SI SENOR

“You did!” “I did.” “You sure did!” “You done good.” “Well wonders never cease.”

“Get over here ya little squirt,” roared Lead-On Highfee. “Come set between us.” He grabbed my arm and set me on one of Ruby’s spinning counter stools. “We are all ears, Boy. Tell us the sheep story.”

I was beaming like a Cheshire cat for sure. This was something I have waited years for. I got a ram and I was fixing to brag. I settled in between my old friends and took a big breath.

“How’d you guys know I got a ram,” I had to ask? “I haven’t told anyone yet.”

“Never mind, Boy,” “We know things.” “We have some pilot friends.”

“Oh, Ok,” I was thinking. “The pilot told me he wouldn’t tell a soul so I could go back to the same lake next year.”

“Where’s yer pictures, Boy? Show us first.” I opened my cell phone. “I got lots.”

“No, show me some pictures. I don’t want to be squinting at some little blower. Where’s the real pictures?” Packtrain spun my stool and I flew off onto the floor and then I slunk out the door looking for a Staples store.

I brought back a fistful of prints and started again. “See, that’s the sheep, and that’s me packing it out, and there’s the camp we had.”

“Where’d you get him?” Packtrain asked. “I bet you got him right where we told you to go.”

“Sure he did,” allowed Lead-On. “All the Boy knows is what we told him. What’s this ram score?” He dug his dirty thumb onto the picture and I made a grab for it and missed. He handed it to Packtrain who was just wiping the used chew from his knuckles.

“Not bad Boy.” “Looks about 160 something.” “How old can you make him?” “Looks 9 or 10.”

“Guys,” I said. “I’ll tell you the whole story. Let me get you some of Ruby’s pie.” So I did and they sat and gummed on the cherry pie and swilled the Joe and made faces.

So here’s most of the story: Me and Blake, my son, hooked up with a well known outfitter to get a flight into Stone’s sheep country last summer. It was my first year as an official senior citizen, and I was interested to know what that would do for my mindset.

We flew out of Watson Lake after hanging around town a few days which gave us time to look at every sign twice and sample every café three times. It is no fun sitting in an airport, and the float plane dock in Watson Lake is built right on top of a mosquito factory. I have to say I am still very impatient in my old age.

The pilot took us on a milk run. He dropped off four other hunters at Shallow Lake and Loon Lake, and then splashed us down at Topend Lake. It was pretty much off the map and I could see the meter turning and I kept wondering how much this would cost. I guess I still worry about money.

It was noon so Blake and I decided we had time to climb for a few hours, especially since Topend was another mosquito factory. I guess I am forgetful now, because I did not remember July 30 is bad in the north for bugs.

We went over a pass onto a plateau. I found a sharp rock that I am sure was a native tool and I picked it up for luck. We got to a flat spot and I said enough. The first camp gave me a good view of mountains in three directions. It was a knoll in a swamp with beaver houses and no wood except stunted willow and a few fir. Then the mosquitos came. It was sporty there for a bit, kind of like the scene in WE WERE SOLDIERS but I kept a slather on with my little bottle of Muskol. Muskol today is about 2 or 3 % DEET, which is short for Deetheyldiamiteskeeterkiller or something. Back when, you could buy 97 %, it would lift the paint off the axe handles. I loved the stuff and a couple drops were all you needed to kill every bug in sight. I guess I am nostalgic in my old age.

Blake had me buy some modern equipment like shrinkwrap and compression sacks and little black boxes that looked like spring-loaded traps. My pack was heavy, and everything was stuffed into those bright colored tote-hauls. Sproing, you open a tent. Puff, you pull out a sleeping bag. Pop and Fzzzz, a freeze dried drink and three course meal. Wow, I guess I am open to learning something new.

Laying in bed I slept while the rain splat on (Day three it really concentrated on my little valley), I thought of nothing but those delicious freezer packs. Blake went up into the high peaks to hunt and left me down in the swamp. I slumbered for hours listening to the water gurgling in the creek and dripping off the tent fly. I invented a game, staring at the ceiling, and then closing my eyes and squinting. With various degrees of pressure on my lids I could see phantasamagorical lights and patterns. You should try it. You can see reverse images and little things sailing across the field of view like shooting stars and images of snow like you see driving into a heavy snowfall at night. Like, it sure is entertaining. I still have a vivid imagination.

Sometimes I would look out the fly, but my new REI tent has a serious design flaw. You get wet when you open it because all the walls slope out from the top. Back in the day (I know – boring) but we had the Timberline Eureka which was an A-frame and it allowed you to lay in bed and look out the bug screen without the fly obscuring the view. It was so pleasant in rain country (also grizzly country). In that REI I was constantly checking out the door to see what was making a sound – was it a bird?, was that a grunt?, a bear?, or what? See, there were bear splats and clumps of ground digested berries and hairs festooned along the trail through my swamp. That bear was on my mind, as they are when you are alone and cooking in your tent. My tent was on the only flat spot in the swamp and it occurred to me that it might be where the bear was sleeping before I got there. As a senior I have accumulated lots of wisdom.

Sometime in the night on day three, I felt the water rising. It was just before “dawn” if you can call it that up there in early August when the days are short. I looked down at my feet and saw the water was now puddled in the tent and my pill supply was soaked. I take an upper, and a downer, and a stabilizer, and a blood pressure pill, and a waterworks dilation pill, and a low grade, well, forget telling you that, but my absolute most important is my sleeping pills. You need a supply of them in the mountains. They help you sleep when you pitch your tent in a bear lounge, and they help pass the time, and they help the body rest and the stop the infernal dreaming I am plagued with. I have also been known to give them to my companions when they bitch and moan about my constant snoring. So these are essential, and blue in color, but those BP pills are a must as well – if I don’t take three of them a day the doctor says I might die. I guess I am at the age where drugs are a necessity.

The zip lock was a wet mess, and my pills dissolved into a colored lump like silly putty, and I had to think about how to sort the mess. I laid around all day after I shored up the tent and dragged it up on some rocks and puzzled about the problems I had. Too damned much weight in my pack, and now my pills were pooched. I lay there considering options. I have a lot of experience figuring out solutions.

I got thinking I should have packed a bit lighter. If I had done that, I could have crossed the swamp with my son and followed him up the mountain. So I closed my eyes and seen the images again, and then I woke up and took that native tool and started sawing the labels off my underwear. (I don’t sleep in the tent with many closthes on – its too hot in my polar fleece Arctic sleeping bag) Then I spotted a freaking label on the tent for gosh sakes. The stupid lightweight goassamer quality material weighs no more than a plastic tarp, and there are three or four grams of “washing instructions.” Danged if I would pack them. I sawed the labels off, but I did make a tear and incision I didn’t need. (Never cut with a dull Paleo-Indian Knife). Later on, the mosquitos found that hole.

I went wild. Maybe I took a few too much of the uppers. I cut and hacked a label off the sleeping bag, the Thermarest, the stove (it was a metal tag) and my pants and boots and so much more. I cut the edges off the freezed dry packs and soon I had enough to build a little fire and dry my pills a bit. The next day I was shaking some (I take a pill for essential tremor) so I figured I better use my knife tip to chip off a little of the puttied pills and swallow it, (I had water purifyier tablets in the mess too) so what the heck, here goes. I cut me a chew.

I felt better almost instantly and attribute that to the Tylenol 3’s in the mix, which really help the aching muscles, but I also felt sleepy (sleeping pills again – Halcion by name). I barely zipped the tent and zonked for a few hours. I woke up and found a big crusty lump of dried blood on my lip, and I guess I cut my tongue when I took those pills. After that I used my Havalon blades and not that native tool to cut the cheese block of pills.

There began an interesting cycle where I would get up and slap mosquitos in the tent, then go out and eliminate naturally, and dive back in for a few minutes of my little game closing and opening my eyes, and then sleeping. I always like a routine to get to sleep.

One day it stopped raining and I got up. It was sunny. Blake came down from the mountain. Apparently Blake got worried when the In-Reach messages were not getting any reply. It were a joyous reunion. I found he had walked miles up top and it actually hadn’t been raining up there like down in the valley where I was camped.

He’d seen a small group of rams up high and a grizzly right down beside my camp. The rams got me excited and we loaded my lightened pack and took off across the swamp and up the ridge and then I noticed I was wearing my Crocs and not my boots, so I had to go back and get them where I left them drying in a little birch tree around 50 yards from the tent-site. It’s a little trick I use in grizzly country, where I hang out my boots down the trail so the bear smells me before stumbling on the tent in the night. I expect it worked from what Blake said about the bear he saw mooching around the area. I guess with age I have become a bit forgetful.

We went up and spent a couple days hunting and I shot the ram and Blake packed it and I helped. We took two trips to Topend Lake and then texted the pilot and the rest is history. I’m purposely leaving out a lot of details on the hunting and harvest and packing of that ram. I don’t need to bore you with those details. I guess I know what is relevant at my age and stage.

“Come on Boy, where’d you get it?” “Tell us Boy.” “We won’t tell.” “We already know.” Then Lead-on and Packtrain started poking me and tickling me and they got me giggling like a little kid, as we spun in circles on those stools. But I wouldn’t tell them where I got the ram.

I guess there’s no fool, like an old fool. I paid for the coffee and pie and pleased as punch, left Ruby a big tip. WS

Editors Note

Nowicki reports that the redoubtable authority on Dall’s Sheep and former Director of WSF – Wayne E. Heimer has released a book called Dall’s Sheep Management in Alaska from Pleistocene to Present. It is a fascinating history of sheep management in Alaska. It explains the studies and the process used to institute the full curl hunting regulations. It is also full of the wry humor at which Heimer excels. Get one at your nearest book repository or from WSF headquarters.