Oregon Hunting

Like many kids, I spent most of my warm weather weekends as a youth at a campground with my family. It wasn't exactly "roughing it" but it always seemed like an adventure, except for the food. Apparently there is some secret camper's code that says the only forms of sustenance allowed at a campground are hot dogs, potato chips and fire-blackened marshmallows, because that is what we had just about every time that we went. When I was a kid, I never gave it a second thought.

I grew up hunting in the Midwest where a half-hour hike from the road was considered remote and wilderness was any 500-acre section with a single farm house. Getting lost was never a concern, even in an era before cell phones and GPS units. When I was 29 I moved my family to the West. Big game hunting suddenly became a much more serious pursuit, not because I became a more avid hunter, but because I realized that a mistake in the Rocky Mountains or the Western deserts could prove fatal.

The battle between residents and nonresidents heats up. My grandfather still lives in southeastern Idaho, smack in the middle of one of the premier mule deer units in the country. When I was a boy, anyone who wanted to hunt the area, resident or non-resident-could go to the local hardware store and buy a license the day before the deer opener. Although the locals occasionally muttered about the number of "California hunters", the vast majority of men who took to the hills each fall lived within 50 miles.

The man was in deep pain and knew his right leg was broken. While the bone had not pierced the skin, the foot was bent at an unnatural angle. He removed his sheath knife and cut his pants up past his knee, because he knew the leg would start to swell soon. He leaned back on the dark green moss and thought of how dumb he had been that day.