Jerry, an old friend spoke with me on the phone for a bit yesterday. He reads the blog, but never comments, and asked why I don’t do more story’s about the hunting trips that all of us enjoyed so much in the years gone by. His son Jason was listening in the background. He burst out laughing, and said that I should write about the time we went Deer /Elk hunting when he was thirteen… Jason, this is for you!
Colorado GMU 15 is rugged and beautiful. Everything that people think of when they think outdoor recreation in Colorado. The entire Lynx Pass Area is a natural wonder that you should make sure and get to at least three times if you are an outdoors person. There are Grouse, Mule Deer, Elk if you are lucky in the least, and the stream that follows the gravel road harbors great numbers of Brook Trout as well as an occasional Cutthroat and Cutt/Bow hybrid. It is also just about surrounded by “Draw” License tag areas for Elk, and in 1990 it was an OTC Deer tag. Need I say more?
Jerry, Jason, and Michael all poured themselves into the land Cruiser and found myself and fellow hunting addict Charlie on the tiny and only spot where the land is public on the south side of Lynx Pass Road. Charlie and I were putting the finishing touches on the camp as they pulled in and all were happy that they had not only found us, but that they were in one piece. Earlier, we had heard that there had been a pretty bad accident on Gore Pass, and we hoped and prayed that our friends were not involved in it. They were all amazed that such wild beauty could be found a scant four hours from Denver.
Then things went south, so to speak…
Charlie asked if they had finally sighted in their rifles. See, he and Jerry worked together, the response was not what was expected, and Charlie reacted accordingly. Soon, after a bit of this and that, they all piled into Charlies Toyota, and headed South, as in away from our hunting area to get the rifles sighted in. This would normally have not been an issue as Charlie and myself are dyed in the wool bow hunters. But, this year our schedules and the stars just didn’t cross.
Two hours later they returned. Sadness abounded on their faces and demeanor. Jason’s new rifle simply refused to shoot straight. Charlie handed me the rifle,and said that he had tightened all the screws and so on, and that it was all over the board no matter who was behind the trigger. I nodded, and held the rifle up, and looked through the scope. It had been mounted improperly, but, something told me to look a bit farther. I rested it on the table, on top of a sleeping bag, sighted on a distant rock, and told Charlie to tap the rifle… he did,and the reticule danced. I held the rifle a little more firmly, and asked for a repeat. I got a repeat…
Jason looked like he was about to burst out in tears. I looked at him and said, “Boy, go over to the back of my car, and get that rifle case out.” He did, and I opened the case up, and his eyes got really wide. It was my bread and butter gun; a Remington 7mm Express that I had killed my very first Buck with near Camp Las Pulgas, on Camp Pendleton when I was a kid. I would shoot my sons 270 as it wouldn’t be right to lend his rifle to a child without his permission. Besides, he still has the 7mm Mag BDL that he “borrowed” some time in 87…
A quick trip down the road, and I was satisfied that Jason could,in fact, hit the broad side of a dinner plate at 200 yards with my trusted rifle, only a slight windage adjustment was needed… ( Not to mention that the lil’ piss ant shot way tighter groups than I do with it!)
We returned to camp, and I set about getting things other than beer and whiskey ready for supper. Jerry had usedmy Wrist Rocket to secure nine Blue Grouse for the pot, and Charlie had pulled about twenty Brook Trout from the stream.
To be continued.