In the afternoon we try again to find some varmints.
We return to the place where I saw some disappear as I was getting out of Greeny. As we approach, Cenni suddenly spots a skunk in the middle of the grassy prairie. He slams on the brakes, and hands me the Remington: - shoot it!
I leap out, and lay the gun across the hood. There's no gun rest, and the distance must be at least 600ft. But the skunk will not do me the favor of standing still. Cenni whistles at him several times, and tries various other sounds to make him stop, but in vain. The skunk eventually finds the only tree in the whole field, and hides behind it. There are even a few bushes around to help him. Cenni gives me the Benelli, and I start running down the hillside. I pick up a lot of speed, jumping over bushes and ditches in my rush towards it. The skunk has nowhere to go; apart from the tree, there is no place to hide. It is not a fast-moving creature, and if it cannot hide, it is quite
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easy to keep up with. I come from behind; by the time it prepares to run, the Benelli is on my shoulder. The first cloud of shot blows him away; the second was probably not necessary.
I have shot a skunk in Wyoming!
Cenni is shouting something, but I can't hear what. I want a good photo of this bag, so I take out my camera, point at it, and wave for him to come down! He keeps shouting, but I still can't make out what he's saying. If he doesn’t come down, I'l take the pictures myself.
I've just made a terrible mistake.
I lay the gun down beside the skunk - if I can't be in the photo, then at least the gun will. I click away merrily, pick up the gun, and, immediately, I can feel it… so, that is what Cenni was shouting about.
A penetrating, sickening stink fills the air.
In his last moments, the skunk sprayed the entire area, emptying the contents of his scent glands. I have never smelt anything like it in my life. Such a stench just cannot exist. It is not simply a smell, it is a biological weapon. You could torture somebody with this smell. I can't breathe. And, as long as this stink is around, I don't want to. Walking back to Cenni, I feel there might be one or two problems. Cenni is grinning, he can see the faces I am making. Then we get in the jeep.
The smell is unbearable. I'm absolutely serious: it is quite intolerable. We put down all the windows, and stick our heads out. Such a stench… We can't even talk; it is almost corroding our noses. It is a huge relief to get to the site of the morning's coyote hunt, and get out. I take deep breaths of the fresh air. We lie down on the side of a ditch and enjoy the breeze. We have no success here, so we must go on, but that means getting back in the car... meanwhile, we are almost retching. I ask him how long the smell will last. He thinks about five days. The gun is so smelly that I nearly throw up when I touch it. My boots got most of it, so either they, or I, will have to spend the night outside my caravan. I have got to find a gas mask somewhere.
Even Samy would hold her nose if she could.
At last we can get out again: I won't say that in the open air the Skunk's Revenge is not noticeable, but at least the crystal-clear Wyoming air slightly reduces the effects of that chemical weapon attack. It is almost completely dark, but we still switch on the coyote-caller. The fake coyotes howl away frighteningly; it makes my hair stand on end. I can't see any further than the end of my nose, but then Cenni nudges me: there's a coyote, shoot it! I have no idea what he's looking at. I can only see darkness, and, in the dark, some black spots. These are rocks. My guide tells me one of them is a coyote. I have no idea which one he means. Perhaps it's the second from the left. Yes, that's the one; I should fire. I won't shoot at anything if I don't know
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what it is, but now the rock starts to move. It really does look as if it is a coyote... It is quite far off, but Cenni urges me, so I shoot at it. The rock starts to run, and Cenni yells at me to fire again. I don't need any more encouragement, I keep pulling the Benelli's trigger, watching the flashes from the gun... but, finally, the magazine is empty.
Cenni says I must have hit it.
But, according to the coyote, I haven't. And he's the one that's right.
We can't look for it in the pitch dark, so we put Samy into action. She, however, shows very little interest in the job. She's an excellent retriever, but she's not a bloodhound. I try to spur her on, but in vain, she won't show any interest in the trail for very long. I even threaten that I won't let her hunt any more, but that doesn't work, either. She wags her tail, looks around, trying to see what she's suppossed to bring back, but won't do anything else. I tell her off.
Back in camp, the stench trails after me like a comet's tail. In the dining tent even the lovely smell of dinner can't smother the Skunk's Revenge. It provides an inexhaustible subject for discussion, with one coarse joke following another. Just like the cans of beer.
We're all in such a good mood that no-one wants to go to bed.
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Deer Hunt Camp