keith44spl
Member
Seein' how there's a whole gaggal of new members and all.
Hope you all enjoy this as much as I enjoy tellin' it.
Part One.
Tall Tales & Steep Trails.
The .44Spl and The Scapegoat Mountain Bull.
by Capt. D. Keith
All rights reserved
Snow was bankin’ up against the door on the north end of the cabin. The view from the small four pane window gave a glimpse of the mountains
that stood guard over the southern entrance to the ‘Bob’. The Hobnail Tom Trail, named after one of Montana’s great legendary wilderness guides Tom Edwards.
The Bob Marshall Wilderness Area, a hard land of extreme beauty and adventure.
Having straightened up the kitchen, I made my way to the barn and built myself a fire in the sheepherders stove. It was gettin’ warmer in the gear room now, I pulled off my heavy coat, unhitched my gunbelt and rolling it around the holstered Smith & Wesson. It’s ivory handles startin’ to yellow with a little checkin’ on the butt ends. Even though she’s riding in a newer rig now, with engraving covering her shapely lines, it’s still a tool of the trade. I laid the .44 Special on the work bench, under the window. Looking out at the snow flakes swirlin' so, them ol' memories came flooding back like the water that cascades below Falls Point near the trail.
I believe it was in the fall of ’88.
What had started many months before, the planning, the shoeing of the pack stock, repair of equipment and the anticipation of another adventure. As I recall it was unusually mild weather when we packed that camp into the Scapegoat, every thing falling into place, camp was up and squared away with supplies. The cook and wrangler were un-packing their rifles, bedrolls and other needed gear.
I arrived back in camp with another load of hay and grain for the horses and mules, Ronnie the cook met me as I was unsaddling my horse, “Listen to this here weather report” handing me the small transistor radio. It was calling for snow in the upper elevations, a front coming in from the coast. “Another run to the trailhead tomorrow for hay?” he queried. I just answered with a nod. “Well better pick-up some more canned good.” he stated in a matter of fact tone.
I knew even the packer don’t sass the cook if he wants things to run smooth.
That evening, by the glow of the hissing gas lantern I wiped the hay dust off the recoil shield and around the hammer, rubbing an oily rag from my kit over the steel frame, cylinder and short 3 ½” barrel. I carefully wiped the cartridges on my shirt tail, each one a handload with their hard cast bullet shiny against the brass cases. While loading the cylinder up and kinda thinking aloud, she sure has been a goodin’. This Smith 44 Special, a blue worn model 27, long before converted to that chambering. Turning in early I couldn’t help but think, that revolver has been on many adventure and hundreds of miles a horseback. And with that thought, sleep came easy.
It seemed like only a few minutes had past when the old familiar clatter of the wind-up alarm clock stirred me from my slumber. Rising on wool socked feet, I made my way to the stove, opened up the damper while reaching for a stick of wood so laboriously cut with an old cross-cut saw just a day or two before. The cook and wrangler stirring now, this high country camp was coming to life. I could smell the coffee beginin’ boiling as we grained and saddled the pack mules, I told the young man that had taken on the chore of wrangling the stock, “Son, you go on in to breakfast, I’m fixin’ to saddle my pony and I’ll be on in directly.”
Finished with the morning meal of eggs and country ham, you know the salt cured kind imported directly from Tennessee, with spooned out ‘cathead’ biscuits and washed down with strong black coffee. Now that’s the real breakfast of champions.
I was busy lining out the pack mules and just mounted my bay horse when the cook summoned me as I turned to leave out. “Here you might want this before you get back.” He handed me something rolled up in a rag that look every bit like an old sock. I could smell the ham, taking an impolite peek, inside was two biscuits stuffed with the savory meat. With a quick glance and a, “Thank ya kindly.” I was outta camp and on down the trail.
Arriving back just about dusty dark with snow flakes the size of half dollars falling pretty steady, I was greeted by the wrangler. “See any thing from the trail?” I shook my head, upon seeing his disappointment I replied, “Oh, just a little band of cows, calves and a pretty good 5X5 bull that’s all.” We all had high hopes that this hunt would be a successful one. If this snow drives any of them old bulls out of that black timber and down lower maybe, just maybe…
As we were preparing to turn in for the night, the snow was getting heavier and the wind was picking up, “I sure hope you boys picked a good ridge pole.” I said to anyone that was listening. Unrolling my wooly chaps and placing them between my cot and bed roll hoping to keep the cold from coming up from the dirt floor of our canvas home.
Taking the oily rag and caressing the big Smith, it was smooth and cold to the touch. Placing her back in the hand tooled holster and rolling the cartridge belt around it, I tucked it under my goose down bag, laying the butt within easy reach, with the flashlight by her side. I’d saw some big bear sign near camp only a few days before. I guess looking back I should’ve laid the .348 Winchester out as well.
Awaken to the wind whipping the tent flap and the stove huffin’ like a steam engine, I fumbled with the flashlight and pocket watch, 3:30. Reaching over and flipping the little lever on the back of the alarm clock, just to keep the rattling chime from startling the morning. Stoked up the stove without getting too much smoke in the tent, put the coffee pot on to boil. The night before the cook had thrown in a hand full of coffee on top of the old grounds and filled the pot with water, she was ready to go. I took a look outside, still snowing hard, wind blowing about 20 knots and about a foot and a half of new white stuff on the ground.
Continued below...
Hope you all enjoy this as much as I enjoy tellin' it.
Part One.
Tall Tales & Steep Trails.
The .44Spl and The Scapegoat Mountain Bull.
by Capt. D. Keith
All rights reserved
Snow was bankin’ up against the door on the north end of the cabin. The view from the small four pane window gave a glimpse of the mountains
that stood guard over the southern entrance to the ‘Bob’. The Hobnail Tom Trail, named after one of Montana’s great legendary wilderness guides Tom Edwards.
The Bob Marshall Wilderness Area, a hard land of extreme beauty and adventure.
Having straightened up the kitchen, I made my way to the barn and built myself a fire in the sheepherders stove. It was gettin’ warmer in the gear room now, I pulled off my heavy coat, unhitched my gunbelt and rolling it around the holstered Smith & Wesson. It’s ivory handles startin’ to yellow with a little checkin’ on the butt ends. Even though she’s riding in a newer rig now, with engraving covering her shapely lines, it’s still a tool of the trade. I laid the .44 Special on the work bench, under the window. Looking out at the snow flakes swirlin' so, them ol' memories came flooding back like the water that cascades below Falls Point near the trail.
I believe it was in the fall of ’88.
What had started many months before, the planning, the shoeing of the pack stock, repair of equipment and the anticipation of another adventure. As I recall it was unusually mild weather when we packed that camp into the Scapegoat, every thing falling into place, camp was up and squared away with supplies. The cook and wrangler were un-packing their rifles, bedrolls and other needed gear.
I arrived back in camp with another load of hay and grain for the horses and mules, Ronnie the cook met me as I was unsaddling my horse, “Listen to this here weather report” handing me the small transistor radio. It was calling for snow in the upper elevations, a front coming in from the coast. “Another run to the trailhead tomorrow for hay?” he queried. I just answered with a nod. “Well better pick-up some more canned good.” he stated in a matter of fact tone.
I knew even the packer don’t sass the cook if he wants things to run smooth.
That evening, by the glow of the hissing gas lantern I wiped the hay dust off the recoil shield and around the hammer, rubbing an oily rag from my kit over the steel frame, cylinder and short 3 ½” barrel. I carefully wiped the cartridges on my shirt tail, each one a handload with their hard cast bullet shiny against the brass cases. While loading the cylinder up and kinda thinking aloud, she sure has been a goodin’. This Smith 44 Special, a blue worn model 27, long before converted to that chambering. Turning in early I couldn’t help but think, that revolver has been on many adventure and hundreds of miles a horseback. And with that thought, sleep came easy.
It seemed like only a few minutes had past when the old familiar clatter of the wind-up alarm clock stirred me from my slumber. Rising on wool socked feet, I made my way to the stove, opened up the damper while reaching for a stick of wood so laboriously cut with an old cross-cut saw just a day or two before. The cook and wrangler stirring now, this high country camp was coming to life. I could smell the coffee beginin’ boiling as we grained and saddled the pack mules, I told the young man that had taken on the chore of wrangling the stock, “Son, you go on in to breakfast, I’m fixin’ to saddle my pony and I’ll be on in directly.”
Finished with the morning meal of eggs and country ham, you know the salt cured kind imported directly from Tennessee, with spooned out ‘cathead’ biscuits and washed down with strong black coffee. Now that’s the real breakfast of champions.
I was busy lining out the pack mules and just mounted my bay horse when the cook summoned me as I turned to leave out. “Here you might want this before you get back.” He handed me something rolled up in a rag that look every bit like an old sock. I could smell the ham, taking an impolite peek, inside was two biscuits stuffed with the savory meat. With a quick glance and a, “Thank ya kindly.” I was outta camp and on down the trail.
Arriving back just about dusty dark with snow flakes the size of half dollars falling pretty steady, I was greeted by the wrangler. “See any thing from the trail?” I shook my head, upon seeing his disappointment I replied, “Oh, just a little band of cows, calves and a pretty good 5X5 bull that’s all.” We all had high hopes that this hunt would be a successful one. If this snow drives any of them old bulls out of that black timber and down lower maybe, just maybe…
As we were preparing to turn in for the night, the snow was getting heavier and the wind was picking up, “I sure hope you boys picked a good ridge pole.” I said to anyone that was listening. Unrolling my wooly chaps and placing them between my cot and bed roll hoping to keep the cold from coming up from the dirt floor of our canvas home.
Taking the oily rag and caressing the big Smith, it was smooth and cold to the touch. Placing her back in the hand tooled holster and rolling the cartridge belt around it, I tucked it under my goose down bag, laying the butt within easy reach, with the flashlight by her side. I’d saw some big bear sign near camp only a few days before. I guess looking back I should’ve laid the .348 Winchester out as well.
Awaken to the wind whipping the tent flap and the stove huffin’ like a steam engine, I fumbled with the flashlight and pocket watch, 3:30. Reaching over and flipping the little lever on the back of the alarm clock, just to keep the rattling chime from startling the morning. Stoked up the stove without getting too much smoke in the tent, put the coffee pot on to boil. The night before the cook had thrown in a hand full of coffee on top of the old grounds and filled the pot with water, she was ready to go. I took a look outside, still snowing hard, wind blowing about 20 knots and about a foot and a half of new white stuff on the ground.
Continued below...
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