I was hanging around at the airport for 51/2hrs. before the next flight finally took off. The journey wasn't long, and 45mins. later we landed at Laramie. The weather is sunny, but windy, and there are mountains in the distance.
This city is in the middle of a desert, which is slightly confusing. When we talk about great heights above sea-level, most people, quite naturally, think of mountains. However, in Wyoming, even the plains are high up, and, consequently, are far colder than if they were at sea-level. At the airport it's not hard to spot my guide; there's only one person, leaning against the wall, and he's wearing green forest-hunting clothes. He is Cenni Burnell, one of the guides, who has come to meet me for the second time today, hoping that I will actually be on this plane. Part of my luggage arrived on the earlier plane, and the rest has come with me. We collect everything from those in charge, every bag and gun case is put in the back of the huge Toyota pickup, and we then start on our journey of about 60mi. Driving through the prairie the road makes a bee-line for the foot of the mountains, where we go on to a steep, winding road. It snowed several days ago, and there are still traces of it in the mountains; we ascend higher and higher into a true winter landscape. I guess that it isn't too warm outside as one or two of the small moutain lakes are frozen. We cross the mountain to the city of Saratoga, with its population of only 1700. We want to test my gun at the local rifle range.
Occasionally mule deer actually wander into this wild-west town!
Here and there we have to drive around deer standing about on the road; they graze on the grass in front of the houses, quite relaxed. Why they are so keen on city grass, I have no idea. They have the whole prairie to themselves, but still choose the town. Urbanised deer! Perhaps at some point they'll decide to break into a stable to spend the winter. In the town no-one is allowed to harm them; they are something of an attraction.
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At the range there is no manager, attendant, or any other sort of factotum. The shooters run it all themselves, and everyone helps everyone else. Two boys are in the middle of a shooting session, and we join them at the 100yds. station. My Blaser is shooting high, but that's no surprise. When I last tested it, I was at sea-level, in heavy, damp air. Here, the conditions are different: the air is thinner. I adjust it quickly, and, as I have enough spare ammunition, I take a few extra shots. I try out Cenni's .243 Winchester Short Magnum Caliber gun. He fills the shells himself, at home, and the gun is no more than a re-drilled AR-15. I've been wanting to try one of these self-loading carbines for a long time, and now my chance has arrived. He has fitted it with a NightForce sight; I turn the magnification up to full and take three shots.
I can hardly believe my eyes.
The first two hit in exactly the same place and the third is only 1/4in. away. To be honest, I am getting better dispersion with this gun than I do with my Blaser. Who could say that the AR-15 is not an accurate gun, and that you can't get close dispersion with a semi-automatic!
We bid goodbye to the local gun enthusiasts, and go on our way. The Blaser does not go back into the 1750 Peli case; I'm holding it between my legs. It's perfectly legal to do that here: not even the police would disapprove of it. Cenni has advised me to be on the lookout as we will soon be at the hunting grounds; it is just becoming dusk, so who knows what might appear in front of us. He tells me that the gun I have just tried out is his main source of income. He hunts professionally the whole year round, and, unlike most other guides and outfitters, he has no other job when the season ends. For him the season lasts all year: he hunts coyote. He shoots between 400-500 of them a year, and is paid by the state for doing so. He makes extra cash by selling their skins. He doesn't live very affluently, but it doesn't worry him; he's doing what he enjoys and that's what is most important. I completely agree with him. His gun needs to be so accurate because he can't afford any mistakes. Every shot must count: there's no money in wasted ammunition, and no time to find another coyote to replace the one he's missed.
It is almost 8.00pm when we turn down a beaten-earth road, then onto a track made by a bulldozer, and then, there we are among the tents.
This is the camp - Cenni tells me, in case I'm a complete idiot.
There's a fire burning in the center, and sitting around it talking are the hunters and their guides.
Before anyone else gets a chance, a big black labrador, the ten year old Samantha, otherwise known as Sam, or Sammy, rushes up to greet us; also here is my outfitter, Jim Blocker. He's a good friend of Frank Cole; each year he hopes that they will finally get to go hunting together, but Frank is always too involved with Cabela's affairs.
The camp comprises several tents, made winter-proof by installing wood-burning stoves, and some caravans that must have been towed here. I'm in one of the latter. I move in immediately. It
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is already dark so I can't have a thorough look around. Inside there is one single bed and one bunk bed, but I have it all to myself. Although in prisons the lower bunk is always the most prestigious, here I go for the upper one, as it will be the warmest. A gas-heater supplies the warmth, but as there is no chimney, the waste gases have nowhere to escape. I open a slit in the window and, by winding a handle I open the skylight: I want a through draught. I dont want to croak during the night.
We are given a really excellent dinner; there is an unending supply of cans of coke available and, something that has been missing from all my camps so far, a choice of two types of beer. And we don't have to sneak it from under the counter: anyone can take as much as they like. On the table in the dining-tent are three different brands of whisky, ready and waiting for anyone who wants to celebrate a successful hunt. After dinner I sign all the usual forms, and retire to my sleeping accommodation.
I'm a bit worried about that gas heater.
Deer Hunting Camp