squirrel
Well-known member
- Joined
- Dec 29, 2013
- Messages
- 768
Read the thread about beaver hunting in Nevada. Pulled up this file as the publisher wants me to whack off a couple hundred words and I cant decide where to take the scalpel. !@#$ editors...
Now my old buddy Mungus isn’t too big on hunting alone or being out after dark. He’s also not too fond of getting his feet wet but since I happen to share that particular sentiment we will consider that to be a normal thing. Having already squandered my tags for the year by attaching them to a cow elk, a bull elk and a mule deer I was fresh out of good reasons to go on a late season camping trip and freeze my ass off. One call from Mungus changed all of that.
“Hey you want to pack all my gear in on your llamas, set up my camp, cut my wood, and cook for me for a week or so while I try to get some free meat?”
“Well let me check my schedule”.
Now my schedule included such serious duties as getting up and drinking coffee and watching the sun go across the sky, so the next thing to check was what could I hunt in late November at single digit temps.
It turns out that due to an overlooked loophole in CO regulations I was legal to hunt varmints with a non-proper big game rifle during the big game seasons. This meant I could hunt coyotes, squirrels, bunnies, and BEAVERS with my 22-250, while doing everything Mungus found distasteful… like actual work.
Called him up and said “count me in”.
And I set to packing my stuff, with special consideration towards all my poofy well-insulated stuff since it was supposed to get even colder. I tossed in all the optics so I could spot game for Mungus and point it out to him, since he tends to get surprised a lot by herds of elk waking him from nap time. One over sight was I took no chest waders, nor hippers. I was to greatly regret this soon.
On the way up the mountain to the T/H we had to chain up when the snow stopped us. Turned out Mungus’ gloves had holes in them so he kept the truck idling and the heater cranked while I set up the chains for him to pull onto them, he did really well at this. At the T/H Mungus had to call his wife from the idling trucks’ cab, in case he lost signal in camp. Just as I got the 12th llama saddled and panniers set she hung up on him and he eased out of the cab and rested his rifle against the tire, set the two dozen eggs on the hood to be packed “special careful like” and went to inspecting my work. My wrangling passed inspection and I led the string off through 20” of beautiful powdery snow. After about a mile we were about to drop off and lose a lot of our elevation and it seemed like a good place to let the llamas rest up, since Mungus had to go back and get his rifle from the truck tire resting spot.
After he got back we dropped down to where there were willows and a small creek leading to the main river. I scanned the snow carefully for beaver tracks or willow cuttings but there were none to be seen. Ahhh I thought they have all dropped down to the main river since these trickles are 1/2” of water flowing under 4” of ice. Not to be deterred I cheerfully kept breaking trail through the thigh deep snow, knowing a beaver bonanza was just a few miles below me.
At the main river crossing I waited for Mungus to catch up and the first hint of doubt showed up when all 12 llamas and the two of us walked across the beaver pond and the ice didnt even crackle. It crossed my mind that prime beaver season may have been a few days earlier, just like all my fishing trips to exotic destinations. But I maintained my stoic good humour so as not to depress Mungus as he was doing a lot of falling flailing and cursing on the steep and slippery trail.
Upon arrival at the camping spot Mungus had a few smokes to acclimate his lungs to the elevation while allowing me to shovel snow from the tent foot print, then he sorted and handed me the poles for the tent frame and held it from moving while I stretched the canvas wall tent over it. I drew the line at driving stakes when the first hammer blow sounded like a cold chisel on year old concrete. While Mungus set up his cot and sleeping bag I shovelled out some stacked wood and split some for the stove, and started a fire. Mungus pulled out our usual first meal of Chester Chicken and it had frozen hard as a rock in the panniers on the way in, he put the whole box on top of the stove to thaw out dinner. Fortunately for Mungus his box of fancy wine had only gotten a bit slushy from the cold. Nothing spells high rollers like a box of wine and fried chicken. I slept dreaming of big hairy beavers in my scope, bringing back fond memories from college when I dreamt of beavers almost every single night, it was going to be a great trip.
Now the next morning was what Mungus always calls his “resting day” in preparation of the rugged hunt yet to come. We always have home fries, eggs and sausage since we have all morning to cook and then clean up and organise the tent. This particular morning we had home fries and sausage as the eggs were 8 miles away on the hood of his truck. I went to get water and had to hunt for a rifle where I could access open water. Being a glass half full kind of hunter I took this as a sign that all the beavers would have only a few places to come out and do their beaver stuff where I could easily ambush a few. I should have instead taken warning at the total lack of beaver tracks around said riffle. As I washed the dishes I took more than slight delight that the soggy dogs piled onto Mungus while he took a “resting day” nap. As the wet soaked in to his inner layer he started to curse and squirm a bit.
Opening morning of my beaver hunt I woke early and was careful not to rouse Mungus when I slipped out. Rising steam in the -15 temps showed me all the prime spots to watch for beavers, as all I could glass up were deer and elk, digging for chow in the deep snow. When the dogs and I got back to the tent Mungus was up and hungry for breakfast, having not seen a thing when he left the warm tent to pee.
This routine continued for a few days as I ranged further and further from the tent without a single beaver being spotted, all the ponds were frozen solid with the mound marking where all the warm and smirking beavers were inside chewing their little sticks telling stories about stupid people dumb enough to not gather winter food until it was cold. All I could see were herds of stupid deer and elk many with large antlers overhead wandering around just above the tent where Mungus was hunting his ass off while stoking the fire with the wood I kept stacked inside the tent flap.
Now my old buddy Mungus isn’t too big on hunting alone or being out after dark. He’s also not too fond of getting his feet wet but since I happen to share that particular sentiment we will consider that to be a normal thing. Having already squandered my tags for the year by attaching them to a cow elk, a bull elk and a mule deer I was fresh out of good reasons to go on a late season camping trip and freeze my ass off. One call from Mungus changed all of that.
“Hey you want to pack all my gear in on your llamas, set up my camp, cut my wood, and cook for me for a week or so while I try to get some free meat?”
“Well let me check my schedule”.
Now my schedule included such serious duties as getting up and drinking coffee and watching the sun go across the sky, so the next thing to check was what could I hunt in late November at single digit temps.
It turns out that due to an overlooked loophole in CO regulations I was legal to hunt varmints with a non-proper big game rifle during the big game seasons. This meant I could hunt coyotes, squirrels, bunnies, and BEAVERS with my 22-250, while doing everything Mungus found distasteful… like actual work.
Called him up and said “count me in”.
And I set to packing my stuff, with special consideration towards all my poofy well-insulated stuff since it was supposed to get even colder. I tossed in all the optics so I could spot game for Mungus and point it out to him, since he tends to get surprised a lot by herds of elk waking him from nap time. One over sight was I took no chest waders, nor hippers. I was to greatly regret this soon.
On the way up the mountain to the T/H we had to chain up when the snow stopped us. Turned out Mungus’ gloves had holes in them so he kept the truck idling and the heater cranked while I set up the chains for him to pull onto them, he did really well at this. At the T/H Mungus had to call his wife from the idling trucks’ cab, in case he lost signal in camp. Just as I got the 12th llama saddled and panniers set she hung up on him and he eased out of the cab and rested his rifle against the tire, set the two dozen eggs on the hood to be packed “special careful like” and went to inspecting my work. My wrangling passed inspection and I led the string off through 20” of beautiful powdery snow. After about a mile we were about to drop off and lose a lot of our elevation and it seemed like a good place to let the llamas rest up, since Mungus had to go back and get his rifle from the truck tire resting spot.
After he got back we dropped down to where there were willows and a small creek leading to the main river. I scanned the snow carefully for beaver tracks or willow cuttings but there were none to be seen. Ahhh I thought they have all dropped down to the main river since these trickles are 1/2” of water flowing under 4” of ice. Not to be deterred I cheerfully kept breaking trail through the thigh deep snow, knowing a beaver bonanza was just a few miles below me.
At the main river crossing I waited for Mungus to catch up and the first hint of doubt showed up when all 12 llamas and the two of us walked across the beaver pond and the ice didnt even crackle. It crossed my mind that prime beaver season may have been a few days earlier, just like all my fishing trips to exotic destinations. But I maintained my stoic good humour so as not to depress Mungus as he was doing a lot of falling flailing and cursing on the steep and slippery trail.
Upon arrival at the camping spot Mungus had a few smokes to acclimate his lungs to the elevation while allowing me to shovel snow from the tent foot print, then he sorted and handed me the poles for the tent frame and held it from moving while I stretched the canvas wall tent over it. I drew the line at driving stakes when the first hammer blow sounded like a cold chisel on year old concrete. While Mungus set up his cot and sleeping bag I shovelled out some stacked wood and split some for the stove, and started a fire. Mungus pulled out our usual first meal of Chester Chicken and it had frozen hard as a rock in the panniers on the way in, he put the whole box on top of the stove to thaw out dinner. Fortunately for Mungus his box of fancy wine had only gotten a bit slushy from the cold. Nothing spells high rollers like a box of wine and fried chicken. I slept dreaming of big hairy beavers in my scope, bringing back fond memories from college when I dreamt of beavers almost every single night, it was going to be a great trip.
Now the next morning was what Mungus always calls his “resting day” in preparation of the rugged hunt yet to come. We always have home fries, eggs and sausage since we have all morning to cook and then clean up and organise the tent. This particular morning we had home fries and sausage as the eggs were 8 miles away on the hood of his truck. I went to get water and had to hunt for a rifle where I could access open water. Being a glass half full kind of hunter I took this as a sign that all the beavers would have only a few places to come out and do their beaver stuff where I could easily ambush a few. I should have instead taken warning at the total lack of beaver tracks around said riffle. As I washed the dishes I took more than slight delight that the soggy dogs piled onto Mungus while he took a “resting day” nap. As the wet soaked in to his inner layer he started to curse and squirm a bit.
Opening morning of my beaver hunt I woke early and was careful not to rouse Mungus when I slipped out. Rising steam in the -15 temps showed me all the prime spots to watch for beavers, as all I could glass up were deer and elk, digging for chow in the deep snow. When the dogs and I got back to the tent Mungus was up and hungry for breakfast, having not seen a thing when he left the warm tent to pee.
This routine continued for a few days as I ranged further and further from the tent without a single beaver being spotted, all the ponds were frozen solid with the mound marking where all the warm and smirking beavers were inside chewing their little sticks telling stories about stupid people dumb enough to not gather winter food until it was cold. All I could see were herds of stupid deer and elk many with large antlers overhead wandering around just above the tent where Mungus was hunting his ass off while stoking the fire with the wood I kept stacked inside the tent flap.
