" asked Ray while tying the bull’s antlers to the back of his packhorse.

I stared up at the steep grade before us. It looked as though it went up and up for eternity. Junior and I looked at each other and whispered in unison, "This is going to suck."

The word suck doesn't even begin to describe the next several hours of that night. Torture. Agony. Misery. Anguish. Those words I believe come a bit closer in defining our following ordeal.

We started up out of the gorge, which by the way since that day has been called Ray's Hole, around 7PM. I lead one of the pack horses, a buckskin quarter horse whose actual name I have long since forgotten, but who seemed determined to step on the back of my foot with other step. About an hour into the trip I quickly renamed the horse, Stupid. By the end of that night I was ready to shoot Stupid in the head. As much as I smacked, beat and jerked on his reins, that retarded animal was intent on crushing every bone in my foot.

For next several hours the four of us clawed our way up the vertical slope in the direction of the 1144 trail which would lead us back to our vehicle. Our legs and lungs were burning and screaming "Uncle". Dad and Ray were in the lead stumbling along in the darkness, followed by Stupid and myself. Junior brought up the rear. As exhausted as I was, I kept telling myself that Ray and Dad had already made this trip once today. I had to hand it to them; they were in really good shape for guys their age.

Sometime around hour number three, the slope leveled off and we topped a small ridge. We stopped for a quicker breather.

"Finally!" I thought. "We've found the 1144 Trail. I won't be long now till we're back at the truck headed for a warm meal and a soft bed."

Unfortunately, this was not going to be the case.

Dad was also leading a packhorse, walked over the Ray where I overheard these dreaded words: "You have any idea where the trail is?"

Not the words I was hoping to hear.

Although they had walked these mountains dozens of times over the years, they were now apparently having a difficult time navigating the terrain in the dark. Finding a narrow, one-foot wide walking path in the middle of the forest, was turning out to be the equivalent of finding a needle in a haystack.

And so for the next several hours, similar to the Israelites exodus from Egypt, we wandered aimlessly in the wilderness. Only in our case, neither Dad nor Ray was turning out to be Moses. And what was even more frustrating was that even after we found the 114 Trail, we would still have a long and steep hike ahead of us until we reached the Promised Land, which in this case was the Bear's Ear parking lot.

After the 176 time Stupid stepped on the back of my foot was ready to kill my cousin Ray. Why on Earth did he find it so necessary to kill an elk in such a remote and steep place? Honestly, he couldn't have picked a worse place in the entire freaking state of Colorado. And the elk he shot wasn't even all that big. It was a decent 4x4, but nothing to warrant this kind of physical punishment. For a 360-class bull, yeah, I could see it, but for the rack he had tied on the back of this horse, No Way!

My thighs, calves and lungs all felt as though they were being subjected to red-hot pokers. Every fiber in my body was screaming with exhaustion, yet we continued to climb-each of us in our own private purgatory of pain and suffering. At one point, my cousin Junior, who for the last several hours had been bringing up the rear, came trudging up beside me. We was huffing and puffing like a asthmatic suffering from a collapsed lung.

Give…me…my…rifle,” he wheezed. “I’m going to kill him.”

I stepped in front of Junior as he went for the rifle scabbard strapped to my horse and prevented him from extracting his 30.06.

“No, you can’t shoot him, Junior. He’s your Daddy.” I said although the thought had crossed my mind at least a dozen times over the past couple of hours.

“Well, fine! That’s it I’m done!” Junior shouted, loud enough for us all to hear. He then slumped to the ground like a gunnysack of potatoes. “The heck with all of you! You can just come pick me up here in the morning. I’m not walking another step.

The rest of us just keep going refusing to look back, at this point is was survival of the fittest; the Law of Nature. A weaker member of our herd had fallen by the wayside, yet we simply ignored him and kept on marching.

“Fine stay here,” hollered Ray. “But you’ll freeze to death before sun-up and the coyotes will eat what’s left of you.”

I figured this would be the last time I would ever see my cousin again, yet I was too tired to say a proper “good-bye.”

“Can I have your rifle?” I puffed as I trudged onward. Junior just laid there in a crumpled heap on the forest floor, mumbling obscenities.

It was now down to just three of us. My blood sugar began to plummet to dangerous levels, I hadn’t eaten anything since noon, and I began to wonder if I would soon be joining my cousin as coyote’s cold breakfast. Then suddenly from up ahead, I heard Ray shout.

“THANK THE LORD! If it aint the 1144!”

We had found the elusive trail, our expressway back to a warm bead, food and civilization. Maybe I would live to see another sunrise after all.

Finding the trail seemed to give a much-needed boost to our morale. We now had adrenaline and hope pumping through our veins. With our spirits now lifted and a newfound spring in our step, it wasn’t long until we found the our truck at Saw Mill Creek. Glory Hallelujah. Praise the Lord. We were saved.

We stumbled to the horse trailer on what little strength we had left in our legs. I can honestly say, that never in my entire life have I been more exhausted than I was at that particular moment. Just as we were loading our equally fatigued horses into the trailer, a figure emerged from the woods, limping and cursing like a drunken sailor. It was Junior. Apparently the thought of wild coyotes scattering his frozen bones all over the mountainside was too much for him to bare and he was able to muster the strength to follow us out.

Seeing my cousin, whom I’d shared many memories with since childhood, reappear from the forest alive and well was a relief, though I was somewhat disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to keep hi rifle.

Through out my career in corporate advertising, I’ve had the privilege to travel all over this great nation and dine in some of it’s finest restaurants, but I can honestly say that the Dinty Moore Beef Stew we ate in camp that night was probably the best meal that has ever passed over my lips. After dinner, I dropped in bunk and was asleep before my head even touched the pillow. No, scratch that, I think was asleep before I even entered the tent. I think someone just pointed me in the right direction and somehow I managed to find my bunk.

I have hunted that same area around Bear’s Ears several times since that god-awful night and I have yet to shoot an elk anywhere near that hole Ray lead us into. And I have made a promise to myself that I never will; no matter how big his antlers are. I hope to never again have to endure Ray’s Trail of Tears.

The Darwin Awards


Every year the Darwin Awards are handed out to certain individuals who have followed Charles Darwin’s theory of “nature will weed out the weakest and dumbest.” In other words they’re awards given posthumously to all the idiots out there who have killed themselves doing really stupid things, usually right after uttering the words “Hey, y’all watch this.”

Past winners have included a parachutist who jumped out of a plane at 20,00o feet but somehow forgot to strap on a parachute, an avid jogger who was so “in the zone” he accidentally jogged off a 200 foot cliff, and a karate student who thought he could fight a full grown male lion at a local zoo-his remains, which included just an arm and a leg, were found the following day by zoo keepers. But my all-time favorite Darwin Award winner is the guy who decided it would be a good idea to snack on a dynamite blasting cap. Here’s the actual story:

A man at a party popped a blasting cap into his mouth and bit down, triggering an explosion that blew off his lips, teeth and tongue, State Police said Wednesday. Jerry Stromyer, 24, of Kincaid, bit the blasting cap as a prank during a party late Tuesday night, said Cpl. M.D.Payne. "Another man had it in an aquarium, hooked to a battery, and was trying to explode it," Payne said. "It wouldn't go off and this guy said, "'I'll show you how to set it off."

Obviously these are not the best and brightest examples of the human race and its probably just as well that these individuals have been eliminated from our gene pool.

Now personally, I've never known any Darwin Award winners, (thank goodness) but I have met several people in my lifetime who will probably be nominated at some point in their lives. The following story, which was told to me by my father, is about two such individuals. It took place several years ago in elk camp in Colorado.

Two old boys by the name of Gerald and Carl were out elk hunting one day, when they came across a large hole in the ground.

“Hey Gerald, what do you recon is down in that hole?” asked Carl.

“Don’t know,” replied Gerald, “but I’m pretty sure it ain’t no elk.”

“Well, there’s plenty of elk to go around,” said Carl, “But it ain’t every day a feller comes across a big ‘ol hole in the ground like this. There might be Injun gold down in there.”

“Injun gold?”

“Why sure, them Injuns had lots of gold. Why do you recon Cortez and all them Spanish fellers came over here in the first place?” said Carl. “Now when I lay down, you grab me by my ankles and lower me down in that hole.”

Gerald highly doubted there was any Injun gold down in that hole, all he wanted to do that day was to shoot a nice 5x5 bull, but he did as he was instructed and lowered Carl slowly down in to the dark hole.

“What do you see Carl?” Gerald asked.

“Can’t see much,” Carl hollered from inside the hole. “Smells real bad down here too. Hold on, let me turn on my flashlight.”

Several seconds later, Carl began kicking, thrashing and squalling like a banshee.

“FOR THE LOVE OF PETE! PULL ME UP, GERALD! PULL ME UP!”

It turned out, that when Carl flicked on his light, he found himself nose to nose with a large hibernating black bear sow. Now fortunately for these two intellectual brainiacs, they were able to escape without waking up the sleeping bear. And thankfully that year’s Darwin Award List didn't include the caption: “North Carolina man’s head bitten off by startled hibernating bear.”

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Alive and Kickin'

One of the great things about the Wild Meat Supper back home, other than the mouth-waterin' vittles, is the stories one will hear around the supper table. You get a bunch of gray-haired old timers sitting around swapping hunting tales and you're liable to hear a whopper sooner or later. I thought I had heard just about every story there was to be told about my late Great Uncle Sid, but I was proven wrong Saturday night.

The following humdinger was relayed to me by Don Westmoreland.

As the story goes, one day sometime back in the late 1950's, Uncle Walt and Uncle Sid were cruising the back roads of Mills River in Uncle Walt's old car. They came around a curve and they spotted an big fat doe standing on the side of the road. The fact that it wasn't deer season didn't deter the two brothers in the least, and as Uncle Walt jammed on the brakes, Uncle Sid slid his rifle out the passenger side window and put a bullet right behind the old doe's ear, dropping her like a sack of 'taters. Quick as flash, Uncle Sid hopped out of the car , drug the deer's lifeless body across the road and shoved it into the back seat. Uncle Walt hit the gas, before the game warden came along, and headed for the house as fast as he could.

But they only got about half way home when the deer suddenly sprang back to life in the backseat. Apparently Uncle Sid's bullet didn't kill the deer but just sorted stunned the poor thing, knocking it unconscious for a few minutes. The old doe, after waking up in the back seat of an old Chevy, obviously freaked out. It commenced to kicking and thrashing like crazy-trying to escape the moving vehicle. Uncle Walt, afraid to stop the car in case the game warden was to pass by, simply kept the pedal to metal and his head down trying to dodge deer hooves. Uncle Sid on the other hand was throwing haymakers at the does head and doing his best to subdue panic stricken deer. Needless to say, old doe nearly beat the two brothers to death before they finally manged to get it home where it was properly disposed of.

I suppose my Uncle Walt and Uncle Sid gave new meaning to the term Fast Food. (insert bad joke drum roll here.)

Wild Meat Supper


The Mills River Methodist Church's annual Wild Meat Supper was held last Saturday night and by all accounts was a colossal success. I believe the final tally of people served was somewhere around 280 and I was told they had over 60 people on a waiting list if seats came available. The fellowship hall of the church was crammed to absolute full capacity. If they had tried to fit any more bodies into that room I'm sure they would have been in violation of the fire ordinance. Fortunately, half of the Mills River Volunteer Fire Department was in attendance.

The food as usual was fantastic. We dined on deer, elk, buffalo, wild turkey, pheasant (which was a little too dry for my tastes) bear, and wild trout. Ridge especially liked the elk pasta and Mom's spicewood cake. My personal favorite dish of the meal was Dad's cube steak. It was melt-in-your mouth delicious. I was particularly careful however, when selecting my deer steak while going through the serving line. I had watched Ray earlier in the day preparing the meat and saw him cutting off sections and smelling it before putting it in the frying pan.

"Some of this meat's pretty old," he said, when he noticed me watching him trim the suspicious meat. "Been at the bottom of the freezer for a couple of years. I done believe some of it's gone bad."

That's the thing about Ray-the man will not waste venison under any circumstances, even if it has the potential to cause an outbreak of salmonella poisoning.

After the dinner, there was an auction that benefit the Methodist Youth Mission Outreach Program. Donnie Goode served as auctioneer. The majority of the stuff auctioned off was junk donated by folks around the community, that came straight from their basement or attic. But there was some highlights: Dad donated two hand-built bird houses and a rabbit gum. Some guy donated an old .22 single shot rifle and off course there was a variety of baked goods from some of the local women in the community.

Dad's two birdhouse went for $50 bucks and the rabbit gum went for $45. One of Aunt Mid's secret recipe cakes sold for a whopping $120. We were told that a couple of years ago, Mac Wiggins paid $400 dollars for one of her cakes. Pretty impressive for a cake. I sure do miss Aunt Mid. I wonder if she's baking cakes up in heaven for Uncle Walt?

the t-shirts I designed for the event were also a big hit. Bud ran the table were the shirts were being sold and at one point during the dinner he came over and whispered in my ear that they were selling like hotcakes.

All in all it was a great night, and Danielle and Ridge both had a good time as well. A lot of money was raised for a good cause and I believe everyone involved enjoyed themselves. It's always great being back home with friends, family and good food.

Until next year...

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Snow Blind


Danielle, Ridge and I were up in Mills River this past weekend for the Wild Meat Supper Saturday night. (More on that later) We woke up Sunday morning at Mom and Dad's with reports of a snow storm rapidly moving into the area. Obviously we wanted to get a head start on the storm and get back home to Atlanta as quickly as possible, so we hastily packed our bags, said some quick “good-byes,” and hit the road. Our timing couldn't have been better-just as we entered Atlanta city limits, the snow started to come down in sheets and proceeded to pile up for the next several hours.

Our hasty evacuation from the mountain this morning reminded me of another time the Bryson Clan was forced to retreat from a blinding snowstorm.

Back in 2006, we were in our usual elk hunting grounds in Routte National Forest, just north of Craig, Colorado. On Opening Morning, our hunting party dropped down into the "Honey Hole," a little valley tucked secretly away in the shadow of Bear Ears Mountain that's typically teaming with large herds of elk. As usual, we got into a mess of elk that morning and by the end of the day, most of us had filled our tags. The weather was postcard perfect that first morning-everything an elk hunter could ask for: clear blue skies, that could inspire a George Strait song, elk bugling in the timber and golden aspens quaking in a crisp, gentle breeze.

We spent the rest of that glorious day and the following day, packing meat out of the our little valley and back our base camp situated at the base of Black Mountain. But on the third day of the hunt, the weather took a turn for the worst.

Just before dawn, Ray and his wife Ramona, who along with my mother had made her first trip to elk camp, left camp to head back out and hunt. Ray had killed a bull on opening day but Ramona still had an unfilled bull tag. Ray had decided to take her to a spot just below Bears Ears to see if any of the elk we had gotten into opening morning, were still loitering around the the vicinity. At first light, about an hour after they had left camp, it began to snow. It began gradually, as just a mild flurry, but by ten o’clock it had turned into a hard snow shower. The remaining members of camp, which included Mom, Dad, Joe and myself walked around camp enjoying the white stuff. It was the first snow any of us had seen all year and for me, living in Atlanta, it was probably also the last snow I’d seen this year.

As the snow began to accumulate on the ground, the four of us went about having care-free snowball fights, building snowmen and snapping photos. Snow showers are not uncommon in the high country –they blow in on a moments notice and are often over as quickly as they started. Over the years of elk hunting, I’ve come to learn that weather in the Rockies can change on a dime and I recall many hunts where one minute I’m stripped down to a t-shirt in sixty degree heat and just a few hours later, I’m freezing my rear end off in a hail storm.

And so the morning snow storm were were experiencing, didn’t seem out of the ordinary, after all, we had just enjoyed warm, pleasant temperatures just two days earlier. But after several hours of watching the snow pile up around camp and the storm not showing any sigh of relenting, we came to the conclusion something just wasn’t right. It was then we decided to see what the Weather Service had to say about the proceedings.

We switched on the the old AM radio in the cook tent and the first thing we heard was a static-laced weather alert being broadcast over the Buckskin Network. It turned out a weather advisory was in affect for the mountains of Northwest Colorado, with projections of ten to fifteen inches of accumulation over the next twenty four hours. We immediately knew we were in trouble.

Right about then Ray and Ramona pulled into camp.

“We better get outta here right now,” advised Ray who was drenched in melted snow, “or we’re going to be stranded up here till the Spring Thaw.”

At that, we started breaking camp as fast as we could go. It was a literal race against the clock-we had to get off the mountain before the roads back down to Craig became impassable.

As we torn down the tents and packed our gear, a fierce electrical storm blew in over Black Mountain. Bolts of lighting flashed and thunder boomed directly over our heads while the snow continued to come down in buckets. I still have nightmares to this day of desperately trying to disassemble the metal frame of our cook tent as light bolts popped and slammed into the nearby hillside. I just knew that any second I was about to take jolt of 1.21 jigawatts of electricity and possibly be hurled back to the year 1955, similar to Doc Brown's DeLorean.

While Joe and I were breaking down the tents, Ray and Dad were discovering a new problem-the snow chains they had brought, were not the right size for the tires on the horse trailer. This was extremely bad news since we had a steep, ten mile climb from camp to the top of Black Mountain. With the snow piling up and a trailer without chains, there would be know way for us to haul our rented horses back to Sombrero Ranch.

The decision was made that Ray would ride one horse and lead the other, back to the main road where we would tie them up and inform Sombrero Ranch of their location. It was the only option we had-we would never make it up the mountain with the extra weight of two horses in the back.

So as the snow continued to pour, and while the rest of us packed gear in the truck, Ray set off into the storm with the horses.

The task of breaking down the tents was also becoming a problem. We had successfully taken down the cook tent and stored it away in the back of the horse trailer, but we were having difficulty breaking down our sleep tent. The tent itself is an enormous, antiquated canvas monstrosity from the Korean War era. Because of it's sheer size and bulk, it's usually a an eight-man job to disassemble it. We were trying to do it with just three of us. The snow was piling up on the collapsed tent faster than we could fold it up. Finally Dad gave us the official word to abandon it.

"Just leave it," he barked. "We'll never get out of if we keep fooling around with it."

And so we aborted the operation, and within just minutes, our old Army tent that had kept us sheltered from the elements on many an elk hunt, was buried under a thick blanket of Rocky Mountain powder.

In just under two hours, we had completely broke camp and stored our gear away in the back of Dad's Chevy and the back of the horse trailer-a new elk camp record. With everything stored away and snow-chains on the back of the pick-ups tires only, we all piled into the truck and started up the long, steep grade to the top of Black Mountain. We picked up Ray where West Prong Road intersects the main road. The horses were tied and eating peacefully, awaiting extraction from the storm from Sombrero Ranch, who Ray had just called a few minutes before.

Inside the truck, you could cut the tension with a dull butter knife. We hoped the chains and the Chevy 4-wheel drive could get us to the top of the mountain. Our biggest fear of course was sliding of jackknifing on one of the road's narrow, snow-covered switchbacks. Inside the truck cab, we held our collective breaths as Dad navigated the truck through the blizzard, mile by mile and the only sounds were the soft, whispered prayers of my mother in the backseat.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, we successfully reached the top of Black Mountain. Our blood pressures returned to normal levels and we each let out a thankful sign of relief. The God Lord had most defiantly been listening to Mom that day.

But what we found at the top of Black Mountain was a sight that I thought I'd left far behind me in metro Atlanta- a snarled, rush hour-style traffic jam. Apparently every hunter in the high country was trying to escape the wrath of the storm. It was a full scale evacuation, with what had to have been a hundred 4 wheel drive vehicles, lined bumper to bumper, heading down to lower elevations. As darkness descended on the mountain, an endless procession of red glowing tail could be seen snaking it's way clear to the Craig city limits.

Sitting in the traffic choked road, we eventually passed by a thundering herd of over hundred horses, that were being driven out of the high country by several cowboys and outfitters. We learned later, that the horses we had left tied next to the main road, were part of this herd and made it safely back to their ranch.

The winter snows had officially made an early and unexpected arrival that year and had placed a premature end to the first hunt of the season. Fortunately for Dad, Joe, Ray and myself we bagged our bulls early but unfortunately the weather had spoiled the trip for many an elk hunter.

That evening in Craig, the six of us found a couple of vacant rooms in the Holiday Inn. The hotel was packed to the gills with displaced and dejected hunters who had also evacuated from the storm. We spent the rest of the evening drying clothes that had become drenched in our retreat form camp. We dined on Wendy's hamburgers and fell asleep watching cable in the cozy confines of our dry and snow free hotel room.

We were each thankful for our safe exodus from the mountain that day and I'm sure each of us said a special quiet prayer to the Big Man upstairs that night.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

The Recipe

RAY'S 7-UP GRAVY

Ingredients:
4 tablespoons butter
2 1/2 cups of elk tenderloin drippings
4 tablespoons flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
2 cans of chilled 7-Up cola
dash of Black Mountain soil
splash of Hunters Specialties® Cow Elk Estrus Urine (add to taste)

Directions:
Stir contents together rapidly in an unwashed cast iron skillet
ladle over burnt, charred biscuits and enjoy