Let’s Hunt!

Witching Hour

Let’s Hunt!

The hunt, the horse, the day.

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

            Let there be no misconceptions.

            I grew up reading Jack O’Connor and Robert Ruark and remain an unabashed devoté of true fair chase. The modern day corruption of the true hunting experience, though, gives me great pause. It is akin to eating raw octopus. There are just too many other good things to stick in your mouth.

           This last weekend was certainly no exception. To see a load after load of road hunters driving slowly around all decked out in camouflage with their guns sticking out the window just doesn’t offer any hope that the demand for more and more access to already overhunted lands is a reasonable political position. It isn’t.           

            These characters need good grandfathers to offer lessons in courtesy and stewardship. So, it was with Ruark’s grandfather, the old man. His lesson on shooting quail was to know when to stop shooting. When the kid could learn that he was well on his way to becoming a man.

            So, it was, too, with my maternal grandfather. His lessons were not just correct they were timeless. If I had the opportunity right now to tell him how much I appreciate him, I’d be humbled, and I’d struggle searching for the proper words. Maybe a better place to go is to relate how this most recent hunt actually took place.

            So, let’s hunt!

            The Witching Hour

            Generals Lee and Tom Jackson knew what the witching hour was. In their lives it was 3:00 AM and the only time when chaos didn’t rule. Witching hour in this ranch life is more akin to 4:10 and it isn’t only occasional. It has become routine.

            Dress was pretty much normal as well. Silks layered under outer clothes with a short, snug vest was the total ensemble. A go to black felt hat was automatic as were thin black gloves that would go into the vest as soon as it was warm enough. Three cartridges went into the clip on the short-barreled rifle and another three were slipped into the left pocket of the vest. The field optics would be placed in one of only two new aged accoutrements, and that was the set of hobbles held in place across my chest.

            Walking outside into the dark from the casita was followed by a pause to smell and listen to the morning. I heard horses in the corral and a hound bayed from the pens across the road in the mesquites. Beautiful, timeless sounds those are.

            The flashlight was turned on to make the walk up to the house where lights were ablaze. Inside, a fire was roaring in the wood stove and the smell of bacon and eggs was strong. Greetings by good friends ensued as hot coffee was poured. No pretensions or uneasy moments, we talked ranching and those things that most matter in our lives.

            At six, it was time to saddle.

            We walked into the corral and were greeted by horses as they came to us to negotiate for something more than the hay in the stanchions. Broke ranch horses that know more than most people are easy to be around. These all stood ground tied reflecting the history and the custom of this outpost of heritage. Curried and brushed in the dark, they stood while saddles were thrown, and cinches pulled. Rifle scabbards were attached to be adjusted later before rifles were slid into place.

            Loading was easy.

Whispered requests were offered as each horse shifted his weight back on his haunches before driving forward into a fairly high entry the way the rig was parked. Each then made his way into the depths of a dark trailer without restraint or cue. They’d done this too many times.

            The drive to the jump off point didn’t take long.

            The horse, the hunt, the day.

             Tres jueltes de las Muertos was more to check the saddle and booted rifle than to take any buck out of the little yellow horse. He never has and likely never will. He stood as my right foot caught the dangling off side stirrup wrapped in its bulldog tapadero.

            We talked softly as we planned the ride out of the bottom to the ridgeline. We’d part and take separate routes just to look over more country. On the first rise, I was reminded what good shape he was in. He just churned up the incline without me touching him. He did the same thing on the next, and the next, and, later, even the last one of the day. He was a joy to be with.

            He didn’t like the unexpected gunshot, though. He liked the smell of deer on the ground even less. He looked for every reason to be spooked. We laughed at him and confided he was displaying the tendencies of his ancestry.

            We would hunt more into an absolutely stunning morning. The cottonwoods below us in the river bottom were turning colors. The far points were crystal clear, and, once, even Mogollon Baldy peaked over the ridgeline. We would see more deer and shoot straight again, but the immensity of the day had nothing to do with shooting. It was friendship, being horseback where we wanted to be, and revisiting things that make us who we are today.

            Overlooking a grand vista following a second episode of the little yellow horse snorting over the smell of blood, we sat in the shade and talked. We shared some sort of peanut flavored protein bar and remembered other places, names, big bucks, and life.

            It was a good place to be.

            Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Every kid in America would be immensely better off to spend a day horseback and come to the house listening to hounds greeting him.”