We spend the morning in the camp.
To run such a camp, so far from a town, and civilization in general, requires a lot of machinery and other equipment. There's always something that needs to be repaired. This needs its battery changed, that needs to be refilled, and, in the dining tent, the stove's chimney is blocked. There is a thick wall of smoke, rather like what you see at a European soccer match.
.
The repairs are carried out efficiently; our guides always manage to find a solution. Hunters, meanwhile, return from the hunting grounds, and one by one, the deer carcasses are taken off the metal stands used to carry game on the vehicles.
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The cameras are clicking away.
Most of the hunters want a head trophy, and the skinning has begun. I lend my knife to one, to give him the chance, for once, of working with a quality tool.
Before I left Hungary, I assembled my clothes and equipment with the greatest care. Whatever piece of equipment I look at, I will see the reassuring logo of a well-known manufacturer. I chose it all very carefully because, if there is one thing I've learnt from my trips in the mountains, it is that it pays to set out with only the best equipment.
There are no other options.
Mediocre, or cheap, products will, if you're lucky, only spoil, or lessen the enjoyment of your anticipated trip. A head flash-light that falls apart, underclothing that never dries out, boots which leak, or hurt your feet, rucksack straps that tear, sunnglasses that lose their lenses, waterproof jackets that aren't, and develop leaks fast, overweight sleeping bags which aren't warm, and tents that can't be assembled, or, if they can, collapse all the time: these are just a few of the useless pieces of equipment I have managed to come across. And, if you are not lucky, by trying to save money, or just making a bad choice, you can put your health at risk, or, in an extreme case, your life. If you've never experienced it, you will not know how enjoyable an expedition can be when you don't have to repair, fix, or mend things, or don't need to take extra care because of some unreliable accessory.
I feel a special pride and pleasure that on the handle of my knife, which I selected most carefully, you can read the words: Hand-Made In Hungary.
Because the best hunting knives in the world are made in Hungary.
The knife-maker Sanyi "Sharpblade" Hegyes is not a household name; you won't see many of his advertisements in hunting magazines. But, nevertheless, he has such full order-books that any hunter who has been fortunate enough to hear about him on the forest grapevine, will only acquire one of his extremely desirable knives after a wait of several months. I've known Sanyi for a long time, and have the privilege of owning several of his knives, each bearing that reliable sign of quality, his Butterfly emblem.
In my view, Sharpblade is way above any other knife- maker because he is constantly and untiringly searching for the perfect design for a knife for its given task, and to achieve this, uniquely in knife- making, he combines the latest hi-tech steels with the most traditional materials for the handles, all assembled with the utmost craftsmanship. He learnt all about knife -making, starting with the basics, completely on his own, so he has not been influenced by the methods of his fellow knife- makers. What has made Sharpblade so well-known so quickly in his profession are: his profound understanding of the components of various steels, and their behaviour; his
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knowledge of the wide range of uses blades are put to; the selection of the materials for handles, and their shape; and the incredibly clever design of the hand-made scabbard. But, for me, Sanyi's best quality is his absolute precision. He has now reached such a high level of hand-made engineering that it would seem impossible to get any better. I put Sanyi's knives on the same level as those other, regrettably rare, examples of exportable hand-made Hungarian products, like Zsolnay ceramics. I truly respect his work and attitude.
There are many excellent knives produced throughout the world, but - as in every field - there's only room at the top for one: and right now that is Sharpblade.
Master Roger has returned with fresh supplies. Yesterday, I begged him to bring some Gatorade and cans of coke. He has just unloaded everything, and there is enough of my favorite drinks to bathe in.
There are some guides who concentrate solely on the hunting, and work towards getting their clients' trophies of the right quality, size or even weight, but no more. And then there are others who have realised that most hunters - myself included - are after a more complete experience.
These guides will do everything to make their hunters have a good time. Jim and his team fall into this category. We are more like hunting partners than paying client and service provider. This is the sort of environment I feel most at home in. The bill, of course, must always be paid, and for that amount of money the hunting service must be provided, but there are a lot of different ways of doing it. It can be a simple business relationship, or one based on friendship.
I go for the second one.
All the other hunters left in the afternoon, so now the camp is empty.
Hunters, who come here from distant parts, usually want to hunt mule deer and elk. Those hunts generally last three, maximum four days. Some arrived after I did, shot the game they wanted, and are now on their way home. Apart from the staff, I'm the only person here. There are no new clients arriving for a while, so it's a chance for everyone to relax.
And, for a Wyoming hunting guide, relaxing means target practice.
So I'm happy; it's just what I like to do!
First, as a preliminary, they produce a couple of .22 caliber Long Rifle Revolvers. One belongs to Roger, but he's not certain why he carries it around in his car. Guns are so normal here in the US, so much a part of everyday life, that there's no point in asking what they are all for, or why they bought them. Though, if you have over forty guns in the gun room, then there seems to be little sense in buying a forty-fourth. But the history of this country has been written with guns. It is a fundamental part of the constitution that people are allowed to bear arms. If a politician, either
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at a local or federal level, starts to attack this right, or tries to restrict the carrying of guns, he will lose his next election.
This society could not, and will not, disarm itself.
The other .22 revolver belongs to Cenni. At least I know what this one is for: he uses it to excecute trapped coyotes. It is a well-maintained, silver-colored Smith&Wesson gun. Behind the camp I throw an empty plastic water bottle as far as I can, and my rifle range is ready.
I start with Roger's revolver. By the time I have emptied the magazine, I am learning just how far off-target the battered old thing shoots. As I empty the magazine for the second time, one of the shells, instead of making a little bang, gives a tired whistle. I open the cartridge drum, remove the bullets, and we look down the barrel. Yes, the bullet has got jammed. You must be careful in these cases - if the hunter repeats a shot the barrel could explode. The gun-sticks are to hand, but are too wide for the tiny bore. So Roger puts the useless lump of metal away. I empty a couple of more magazines with Cenni's gun, but I already have my eye on some of the others.
Roger then brings out two more revolvers from the depths of the jeep. Both are .44 caliber Magnums. One is a light-build S&W model, like the one my friend Randy has, and which I shot with in Brooks Range. The other is a long-barrelled, heavy-duty one, which is the easiest to shoot with. I use only one magazine for each; revolvers are not very dear to me. Roger's jeep is a mobile arsenal. Now, out comes a Brazilian-made, Springfield automatic pistol. Yes, it is the good old Colt 1911- A1 model. This gun is part of American culture, and an indispensible item in the national costume. I doubt if there's any gun enthusiast in the country who would not have at least one of these pistols. The ammunition for the lazy .45 ACP has huge stopping power, or so I've read in the literature about it. I empty one magazine with this as well. We collect all the spent cartridge cases; every one of them was filled at home. I am admiring Roger's .25-06 Winchester when - take note of this! - he gets out his sixth gun! It is an AR - 15 rifle. I tried Cenni's at the Saratoga rifle range, on the way here, but this is a different model. It has black insulating tape wound round the barrel for camouflage, and the caliber is .223 Remington. It is less than 3ft. long, and is easy to carry through undergrowth.
I've filled the magazine, so let's go! There is not much left of the water bottle.
This gun, the AR-15, is a very good invention. It is an obedient, well-balanced, accurate rifle, easy to handle, and a pleasure to shoot with.
In the evening we go for another coyote hunt.
I wheedle Roger into lending me his AR; I'd like to shoot my first coyote with it. As I'm getting into the vehicle, Cenni turns to me and asks if I want to shoot a buffalo! I don't understand; I have no permit for one, and I didn't even know there were buffalo here. He smiles slyly: leave it to him;
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today, he will ensure that I shoot a buffalo. Does he mean a cow? We can see enough of them, but they are not buffalo, and are not quite a typical game animal. Well, come what may, we move off in Greeny. We've been driving less than 10mins. when Cenni points out a hill: there is the buffalo! I look up… and, yes, there is a buffalo!
It is made of a sheet of metal, and supported 2ft. off the ground on iron bars. It is a favorite target for local hunters. You can shoot from any distance you like, providing you get no closer than 900ft. When you hit it, there is a metallic ring, though the eagle-eyed can even see the dust rising from the surface of the metal.
Behind the hill is a mountain, which acts as a bullet shield.
We walk down and across the plain, and measure the distance: 2100ft. I fit a bipod to the AR, aim 4 1/2ft. above the target, and a little to the right, because of the wind, and fire. I don't hit it, so I alter my aim and take another shot, again with no result. I don't continue; I can't work out how the gun has been set. Cenni has brought his 7mm Remington Magnum caliber. On the Leupold riflescope there is a customised tower, something I've seen a few times since I've been here. He
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only needs to set it to the right distance, and he can shoot. He doesn't have to count the clicks.
The Remington hits with the first and second shot. It is very loud; it has a compensator.
Now it's my turn, and I shoot the buffalo, too.
The tower works excellently.
We should really get on with the hunting!
We take up our positions quite a distance from each other so that we can scan a greater area, giving us a better chance of success. The caller is switched on. Cenni knows how to use the equipment very skillfully; he deliberately alternates the sound between a coyote and its prey. Only experience can tell you what sounds to use, how long to play them, and at what volume. Coyote hunters hold competitions among themselves, in which my guide is usually very successful. He has won several times through his clever use of the caller.
A beast appears on the ridge.
I move my gun, take aim,,, and miss. I feel irritated, I don't know what went wrong. After that shot we leave the caller on for a while, but nothing else comes near. Afterwards, I run up to the ridge, but can see no trail. Cenni tries to calm me down, saying that the short-barrelled AR was not designed for precision shooting over 700ft.
We go to another cover, looking down a valley, in the deepening twilight. The caller howls for 15mins. Cenni is now sitting beside me, and asks, in a whisper: Can you see it?
What?
What can be seen with the naked eye in this black night? He thinks the coyote is only 150ft. in front of us, but I can't see a thing. The guy must have infra-red cameras in his eyes, I'm sure of it.
No normal person could see anything here. I'm not an owl! Cenni is getting impatient, why don't I shoot! But where am I supposed to shoot; should I just fire randomly into the night? I open my eyes even wider, scrutinizing the area he's pointing at, inch by inch. All in vain. Either I'm blind, or he's playing some sort of joke. It's not the first time that the person I'm hunting with has spotted the game before I did. Professional hunters spend most of their lives on the hunting grounds, know them well, and know where to look and what for; so it's hardly surprising if they spot the game before the hunter, who might be there for the first time. However, up to now, I've always been able to see the game I'm trying to bag.
But I can't see a thing here, and don't understand how anyone else can. If it was our first hunt together, I'd swear he was trying to fool me. I don't know what to do; I feel like some half-wit.
Moving as slowly as possible, I pass him the AR; he can shoot instead of me. And then I stare into the inky blackness, trying to see what he wil aim at. I have the Benel i… he bends close to me again... can I see that paler patch?
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Does he mean there's some light black in the dark black? What is he talking about?
I try once more… and, yes, it is as if the night was slightly less dense in one spot. I've checked out that area, at least four times, and then it was still twilight, we weren't sitting in ink. Can that be the coyote? I aim at it, with the ful choke on my Benel i… Cenni makes an approving noise…
Bang!
He says I have hit it.
I'll never understand this night as long as I live. That there can be such a difference between two people's sight… But I'd just like to say, my eyes are not weak, and I'm not short-sighted. I can see perfectly well, and for long distances. Some sort of night-vision device is the only explanation…
But I have my coyote!
And that's what matters! Here it is, with its thick, soft fur, lying in front of me. He is a big one, one of the largest. So this is the renowned coyote! The camera flashes, and we shake hands. I'd like my trophy's skull to be boiled clean, and I explain this to Cenni. There's lots of time for that, so now we will head for home as it's getting late. The meat - like any predator's - is worthless, so we don't need to hurry with the gutting. We carry everything back to the jeep, with lots of laughing
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about the evening.
How strange! The coyote almost bumped into me, but I stil couldn't see it…
Greeny won't start.
Cenni checks the dashboard. In theory, everything is OK, so it should go. He lets the battery rest for a while, in case it runs down from overuse of the starter…
Greeny won't start.
The minutes pass slowly. It is not the time for a client to start asking stupid questions, so I just keep quiet. Greeny won't start.
Cenni gets out his cellphone. He might get a signal, or he might not. If he can, then a rescue team will come from the camp.
The cellphone has run down.
It doesn't even have enough power to send a text. We wait a few more minutes to see if the phone's battery will perk up, or if Greeny will change his mind. One more try with the starter, one more try with the phone…
Greeny won't start and the phone has completely run down.
That's it.
There's no point in keeping on trying. We just have to accept it and get on. We must decide what we'll do. One option is to stay here. Sooner or later they'll discover we're missing. Jeff and Roger know the area well, and are aware of the direction we set out. Even though the prairie is somewhat bigger than the City Park in Budapest, they won't bother to go to the areas where there are deer, because we were hunting coyote. That was the arrangement, as they don't like to disturb the deer with unnecessary noise. But, if we stay, we can expect a long, cold night.
The other option is to walk. It will be a long one. The camp is far behind us, but we do know the way back. We discuss it, and go for the second option. We only have one head flashlight between us, as I didn't bring anything with me. I was prepared for a hunt by car, not a survival trip. We leave our guns behind, and only take the S&W revolver. I hold my Fortis watch in front of a headlight, to charge up its luminosity. We are going to walk briskly. We will not stop until we reach the camp. It would not be a good idea to spend the night half-way.
Let's look on the bright side.
The weather is good. Not too cold, there's no precipitation, and, unusually, there is no wind either.
Both of us have excellent boots, and good socks, as well. We are both fit, and can put up with a few difficulties. We have one light, which is better than none at all. That is something. There are
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no particularly dangerous animals around. Pumas - or mountain lions, as they are known locally -
are not uncommon; we've seen their trails several times. Even though there are some puma attacks every year, they are rare, and hardly ever prove fatal. And if a puma did decide to attack us now, we would empty the entire magazine of the turkey-chaser revolver into it, and then start to fight it with our bare hands. That's the plan.
We are walking across the pitch dark prairie. The deep Wyoming night covers us.
With the Milky Way, far above, stretching over us.
We are making quite swift progress, at least 3 - 4mph. The terrain is easy, there are no gradients, and the track is almost flat. We just have to watch out for coyote holes, which lie there sneakily, waiting to break our ankles.
We don't talk, but not because we are in a bad mood. We have to focus on our path, and do not want to slacken our speed. We must keep up our pace.
Distances here are enormous. In Hungary, the basic rule is that, if you get lost up in the mountains, you must walk downhill for 2hrs. or so, keeping to the same direction. If you can do that, you are bound to come to some sign of habitation, or at least be close to one, irrespective of wherever you started. But here you could walk for two months without seeing another human being. We hope that our journey won't last that long.
We take no rests, not wanting to waste the time. We just keep walking.
We get back to camp late at night, just as the rescue team is about to leave. The jeeps' engines are already running. I pounce on a bottle of Gatorade, and down it in one gulp. The other residents of the camp gather round - at least, those who are still up, or have been woken by the general bustle - they want all the details of our adventure. In a kind gesture, Jim, the outfitter, presents me with a beautiful coyote skin, as a souvenir of the day.
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Deer Hunt Camp