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Here's a photo of a butcher scene. Karen whacked her usual bull calf and I kicked it down to a flat place and right above the horse trail.

Small, but steak all over. And shot in the face.

The country is typical ... we NEVER killed an elk below the horse trail. Always above and kick it down.



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I killed this bear there one year. Karen had just whacked a big cow and this bruin showed up like we'd rung a dinner bell. Turned out he had a broken canine tooth and a horrible abcess in the jaw, so it came for the soft guts.

Pretty bear. Shot him in the throat at about 200-yards and it dived off a rim and right into some sticker bushes. That SUCKED.



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Me, pretty much in my prime. Karen and I whacked a pair of elk that we thought were a cow and a calf. Turned out to be a BIG cow and a HUGE cow.

Anyway, we head-shot the pair and they rolled down into deep brushy crap. We finally waded out and caught our horses about midnight.

This photo was taken the next day, when we rode up the little side canyon to recover our eight quarters and skullplates.

Hey, nobody would buy a book of crap like this. Just the reminiscences of an old broken-down cowboy. Rodeos, turned pack saddles during a dark night pack, rides through deep snow and freezing to death, getting your foot stepped on by a tall mule ... [bleep], such fun. grin

God Bless,

Steve










"God Loves Each Of Us As If There Were Only One Of Us"
Saint Augustine of Hippo - AD 397