This past weekend Ol’ Dutch got a coveted invitation for a bear hunting trip down into the storied State of New Mexico around Cimarron, which in name alone has always been connected to stories about the Old West.
This was not the normal type of hunt for Ol’ Dutch because these young hunters use dogs to chase the bears. Before you get your panties in a bunch and say “poor old bears” let me tell you something. These bears are street smart and as hard to find as a wife in a department store with a new credit card.
Let me start at the beginning. Somewhere up on a mesa south of Cimarron, we set up camp after I, with my ATV on the truck, made the drive up an impassable road. All I can say is if the road to Hell was that bad, very few would ever enter into that dreaded place.
I finally arrived and joined in the camaraderie of a typical hunting camp. This was my first time being around bear hounds and so I was looking forward to hearing them bay and maybe even tree a poor old bear. Little did I know that I would become the “designated driver” of the two young girls that came with their daddies to hunting camp. One, my 12-year-old granddaughter and the second, the daughter of the lead “bear man.”
When Ol’ Dutch decided to get an ATV years ago, I was single at the time so getting a two-seater seemed like the best way to get a woman to ride along on trips in the mountains – and maybe, even the trip through life. And that’s how I found myself hauling around two giggle boxes all over hell’s half acre being their babysitter while their dads hunted.
Typically, the day started at first light when we all loaded up and drove the roads looking for bear tracks. The idea is that the dogs would bark and bay should we find a fresh track deposited during the night. Then, they would be turned loose, and the chase would begin.
I have alluded to the horrible road to get to camp but let me tell you something, the roads we took every day looking for tracks would make the camp road embarrassed in comparison. I am used to rocky roads here in Colorado, but these were a jumbled-up mess of lava-created-disaster. We did find some bears eventually after miles of butt-jarring and back-wrenching riding around, but those bears must have taken lessons from Harry Houdini himself as they slipped by those hounds as easily as he did from handcuffs.
While the bear hunt disappointed, one thing that didn’t was sleeping under the stars without a tent for the first time in memory. Son #1, Bub’s, brought along an inflatable bed and put that in the back of his truck. And we climbed up there and took out our sleeping bags and suddenly were rewarded with the most wondrous view of the heavens I have ever seen.
Being far from any outside light sources, the view was amazing, and the clear nights gave us an unparalleled view of God’s handwork. I can honestly say I have never slept that good in probably all my life and Miss Trixie may start having to sleep alone as I am a new fan of outdoor living.
All that fun time at my age comes at a price and I am as sore as a bull that has been bit by a herd of bumble bees and about as grouchy, too. I have places hurting on my body I didn’t know existed, but it is a good sign that I am still alive and kicking, I suppose. The fun times came to an end soon enough and we all returned to our abodes safe and sound but with tags unfilled.
Ol’ Dutch felt thankful to have been able to keep up with the youngsters for two days and was really feeling pretty good about myself. That is until they all said they would be back next weekend for more of the same and wanted me to be sure and come along.
So at least I fooled all of them and will have to beg off on the next bear chase. Maybe. Because by next weekend my weak memory will have forgotten the pains and the roads will have gotten less bad, and it will be off to the races again. Maybe.
Kevin Kirkpatrick and his Yorkie, Cooper, fish, hunt, ATV or hike daily. His email is Kevin@TroutRepublic.com. Additional news can be found at www.troutrepublic.com or on Twitter at TroutRepublic.
