To show how easily standards can slip in hunting circles, let me give you this example.
I know a gentleman who considers himself to be a True Hunter. His hunting clothes and equipment are the most traditional that you can find. For him to wear camouflage, or use a gun with a plastic butt, would be unthinkable, to such a degree that, whenever he sees something like that, he feels obliged to give a lecture to the hunter who has gone so far astray. After bagging something, he always sticks to the correct procedures in the most exemplary way. If a Hungarian hunter uses current hunting terms, instead of the old-fashioned, traditional ones, then he will reprimand him; and he will wear in his hat, for 24hrs., a leaf dipped in the blood of the game he has shot. But, despite all that, he will still sit outside his hide using a night-vision sight, which is
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absolutely illegal. I imagine many of you have come across similar hunters, haven't you?
As the appetite for more and more baggings increases, people allow each other, and themselves especially, far greater flexibility in their behavior. And if other hunting topics crop up, perhaps not directly linked to successful shooting, many of us feel that we are the source of all wisdom on the subject, though, of course, all those thousands of other Hungarian hunters are free to have their own opinions, as long as they are the same as ours.
I try not to make this mistake, and the experiences I've had during my American trip have helped me a lot.
I've met so many hunters. All have been real individuals, with their own diverse views on hunting.
The evening conversations were almost always made up of contrasting opinions. Caliber, optics, clothes, equipment… al are fields where there is never just one option. Because there's always more than one way of getting there. To achieve success - in an ethical way - there are always several routes. Here in the US, if a hunter is using methods that are different to ours, we do not berate him on why our ways are the best, and we don't try to convince him, by any means possible, that he should adopt them. Here, nobody is bothered about educating his fellows. This is an important outlook, and one in which the Americans are way ahead of us Hungarians.
In this respect they have a lot to teach us.
You won't find divisive views published in American hunting journals. No irresponsible, groundless denunciations. They do not talk about poor or rich hunters, and you won't guess someone's social status from their behavior. And that is important. I once was speaking to a fellow hunter for days, in the most informal way, before finally discovering that his family owned a chain of banks, famous throughout the US.
Here there is no difference between those who use Magnums, and those who use basic calibers.
We don't read about who wears camouflage, or who wears traditional clothes. It is a widely held belief that in such minor matters the final decision rests with the individual. They will not be ruled by their peers: the freedom of the individual is paramount. The end result of all this is that - and I do mean this - I have never heard one argument between hunters in any of the camps I've been in. And that always makes for a good atmosphere.
Another issue that can divide the hunting community is the use of tools, equipment, or items that have a military origin or appearance. There are many who would like to draw a distinct line between hunting and military engineering. This aim is, quite rightly, I think, supported by the argument that there should be no room in hunting for anything reminding us of the horrors of war, and that the bagging of game should not degenerate into a mere killing process, something that has defined warfare since the beginning of time.
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But on this subject, also, everyone should be free to choose his own way. And the best one is generally somewhere in the middle. To completely ignore any military-inspired devices is not really feasible.
At the dawn of history there was no soldier or hunter.
Our ancestors hacked each other to pieces, and hunted for survival, using the same weapons.
They would be most baffled if, using a time machine, we were to travel back and lecture them on the moral difference between the two activities. As there was no substantial difference between hunter and warrior at that time, it means that, from a modern perspective, any attempt to differentiate between them would be pointless. As to why things were like that, we must ask the historians, though the reason seems quite clear to me: man is part of earth's biosphere, and his body structure, and physiology are very similar to those of the creatures he hunts. In prehistorical times if someone wanted to kill a man, he would use the same weapons that had already proved their worth in hunting; and that idea works both ways.
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In our modern times a hunter and a soldier are not necessarily identical, though we know that many talented hunters were also soldiers - remember Colonel Patterson, the killer of the Tsavo man-eaters at the beginning of my diary. They often went hunting with their military hardware.
Since the dawn of time weapons used for both hunting and warfare have evolved side by side, and now they are inseparable.
Whether we like it or not, we hunt with tools that have military origins.
However we try and camouflage the fact, dress it up in new clothes, re-wrap it, or disguise it with a nicely carved gun-butt, it doesn't change the reality. It was the arms industry that was able to finance the research that led to better and more effective guns. The father of modern repeaters, the Mauser M 98, would not have been created without the designers in the arms industry, or the profit the manufacturers expected to make. Today, anyone holding a complex, richly engraved Mauser, considered throughout Europe to be the ultimate hunting gun, cannot ignore the fact that hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of people all over the world have been killed with this
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gun.
It is a fact.
And it is also a fact that, when the designers were developing the ammunition, such as the 30-06
Springfield, the 8 x 55 Mauser, the .308 Winchester and the 6.5 x 55 Swedish, all beloved by so many of us, animal hunting would not have been foremost in their minds. They wanted to design a bullet that would be most effective in killing a fellow human being, because that is what war is all about. All these bullets were originally designed for military purposes. Of course, we can, hypocritically, ignore these historical facts, but they are still the facts.
And we may be certain that the need for the riflescope, the laser sight, and modern hi-tech clothing were first spotted by the arms industry. These products all proved their worth on the battlefield before the manufacturers, modifying them slightly for hunting use, but retaining their basic functions, made them available to civilians.
But this relationship has worked both ways.
Many hunters, during times of war, made very good marksmen and scouts. Our hunting forefathers gained much valuable knowledge while observing game and studying the landscape out in the wilds, information that was of great importance to warring parties.
Even so, by accepting and acknowledging the input of the arms industry, to a certain degree, it does not mean that tomorrow we are going to set off to our hide carrying rocket-propelled grenade launchers on our shoulders. And I do not think we should go hunting in combat helmets.
(Although, if the number of hunting accidents caused by irresponsible behavior does not decrease, I might consider it.)
We must just accept that, for each hunter, the happy medium lies in a different place. There are some who would never use an AR - 15 when hunting coyote. There are others who would never wear camouflage clothing, even if it was specifically made for hunting, and had no military connotations. Presumably, they would never swap their nice hunting hat for a baseball cap. And there are others who are more than happy to take advantage of any newly developed gadgets.
They are the ones who are the first to use the equipment, tools and other items devised by the military, providing the laws of their country permit them to do so.
As for me, I'm not against new attitudes in hunting, and I feel that there is no such thing as unethical equipment. Only the hunter can be unethical in his use of it, abusing the power of technology.
Hungarian law does not allow any hunting with the weapon that appeared in camp this morning. It is in a black case, which is so heavy that I can barely lift it. It is a gun that has little to do with
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hunting. It is a make that everybody has heard of, but which few Hungarians will have used. We know it from literature, and have only ever seen its image in magazines and videos. Some lucky ones might have seen it at exhibitions abroad. In Hungary it is illegal merely to own it. It is a gun which has a capacity closer to a cannon than what Hungarian hunters think of as a gun. There is nothing in the world able to resist the brutal energy released from its barrel.
It is not just a gun: it is a Legend.
It is the Bushmaster Marksmen Gun.
Or, as it is better known: The Destroyer.
Caliber: .50 BMG
This monster is used by specially trained marksmen, for specific tasks. There is nowhere to hide from its terrifying capacity bullets. Any form of shelter is pointless: this bullet will penetrate anything. If a live target tries to hide behind a wall made of brick, or even re-inforced concrete, hundreds of feet away, he might feel that he is safe. Out of harm's way. And, if the marksmen hunting him are using the usual.308 Winchester, or a .338 Lapua Magnum, he would be right.
But,if one of them is carrying a .50BMG then there is no chance of escape. The target is a dead man, he just doesn't know it. Because, within seconds of hearing a clap of thunder, like a bomb exploding, a large, heavy, red-hot bullet will start its murderous journey, piercing the re-inforced concrete in moments. It will pass through brick, and light armor; the strongest bullet-proof vests will not even momentarily slow down this flying death. Today on the 8th October 2009, through the generosity of its owner, I will have the never-to-be-repeated opportunity to try out the Destroyer! I never thought I'd ever get the chance.
I can hardly wait for the hunters to return. I have stayed in camp, staring at the case of the Destroyer. It is here in the tent just 1 1/2ft. from me. Sometimes I pick it up, when there's no-one looking. I don't dare to open it, though I'd love to examine it, to hold it in my hands.
.50 BMG!
A ruthless gun.
My .300 Winchester Magnum is considered by many to be too powerful for Hungarian hunting conditions. But, compared to the Destroyer, it is a silly little toy, an airgun you'd use at a fairground stall. It comes nowhere near it; seriously: not even close. In case this diary is ever read by a non-hunting person, someone who has no idea about guns, I'll give them a comparison.
Assume my gun is a very powerful BMW. That would then make the Destroyer a nuclear-powered Nimitz-class aircraft carrier.
There isn't now, and never has been on this earth, an animal that would require this beast.
There's no reasonable argument to justify its use. The owner is a gun collector, who normally only uses it at a rifle range, but one day he would like to hunt with it, namely for pronghorn. If ever
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the Hungarian saying "To hunt a sparrow with a cannon" can be said to be literally true, it is in this case.
They finally get back.
I'm on tenterhooks; I quickly give my congratulations for the bagged mule deer, and nervously wait to set off. Apart from the owner, it's going to be Cenni, Jeff, Roger, and myself who are going to be lucky enough to have one shot each with this beast. We form a little group of wise men, deciding where we are going to fire it.
We have two concerns: the first is over the exceptionally loud noise it makes, which might disturb the game, and the second is the potential danger that the bullet flying from the barrel might present. For the .50BMG the usual safety measures are inadequate. A special rifle range is required for its use. We have to find a place with a solid bullet shield behind it, where the bullet is not going to cause any problems if the shooter misses his target. Jim, as leader of the camp, makes his decision, and we eventually set off.
There are huge mounds of gravel standing on our temporary rifle range. If the bullet can get through one of those - and none of us actually knows what this gun is capable of - there is then an open area in every direction of several miles, where we can see no sign of movement, even after scanning it with our binoculars. But if the bullet does manage to get that far, it will then be blocked by the surrounding semi-circle of mountains. We think we've found the right place.
We laugh and joke, but underneath we are all very on edge. I quickly announce that I wish to be the last one to shoot. They assemble the gun and Cenni will have the first shot. Because I'm expecting an enormous explosion of noise, I'm wearing ear plugs as well as my ear- defenders.
Also, I'm nervous about the gases released by the compensator, so I stand well behind Cenni. If it all goes according to plan, nothing is going to come in this direction. But, if anything does go wrong… if the barrel were to explode... then it's goodbye for al of us.
He is getting ready… taking aim ... and the gun makes such a roar, such a great roar, that I can feel the sound vibrating through my body. Cenni is smiling away behind the riflescope, and nobody has been injured. We are all grinning from ear to ear, everyone likes this monster.
Supposedly it doesn't have a big kick. We are going one after the other, but I'm still just watching.
I want to know what to expect. But the waiting is over; now it is my turn. I load it, but do not close the bolt far enough, so the owner gives me a hand. I see a MIL-DOT reticule. I hold my head back as far as I can, so I can only see the target through a smal circle. The trigger is stiff… I pul it… it is a noise I could never get used to. It real y didn't give me much of a kick, but, even so, the recoil was far greater than with any other gun I've ever fired.
I feel rather sad when I have to hand it back; I wouldn't mind a few more shots with it.
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What a gun!
I can't actually say it was fun shooting with it, but it was certainly a unique experience. I shall keep the ejected cartridge case - the size of a frankfurter - as a souvenir. I'll never forget this day, that's for sure.
I have shot with a BMG!
In camp Jim gives me some bad news: there's a snowstorm heading for Wyoming.
I'm supposed to travel tomorrow, but if I get stuck here, my travel plans will collapse. My plane leaves Laramie at 8.30am on the 10th October, and I have to be on it. We had thought that leaving at 4.30am would give me adequate time to get there, but now, with this new forecast, Jim doesn't think it's a good idea any more. When the storm arrives, all the highways will be closed.
This afternoon, as soon as possible, we must leave.
The news is a complete surprise. I'd have liked to spend one more night in the caravan. I would have liked to have one more hunt with these big-hearted cowboys.
But I have to go.
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And, once again, there are the sad moments. Packing the bags, the sound of the zips - to me, these always signal the end of a hunt - putting on my street clothes, packing my gun away… I don't like these times. Just 1/2hr. later my bags are stowed in Jeff's minivan. We try to keep the farewel s brief. Some rather awkward jokes, handshakes… no-one seems pleased that we're all parting. In a way, it's a good feeling, as I only like to hunt with other people who also feel sad when we split up. There is a little comfort in the fact that one day I will come back here. There are still some species here that make my mouth water, but for which the season is now closed.
We leave the camp.
The majority of roads in Wyoming are of beaten earth. In a jeep it is easy to drive at 60mph on these hard earth roads. We are driving over a completely deserted plain, using a different route to the one I arrived on. This way is shorter, apparently. I ask Jeff if people ever disappear on the prairie. If the car was to break down here, who would ever find us, and when?
Jeff says disappearances are rare. Whenever somebody sets out, he will always alert the place he is travelling to. Then, if he doesn't arrive on time, they don't hang around, but send out a search party immediately. The one rule you must never break is: do not leave the road!
By the time we reach the highway, the snow has started falling. When we get to Laramie it is 18ins. deep. The temperature has dropped 50F within a couple of hours. It is now 14F. and there is a strong wind. Jeff says this kind of weather is unusual right now; normally it comes a month later. We have time for a little quick shopping, so Jeff drives me around town. To make sure that I don't forget that this really is the wild west, he takes me to see the old jail, now out of use. For a while two of the most famous train robbers in the whole of the wild west were locked up here: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
We have dinner in a grill restaurant. Jeff also invited his daughter and her husband, and his younger son and his girlfriend. We spend the early evening drinking lots of beer, and chatting non-stop. Later we drive to his daughter's house because they have refused to let me stay in a hotel. There, I quickly log on to the internet: what I see there confirms that we made the right decision today. On the map around Laramie are black exclamation points; every road, in and out, has been closed. The town is cut off from the outside world. If we'd left at dawn, tomorrow we wouldn't even have got as far as the highway. Well, it's always wise to do what the locals say.
I'm going to be sleeping on a comfortable mattress, inflated by a motor; meanwhile I'm being asked rapid questions about my journey so far. They are nice, friendly people. Although they hardly know me they have offered their house to stay in, without being asked.
In the evening we continue drinking at a nearby bar, with some family friends.
