"The Episode
at Coyote Hill"
(Or
"My moccasins now have spikes!")
About #$%@* years ago, I
had the opportunity to get in on a week long "Survival Outing". Real
live Mountain Man stuff! Nothin' to eat but what you shoot or catch or gather.
This was in September of 19*#. Starting to cool, but warm enough during the
day.
My regular outfit back
then was moccasins, breechcloth and legging's. I almost never wore a shirt. I
carried my rifle and shooting bag everywhere I went. My camp name or
buckskinnin' handle back then was "White Man who falls on Ass"
although most called me "Wumwufoa", which is the phonetic
pronunciation of the acronym. (W.M.W.F.O.A.) Or just "Wumwuf" for
short.
All in all, there were
about 12 or 13 of us on this particular outing and things were really looking
positive. We were camped in a primitive area, several miles from the nearest
road with a couple of lean tos' for shelter. We had a high of 75 degrees on the
Thursday we started. And we had our guns and plenty of powder and lead...
That's as far as the positive part went...
On Thursday night, it
started raining. When we crawled out from under our blankets Friday morning
there was 8 inches of fresh snow on the ground. But, hey! We were roughin' it
like Bridger and Carson and we were in good shape! Especially, after I borrowed
a buckskin shirt so my "stipples wouldn't nick out."
Anyway, we were having a
great time except that no one could find anything to kill! I guess the snow
storm had run all the critters back into their holes. And being as how it was a
wet snow, it didn't take much time to get soaked to the skin. So we spent a lot
of time hunkered around the fire talking about how nice it would be not to have
to spend all our time hunkering around the fire. And boy, wouldn't it be nice
if a big ol' 12 course meal would wander into camp just looking for someone to
eat it!
It snowed another 4
inches on Saturday and we decided that maybe we oughtta' start gettin' serious
about finding something to kill, before "Fat Jenkins" started getting
REAL hungry. Besides being an eating machine, "Fat" was also one of
the best stalkers I've ever known. He was 5'6" tall, nearly that wide, and
could move like a ghost. He was phenomenal!
Anyway, Sunday morning we
split into 3 groups of 4 with one man left in camp to tend the fire and hog tie
any stray 12 course meals that happened to wander by. We hunted pretty much all
day long and finally managed to take 8 or 9 rabbits. The man we left in camp
said he didn't see so much as an after dinner mint, let alone a 12 course
banquet - We accused him of sleeping on the job…
After an unfortunately
light meal, supplemented with judicious applications of Taos Lightning and
Grumpy's "Moon Juice", we turned in under the light of a nearly full
moon. Since my leggings and borrowed shirt had become soaked, I took them off
and hung them over a bush at the edge of camp, then crawled between my blankets
with my rifle and shooting bag close to hand. (Like a REAL Mountain Man!)
About 4 O'clock the next
morning, I awoke to the sound of laughter. When I roused up and asked what the
hell was going on, Stinky pointed at a coyote running up the side of the steep
hill to the west. I looked and sure as heck, it WAS funny to watch! Every few
steps the poor critter would stumble like he was getting tangled up in
something, and slide back down the hill a few feet.
All of us were up by
then, laughing like fools at the misfortune of that poor, dumb beast. Then I
happened to glance at the bush where I'd left my legging's... Then I looked
back at the coyote... Then back at the bush - GIMME BACK MY LEGGINS, YOU SON OF
A BITCH!!!!
Well, I grabbed my rifle
and took off on a dead run. Behind me I could hear someone hollering "Get
'im, Wumwuf, sic 'im boy!" And raucous peels of laughter.
The temperature had
dropped during the night and what had been WET snow was now DRY ice. After
falling twice I discarded my rifle, considering it to be an impediment to my
progress. Not to mention the fact that it hurt like hell when I landed on it!
Having lost sight of the coyote, I had no idea that he had dropped my leggins and
headed for parts unknown.
The guys in camp were
still hollering things like "Sic 'em, Wumwuf!" And "Yer a
gainin' on 'im now, hoss!" in between snorts of laughter.
I was roughly half way up
the hill (about 250 feet) when I slipped for the third (and last!) time. All I
remember is my feet going up in the air and blurry scenery. Needless to say, I
came back to camp considerably faster than I left it... Luckily, my breechcloth
caught on a snag on the way back down and slowed my progress enough that I didn't
slide completely through camp.
...I don't remember who
finally fetched my leggings for me, but I do seem to recall that it was a
couple of days before I could stand to wear 'em again, what with the Major
league rug burns I'd picked up from sliding on the ice. The bright spot was
that I killed a nice doe while laying on my blankets in camp later that morning
while everyone else was out hunting. (The only thing I can figure is that all
the howls and laughter had made her curious.)
All in all, our
"survival outing" was a success, although for some reason we never
tried it again. The snow had melted almost completely by the time we hiked out,
and except for the psychological ones, I have no permanent scars.
Now after nearly twenty
years, I still (as you might imagine) have yet to live this episode down.
Although the fact that I don't hang around with any of those guys any longer
makes the memory easier to live with.
And, oh yes, someone did have the presence of mind to snap a few pictures of my
wild "ride". ...But fortunately they all came out blurry...
Don Jus'Me McCrary,
Formerly Wumwufoa (AKA The Kansan)
(Written December, 2,000)
