One Nation, Under God

Fondly remembering camping trips

Twenty-five years is a long time – a quarter of a century! But last fall marked the 25th annual Mike and Ed’s Missouri Breaks Hunting and Fishing Extravaganza.

It all started in the fall of 1995 – the year I retired from the U. S. Air Force. Brother-in-law Mike Hughes lived in Glasgow and prevailed upon me to come up from Helena for a hunting expedition that would cover the Breaks and northern Phillips and Valley Counties – plus a stop at several fishing holes along the way. Our non-hunting equipment was a coffee thermos, two cans of soup, six charcoal briquettes, and a can of lighter fluid. We punched holes in the snow using the cans, briquettes tossed in, lighter fluid added, lit the “stove” and soup cans inserted – opened – I mean we were not dummies. A good, hot lunch.

During each of the ensuing 24 years, we set up camp in the Breaks south of Zortman. A couple of times over on Ck Creek and Bell Ridge, once on the Missouri, twice in the Zortman cabins, but mostly on the SiparyAn Ridge, just north of the entry into the CMR. Sometimes it would be just Mike and me. Other camps would have family and friends join us. One time we had 14 people there – plus 3 dogs.

Each camp had its own story. The gumbo camp had me show up later than Mike and nephews Seth and Jonathan. It had been wet, but I checked the road in and it looked good. But, unknown to me, it got worse until about a mile from our campsite, I ground to a halt with the wheel wells full of gumbo. I watched a storm rolling in, so set up my tent, cot and stove to weather out the night. I mean this was a camping trip. The next day they found me and pulled me out to the highway. Everybody decided that was enough, so we went to Glasgow for two nights before returning to the hunt.

Then there was the wind camp. We moved a mile or so around a corner and set up at a new campsite. By that time, we had grown to a 10’ x 20’ cook tent plus three sleeping tents. Three stoves, six coolers, two tables, a couple of foldup beds, a couple of Big Buddy heaters, and a set of shelves contributed to the comfort of camp.

Then came the wind. You could hear it moan up the coulee for a minute or so before it burst over the hill and smashed down on the camp. We weathered OK until the middle of the night when a burst picked up the cook tent and set it upside down in a pickup. Lots of clanging and banging, but the mantels of the gas lanterns were not even broken.

One other year earned the title of “The Big Drag.” Against our better wisdom, we hunted down into the CMR. The minions that control that area hate hunters, especially old hunters and do not allow motorized vehicles in. Of course, we got a cow – at the bottom of a steep, deep canyon. It took a couple of hours with come-a-longs moving her 1/8” at a click to get up to where she could be loaded on a cart. Then for the 3 ½ mile pull back to the closed gate. Mike, I, and two young strong men did the honors – and paid the price. Dehydration and sore muscles abound. One even got sick from too much water too soon. But another camp was logged in the “successful” column.

A last story. One year Mike and I were driving up the Bell Ridge Road when a bull and six cows ran across the road right in front of us. “Dead-eye” Mike dropped one of the cows. We walked the 200 yards over and were standing there looking at her when a pickup screeched to a stop on the road. Two big young college football players jumped out and ran over. “Wow, we’ve never seen an elk before. You just got her.” “Yup, fixen’ to gut her.” “Wow, can we watch?” “Got a better idea. How would you like to do the honors?” “Wow. Can we?” Well those boys were in seventh heaven and blood up to their necks, but, with a little instruction, got the job done. We didn’t have the cart with us, so I said that I would drive to camp and get it. “No need.” The boys got onto their cell phones and in a few minutes another pickup with two more boys the same size and a cart pulled up. They raced over. We showed how to tie her on. And we started to the road. I finally told them that, if they wanted me to help pull, they would have to slow down. They suggested I just stand aside. By the time Mike and I got to the pickup, they had pulled the cart there and the four of them just lifted her, cart and all into my pickup. They stopped by camp later to retrieve their cart. Easiest and cleanest elk we ever got.

I could go on for hours with stories. Maybe I should write a book. However, as I sat around and gazed into the campfire on number 25, I reminisced. Stories and laughs we spent with old friends wandered through my memories. As well as several new men that have moved into the friend list around previous fires. The next generation, my son and two nephew-in-laws (Seth and Jonathan), were “brought into the fold” during the years. It was a real treat to hunt with my son and watch him get his first deer.

As was it to experience yet another generation with a grandnephew and a grandniece also chasing game around the wild terrain, filling their tags, and listening to our tales at other campfires.

And, at the center of it all, the time, sweat, and experience of, year after year, spending great time with my best friend, Mike.

Will there be a #26? Don’t know. Age and maybe a virus might preclude it. But somehow, I expect, even if no one else can make it, I will build a campfire in the Breaks next fall and revel in the majestic Montana open spaces - and smile with all my great memories.

 

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