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Field Ethos
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By Richy J. Harrod
The bull elk bugled close by, and he sounded big. My heart pounded as my pace quickened to cross the small, gently sloped ridge. The bull screamed again and this time I could feel the trailing, deep grunt in my chest. Finally cresting the ridgetop, I could see multiple buckskin brown bodies in a small meadow surrounded by scattered, large orange-barked ponderosa pine. The open stand would leave me completely exposed with no chance to get close for a shot with bow and arrow. Suddenly, a massive bull trotted from a thick patch of trees and pushed a couple of cows towards the small herd. “Holy shit, I’ve got to circle around and try again!” I yelled in my head. The rolling ridges, open meadows, and broad stream bottoms of eastern Oregon would make this stalk difficult, but I quickly retraced my steps to find another route to the moving herd.
The alternate route required a long trek across a small creek, around another meadow, and through a stringer of timber that screened my movement. Along the route, I noticed a tall pile of weathered logs that could have been an old cabin. The bugling bull drove me on, and I soon forgot about the possible homestead. The big bull and his cows moved faster as the sun rose and after a couple more attempts to get close, I gave up the chase. Over the next two weeks, I was fortunate to have many similar morning and evening hunts in other nearby areas, and eventually, another big bull responded to my calls finally giving me a chance to land a lethal shot. The possible old cabin became a fleeting memory.
Years later, a turkey hunt with my brother brought me back to our previous elk hunting grounds. One morning after chasing toms, a circuitous route brought me down a small sloping ridge into a creek bottom with multiple small meadows. The yellows, pinks, and purples of the spring wildflowers were intermixed with the brilliant green of emerging grasses and sedges. The black and orange furrowed bark of large ponderosa pine contrasted with the spring colors. It was a beautiful scene that slowly became familiar in my mind. Looking around as I slowly walked down the little ridge, it was as if a door was opened in my memory, and I realized it was the same spot the big bull elk had escaped my efforts to get close. Retracing my old path, the weathered logs came into view and drew me like a magnet.
The pile of logs began to take shape with an up-close view; it was definitely an old cabin. Standing next to the crumbling structure, I marveled at its size and thought, “this is the biggest old cabin I’ve ever seen.” The logs were huge and clearly hand-hewn, suggesting it was likely a late 19th century or early 20th century structure. All four walls had evidence of either windows or doors, and one door seemed very large, hinting maybe it could have been some type of storage building. The corners were cut to snuggly fit the 16-log high structure. The roof was also constructed of heavy logs but had succumbed to an untold amount of heavy winter snow. Its builders were a mystery to me, but I imagined trappers, loggers, or ranchers. Whoever it was, the amount of physical work to build this structure was unimaginable in this modern age.
A one-mile hike from the turkey woods gave me time to ponder life of a mountain man. “Those were some tough ‘ol sum bitches,” I thought. Building the cabin was one thing, but then to live in these mountains, particularly in the winter, had to be extremely hard. Food was acquired through hunting and gathering. Any store with basics like flour, salt, and sugar would have been miles away. My mind conjured up the stereotypic roughshod woodsman with buckskin clothing, a scraggly beard, long hair under a sweat-ringed felt hat, and carrying a Winchester lever-action carbine. With plentiful big game, he probably had salted jerky drying on racks and deer and elk hides draped over fleshing beams. It was a simple life but required grit and tenacity that is nearly lost today.
I’ve hunted the woods by the old mountain cabin many times since that first discovery. In fact, I will often go out of my way to pass by the deteriorating structure. In 2023, a gobbler led me up the creek bottom past the cabin. Eventually, I called him close for a lethal shot at 20 yards. Killing a bird near that cabin transported me through time. Being the great, great grandson of Oregon Trail pioneers, old homesteads like this one are nostalgic and link me to the past in a way hard to describe. Who knew that rotting logs in the middle of nowhere could make such fond memories.
The post Some Tough Ol’ Sum Bitches appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
The bull elk bugled close by, and he sounded big. My heart pounded as my pace quickened to cross the small, gently sloped ridge. The bull screamed again and this time I could feel the trailing, deep grunt in my chest. Finally cresting the ridgetop, I could see multiple buckskin brown bodies in a small meadow surrounded by scattered, large orange-barked ponderosa pine. The open stand would leave me completely exposed with no chance to get close for a shot with bow and arrow. Suddenly, a massive bull trotted from a thick patch of trees and pushed a couple of cows towards the small herd. “Holy shit, I’ve got to circle around and try again!” I yelled in my head. The rolling ridges, open meadows, and broad stream bottoms of eastern Oregon would make this stalk difficult, but I quickly retraced my steps to find another route to the moving herd.
The alternate route required a long trek across a small creek, around another meadow, and through a stringer of timber that screened my movement. Along the route, I noticed a tall pile of weathered logs that could have been an old cabin. The bugling bull drove me on, and I soon forgot about the possible homestead. The big bull and his cows moved faster as the sun rose and after a couple more attempts to get close, I gave up the chase. Over the next two weeks, I was fortunate to have many similar morning and evening hunts in other nearby areas, and eventually, another big bull responded to my calls finally giving me a chance to land a lethal shot. The possible old cabin became a fleeting memory.
Years later, a turkey hunt with my brother brought me back to our previous elk hunting grounds. One morning after chasing toms, a circuitous route brought me down a small sloping ridge into a creek bottom with multiple small meadows. The yellows, pinks, and purples of the spring wildflowers were intermixed with the brilliant green of emerging grasses and sedges. The black and orange furrowed bark of large ponderosa pine contrasted with the spring colors. It was a beautiful scene that slowly became familiar in my mind. Looking around as I slowly walked down the little ridge, it was as if a door was opened in my memory, and I realized it was the same spot the big bull elk had escaped my efforts to get close. Retracing my old path, the weathered logs came into view and drew me like a magnet.
Mountain Men—Tough Ol’ Sum Bitches
The pile of logs began to take shape with an up-close view; it was definitely an old cabin. Standing next to the crumbling structure, I marveled at its size and thought, “this is the biggest old cabin I’ve ever seen.” The logs were huge and clearly hand-hewn, suggesting it was likely a late 19th century or early 20th century structure. All four walls had evidence of either windows or doors, and one door seemed very large, hinting maybe it could have been some type of storage building. The corners were cut to snuggly fit the 16-log high structure. The roof was also constructed of heavy logs but had succumbed to an untold amount of heavy winter snow. Its builders were a mystery to me, but I imagined trappers, loggers, or ranchers. Whoever it was, the amount of physical work to build this structure was unimaginable in this modern age.
A one-mile hike from the turkey woods gave me time to ponder life of a mountain man. “Those were some tough ‘ol sum bitches,” I thought. Building the cabin was one thing, but then to live in these mountains, particularly in the winter, had to be extremely hard. Food was acquired through hunting and gathering. Any store with basics like flour, salt, and sugar would have been miles away. My mind conjured up the stereotypic roughshod woodsman with buckskin clothing, a scraggly beard, long hair under a sweat-ringed felt hat, and carrying a Winchester lever-action carbine. With plentiful big game, he probably had salted jerky drying on racks and deer and elk hides draped over fleshing beams. It was a simple life but required grit and tenacity that is nearly lost today.
I’ve hunted the woods by the old mountain cabin many times since that first discovery. In fact, I will often go out of my way to pass by the deteriorating structure. In 2023, a gobbler led me up the creek bottom past the cabin. Eventually, I called him close for a lethal shot at 20 yards. Killing a bird near that cabin transported me through time. Being the great, great grandson of Oregon Trail pioneers, old homesteads like this one are nostalgic and link me to the past in a way hard to describe. Who knew that rotting logs in the middle of nowhere could make such fond memories.
The post Some Tough Ol’ Sum Bitches appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
