A bull elk that I killed high in the Sapphires in 1957 slid downhill and came to a stop under a high tiddly-winks pile of lodgepole blow-down. I still don't know how I ever managed to get all that meat out. Just getting over that mountain of lodgepole poles was a struggle.
Cruising timber 'way back in the Missions in 1955, I fell head-first into a similar lodgepole blow-down, with my arms pinned along my sides, my shoulders supported by two poles, and my head a foot or two above the ground. If Tommy Farr hadn't been there to pull me out, my bones'd still be there.
I usually cruised alone, but that day I was showing Tommy how 'twas done.
