475 Clothman Goes Hunting
“Is this Clothman?”
“Yes sir,” I said answering my phone.
“This is Trent Wilson and I have some news for you. Are you setting down?”
Trent is director of The Outdoors Network (TON). Our church sponsors a group called High Point Outdoor Adventures which is affiliated with TON. TON connects people who have a passion for the outdoors with their creator and other like minded folks. They are a faith-based network which facilitates community service projects, prayer breakfasts, youth hunts, campouts, etc.
“Okay Trent, I’m setting down. Shoot.”
“There was a drawing for free whitetail hunt at The Legends Ranch today and guess who won?”
“Ah, you did,” I said.
“Funny Clothman. You won! Can you believe it? You Won!!” Trent was more worked up than a Sumo Wrestler at the Golden Corral. I was speechless. I didn’t know I was entered in the drawing and I didn’t have a clue what The Legends Ranch was.
Trent explained that my friend Drywall, who heads up High Point Outdoor Adventures for our church, had entered me in The Legends Ranch drawing at the Safari Club International trade show in Las Vegas. Drywall and some other High Point dudes where there to help staff TON’s booth and coordinate the huge prayer breakfast they host each year for the Safari Club.
“Listen,” Trent continued, “Drywall is about to call you and he’s as excited as a bull elk in rut about this. When he calls act like you don’t want to go. This will be great Clothman.”
Sure enough, a couple minutes later Drywall called. “Hey Clothman, The Legends Ranch had a drawing for a whitetail hunt and guess who won?”
“Ah, you did.”
“Funny Clothman. You won! I couldn’t believe it when Skipper (the owner of The Legends Ranch) pulled your name out of the hat. Is that great or what!”
“Well Drywall,” I said as blandly as possible, “I’m not sure I’m all that interested. I think I’ll pass.”
I’ve know Drywall for two decades and have never heard him raise his voice ..till now. “ARE YOU CRAZY!! Legends is one of the premiere whitetail operations in North America. Man, you’ve got to go. This hunt is worth thousands of dollars; plus, they’ll treat you like royalty.”
“Yah, I know Drywall, but I just don’t think so. Thanks anyway.”
I was killing Drywall and I know he wanted to kill me. I surrendered a minute or two later and told the hugely relieved Drywall that Trent had put me up to this and that I’d be thrilled to go on the hunt.
I then went to The Legends Ranch website and holy antlers, their bucks are trucks. No wonder Trent and Drywall were so excited. As a casual hunter who gets buck fever when sighting in a doe, the thought of hunting these monsters made me nearly pee my pants.
Over the next few months my excitement built every time I thought of those massive bucks at The Legends Ranch. Then a week or so before the hunt my office phone rang.
“Hello Clothman, this is Skipper from The Legends Ranch.”
“Hi Skipper, man am I excited about my hunt. I can’t believe it’s just a week or so away.”
“That’s why I’m calling,” Skipper said in a somber tone. “Turns out our plans have changed and we’re not going to be able to have you come out and hunt after all. Sorry Clothman.”
I had barely mumbled a reply when Skipper hung up. I was more stunned than a crook on the business end of Taser. A few seconds later the phone rang again.
“Clothman, this is Skipper, hey I was just messin’ with ya. Ha, ha, ha.” Skipper, I would learn, is to practical jokes what Yoda is to Star Wars. I also learned within seconds of arriving at The Legends Ranch just how unlike any other hunt I’ve been on this would be.
Now remember, I live in Montana where hunting is recreational, but rarely easy. Sometimes I get a deer but just as often I get blisters, frost-bite, exhaustion or lost. My camps make Basic Training look comfortable and the only guided hunts I’ve ever been on are when Clothwoman (my wife) forces me to go shopping with her.
I hadn’t even gotten out of my car at The Legends Ranch before I had a drink in my hand and my luggage was being whisked to my room that would have been an up-grade from the Marriott.
“Sorry Clothman, dinner is still a couple of hours away,” apologized one of the staffers, “but there’s some snacks in the lodge to tie you over.” Their “snacks” covered an area the size of my kitchen. That was the last time that week that my stomach remotely thought about being hungry.
As fabulous as the accommodations and food are (Legends has their own chief), hunting is still the main attraction.
My hunt was specifically for a four year old eight point whitetail. Till then the only difference I knew between bucks was how many points they had and if they were a deer or a rabbit. Thanks to Hawk, my guide, three days into the hunt I could actually tell the difference between many of the three and four year olds. He also helped me to observe deer up close in their natural environment till I completely forgot about my busy life and all its stresses a couple thousands miles away.
I saw yearlings playing like kids on a playground, wild turkeys chasing fawns and a 23 point buck as massive and majestic as Mt. Everest. In fact, I saw just about everything except an eight point four year old.
Then, just as the sun was setting on my fourth day, a buck emerged from a thicket of trees with the body of a four year old. Hawk concurred and gave me the green light to take him as soon as I got a clear shot.
My heart rate took off like an F-16 when I put my sights on him. “Chill-out Clothman,” I told myself, “its just a beautiful, wide-bodied, HUGE, MASSIVE, SPECTACULAR, B-B-B-B-BUCK!!!” He turned broadside at about 120 yards and I pulled the trigger.
The buck leapt straight up in the air then really did take off like an F-16 back into the woods. Hawk hollered with excitement, “Great shot Clothman. He won’t go far.”
We waited a bit for the buck to drop and for me to stop hyperventilating then went to track it. A couple hundred yards into the trees we found him. “Holy cow!” Hawk shout, “you’re not taking this guy home right away; he going with us to the Las Vegas show next year first.” I looked down at a rack that I swear belonged to a bull elk. Hawk thought it might be the largest eight point ever harvested at The Legends Ranch.
In every way my week at The Legends Ranch exceeded my expectations but when it came time to go there was still one more thing to do.
“Well Hawk,” I said to my fantastic guide, “I can’t express how much fun you helped me to have this week and I hope you know that it meant the world to me.” Then, instead of giving him a tip, a card, or anything, I simply gave him a handshake.
I could see the wheels turning in Hawk’s mind. “Oh, so that’s how it is. Clothman’s one of those pastors who is tighter than a rusty bolt. I hope he gets nothing but a handshake the next time he pours several days into some Montana couple’s wedding.” But outwardly, Hawk was kind and didn’t say a word as I left.
Several hours later, one of the other guides gave Hawk instructions on how to find a surprise gift I left behind for him. I wish I could have seen his face. Skipper may be Yoda, but perhaps the folks at The Legends Ranch will remember Clothman as a Montana Jedi of practical jokes.
|
|
