Here is something I thought I would never see. And not many other people did either. Here is my beautiful wife, the essence of feminity and sophistication, with her full camo scanning the “breaks” over the Snake River in Eastern Washington looking for a three point or better mule deer buck.

What is truly amazing is that this is the day before her birthday–and she chose to spend her birthday with me hunting! What a woman. I had to come up with something grand for her birthday. So, if you look real close, you might see her brand new pair of camo snake-proof boots. I know, I know. You can’t get much more thoughtful than that.

For those who couldn’t see this nice spike from the other photo.

This one was legal and in my sights.

A beautiful morning on Thompson Ridge

The pictures below are mostly described in the narrative. The spike buck with the tall antlers is clearly visible along with the doe.

Winthrop Archery Hunting
September 15-17, 2006

We arrived in hunting country as dusk was approaching. We turned up Wolf Creek Road knowing that it was a short cut to the resort at Wolfridge. The road was much rougher and less friendly for hunting than we figured but we checked it out good anyway. Arrived at Wolfridge about 8 p.m., found out there was a room available and checked in. Then headed into Winthrop for a fried chicken dinner that certainly was made from chickens that had hung around the desert for too long. The Three Fingered Jack Saloon has better beer than food.

Next morning, we hit Thompson Ridge Road just south of Sun Mountain in the early morning light. Saw a few more archery hunters in trucks searching the steep hills for signs of deer. Stopped near the end, just short of where it dumps into Twisp River Road and headed up into the woods. We split up and I wandered for an hour or so. The plan was to radio in every half hour and when we talked Frank said he saw a doe and fawn. Not long after the radio call and a little before the 9 am time we said we would meet back at the truck I heard some sounds nearby. A big doe without fawns jumped by at about 50 yards. Cool. At least I had seen a deer up here. Does were legal to shoot with the bow but I had little interest in getting one and ending my hunting season. Would rather wait for a nice three or four point buck. A few minutes later I heard more hoof beats. I froze and thirty eight yards ahead of me, a buck and mature doe walked into plain sight. Yes, I measured the distance off because the first thing I thought was, wow, this is exactly the distance I practice at. Unfortunately it was a spike buck—big spikes but not even close to the legal three points I needed. They both saw me and stared with curiosity. OK, I thought, here’s my chance to see what would happen if it was a legal buck and it caught me out in the open like this. Could I nock and arrow and come to full draw without spooking it? I carefully took a broadhead out of the holder, nocked it, and slowly drew. I aimed at the doe who was standing right in the open, full broadside. One little flick of the trigger. I adjusted the sight down as I had done in practice. I knew right where the arrow would go. Even planned on shooting low as I had seen in the videos to account for the deer dropping down to jump at the sound of the arrow releasing. But I didn’t shoot. No adrenalin. No exuberance. Just the great satisfaction of knowing that if it had been a legal buck, I would have been fine. And it is always a great thrill to come across these beautiful game in the wild and not kill.

We left the hunting area and hit the Antler Saloon in Twisp for a very good breakfast. Then it was off to what Frank kept saying was much better hunting ground—areas he used to hunt thirty or more years ago with his dad. Took some strange detours, found some roads closed and then stopped at the base of a fairly steep hillside. I looked up at where Frank was looking. Lots of bucks in there, he said. Wonderful. I hope so. It looked like a heck of a climb and for this old guy it was about as much as I could do. Finally got to the top and the view overlooking the Methow Valley was spectacular. Near Pipestone Canyon. But no deer. No does, no fawns and certainly no bucks. No sign even. Fair amount of fresh bear sign but no deer. So the tough hike was for nothing but a great view and hearing Frank snore until the trees shook as he took a pretty healthy nap that would later prove to be unfortunate.

Frank wanted to keep hunting for deer in his old hunting grounds even though I was convinced that he must have killed them all off thirty years ago or else they went upscale and were all hanging around the Sun Mountain Lodge. No question there were tons of them around there. So we drove up Buzzard Lake Road. All along a ten to fifteen mile drive there was nothing but no trespassing signs. Nothing. Not even at the sad excuse for a lake called Buzzard. It would have been completely frustrating were it not for what we spotted a mile or two past the lake. Look, I yelled. It’s a bear! At first I thought it was another black angus, but then I saw the distinctive ears and it was looking right at us as we drove up the road. Not black but a rich dark reddish brown. A cinnamon bear. And huge. God damn! Frank said. God damn! Shoot him! The bear was off and running and we drove around a corner never expecting to see him again. But there he was as we turned the corner, just sitting looking at us. He was big. Shoot him! Frank said. I was reaching for my bow and about to jump out and put an arrow in it. Probably 60 yards, maybe more. It would be just flinging it. I didn’t really think about how a big cinnamon bear would feel about an arrow sticking out it, but I was just thinking how cool it would be to get a bear on my first ever archery hunting trip. Frank is still yelling shoot him so I handed him my 22 magnum pistol I had on my belt. Boom, boom, boom, and the bear was off and running through the tall grass.

We continued on the trip through no trespassing land until we came to main road near Omak and Okanagan. Turned up toward Conconully on another dirt road called Salmon Creek Road. Part of the way up there we came to a historical marker sign and found we were in what used to be one of the most famous mining towns in the Northwest—Ruby. Nothing there but woods. The little dirt road was main street of a thriving town that was once the county seat of Okanagan county. I dug around a little in the underbrush and found a few piles of rocks tumbling over each other that marked foundations of the downtown buildings. How strange to be standing in a place in the deep forest and hear back through time the tinkling of the honky tonk pianos as the miners would come out from the nearby mines on a Saturday night for a good time in town. I picked up a rock from one of those crumbling foundations and the remains of a tin pail that dated back before 1893 when the town was suddenly abandoned after the price of silver collapsed.

Concunully was still active with fire fighting activity but clearly things were dying down. I talked to one forest service guy who said fires were out in the south but still going up north and they would be opening up much of the closed area soon. It was now getting on toward late afternoon and after Frank filled up a tire that was slowly leaking from a couple of wires in it, we headed up for the high country. Again, no sign of deer. Things got a little exciting as Frank found a few forest grouse to go after. The only thing I ran into with an hour or so of wandering the forest roads was a bunch of cows. I thought I spotted a cougar in the distance through the trees but most likely it was just a cow and an overactive imagination caused by that bear. At dark we headed toward Omak to try and find a place to sleep. After cruising town looking for a decent motel, Frank picked what proved to be the worst of the lot. Stunk to high heaven with a sickening perfumy smell. Went and got dinner at the Breadline—supposedly best in town which is to say don’t go to Omak for fine dining and then back to perfume. Frank said he was going to sleep in the car or in the dog trailer until I burned up a whole book of matches just to get him to shut up. He was snoring again in no time and after the hike I wasn’t too far behind.

Gerald, get up! Time to go hunting! Frank said. Hunnh, I answered. What time is it? Three o clock he says. Jeez! I yelled. Go back to bed and I rolled over. That nice nap after the hike had thrown Frank off and nothing could keep him down. So he showers, feeds the dogs and goes looking for gas at 4 in the morning. Then comes back, throws open the door wide open which is right next to my bed and says, Get up honey, it’s time to go hunting. What time is it now I ask. Ten to five he lies. But I believe him and get up and shower, get dressed and get in the car to find out now it is ten to five.

By now I don’t think he has a clue where to find deer let alone bucks or big bucks. So we drive back toward Winthrop thinking we might get back to the Thompson ridge area in time to do some real hunting. Wait, in that alfalfa field. A buck. Three point. Legal. I jump out of the car with my bow, put on my arm guard and trigger and get in the ditch hoping the thing will mosey across the road in my direction and outside of the heavily posted field. Stupid thing walks up the hill instead. At least we found a legal buck.

So we drive around the area looking for a legal place to hunt, now aided by an excellent map that shows all kinds of state and federal land. We drive up high on a truly challenging road—especially for the poor dogs bouncing in the back of the dog trailer. A buck! Frank yells. Big one. I saw him. He was big. About 80 to 100 yards a way but maybe I can get close. I get my bow and quietly climb out. Frank says, he’s a two point. Bummer. But wait, I see something moving next to him. There’s another one I say. And then we saw a steady stream of big beautiful bucks come out of the buck brush they were hiding in. Eleven in all. And even though they were crowded together I saw at least one very large three point with an exceptionally tall rack and a couple of others that were three or four point. The rest were two point and several of those very tall. I was tempted to throw an arrow but without being clear which was legal and which not, I thought, well here’s where the bucks are so here’s where we hunt today.

The ground in the area was mostly open sage but with some stands of aspen and some brush. I tried to sneak ahead of the truck along the road but the whole group of bucks stood up on the ridge about 120 yards away watching me. I stopped once in while and looked at them through the binocs but I could see eleven pairs of eyes glued on me. I knew I had to get to a place where they couldn’t spot me if I was to have any chance of putting the sneak on them. It was mostly open grass until I crawled toward a stand of trees. Still they watched, but when I made it into the trees and to the edge of them I could tell they had lost track of where I was. They started moving back down the ridge toward the truck and I thought now, if I get terribly lucky they might just wander toward me close enough for me to get a shot. I watched them move, only a few of them visible now, for about fifteen minutes. Then I couldn’t see them so I decided it was a good time to pee. As I was standing by the tree I heard the distinctive haroomph haroomph haroomph of the mule deer bouncing gallop. I turned and saw them coming over the ridge. Right at me. I mean right at me. A bunch of them. I didn’t realize it but Frank had gone up the other side and they had spotted him and spooked. They forgot about me hiding in the little patch of aspens and now they were on the run. I grabbed my bow as they came closer and closer and nocked an arrow. I don’t remember drawing it but I must have. I was busy counting antlers as they continued to run right toward me until I wasn’t sure if they were going to run me down. I knew some were legal and some not. I did not want to shoot at an illegal one. The lead buck, a smallish one, was bouncing through the trees. I saw four points clearly just as he got passed me. There was a small gap through the trees and he was forty feet away (I counted later). I loosed the arrow without even sighting. It flew harmlessly behind him. The next buck was immediately behind and he was a large two point. Then a three point but I was too late as I was frantically nocking another arrow. I got it in place and to full draw when the last one haroomphed by. This time I had enough time to think and aim. Two point. Damn. I let him go and watched the whole group bounce across the meadow then into the sage and drop over the ridge into the next canyon.

I knew right then I would probably never hunt for deer with a rifle again.

We spent the next hour or so looking for the other six who had split off from these including that monster three point. I got one more good look at him but he got a good look at me too and then he was gone for good. No nice four point muley on the wall, but a memory I will treasure all my life.

We drove on toward Winthrop taking the Balky Hill Road near Pipestone. I was telling Frank it was in Pipestone Canyon that my brother said he spotted a huge rattler as thick as his arm while riding horse just a couple of weeks earlier. Not long after Frank says, look, a rattlesnake. It’s been run over. So we stop the truck and get out. We get about thirty feet away and Frank stops. It’s alive, he says. And it was. I don’t like rattle snakes and I killed one once before after I almost stepped on it in a wheat field near Pomeroy. So I got out the 22 magnum and did a little damage. Frank took out his flyrod tube and poked at it, at which time it pointed out to us that it did not appreciate the two bullets I put in its belly and it still had a little fight left. At this point my dog Rudy jumps out of the dog trailer and decides to investigate what seems to be attracting our attention on the road. He got within inches before my yelling convinced her she had better listen. I put her back in the trailer. By this time Frank had persuaded the snake it was night night time and I borrowed its rattle for my now growing collection.

After what seemed a week of excitement and adventure but was only five hours for me and about eight for Frank we decided to get some breakfast in Winthrop. A little fly fishing on the Methow and we would head home.

Frank didn’t take his waders as I suggested he should but put on his shorts and hit the river. Having felt the freezing water the week before I didn’t think he’d last too long and I was right. But I was having too much fun to notice. First I got a nice strike but no fish. Shortly after I hooked one and fought it for about ten minutes before it took a dive and I hung on too tight and it was gone. The next one was a few minutes later and I brought this one all the way in. Now I went to the other side of the river and saw a persistent little guy jumping repeatedly right in casting range. I dropped a fly on him like I knew what I was doing but he didn’t take. Then I noticed up above on the bank some obvious tourists in their rental RV were standing above watching me. They must have thought I was picturesque because they soon brought out their cameras. A video camera no less. I tried to pretend I didn’t notice and cast as prettily as I could to that same fish that was tantalizing me. A few more casts and boom, he hit it. Cool I thought. That’s the way those fly fishing magazines make you think its like. I looked up as I continued to fight the little guy in and was disappointed to see the camera crew had left. They missed the best part I thought. Then I heard someone yell, Harriet! They were back, now with cameras rolling I did my best River Runs Through It imitations and grabbed the beautiful little rainbow. I left it in the water, grabbed my needlenose and pulled the fly out ever so gently. The fish rubbed up against and through my legs as if to say thank you and then darted away. The guy on the bank raised his thumb up high and I felt as if I caught the winning touchdown in superbowl XX something or other.

After searching the banks of the river for Frank for half an hour who I was certain had found a quiet place in the sun and was quickly making up for the hours of lost sleep, I gave up the search and returned to the truck. There he was, Seahawks game on, hat pulled low over his eyes and sound asleep, snoring of course. The window was rolled down so I walked up quietly and real close. Honey, wake up, I yelled, It’s time to go fishing! He about jumped out of his skin and at that particular moment and that particular day, life could not get much more perfect.

Summer at Edensveil has been magnificent with hardly a cloud or drop of rain. But Gabe must have captured this image of the house in full summer foliage but with a wintery mists and gloom. It makes for a stangely beautiful image that captures the very essence of the meaning of Edensveil–the Garden of Eden hidden behind of misty veil of brokenness, emptiness and things gone wrong. But what do we choose to focus on? That we can still see the rich, mysterious beauties of the Garden and the Home where we were meant to be, or all those things that distract us and keep us from the joy and peace and meaning that we long for?

I haven’t posted here for a very long time. Summer, work craziness, all that. But last week we had one of those special days which simply cannot be replaced. We spent a day on the Rosy (a 36 foot wooden cruiser) with Niel and Dianne Pfundt and Carleton and Judy Peterson. Carleton is a former pastor and very dear friend who left Bellingham in 1984. Though we do not spend much time together, when we do it as if we were never apart. Conversations with him are far reaching, mind bending and inspiring. Just to be with him makes you feel more whole, content with life, and filled with longing for all that is good and right in the world. What makes this time so special and so bittersweet is Carl’s serious battle with cancer. Carleton, you are a very special friend.

I think there are some photos of Ashley’s cake in their for a bonus. By the way, Gabe’s blog is gaber008.wordpress.com.

So now we can start to relax. Gabe took a whole bunch of pictures of Edensveil right after the tour when we were having the post tour party so as soon as I find out how to find them on flickr I will start posting a bunch of them up. Summer is here. Let the relaxing begin!

My big project is building a rock wall with an antique iron gate in front of the main entrance and the kitchen garden. It’s looking pretty cool. But man, if I had any idea I’d have to spend over $1000 bucks on cultured stone, I’m not sure I would have signed on for this project. I keep telling myself I would have had to spend $10,000 to have a professional do it. Well, I’ll post some pictures soon so you can judge for yourself.

I bought some poison and traps but haven't set them out yet. Several nights I've been out there with my pellet gun waiting for them at the top of the pathway leading to the pen. But they keep a wary eye out and they have more patience than I do.

Last night as I was putting the ladies away for the night they were particularly brazen. I got my pellet gun and took it in the barn. I left the back barn door open a crack from where I could see the path from the underbrush where they came from. Sure enough, two or three poked out and started looking around. I waited until one was coming through the fence. Pop. That dropped him. It did take a couple more to finish him off though.

I left him laying in the pen last night and figured it might be an object lesson for his friends and family. But this morning when I went to let the ladies out for the day, the little bugger was gone. That pen is pretty secure. I don't know, do rats have the same ethos as the US military–leave no one behind. Now I have a new mystery on my hands.

The excitement is never ending at Edenveil Farm.