Privileged.
I recently canceled the only paper hunting magazine subscription I receive. When I first signed up for the periodical, I was not at all disappointed by the first issue, when I found it rolled into a horseshoe shape and stuffed into my post office box. The thick pages were garnished with handsome photographs of outrageous trophy animals, you know, the ones you dream about when you nod off in your ground blind or tree stand. The accompanying copy following each illustration, recounted the adventure of some lucky hunter and his successful quest of his probable once in a lifetime trophy.
When my second edition found itself in my PO Box, I tore the plastic wrapper off, only to find nearly the exact same edition, only with different picture subjects, followed by almost the same stories. Two years later, I’ve found these magazines taking up residence on my toilet tank, mostly in mint, unread condition. I can only take so much redundancy. The articles nearly always start with something like, “much to my surprise I drew a coveted tag in a trophy unit.” The next paragraph usually recounts the summer’s scouting a preparation work, followed by an account of the stalk, shot, and recovery, crowned by feeling of elation and ecstasy, and then punctuated by thanks to the wife for all her support and patience. The end of the story is footnoted with a gear list, so we know what kind of boots and broad heads everyone else is using.
But I do, really, have a special place in my heart for the classic grip and grin. It’s just sometimes, I need something more. Something like a harrowing adventure, a good bear or lion encounter, a mild disaster, or even the dreaded “skunk.”
Yes, the skunk. It takes a lot of nerve and skill to make an interesting story out of an unsuccessful hunt, but, sometimes, that’s the long and the short of it. Guys who never get skunked, in my mind, as the kids say these days, are totally sus. I’ve sat down to many dinners of tag soup in my hunting career, and let me tell you , it tastes a lot like pizza. Not quite the char broiled tenderloin I was shooting for, but, no one complains about a brick oven pizza, even after a long, weary, empty handed hunt.
One of my most memorable skunks involved my then three year old son. We made a short hike from the highway up to a perch that overlooked a small valley that was choked with cedar trees. After a bit of glassing, a medium sized bull elk materialized not five hundred yards from us. With a three year old in tow, we made a move on the bull. It didn’t work out, but on the way back we saw a rare, vibrantly colored tiger rattlesnake. I hate snakes with a purple passion, but we just sat there and looked at that one for a long time. It was beautiful.
But on rare and momentous occasions, due to likely divine intervention, I will participate in a successful hunt. It’s a wonderful feeling. And such was the occasion this past fall, when I drew a kiabab buffalo hunt. Now I know some if you have already passed judgment on me for saying “buffalo”, and not “bison;” but you can just put that in your pipe and smoke it. For the purposes of this article, I’m gonna say “buffalo.” And that’s that.
A contractor I was doing a job for held back his giggle when I ran into him in the parking lot of Safeway as we were rolling out of town toward the Kiabab plateau. My eight foot trailer, tethered by hitch and ball to my Jeep TJ, was precariously laden with more plastic totes than should be legally allowed. A hand me down canvas outfitters tent straddled my four-wheeler, and bright orange ratchet straps held the whole contraption together. We looked like hillbillies on our way to Beverly. I sighed when my camp cook, a long time friend, showed up with a SUV full of plastic totes. I’m not sure what he had in all of those things, but I regretted telling him he could take them if he could fit them on the trailer. We have an apparent discrepancy in the definition of the word “fit.” The five hour drive to the Kiabab national forest took a little longer as my jeep struggled up the steep grades to Flagstaff, en route. We opted to stay the night at a friend’s house so we would arrive in the morning, and wouldn’t be forced to set up camp in the dark. It proved to be a wise move.
The romance and mystery of Northern Arizona and Southern Utah cannot be described with words. The astounding red rocks of the vermillion cliffs at sunset will give the stoutest hearts anxiety. My senses were completely overwhlemed as my little jeep putted along towards my hunt unit, which was nestled between the Grand Canyon and the Utah border. If you already have plans for this summer, cancel them. Take a week or two and come see the Grand Canyon, Horshoe Bend, Lees ferry, the Vermillion Cliffs, Bryce, Zion, and Cedar Breaks. Bring the kids. They'll never forget it.
There is no need for pizza this winter, tempting though it might be. Let me tell you something, buffalo meat is delicious. Every time I sit down to a buffalo roast, steak, or burger; all the memories of the hunt come flooding back into my mind. The drive, the camp, the aura, the drama, and the victory. I mention drama, since I co-oped with two other tag holders. We threw in with a guide, with hopes that one loose hunter wouldn’t spook the herd back into the National Park and ruin everyone’s hunt. On opening morning, one of the tag holder’s poorly executed shot did indeed spook the buffalo herd back into the park. What should have been a slam dunk, now seemed a Hail Mary. That evening, I moped around camp with the disposition of a wet cat. Fortunately, we located another herd on the second day, and I made sure I shot first. With my buffalo securely anchored, the other two hunters in our party quickly followed up for a triple. Our despair quickly evaporated, and was replaced with fist bumping, back slapping, and thanksgiving.
So, here I am, basking in the glory of a genuine, wild, free-range Arizona buffalo hunt. I can hardly believe myself. What was stated in the regulations as a limited opportunity hunt, quickly evolved into the hunt of a lifetime. I’m not sure if it was the summer’s fire in the Grand Canyon national park, the clean up crews, or the aforementioned divine intervention that led to this unforeseen success, but I’ll take it. There’s an ache inside when I think of all the buffalo that once roamed North America, and how few there are left. But honestly, the chance to hunt a wild, free ranging American buffalo is such a privelege, I almost feel guilty.
