I always consider a hunting diary in which everything goes smoothly to be rather suspicious. A story in which the game is bagged one after the other, there are no unnecessary detours and the author never goes home empty-handed, is somewhat unlikely. In my experience hunting is not like this. To be able to bag an animal requires a favorable combination of many factors, and that doesn't always happen. Quite often hunting sucks. There are many banana skins to slip on.
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When re-reading my diary, or just running through it in my mind, I can see that during this expedition I have always been successful on the very first day of every hunt. Any animal that I shot on a following day was always the second example of the species I was hunting. (Such was my second musk-ox and the caribou in Canada.)
How could I be so lucky?
I don't have such good results even on my familiar Hungarian hunting grounds. There's no guaranteed formula for bagging anywhere, unless it is "canned-hunting", where it's not so easy to make a mistake, but even then things do not always go well on the first day. I don't think this good fortune is down to me. The reason for it will be found in the expertise and experience of my guides. I can confidently state about all my guides that they were never guessing at the movement of the game: they knew it. That's what makes the difference. Good guides can be distinguished from bad ones by the fact that, amongst other things, they spend time, money and energy in studying the game stock in their hunting grounds. They do not wander about aimlessly, just hoping to come across something, but take their clients directly to the place where the game is most likely to be. Their clients have just two things to do: the first is to follow their guides'
instructions, even if they don't agree with them. I never try to outsmart a local hunter. And the second is that he should grab every opportunity offered by his guide to shoot game. That's down to him; the guide can't help him in that, or at least, in the better organizations, they won't. I think the client has to focus solely on these two factors. If he can do that, he'll have done enough to put another foreign trophy on his wall.
After the usual alarm-call just before 6.00, and then breakfast, we drive back to the reserve. I've packed up my gun and have only brought my camera, my video-camera and my binoculars. We have a new companion, Herb, also here to hunt antelope. The main task for today is for Herb to successfully "kill" a pronghorn. (In American English they use the term kill, instead of bag as we do in Hungarian. In talking about my journey with local people I often say sentences such as this:
"In Alaska I killed a Dall sheep and two caribou and then in Canada I killed two musk-ox and two more caribou." What a massacre!)
Herb sits in front, I'm in the back, listening to the conversation going on in front of me.Herb is 65, and a real American cowboy. These American pensioners look very young. He's hunting in jeans, a camouflage shirt and a baseball cap: a cheerful, contented man. I hope I'm like him when I get to that age. To my great sorrow, we have to use the car. We are temporarily without the Polaris.
Herb calmly watches the game and, as usual, Babsie laughs all the way. After driving for 30
minutes, we reach my beloved Polaris: we have definitely been missing each other. It hasn't been forgotten how much I like to drive it, so I'm allowed back into the driving seat. I drive for just 10
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minutes before handing the wheel to Babsie. The success of a hunt depends seriously on who is driving the machine. You have to know when to start off, how fast, and which direction to go, what route to take if you need to overtake a herd of animals, and where the cover that shields a vehicle from sharp eyes ends... All this is just a part of what makes the Polaris such an effective tool in the hands of an experienced antelope hunter. I don't want to risk reducing Herb's chances by my driving.
Babsie soon spots a beautiful buck and we approach it under the cover of a bench. They both head for the top of the hill, I stay in my seat and follow them through my binoculars. An old hunter once said to me that, in stalking, even one man is too many. If you include the guide, who is indispensable, it becomes obvious why I stayed in the Polaris. I've been given a walkie-talkie and Babsie will call me if they need a lift or my help. He must trust me as he leaves me in charge of the expensive Polaris all the time.
They are getting further away.
They seem to be whispering intently. They are gesticulating and explaining and don't seem to be able to reach an agreement. Finally, they return to the vehicle. The have spotted an even better buck than the one that originally roused their interest. It's in a very incovenient position, so we will now try to ambush it. Our guide produces his decoy antelope once more and climbs on to the roof of the Polaris. He unfolds it and starts moving back and forth, trying to imitate the movement of a pronghorn. We hope it will encourage the pronghorn to come closer.
Unfortunately, it's too clever for that.
The hunt continues by car. Sitting in the back seat, I don't really have anything to worry about -
my trophy is safely in storage - but I cross my fingers that Herb will be lucky on his first day out hunting. Because then we can continue the bird hunt that we started yesterday, as well as trying a so-called varmint hunt. This is a typical American pastime, though it is found in other parts of the world too; but the true experts and masters are only to be found in the New World. The essence of this type of hunt is that the millions of vermin living out on the prairie are reduced by bullets rather than poison. It is good for everyone except the vermin. It is a good opportunity for the hunter to practice his aim, it is a good source of income for the organizors and it is also, unlike poison, environmentally friendly. If only we can get that antelope soon!
We want to take advantage of all the undulations in the terrain. The hills on the margin of the prairie have been chosen for our stalking today, we are not even going to attempt to do it in an exposed area. Although we could well give it a try, as some antelope behave very strangely. A normal, healthy pronghorn will run off if it so much as spots a man even a mile away, but
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apparently there are retarded, backward bucks too. They will wait for us to get within 150-300ft., staring blankly at the Polaris. We almost run them down. The only reason for their survival is that they have small, low-quality horns, and so are not of any interest to an ambitious hunter.
We carefully approach the brim of the hill... but Babsie suddenly slams the Polaris into reverse.
Below us the antelope are swarming!
He's going to get the decoy pronghorn from the trunk... it's not there. In our great rush we have left it behind somewhere. He asks me to drive back along our track to see if I can find it, while they try to get within shooting range without it. So I set off back. I'm unable to go further than 1800ft. as after that I can't see our tracks clearly. I haven't brought a GPS with me and I don't want to get lost on the Montana prairie. While I'm driving, I think how difficult it must be to navigate in a landscape with hardly any features. Once I read a story about the problems of orientation in the desert for the Foreign Legion. In certain areas they were forced to build metal towers to provide landmarks. Sand is constantly moving and among the wandering dunes only a tall structure would remain a permanent landmark. Local tribes, however, drive their camels right across the desert, once a year, to be sold at market. In order that the unsold camels have food on the return journey, from time to time, they leave behind a bale of fodder as they travel. On the way back, on each trip, they are able to find the bales, despite having no instruments for navigation, or, as it is daylight, being able to use the stars for guidance. The Legion has never been able to utilize this ability, although it is quite possible - this is my personal opinion - that the tribesmen just didn't want to teach them. In African hunting tales there are almost always trackers whose unbelievable prowess at orientation is continually mentioned by the author. It's an interesting question as to whether this knowledge is the result of study and experience from early childhood, or whether people living close to nature have retained these indefinable and unquantifiable abilities, which in "civilized" societies seem to have died out. As I've said previously, in the case of the wolf Nicolai, there is a huge difference between the brains of dogs and wolves. Brain functions that dogs no longer required slowly disappeared; this can be seen by comparing the brain size. I must learn more about this.
I'l soon be back at the point where we split up… but where exactly was it… I stop as I am uncertain. I have a radio, but I don't want to use it as they are still stalking. I wouldn't want to ruin their hunt by chirping over the rado… I climb up on top the Polaris to take a look around… and, guess what? There's the decoy! It is very lucky that I didn't lose it somewhere. Herb and Babsie return without having fired a shot. With his unshakeable good humor, Babsie learns that he had left the decoy on the Polaris.
Now we are all in good spirits.
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We descend into a sheltered valley from where they intend to climb up the hill. Once more I'm left alone. I'm taking photographs and videoing my surroundings, happy to be on my own. I listen to the grasshoppers. Every time I take a step, clouds of grasshoppers rise about me. I have never seen so many in one single place. Their wings make them sound like little helicopters. I can only guess at what they are doing, all these millions here together.
The sun is getting higher and higher. The air is getting warmer, and soon it will be hot. Each time we stop, we open up the cool-box and drink some coke or mineral water. I've just realised that I have a companion. In preparation for some bird shooting, Babsie has brought along one of his dogs. He is sitting in a portable kennel, on the platform at the back, looking out sadly. I don't dare let him out, so, instead, I stroke him through the bars.
There's a distant bang…
I press the buttons on the Motorola radio to find out the result. Herb's shot has hit its mark! A successful "kill". I congratulate him from afar, start up the Polaris, and try to find my way to my companions. I drive up to the top of the hill; the valley suddenly opens up in front of me. The bare hills embrace the green valley in a great circle, like a crater. The inner slopes are steep, like a precipice: I can't see any way down, but this is where I have to go. Down, in the depths, I can see Babsie waving and I wave back, but it doesn't help me to get any closer. Over the radio I tell Babsie that I need his advice, as I have run out of ideas. He can't see any solution either, so they decide to walk up to me. They leave the antelope behind as neither want to carry it up in this heat, which is quite understandable. Babsie then takes over the driving as we expect to do some difficult maneuvres in the Polaris. Searching for a way down, we return to the grove-like valley with the little river dividing it in two. We have to cross, but cannot see a safe place to ford it. The river bed is is not firm and stony, but muddy and soft, and does not hold hold out much hope for us.
Driver Babsie decides to risk it.
He hits the gas pedal and the engine roars. We three members of the crew hold on (with both hands) to whatever we can, and yell at the top of our lungs, as if we are on a rollercoaster. And so we try to spur on the Polaris, our brave little jeep, to an even greater effort. However, all this encouragement proves to be in vain. The water floods in over the floor - I barely have time to raise my boots - and the wheels sink up to their axles in the river: we are stuck. The chassis itself is resting on the river bed. This unexpected turn of events is greeted by howls of laughter for several minutes, and we recount our versions of the story to each other with loud guffaws. It is only when all this is over that the rescue operation begins. Babsie unwinds the cable from the
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winch and fixes it to a boulder in front of us. Herb operates the winch by remote control, as, from the very beginning of all this, I told them that I am no longer a hunter, but a camera man, and must not be relied on to help. I switch on my Sony videocam, as this scene has to be immortalised for posterity. Slowly, the electric motor pulls the jeep, but we are not out of trouble quite yet. We need to be winched a little bit further, but cannot find a suitable place to attach the cable. Our guide finds a dry piece of wood in the undergrowth, stamps it into the ground, like a peg, and then loops the cable around it. It doesn't look a very stable arrangement, but it seems to work. The wheels reach the stony bank, and from then on there are no more obstacles, and the machine can be driven out.
To celebrate our success Babsie releases his dog. He runs around, enjoying his freedom.
There's one more slope to come, which I would take great care on, even if I was descending it by foot. Babsie, however, recklessly drives the vehicle straight down an almost vertical drop.
I can not over-praise the Polaris. I don't understand why it isn't widely known in Hungary. It could
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be used from early spring through to late autumn, and would be better suited to the hunting conditions than ordinary jeeps. It has no doors, so you don't have to worry about closing them, and you can leap out with your gun at any time. It gives you a clear view of all the surroundings, and can get to inaccessible areas which it would be impossible to reach by car. It also goes over all ditches and bumps smoothly. There is a special place to hold the guns, so that they are always close to hand. It's so practical that even hunting with it for an entire day is not uncomfortable. There's enough room for four people, their guns, and whatever game is bagged, as well.
We reach the pronghorn.
It is a nice trophy, but it won't set any records, even though it is a fine example of the species.
Innumerable photos are taken, and afterwards we have our sandwiches for lunch. The cans of coke hiss loudly as they are opened.
Now the bird hunt can start!
I pick up the caliber I used yesterday, and Herb takes his automatic shotgun. They must be well used to each other, as Herb has been using this very gun for pheasant shooting for the last 55(!) years. He was given it at the age of ten, and is so satisfied with it that he wouldn't dream of changing it. We two hunters stay with the vehicle while Babsie and the dog go down into the valley. The poor thing is wearing an electric belt around his body. If he misbehaves, his master can assert his authority by giving him a mild electric shock; this is how he disciplines it.
While there is almost no vegetation on the hills and plains, down here in the valley, with the creeks running through it, and protected from the wind, there are large bushes as well as trees.
It's an ideal place for small game to hide. We will watch out for any birds that are raised by Babsie and his dog, and then drive in the Polaris to wherever they land.
Let's get started!
Our system works with varying degrees of success. The undergrowth is so dense, that when we finally get to the place where we think the birds have landed, we can never be absolutely sure that it really is the right spot.
"Did they land here, or was it in that other thicket?" "Are you asking me? How would I know?" -
This is how our conversation runs. Still, we manage to shoot five Hungarian Partridges, and, by sheer chance, one of them is mine. I have shot my second bird in Montana! (I'm not going to tell you how much ammunition it took to get it. A lot,)
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We switch to varmint hunting. A prairie dog appears in the reticle.
These little pests live in holes they dig in the ground, each one looking like a large mole-hill. They are cunning little creatures, and never venture far from the entrance to the burrow. And that is where you have to shoot them. If you make a mistake they will just dive back underground. I, frankly, don't have enough ammunition to waste on all this fun, but there are several guns to hand of Babsie's. For shooting varmints he uses .223 caliber Remington bullets and a Remington 700
rifle with a 4x12 magnification Leupold sight. He has brought this with him, along with a box of fifty bullets. I am happy with this arrangement; the Remington is a much better rifle than people realise. I have a 700 myself, and am completely satisfied with it. Leupold is one of the two usable makes of American sights (the other is NightForce). But shooting with this particular gun ... at first, I thought that there was a fault with the safety catch, that I hadn't released it. But no, that is normal for this gun. If there's any gun with a stiff trigger, it's this one. And that is the least of its problems. The major one is that it has not been tested. I only discover that after my third shot. I know that with a correctly adjusted gun I would have hit the target. I hand it over to Herb and
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Babsie, but neither of them can shoot accurately with it either. The bullets are going above, or to the right of the target.
They start to adjust the riflescope.
Well, trying to adjust a riflescope, during a hunt, while out in the middle of the prairie, is unlikely to end happily. The situation just gets worse and worse. Even from 90ft. away I'm off target - and not by a small amount. We're just banging away uselessly, so we soon stop.
We head back to the highway in our motorised "cart".
The other hunters have had a good day too, and the number of bucks on the plains is rapidly diminishing. We all have nice, healthy tans from the strong sun, and my arms have even got sunburnt. There are huge differences between my hunt here in Montana and my previous one up north. The weather, the style, the terrain and the vegetation ... all were completely new to me, but I'm finally getting used to them. I'm sad that I'll be leaving this state the day after tomorrow. I feel good here; the atmosphere and company are excellent.
My Under Armor jacket has fallen out of the Polaris, somewhere. We were using it as a gun rest during our varmint hunt, and it was left on the open-air platform of the Polaris, where the wind must have blown it off as we were driving. I'm really upset about it, as it's become my favorite item of clothing from The Big Cabela's Box that I had sent to Anchorage. I hadn't taken it off for weeks: we were bound together by dirt and time. I could buy myself another, identical, one, but it won't feel the same. I tell Babsie the cause of my grief, and he immediately gives me some hope: no-one else has been out there since us, so it must still be there. We go back to look for it.
Suddenly Babsie cries out: there's the jacket! This is possibly the only item of clothing I have that is not camouflage, but black, which is very lucky, as trying to spot a camouflage jacket lying on the ground would not have been easy.
We have roast turkey for dinner.
Babsie Bishop's House
The Town of Malta