This morning, after exchanging various messages and phone calls, we decided that Patti, Babsie's sister, is going to be my driver. She's due to arrive at 12.00, so my morning is free, giving me time to visit the Big Bear Sport Center again, where this time I manage to excercise some self-restraint, and don't buy anything. I'm down in the hotel lounge at noon. Patti arrives right on time in her mega-size Ford 150 pickup. We load up and set off.
This small truck is quite comfortable, and all my luggage is close at hand so, finally, I need not worry that some airline is going to lose it. Patti has brought along her delightful little daughter who (to me) speaks English so cutely that it is a pleasure to listen to her. We fill up the tank on the outskirts of Billings, where we also pop into a Macdonalds, and afterwards - for safety's sake - I pick up a pack of Millar beer. There's a long journey ahead.
Babsie Bishop lives in Malta, 200 mi. from Billings. We quickly leave the town and get on the road. There is no highway, at least it's a good road.
I can't get enough of the scenery; this is a very enjoyable car journey. It makes a pleasant change to see all the colors of nature. Montana is a real "Western" state. The endless prairie, the distant mountains, the scattered ranches along the road and the sparse sedge bushes are all straight out of a Clint Eastwood movie. I can see cattle dotted over the landscape, but no sign of any buildings. They must be reared in the open air all year round. Nothing blocks the view, we can see for miles in the clear air. Occasionally a little island of green appears, where - who knows why - just like an oasis, there are a few trees. The sky is blue, the sunlight sparkles and country music is coming from the radio, though not for long, as we travel out of range of the station's signal, and Patti has to change to a satellite channel.
Life is slow in Montana.
For 200 miles we have not passed another car, nor has anyone overtaken us. The road runs as straight as an arrow. Half-way through the journey we stop at a run-down gas station, where the derelict building seems to be held together by nothing more than the threads of time. There's a small restaurant adjoining the shop, but I wouldn't fancy eating there. Inside there are hunters
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sitting around, dressed in flamboyant orange vests and caps. For a while, I considered wearing these highly visible colors while out hunting a sort of American fad. I used to think they weren't necessary to hunt safely. Even Széchenyi inveighed against these unnatural colors for hunting.
ut as the years passed, and hunting accidents in Hungary increased, the popularity of the blaze orange vests and clothes slowly grew. After hearing of so many accidents, my opinion has changed: today there is no way I would participate in a group hunt without at least wearing a brightly-colored cap. I'm still not very keen on it, and I'm not very pleased that these clothes are now part of the basic hunting uniform. Unfortunately, it says a lot about the type of people who turn up carrying guns in our forests. The rule, however, is very simple: don't take a shot until you know what you're aiming at. You must not shoot at noises, movement, colors, hunches and who knows what other elusive things. If every hunter learned this, then there might never be another hunting accident in the world.
That is to say: guns themselves are not dangerous.
There are few safer and more predictable things in the world than firearms. To prove this, an American gun enthusiast carried out a very intersting and informative experiment, with indisputable results. He took a loaded revolver and placed it on a table with the safety-catch off.
Via a webcam above the table, the life of the revolver could be viewed 24hrs. a day . This went on for days, perhaps even weeks. Not once did the revolver jump up and start firing! With this experiment he refuted, once and for all, the argument that guns are dangerous.
It is the man behind the gun, who is dangerous.
In the distance, mountains start to appear. I ask their name, but it is unnecessary, really: they are the Rocky Mountains. Whenever you see a mountain in America, you can be pretty sure that, if it isn't the Rockies, it's a spur, branch or whatever of them. It's easy to learn geography this way...
We've been driving through the deserted landscape for four hours, before we reach Malta. We drive around a small settlement of 1500 people, before stopping in front of a wood-framed house: this is where I shall be spending the next few nights, the home of the Bishop family and headquarters of the pronghorn hunt.
Babsie Bishop is a 54-year-old, wiry man, with a ramrod-straight back and short white hair, who welcomes me with a broad smile to his unusually-furnished house. My host's enthusiasm for Coca-Cola is obvious. Throughout the house there are advertisements and objects bearing the Coca-Cola logo; these make up most of the decoration. The emblem is hanging on the walls, it's what you see on top of the wardrobes, and there is even a glass case for coke memorabilia. I myself am partial to this drink, but, even to me, this seems a bit over-the-top. There are a few
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cases of coke lying around the floor, but they are purely decorative, and, as they compliment the general decor, you're not allowed to touch them. Despite this peculiarity, the house feels cosy, and I shall be sleeping downstairs. I have an excellent room, on my own, and share a bathroom with my fellow hunters. We have a variety of soaps, toothpastes and other accessories to choose from: I can't complain about the accommodation. Tomorrow I begin the hunt with two other hunters. The others don't drink beer - I'm generally slightly suspicious of the teetotaller tribe. I should remember the names of the others I have met, but sadly, I can't. I hope that, during the short time I will be spending here, I'll learn at least some of their names. My thoughtful host has left a book on pronghorns, and another on pheasant shooting, on my bedside table. I will study them this evening. We share the house with the family, and I can see that our hosts manage to achieve a good balance between the guests' comfort and a family atmosphere.
I arrange with Babsie to take some test shots before the hunt.
Toni Bishop is making a Mexican version of a lasagne for dinner.
It is delicious.
Babsie Bishop's House
The Town of Malta