As some of you know, I recently went elk hunting. Every year, something happens at elk camp that is memorable enough to keep guys talking about it 'til the next season rolls around. Up until this year, believe it or not, none of these memorable moments included me. The stories generally have included great successess, crazy weather, or some jackass getting too drunk to find his tent, and waking up in six inches of snow. I swear that last one was not me.

Now, the old boys in this 40-years-running elk camp are all eastern Oregon farmers, and are dead convinced that anybody from "the valley" (the Willamette valley; Portland, Salem, Eugene) are absolutely queer and have no idea how to hunt. Although we constantly mix them drinks, take care of all the firewood, and fuel up their rigs each morning (save your "camp bitch" references), it is awful tough to extract an ounce of respect outta these codgers. I do, however, almost have one of them convinced of the near illegal things his daughter proposed doing with me one drunken night, so I think he's comin' around. I swear, if you could see this daughter of his, with her.............and her............oops wrong website.

Opening day, yes opening day. There are many ways to hunt the particular unit that we go to, from the drive around and look method to the sit in one spot and wait idea. Since I possess just enough patience to sit through about half of a TS game, I am a walker. Put me in the woods, give me a GPS, and let me go. I'd much rather be lookin' for 'em than waitin' for 'em, in eastern Oregon speak. So off I go, rifle, water, and GPS.

I'd walked about 4 hours, passing the time musing about not having to work, the beauty of the Wallowa mountains, and why I can hold a poop for hours at home, and only ten minutes in the woods, when I came upon fresh elk tracks. Not the day before fresh, but like ten minutes before fresh. "Things are lookin' up", I remember telling myself, as my heartrate quickened. I followed the tracks for about 200 yards, until they lead into somewhat of clearing, and since clearings tend to have grass in them, the tracks disappeared. Good feeling gone. Just as I was refocusing on outdoor rectal issues, the sound of branches breaking brought me out of my "might have to leave these undies in the woods" depression.

Deer and elk make two entirely different sounds as they crash through the woods, and this definitely was not deer. Although the loud noises were due left of where the tracks were headed, I assumed the elk must've hit the meadow, and changed direction. As I ventured towards the sounds, I realized these elk were very close, holed up in a patch of "pecker poles" (eastern Oregon speak for ten foot tall christmas tree looking patches). Heart now pounding faster than 44's nose at a Mrs. Three's panty sniffing contest, I entered the jungle-like grove.

Hunting in timber can be tricky at times, and I like to lead through the trees with my rifle at the ready, as you never know when you'll have that 2 second opportunity to take a shot. That being said, I had made it about ten feet into the pecker poles when the end of my rifle poked something solid. Not entirely solid, like 44's pe....(oh never mind), but sort of soft for an instant, then solid. "Odd", I thought, "that didn't feel right." Apparently, the object I had poked was thinking the same thing, because it decided to stand up. As I peered through the branches to see what possibly could've impeded the progress of my probing rifle barrel, the answer came quickly, in fact I got an entire herd of answers. Cows. Not cow elk. Moo-moo cows. Lots of them. And me, in the "I can't see for two feet" trees with them.

Evidently I had interrupted some sort of month-long cow orgy or something, because as I was trying to elude this "now ya see me, now ya don't" procession of prime rib, my nose intercepted the true magnitude of what I was walking through. Cow dung. Everywhere. Not only on every square inch of the not-so virgin forest floor, but in the bushes and at least ass-high to a cow up in the trees. I swear they must've just finished "square dance while defacating" practice just before I got there. And as I tried my hardest to evade the either confused or "hell bent on destroying the two legger" mob, the (for lack of a better term) feces was flyin'. You might think cows are stupid, but I'll go to my grave knowing that that original cow invoked some sort of death squad poo code immediately after our "two inches to the left and it would've been a.270 caliber enema" chance meeting.

It seemed like 30 seconds, but just like my love life it was probably 15, and the forest fell quiet again. As I took stock to make sure all my parts and pieces were intact, I came to the realization that I no longer carried that "opening day" fresh scent. No, this was worse than I could ever smell at the end of a week of elk camp. I was covered in cow dung. Not a little. Covered. Like I'd traded my clean clothes for a "cowshitflage" suit. This was awful. Not even the toughest fear factor contestant had endured this test of will. What to do? It was about 35 degrees, so stripping naked (yes, I thought of it) was out, and no way to wipe all this "ode de filet mignon" off me, so I decided to gut it out. I'd head back to camp, take the abuse, and assure myself that since it was only opening day, a better story was sure to come out of the week. Little did I know how bad cow dung showers tend to cloud your thinking.

Those guys had a field day. Any and all things that any of you could think of exclaiming upon seeing a caca covered man were said. No kidding, I could've ordered hookers that carried complimentary viagara for each and every one of these guys, and they would've refused if it meant taking one minute away from their "trash on Three" bonanza. Even as I threatened to use their pillows to clean off the easy spots, and their toothbrushes to finish the job, they kept on. I finally got enough, and jumped in my pickup to head to town to take my first opening day shower of my life.

As I headed down the gravel road, about a mile from the highway, a herd of elk with one bull in it ran across the road and stopped about 75 yards away from me in a clearing. I grabbed my rifle, popped open the dung laden scope covers, and dropped the bull where he stood. Turned out to be the only bull taken out of a 16 hunter camp this year. And they said valley boys couldn't hunt.

Happy Thanksgiving (fellow) Addicts

--3

Last edited: Wednesday, November 22, 2006 at 5:13:08 PM

Heh, here in Iowa we call them cow pies when they are still soft. When I was on Boy Scout hikes it was big sport and an art to "accidentally step" in trail pie so that it flung onto the guys behind you, but was easily scraped off your boots. The real challenge was then sprinting in boots with a full pack to avoid retaliation. Needless to say I developed some beefy legs from always being in the front of the line.

You didn't tell them that you shot from your truck did you? ;)

Three....always giving PTT the straight Poop...and sometimes rolling around in it.

I thought I warned you not to go on "tubgirl".... Do you ever listen?

Good story. :)

Three, you're giving Bill Bryson a run for his money these days.

Very entertaining...

Fact or fiction? Deal or no deal? XD

That's a load of crap....
:O)

Regardless good story

I wish I could say that most of it wasn't true KKB, but unfortunately this seems to be my path in life, to entertain others via my misfortunes, mishaps, etc. The only part that isn't perfectly clear to me is whether my assailants actually deposited their anal agent orange up the trees, or if they could possibly give BC a lesson on cowpie flinging. End result being the same, hope you all had a great T-Day.

True story -- I can vouch.

Every year, me and Mrs. Three look forward to his week-long, hunting vacations. Mrs. Three, especially, who says her sanity depends on these annual holidays from "fifteen-second-fakies for Mr. Jackrabbit".

As for the vouch...

Three's surprise, opening-day homecoming made for a close call (he carries a.270, you know). Were it not for the smell of him coming up the driveway, I'd have never had time to get dressed and out the window.

Last edited: Friday, November 24, 2006 at 5:22:20 AM

Hey No chicken my grumpy grampys a chicken

^ lol that was ur first and only post and you got this in october...

Yep
The password got lost as spam mail
Hadda email the -z- man

Brings new meaning to "eau de toilette", eh, Three?

The eyes are tearing... And that image of the feces-covered man in a herd... LOL!

Another great story to add to your collection to tell to your grandchildren when you are old, Three!

-AO