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Great picture Buddy!!!

East Texas. How old is this old pine stump i wonder. Killed a buck with a bow here 20 years ago before other timber was cut and the thicket sprung up.

album upload

neighbor girl down the street.......

That groundhog looks like a squirrel .

Rick (in photo below) turned out to be a good friend of mine. Nice guy, bulldog persistent. Goes by Stub. Short story with the photo.

I volunteered with a group of conservationists headed by a man out of New Mexico, Brigg Stillers. Big burl of a man, soft-spoken, fierce stare that could melt a polar ice cap. Brigg had gotten a govt grant funded for the re-introduction of wolverine to remote parts of the lower 48, starting in Oregon, beginning with the Eagle Cap WIlderness in the NE corner of the state. It was thought, that if successful there, it would be a small jump for the new tranferees to spread to Idaho, perhaps negating the need for further transplant efforts. Oh heck, this was back late '97 early '98. Stub (he actually went by Rick then) was the lead man on the trapping and transporting detail. He worked with the various greenie types, college kids, most were real green but with a fair amount of enthusiasm, there for their touchy-feelly fix or thesis work. I being the lone *hunter* in the bunch made for some interesting dynamics and often some good-spirited but heated discussion on wildlife management practices and ethics. In the end, we all agreed we were here for the program and that was priority over any differences there might be between us.

Rick was directly responsible for getting us kids out and patrolling the far reaches of northland, locating wolverine habitat, identifying travel patterns and setting live traps in travel corridors. Brigg got a special waiver from the local constabulary for the live capture and transport of the subjects, since of course trapping is normally a fatal enterprise. All animals had to be checked and certified to be free of disease and general ailment on-site before they could be brought down to the lower 48. It should be noted, that at that time there was a small outbreak of Wolverine Ear Hair Tint (how big can an outbreak be, considering the distance between wolverines!) so all due caution was exercised in ensuring only healthy specimens were included in the program. As time went on, we were lucky in that none of the programs participants tested positive, which streamlined and simplified our work.

There was a fair amount of risk involved with getting a wolverine in and out of a live trap the several times necessary during the programs process, as you might imagine, and it was not without it's share of bumps and bruises for the participants. Rick being the leader, he really set the pace for all the participants with his tireless effort of being an example for all to follow. Ricks dedication to the program's success was instrumental in its eventual outcome. More on that in a bit.

Well, Rick and his able crew were 7 "uneventful" wolverines into the program when they rolled up onto a particular set that held promise of a very large female known to inhabit the area. She had evaded leghold traps of two local trappers for years and had a reputation in the local Inuit village as a bit of a scrapper. A few of the locals had a real disdain for her as she had either badly torn up or outright killed several of their prized sled dogs, huskies, that being tied up, had found themselves with more than they could handle when she wandered in. The locals were eager to see her moved as far away from there as was possible, and Oregon sounded just about right to them.

Program headquarters consisted of a surplus army canvas tent complete with a stove, dining and cooking tables, and some misc storage for scientific gear as well as the basic sanitation quarters all needed. Sleeping was done in separate, smaller tents scattered around. The whole "facility" was set up in a small, park-like clearing in the trees that had a small creek meandering through it. The creek was welcome not only for it's therapeutic qualities that eased tired bones blissfully to sleep each night, but for the wonderfully cold and clear fresh water for everything we needed from a utilitarian perspective. Of course, drinking water was filtered for bacteria, as beaver fever was common and completely undetectable. All in all, a very comfortable camp wedged in some pretty inhospitable country.

When Rick and his crew of eager volunteers first laid eyes on the live set, they were delighted to find the big old female securely inside the trap, and the trap still very securely fastened to the 30' tall Sitka Spruce they had left it tied to. It's almost as if she had wandered into the set, quietly sat down and waited for their arrival. Up until now, the lesser wolverines had begun thrashing fiercely and almost uncontrollably, as if they lost their minds at the sight and sound of humans. Some had dislodged their traps and flailed it all over the forest in their attempts at escape, but to no avail. One particularly agitated male in his fit of rage had toppled over a considerable rock bluff, still securely snared mind you, and had to be rescued from his cliff-side perch lest he end up in the river some 300' below.

Strangely, this old girl was eerily quiet instead, simultaneously watching each person with an intensity all agreed rivaled that of "Captain" Briggs back at camp, as he had come to be known among us peons. When anyone moved, particularly if advancing toward the set either in curiosity for a better look or in attempt to assess her condition, she was particularly keen on them.

After everyone had had their ample time to admire her regal coat and discuss her singularly determined demeanor, an attempt was made to disconnect the snares trappings from the spruce. One of the more eager and by now recognized as *less cautious* of the recruits slipped closely by the box trap on his way to the cables underpinnings when with much deliberateness and fluid of motion she quietly reached out between the slats of the cage and gently, almost imperceptibly, snagged the clothing of the volunteer with her long hooked front claws.

The hell-storm that followed her slow, quiet, and subtle movement was in such contrast to it that it served to numb the mind and motion of all within sight of it. What had seconds before been a quiet, passive creature caught helplessly, nigh, hopelessly, in our live snare was with much ferocity shredding not only the pant leg which had wandered too close, but also the leg it contained. Finally two or three of the more seasoned spectators, of which I include myself, sprang to the aid of our hapless peer, who with each passing second was shrieking even louder and more intensely than the one before, if that were possible. With her popping teeth, clawing reach, and shredding swipes she endeavored to eviscerate our mate while we attempted to wrench him from her controlling grasp. Our frantic tugs were countered with her steady pressure and unrelenting carnage, accompanied by the wails and screams of the poor fellow securely held in her grasp.

Finally, with much thrashing about on the ground, irreverent swearing, and general and comprehensive chaos among all present, she lost her grip and our friend was pulled clear of the clutches of the wild beast. While first aid was being administered to the by-now almost completely shredded leg of the volunteer, I noticed that she sat back against the bars of the cage, licking the blood and small hunks of flesh from her paws and watched with satisfaction, as if to say, "Anybody else want to come over here?".

When the patients condition was stabilized, the cage was secured on the back of the sled behind one of the snow machines. Believe me when I say not one person got within 5' of the bars of that cage during the entire process! What had up to now been viewed as a means of protecting the wolverine, the trap was now seen as the only thing standing between the volunteers and certain death should that beast get loose to institute her will on the party. The long ride back to camp was bittersweet, the successful trapping of the big she-wolverine tempered with the tragic events that followed, and the knowledge of the task that lay ahead.

Talk around the dinner table was understandably subdued that night. Now and then someone would murmur something under their breath, "Damn, never seen anything like that", or "poor fellow never saw it coming". In between bites of salisbury steak with mashed potatoes and gravy from the box, blank stares were occasionally interrupted with mumbled incoherencies. The mood carried late into the evening when one by one, all wandered off to their respective tents to try to steal some troubled slumber. For all of us, tomorrows chores, and one chore chief among them all, seemed to consume our thoughts and rob us of the confidence we had rested so solidly on just a few hours before. Even the steadfast Captain Brigg was taken aback by our turn of fortune, and that evening notified his higher-ups of the goings-on. The assorted bureaucracies above advised a go-as-you-go approach, putting caution at the forefront of any further endeavors, but determined none-the-less to proceed. After all, "The little wolverines must be returned to their historic range, come hell-or-what-may". Captain Briggs assured them that hell was indeed well on it's way, and that it would be delivered post haste and with the utmost sense of urgency.

Rick did his best over breakfast the next day to minimize the horrific events of #8's capture, trying to re-frame and re-characterize what we had all witnessed as just a procedural error, a mere clerical blunder in an otherwise boring and predictable sterility of doldrum activity. One that we would all be careful not to repeat, he added. Therefore, Cheerio, let's keep focused on the task at hand and get #8 safely transferred to her holding pen before moving on to the other chores of the day. Unfortunately, his glossing over of the wreckage of #8's physical damage had done nothing to address what was lying like a giant rock in each of our minds. The collateral damage done yesterday was far more widespread and deeper than even the gouged flesh and far flung strips of clothing. Clearly, #8 was no ordinary event, no clerical error, and would not soon vacate the psyche of anyone that had witnessed it. The inexpressible event of the day before had left an indelible impression that served to nullify our drive and even brought us to the place of deliberation of the wisdom of continuing with the program. A couple of the more timid spirits abandoned ship, as it were, citing "problems at home" rife with "mitigating circumstances". No one blamed them really, if anything they were admired for doing what many wanted to but lacked the courage to carry out.

As for myself, I stayed on out of dedication to the cause since I was after all a born and raised native Oregonian, proud son of a stubborn timber worker in my dad and determined homemaker on the maternal side, and also as a testimony to Rick and the Captains leadership, for which I had the utmost confidence in. But in reality, I was young, full of myself, and didn't really have anyplace else to be along about then, as fate would have it, so why not stick around?

With the morning meal behind us, we assembled near the sled still containing the trap and the once-again calm subject #8. The plan to transfer our by-now compliant captive to her holding pen was cemented, the individual tasks divided and rehearsed until each of us felt as though we could perform our respective tasks in sheer autonomy. The repetitive rehearsals had given us a small shot of confidence utterly lost the day before. We began to see that Rick may be right, this is just another small chore needing execution in a much larger program which would continue until completion. We had already nearly forgotten the "come hell-or-what-may" part of the previous days conversation between Captain Briggs and the bureaucrats while we blissfully prepared to execute The Plan.

I need to interject here that "The Plan" was before I had ever heard heavyweight champion Mike Tyson say, "Everyone has a plan until they get hit in the face". Now of course, in retrospect, when someone says "I have a plan", or "Here's the plan", I just assume I'm about to get hit in the face, and hard. And probably again in the head and neck, and all about the upper torso just for good measure.

As we approached the trap from all sides, each of us nervously clutching our various devices meant to keep us as far from the actual cage as possible, the wolverine, by now still nameless mostly due to the shell-shock we had all suffered the day before, as it was heretofore customary to name each animal at the time of capture, laid her ears back ominously, and crouched down, baring her canines ever so slightly in tense anticipation of whatever we would do to her. The poles for lifting the cage were inserted in their loops, the buckles securing the cage to the sled were loosed, and #8 was gently lifted clear of the sled and led to the door of her pen, still secured in the live trap we had fashioned for her. Rick led by example once again and shot to the pen entrance with a confidence that quietly buoyed all around him.

He deftly unlatched the snap on the pen door, lifted the gate leading in, and re-latched it up and open so his hands could then work the mechanism on the live trap. The pole bearers made sure the gap between the pen and the trap was at a minimum, and Rick carefully unsnapped the traps latch, and slowly lifted the gate, allowing #8 her first look inside her enlarged enclosure. At that very instant, Rick let out a yelp as he turned his ankle on a 1" pebble and went down next to the cage. Everything simultaneously went in slow motion and hyper speed as the wolverine saw a small gap open up between the pen and the cage. With lightning speed and unequaled deliberation she lunged for the opening and jammed three claws and part of a paw in the gap.

Leaning back with all her might she widened the gap, against six determined pole bearers what you would call average or better in stature, and managed to get first an arm, then her upper torso inserted in the gap and on it's way out. Rick was still in motion having just now realized that his footing gave way and he was on his back when #8 cleared the gate. Everyone able scattered at the prospect of the coming fury, while Rick lay helplessly off balance and upended like a turtle about to be pulled from his shell.

When #8 reached Rick he was flailing wildly with every tool in his box to fend her off, no doubt vividly remembering what she was capable of. As we all looked at once to our safety it was also impossible to ignore Ricks screaming as #8 lay into him. In what seemed like seconds, I now realize must have been 30 or so seconds, while none of us was yet able to formulate much of A Plan beyond, "Get the hell out of here", Captain Briggs had run for the double barrel 12 gauge shotgun leaning in the cook tent. It was thought a roaming bear might be cause for preparation and some forethought was given to ensuring no bruin interrupted our dinner or worse yet our nights sleep with a nocturnal raid on the grub.

Finding it where we had agreed would be central, he returned, senses on high alert, and with firearm trained on the ensuing melee in front of him, he unfortunately had to wait an agonizingly long time for the beast to clear Rick sufficiently so as to ensure Rick was not unwittingly the victim of the blast meant for #8. When the moment arrived, Captain Briggs steely nature became overwhelmingly evident as he fired at precisely the moment the wolverine leaned up and reached high for another swipe. The blast sent #8 sailing 15' and left a bloodied and battered Rick semi-conscious and incoherent in a pile on the cold ground. Medivac was called and Rick was airlifted to Anchorage, it being the nearest trauma center but still 3 hours airtime away. Three months in the hospital, many many operations, and three years of reconstructive therapy and Rick is as positive and optimistic as ever. Years later we can now speak of the wolverine transplant program in more detached, analytical, and scientific terms. That wasn't possible for quite a while after the events of '98.

In light of the inherent and undeniably dangerous nature of the wolverine transplant program, it was decided by the bureaucrats in Washington that wolverines, in all their majesty and largely due to their independent and predictably violent behavior, are perhaps best left to fend for themselves and enlarge their range, or not, as nature allows.

All funding was pulled, the program moth-balled, and the fiercely independent wolverine was left in it's northern home, never to roam the mountains of Oregon again, at least not at the whim of some college-educated wildlife management specialist with government money to burn and a name to make for himself.

I've stayed in touch with Rick, Stub now, over the years and as always, he leads by example with an infectious optimism that almost makes you wish you were him. Almost.

Here's to ya Stub, stay on the sunny side. A picture is worth a thousand words.

Great Story Fireball2

Today’s haul

Hell of a story, FB.

Yes it was...well worth the read.

And 100% bullshit of course.

But it was fun writing it this afternoon. Hope you guys enjoy it.

Yep. Wolverines are some bad mofos.

So, the Deflave detractor has become Deflave in abstencia?,

Not a photographer but always liked this one. 1906 '94 Marlin 25-20

Fun times, this years antelope camp no less.

Jonathan Brownings rifling jig (JMB’s father)

That' a good day. We were treated to fresh crab by my wife's coworker the other day and sure enjoyed them. Envious of you guys that can catch your own.