Reflections of a Retired Hunter

By Mark Stockton

I was raised in Kansas City and attended a private boys' preparatory school. My friends and family expected me to stay in Kansas City, marry a local girl, enter a profession, and enjoy a successful, peaceful country-club life. I'm afraid I disappointed them.

 

As a young boy, I enjoyed nothing more than hunting and fishing with my dad and older brother. In my teens, I got a taste of Wyoming – and I fell in love. I would eventually drop out of college (I'm officially in between semesters) and pursue the life of a ranch hand, and big game guide & outfitter. I have never regretted it.

 

In this book I look back on my years of hunting by recounting stories of some of the adventures I was fortunate enough to experience. They still make me smile; I hope they make you smile as well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Stockton
• Release date: Jul 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201174972

Book preview

While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

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REFLECTIONS OF A RETIRED HUNTER

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First edition. July 10, 2021.

Copyright © 2021 Mark Stockton.

Written by Mark Stockton.

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Cover art illustration copyright © 2021

By Perri Duncan, BA

www.perriduncanstudio.com

Introduction

I have been fortunate to live in some of the most beautiful country in rural America over the span of more than 70 years.  Hunting and fishing have been part of my life ever since I can remember.

My Dad was an avid upland bird hunter and the most patient fisherman I have ever known. My brother, Kent, and I grew up with rods and guns and a great respect for the out-of-doors and all of God’s creations. Our times together hunting & fishing were memorable; Dad was a doctor and we saw little of him unless we were walking hedgerows looking for quail or in a boat somewhere trying to catch bass.

So, my love of the outdoors, hunting and fishing came naturally, as did Kent’s. 

I know my parents assumed I would finish school, get my degree and embark on a professional career that would afford me the time and money to pursue hunting and fishing as recreational pastimes. They certainly never thought I would forego my education and make a career out of hunting.

I eventually did come down from the mountain, as my father would say, and developed a career more in line with my parent's aspirations. It just took me a while. In the meantime, while I was young and able, I took the opportunity to spend as much time hunting and fishing as I possibly could - first as a guide in northwestern Wyoming, and eventually as owner of an outfitting business. I was fortunate enough to embark on my dream at a time in my life when I had few other responsibilities. The timing could not have been better; I'm not sure there was a more optimal time to be a big game outfitter in Wyoming. 

It was simply wonderful.

I have recently been reminded of those days and some of the more enjoyable moments from that period of my life.  At the urging of my wife, Kathy, I have written down a few of those stories. I hope they make you smile.

Mark Stockton

Dedication

I dedicate this book to Dad & Kent – my favorite hunting and fishing partners.

Kent, Dad & me

Map of Pinedale/Hoback/Dubois area

Northwestern Wyoming

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Contents

Introduction

Dedication

My First Hunt

Duck Blindness

A Lesson in Horse Packing

Guiding 101

Sheep Mountain

Turning 21

Claustrophobia

The Beard

Stubbornness Might Equal Stupidity

Vertigo

Triangle R Lodge

Getting There

Uncle Kent

Hunting Camp

The Camp Cook

Why Use an Outfitter or Guide?

Spring Bear

56 Degrees Below Zero

A Moose Hunt to Remember

The Chauffeur’s Son

Danger – Moose Crossing

Simply Heartwarming

Laughable

Bear!

The Unpredictable is Predictable

One Lucky Horse

Yukon Jack

Fremont Ridge

Chicago Meets Wyoming

A Moose Hunt – Sort of

Roaring Fork Ram

Speechless

Wolves!

Conversation with a Moose

Surrounded

Red Creek

Ryegrass Buck

Magic Touch

Some Get Away

The Last Hunt

Last Trip to Waterdog

And A Couple of Fish Stories...

Don’t Set That Hook!

A Fisherman’s Last Wish

And so...

Mark’s Horse

My First Hunt

I don’t remember my first fishing trip, but I do remember my first hunt in the fall of 1954. It was memorable for two reasons: it was the only time I ever hunted with my grandfather, and I succeeded in humiliating myself in front of a bunch of grown ups who must certainly have expected more of me.

Papa, as we called my grandfather, was apparently quite an outdoorsman. He had been born in 1893 in Kansas City. By most standards, it was still a small town; in fact, the name Kansas City was not adopted until 1889, replacing what had been referred to as the Town of Kansas. The population was about 135,000 when Papa arrived on the scene. The area around the city was agricultural, graced with an abundance of water. It was perfect for hunting and fishing.

While the times might have been conducive to outdoor activities, I can’t envision my grandfather as a sportsman. On this, my first hunt, he wore a three piece tweed suit, looking more like he was going to a board meeting than setting off to scramble through hedgerows in search of quail. Before he left the house I’m sure my grandmother, always fastidious, admonished  him  not to bring back dirt on his shoes.

Regardless of my impression, Dad had always told me that Papa was an active bird hunter and bass fisherman. The camaraderie I witnessed between him and his hunting buddies that day seemed to indicate these expeditions were not infrequent.

Papa holding me, long before my hunting days

When we arrived at our destination that morning, Papa handed me his .410 single shot shotgun. Dad had coached me on gun etiquette in the past, but this was the first time I had ever been trusted to carry a loaded firearm in the field. I was eight years old, and beaming with pride.

It was a beautiful autumn day with multi-colored leaves still on the trees, no real wind to speak of, and warm sunshine. There were four men, Papa and Dad included, and me. I can’t imagine that my brother Kent was not there also, but I don’t recall.

We began walking across a pasture owned by a farmer known to all the grownups, as we headed for a hedgerow that had been allowed to remain in a low lying area that couldn’t be cultivated. We split up - part of us on one side of the trees and the rest on the other. I discovered that this was to be the way the hunt would be approached for the rest of the day. We had one dog with us to help locate the birds in the heavy brush, and to find any birds that were shot and went down in the tall grass.

Quail were plentiful in Kansas in those years. Winters had been relatively light and predators were few. Most important, the local farmers saw benefit in leaving hedgerow borders around their fields to reduce wind erosion, and had not yet begun to utilize every square foot of farmland to increase their production. The habitat was ideal for upland game birds.

Bobwhite Quail

It seemed to me that every hedgerow we walked had a resident covey of quail, and there was enough activity to keep my interest. Several times that morning the dog, a German shorthair, would go on point, revealing the whereabouts of a covey. We approached slowly until the birds burst out of the trees with explosiveness. It was at once shocking and exciting. The men were good shots and bagged a lot of birds that morning. I never fired a shot, but got used to raising my gun, careful not to point the barrel in the direction of my fellow hunters. I was very aware of carrying my gun with the barrel pointed to the ground so as not to present any danger to dog or man.

I was beginning to feel comfortable with the routine, paying close attention to the etiquette on display as each hunter deferred to the man closest to a particular bird in flight, choosing as a target one that was the most appropriate for him.

We stopped for lunch around mid-day. Sitting on the ground with a sandwich, I enjoyed listening to stories of past hunts as well as a critique of the morning’s outing. The warm sun lulled me into a state of restfulness. I was beginning to feel very much part of the group.

The afternoon did not vary from the morning except that we drove a short distance to another farm to explore fresh territory. I was walking on the right side of the hedgerow, between Dad and Papa, and about 20 yards from each. We hadn’t been walking long when the dog went on point, drawing our attention to a covey running ahead of us in the undergrowth. I knew the explosion was about to take place.

Sure enough, the birds came blasting out both sides of the trees, several flying our direction, low and fast. Again, I raised my gun and followed the birds with the barrel, but didn’t shoot. I simply didn’t have the confidence yet. Dad & Papa opened up, and several birds dropped in the field ahead of us.

We walked to where the birds had gone down, and suddenly a quail that had only been wounded started running – straight toward me! It happened so quickly I wasn’t sure how to react. Dad knew the bird couldn’t fly and began yelling, hit it with your gun butt. That only confused me more. As the quail got closer and closer, I turned the barrel toward it and pulled the trigger.

Now a .410 is a light load, best suited for shooting small game at close distances, relatively speaking. When I fired, the quail was within 7 or 8 feet, and I can vouch for the fact that a .410 is very deadly at that range. There wasn’t enough bird left to take home. My first attempt to bring home the bacon had been an abject