My most memorable was a pronghorn hunt when I was in high school in central Idaho back in the '80s. But it needs some background.
In the early 80s, we had adopted an "old man." This guy was a WWII marine, who fought in the south pacific. After the war, he cowboy'd around Idaho, working for ranchers in the summer and running traplines in the winter. After some years of that, he settled in as a snowplow driver, keeping highways 93 and 75 clear through the winter for 30 years. His passion however, was the mountain man days. He had adopted his mountain man name of "***** Joe." He'd spend his summers going around the country to different rendevouz with his brother, "Trigger Jim". When I knew him, his wife had divorced him and his kids all moved away to forget about him. But he became part of our family. Every Sunday, he'd come for dinner. My Mom would send him home with 3-4 extra plates made up for dinners through the week to make sure he'd eat well. He called her his "Sweetie" for the kindness, and it seemed right.
From the time I was 12, he call up in the summer and just say "Send the boy over." So I'd climb on my bike, and later my motorcycle, and head to ***** Joe's house. That meant I'd be mowing his lawn or weeding the garden. Other days it would mean I'd be heading to the forest to help cut new poles for the teepi, or cut firewood that we'd deliver to all the widows in town. All the time I'd spend with him were filled with story after story of battles in the war, hunting adventures in the Sawtooths, and the ways of the Mountain Men. I am guessing that some of them were even true, as all were told in the spirit of the Mountain Man. All the time in his retirement, he'd wear only his mountain man clothes - full shirt and leggins of buckskin, or pioneer style shirts made of a calico fabric. Always Indian style beaded necklaces around his neck. He kept his silver hair long, including the beard and handlebar mustache. ***** Joe was a mountain man born 100 years too late.
When I drew my pronghorn tag the year I turned 16, it was clear who would go on the hunt with me. My Dad, and ***** Joe. It was a rather uncomplicated hunt really. That summer I had worked a local ranch, moving sprinkler pipes, bucking bales, and chasing cows around. The ranch bordered some BLM lands and I had the priviledge of watching wildlife all summer long. After chores were done in the mornings, I'd take off on my motorcycle to scout the antelope. I had my eyes on a buck all summer. Nice size. Semetrical horns. A very interesting looking buck, past his prime and well scarred from several years on the land. I knew when he went to bed, when he woke up, where he slept, and where he fed. I knew that if we worked the plan, he would be in the truck by 8:30 AM.
So we picked ***** Joe up from his house at 7:00 AM. He was in his skins. Of course he was - it was all he wore! We made the quick 20 minute drive south of town to Gooseberry Creek, and waited until it got light enough to shoot. We parked Dad's old Ford F-100, below the ridge, and walked to the top of the ridge where we would see the buck below, getting out of bed. It went exactly as planned. Me, my Dad, and ***** Joe walked from the truck the 50 yards to the ridge. There was the buck, about 75 yards away, just standing up. I leveled the '06 and shot. Hit. He started trotting. I shot again. Solid hit. He took off running. ***** Joe started laughing at me. Not just a teehee - a full out laughing, head thrown back, and nearly uncontrollable laugh. So we loaded into the truck, me in the back, and headed after the buck. A mile later, he stopped. We stopped. I fired one more time and he was down.
We went to the pronghorn and took the usual pictures. Me with the buck. Me and my Dad. And then me and Joe. We all had a great time. I heard all about my shooting, and having to take three shots, all the way home. We arrived at home around 8:30. It was a perfect hunt. ***** Joe had to relive the hunt with us the next day at Sunday dinner. That was followed by a two-hour "how to shoot like a marine" session in the living room. It was perfect.
As winter came, ***** Joe headed with his camp trailer down to the St. George area, as the Idaho winters were too much for him. The week before Easter, he was loading up to head back to Idaho and dropped dead of a heart attack. My Dad spoke at his funeral, and I helped carry him to his final resting place in Sun Valley on Easter weekend. I have a portrait of him, painted as he posed in his mountain man regalia, hanging in my office today. When my first son was born - naming him was simple. Joseph Dale, after ***** Joe, and my Dad.
I guess for me, the most memorable hunts come from my relationships shared with those close to me, and with the land. When I think of that hunt - I remember far more than the hunt. I remember the stories he told, I remember working very hard to help other people annonomously, I remember my Dad not minding when he called my Mom "Sweetie". I remember how much it helped me growing up, to have my very own "old man" to help my Dad teach me about life. Hunting is so much more than hunting. Every kid needs an Old Man.