Gate? What Gate?



Kristy with her first buck. Her brother was her guide.

 Hunting Season. I hate it. I hate it worse every year. Now, before I get myself shot, let me say that I have nothing against most hunters, and the ethical sport of hunting. Some of my favorite people are avid hunters. (I didn't say “drive-by shooters”.)

It might have something to do with the fact that no matter where we lived on the ranch, with the exception of five years across the creek, we've always been right in the thick of the heavy traffic that begins two weeks before hunting season, and reaches bumper to bumper status by opening day.



Clayton and another successful hunter. Nice!



At Sage Creek, the traffic went right through our yard. Some stopped, some didn't. Since that time of year also happens to be one of the busiest on the ranch, I was frequently by myself, out in the middle of nowhere, with 3 babies. I kept my loaded .22 under the bed. At least until one day, when I was on the phone, and heard my three-year old, who's been a gun nut since he was a few months old, saying “bang, bang” in the background. Yes, he had discovered my hiding place. Fortunately I always left the chamber empty, and the safety on. Ray built me a gun rack that night. Both our son and his wife are avid hunters now-- bow and rifle.



Having to drive by these big boys didn't help matters...



I've just seen too much of the bad stuff. The blatant disrespect for others, for game itself, and for private property. I've been pleasantly oblivious to hunting this year since we're no longer on a main access route. I heard a couple of gunshots the other day, which reminded me how nice it is not to hear them blasting away all day long. It's amazing how often I would hear 6 to 10 shots at a time—like, maybe they should think about going to a shooting range and learning to aim, or maybe sighting in their gun. Or maybe they need to get within range...

One fall we were bringing some calves down the road, and we had to hold traffic up at a gate. A very pleasant out-of-state hunter in a pickup with a canopy was in the lead. He was very excited about his success, and was more than happy to show off his two “mule deer” he had just bagged. When he opened up his canopy, there were two very nice...elk calves.



A couple more of Clayton's hunters and an elk.



Those kind never bothered me as much as the blatant vandalism that goes on. One year in cowcamp, hunters began shooting before daybreak in an area that was closed to hunting-- our horse pasture. They killed a horse that they thought was an elk then drove off when they realized their mistake. A guy sitting up on a hill above them told us about it. That same year they stole a spare tire off one of our trucks that we'd left along the road where we unloaded horses to gather cattle off a mountain.

When we were building our house, our contractor watched from the roof as someone drove up to the locked gate that was meant to keep people out of the yard, barnyard, and construction area. Finding the gate locked, the “hunter” got back in his truck, turned around, backed up to it, hooked a chain onto it, and ripped the gate, brace posts and all, out of the ground. They melted plastic into the lock on the gate going into cowcamp. The cowboys had to dismantle the gate to get home at the end of the day.

The past few days, Ray's been helping gather and trail cattle off the opposite side of the mountain from our old stomping grounds. He told me that the gate that separates the two sides of the mountain between this ranch and the old place-- is gone. Not torn down, not cut up, not left open-- simply stolen.

It's like the hunters that were constantly driving by three or four big “No Trespassing” and “Private Road” signs always said when confronted: “Signs? What signs? We didn't see any signs...” What a relief not to have to deal with that anymore!

Housecall.  Ray had an ingrown toenail during weaning  and

couldn't get to town during the day.  Preacher brought Doc

by after their hunt.

To be fair, I've seen plenty of good, honest, respectful hunters over the years as well. The kind you are glad to call your friends, and the kind you are more than happy to have come and enjoy getting out for a good hunt. The kind that make you wish you could pick and choose who gets to hunt.

They stop and let you know where they've seen cattle that were missed during a gather. They let you know if they've come across damage done by vandal “hunters”, and to let you know that they closed a gate that had been left open, in case cattle had gone through in the meantime. They stop when they see you trying to turn a herd of cattle off the road, through a gate, and patiently wait.

They have a kind word as they pass, instead of a dirty bird and a trail of beer cans. They ask if they can do something to help. There were even a couple of guys from Missoula who would come back in July armed with weed spray and a sprayer, to help get rid of knapweed during the County's annual Weed Day.

They don't consider their hunting license a license to stomp all over other's rights. They consider it a privilege.

For every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle upon a thousand hills.  I know all the fowls of the mountains: and the wild beasts of the field are mine.
 Ps 50:10-11

(Note:  Most of these photos came from Clayton's wife, Kristine, or the hunters.)