[Chunky]

When day four produced nothing I decided it was time to change tactics. Calling had produced no results. I figured that with the bad weather and all the pressure the elk would be laid up in the thickest, safest, cover. I felt the only way to get close would be to quietly still hunt the thick areas. The ground was soft and quiet from the recent snow. Mitch did not embrace this idea. I spent half a day trying to slow him down and shut him up. Each time I said something he would cooperate for about ten minutes. He would then slowly increase his pace until he was way ahead of me. He bugled loudly but poorly about every fifty steps. At lunch time I gave up of seeing anything with Mitch. That evening Kevin, Fred, and I went to the absolute highest place on the mountain. It was snowing heavily again and with the wind blowing was about as miserable as a place can be. Fred was wearing so many cloths that he could not have possibly drawn a bow. He looked like a fleece Michelin Man. He sat down and leaned against a tree. Within a few minutes he was completely covered with snow, good camo I thought. I would have given half my kingdom for a bowl of chili at that moment. This type of situation does take your mind off of your normal everyday problems though. It really makes you appreciate your own couch, toilet, warm bed.

I was not having fun so the next day I decided to change that and play a little game. I tried to slow Mitch down a couple of times, but it was no good. As soon as Mitch would get out of sight, I would race around to get in front of him and set up an ambush. I was hunting my guide.

It was pretty realistic because he bulged often, made about as much noise as a medium size herd of elk, and smelled like a big herd! I did this with no arrow on the string of course. When Mitch would step into my shooting lane I would draw to anchor say “Got ya”. He would jump and I would laugh. This system was working very well, I was having a great time and I had taken several “elk”. The “elk” did not appear to enjoying the game as much as I was. I thought he might slow down and stay with me, giving me a chance to hunt for real again. Instead he got mad and threatened to attack me. I had size and age on my side and felt pretty sure I could take him, but the thought of wrestling the stinky, harry, old coot was not appealing. He took off at a fast walk so I changed the rules a little. I would move into position as before, but instead of startling him from a yard or two I would be out at about thirty yards. I would always make sure I had an escape route. When Mitch came close I would cow call or whistle. He would charge my position. I would slip away and watch. This game was really annoying him. He soon picked up a stick and would thrash the bushes where I had called from. My laughter almost gave me away a few times. If he caught sight of me at a distance I would put my hands up to my head like antlers and dance a little. I could almost hear his teeth grinding. I had a lot of fun that day.

That night when he cooled off I tried to explain to him that I was not interested in any more forced marches. If he wanted to do it my way fine, if not I was going off on my own. I wanted to go somewhere where I had a better chance of seeing more elk than hunters. He agreed, but something in his manner left me uneasy. I could see he was planning some sort of revenge. I was on a roll, so I suggested that he wash. The rest of the camp cheered my idea. He grudgingly agreed. I could not believe my eyes when he put the same tee shirt back on after the briefest of sponge baths out of a pot. Figuring that he would be less likely to kill me if there were witnesses I persuaded Fred to come hunt with me on the next day’s hunt. He had been having similar experiences. His guide had shot at the only elk they were in range of. They had also turned over the four-wheeler and Fred was thinking that he would be safer in the truck. He was wrong.

The next morning we loaded up in the Toyota and headed out.
I could tell Mitch was up to something, but being bored, I risked the trap for the adventure. When we came to a clear-cut, Mitch stopped. In the errie glow of the headlights I could see the vehicle tracks. It appeared to me that we were about to cross a very, very, steep piece of wet, snowy, and slick terrain. It was not quite vertical, but I believe that you could stand in one rut and put your hands in the other one without bending at the waste. Mitch put on his safety belt and explained that it was necessary, because if he slid all the way over to our side he would not be able to steer. He told us not to worry and smiled. He was enjoying this little pay back for the day before. I was relieved that this was the worst he had planned for us, until we started across. Mitch gave a maniacal laugh which was so convincing I wondered if he practiced.

About half way across the truck almost went over. I am positive that if I had thrown my weight against the passenger door it would have. My hand was numb from the death grip I had on the door handle. I was on the downhill side but I figured that if I could get the door open after my side cleared the ground the first time, I would take my chances on the outside. I tried not to look out at the inky darkness and wonder how far we would fall. The look on Fred’s face didn’t exactly relax me either. I think the close call scared Mitch also, because he started trying to convince the three of us that he had the situation in hand. He explained to us that he was an expert on not rolling trucks because he had rolled six of them. He went on to say that only five counted for mountain driving though because he had rolled the last one on the highway. I asked how did you roll going down the highway. He said he was trying to get the last little swallow in a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. The roof of the truck prevent him from tipping