Roots – Part One

My roots in hunting go deep, but there are two areas in Oregon that have been steeped in my family’s history so as to become part of us. I wrote about one of those in a three part series. That was our family’s elk hunting tradition – and Dad wrote about the other, the Steens Mountains, yesterday. Every male in my family has killed a Steens Mountain buck – in fact, both my brothers claim it as home to their first buck. I have had just two trips in this wild and rugged mountain.

It was 1996 and we had just jumped across the Oregon/Idaho border to become Idaho residents. However, for the season of 1996, we were still Oregon residents, and it was just my second year of hunting. I was twelve years old and in eighth grade when I was first able to make it to the Steens with a tag in my own pocket. I’d been there three years prior to go along with my grandpa and Uncle Ray as a ten year old observer. This trip would be made with my dad and older brother, Todd, as the three of us would try our luck at finding a buck in country that was undergoing a rapid decline in deer numbers. It was the first year of rifle hunting for my brother and I – Todd was going to be shooting a Remington .243 while I borrowed a Remington 7mm from an uncle.

Having been in the Steens on one separate occasion, I knew what we were in for at the end of the long drive from Idaho to Southeast Oregon – a nearly vertical ascent up the east side of the Steens from 3,000 feet to camp at about 8,000 feet. As a twelve year old, I’m not sure how much I really knew about hunting – but I was soon to find out. I knew the trip was not going to be a long one, but I also knew it was going to be a great one with my dad and brother. We pitched camp under the stars and opted to go without tents on the starry night. During the first night, we were chatting in the dark about the next days hunt when across the canyon and over the next ridge were these lights that filled up the sky momentarily that to this day I have no idea what formed them or anything. At the time it was an experience that frightened my twelve year old mind that had been told by all his buddies about UFOs and aliens and the like. It was an experience I thought I’d remember vividly for the rest of my life – however, time has dimmed the experience to the point that I just remember a bright flash in the night and none of us knowing exactly what it was.

Todd and I in our “camp”

What I do remember vividly, is sleeping under the stars in our down bags with the aspen leaves rustling nearby and reminding us why they’re referred to as “quaking aspens.” When we woke up the next morning, it was cold and crisp – it was fall in the mountains, and it felt awesome to be alive that morning. The three of us had tags, and Dad decided he would hunt with me while Todd went off by himself. There isnt’ really any easy part of the Steens on the east side, but the place we picked to go on the first day was rougher than some of the rough parts. It was full of rims, nothing but rocks and sage, and then all of a sudden when you come across a creek bottom, it would be full of tangled aspens. Dad was trying hard to get me my first buck as when we came across dense brush pockets, he set me up on a vantage point and he dropped down to drive through the tangled mess. We kept working higher until we were about 200 yards from the ridge top – and we saw Todd right at the top. We began working our way over to him. One of the things about the Steens is that they’re often used as practice grounds for the Air Force who flies their fighter jets over these ridges and back down the other side – keeping as low to the ground as possible. Just about this time, one of these jets came up over the ridge – Todd had heard it coming, but we were far enough down the ridge, we never heard it till it broke the sound barrier at what seemed like ten feet! Todd later told us that it had flown directly over him – close enough that he could see the pilot!

One of my favorite stories about these jets is told on my uncle. It seems that I have a particular uncle that is not real fond of snakes – and snakes are plentiful in the Steens. Anyways, he remembered a deer that he’d boned out on the mountain the previous year and wanted to see if he could find the bones from it. he started kicking around that area while my dad watched. My uncle parted some sagebrush with his hands and started to stick his head in there when one of those jets came flying over the ridge and broke the sound barrier. BOOM! As my dad tells it, my uncle came ten feet off the ground and left the area – pronto!

Todd waters up at the creek.  How we kept from getting giardia all these years – I don’t know!

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, except for the fact that we all made it back to camp alive. Sometimes, that is quite an event worth celebrating in the Steens! The weather, always a thing to respect and fear in the Steens, was cooperating with us thus far, and we kept our tent in Dad’s backpack.