Hunting With Sturgis

It started as any of our other hunting trips — with high hopes and low expectations.  Sturgis Fenton and I were going to spend three days hunting the hills of northeast Washington.

Sturgis was a transplant to Washington from Colorado. He was a true mountain man and hunter. I was pretend at both. Sturgis knew the best rifle and ammo to use, the best camp gear to bring, and the kind of food a real man of the woods needs to keep his stomach full as he sits by the evening campfire. He also looked like a real Outdoor Life hunter with the best wool clothes and hat which allowed slipping through brush unheard. I on the other hand wore an orange hard hat which sounded like a plastic milk jug hit with a rock every time a branch would slap me on the head. I also had a boot which squeaked with every step. It was the perfect outfit because what deer would ever expect someone making that much racket in the woods to be a hunter?

Day One — Popsicles anyone?

Our first night, after having driven all day, was on top of Vulcan Mountain. We pulled off the road in a wide spot and set up camp. There was no one else on the mountain. Nothing but a starry sky and howling coyotes. At 5000 feet, the temperature in our dome tent soon started to drop below freezing.

Both Sturgis and I had cots with foam pads for insulation and two sleeping bags each. The ground we camped on was on a slight slope. During the night I would slowly slide off the end of the cot and as soon as my sleeping bag was off the insulating pad I would start to freeze. To keep my head warm I wore a fur cap which covered my whole head including my eyes and ears. Now lying with my body half on the cot and half on the ground, my teeth chattered so badly that Sturgis woke from the noise. He shone his flashlight on me and swore that there was a giant squirrel in my sleeping bag.

Sometime around 5:00 am the earth started shaking and the roar of truck engines could be heard coming up the hill. By 5:30 our tent was surrounded by six redneck, jacked up, 4×4 trucks whose owners were none too happy that we had decided to camp in their parking spot. I decided it best to remove my fur hat lest the rednecks get their revenge by shooting the large squirrel. Vulcan Mountain was a bust. Too many branches hitting the milk jug.

Day 2 — moved to Kettle Falls

Having run out of bandages and ointment to cover my frostbitten nose and fingers, we moved off Vulcan Mountain and drove to Kettle Falls. This was an area in which I had drawn a special deer hunting permit. This meant hunting was limited to those who also had a permit. Climbing up the logging road, we passed a large farm with a billboard which was turned away from our view.

Once in the special permit game unit, it became obvious that the Field and Game officials were laughing their heads off at the suckers who paid $60.00 for this raffle. There was no sign that any type of wildlife had ever lived on that hill, so we turned around and left. Coming off the hill, we came up on the farm with the billboard in the field. As we got near, we noticed objects scattered all over the field. They looked like hundreds of mosquitoes on a wall. We could also now read the billboard, in incredibly giant letters — NO HUNTING!  What was scattered all over the field? About 100 deer.

Day 3 — Jail cell for 2?

The weekend was done and once again the deer had proven smarter than the hunters. We began the long drive home over the North Cascade Highway. Driving through the small town of Newhalem, (which is a company town owned by Seattle City Light and whose residents work for the Skagit River Hydroelectric Project,) we passed a small campground off the side of the road. It was closed for the season and the entrance was blocked with a heavy locked steel gate. Along the park flowed a creek. As I drove past, Sturgis looked up the creek and there on a sandbar sat a bear.

“Bear! Bear! Bear!” Sturgis shouted as he pounded my right bicep with his fist. He had his rifle in his left hand and was reaching for shells.

“Stop the truck! Pull over!” I could hear his door unlatch.

Now, the problem in my mind was that we were no more than a quarter mile out of town on a busy highway and the bear was inside of a campground.

“Ok, hold on Sturgis,” I said. “This is questionable. Let’s go back into town and ask the Sheriff if we can shoot here.”

It took a little persuasion, but I turned the truck around and drove back into town. We found the Deputy’s Ford Explorer parked in front of his house and I went up and knocked on the door.

“Hello officer. Just outside of town there is a campsite which is locked up for the year and we saw a bear next to the creek. Can we shoot there?”

“Well, I’ve never been asked that question before and I don’t know,” he said. “Let me get on the radio and ask the game warden.”

He left to go back into his office. Sturgis was getting antsy.

“He’s going to wander off before we get back or else some other hunter is going to blast him first,” he whined.

The deputy came back into view. “Well, I called the warden on the radio and he seems to think it’s all right as long as you have a bear tag.”

“Thanks officer,” I said. Sturgis was pulling on my arm toward the truck. On the way back to the campground Sturgis devised a plan.

“Ok. I will sneak through the camp and start down the creek from upstream. You start at the road here and sneak up the creek to the sandbar. We’ll have him surrounded.”

I parked by the entrance. The bear was still sitting on the bar. Sturgis exited the truck while loading his rifle and entered the campground going around the locked gate. He disappeared into the shadows. I gave him a minute and entered. Quietly walking through the vacant campsites, I followed the creek trying to get sight of the sandbar.  It was then that I heard a vehicle slowly driving toward me though the park. Wait, I thought. How could a truck be driving in here when the steel gate at the entrance was locked?

The truck came into view, pulled up and stopped. Out stepped a woman in a National Park uniform. She had her hand resting on her holster.

“Unload your weapon!” she yelled. “You are in a National Park!”

“We just talked to the Sheriff and he talked to the Game Warden and they said we could hunt here.” I explained while trying to calm her down.

“I don’t give a rat’s black butt what they said. This is my jurisdiction!” she shouted. Obviously, she was monitoring radio traffic. “Where is your partner?”

Oh cripes! Sturgis! I knew that at any second, we would hear the blast of a rifle and we would be going to jail.

“Sturgis! Sturgis!” I yelled.

“What?” came a voice deep in the camp.

“Don’t shoot! Unload your gun and come back here. Moments later Sturgis appeared through the trees.

In our defense, there was no sign stating that the land was National Park and we had been given permission from both the Sheriff and the Game Warden, (which I’m sure both got a good tongue lashing as to jurisdiction.)  So, I think if we had shot the bear, any judge would have only given us 15 to 20 years in the federal prison.

Later, sitting across from each other in a café having pie and coffee I said, “You know Sturgis, every year our hunting trips turn out the same way — no deer. That hurts, but you know what really stings? The way that ranger was mocking my red hardhat. You’d think that she’d never seen a custom designed hunting hat made from a milk jug.”

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