A Hunter’s Close Encounter

By Denny L. Vasquez

Even now as I sit here in broad daylight, among my friends and surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of our hunting camp; even after I have had some time to gather my thoughts and reevaluate the whole thing; I’m not really sure just what it was that I saw earlier on this cold winter morning. Some would probably call it a ghost, others an apparition, but almost all of those that have listened to me relate the events of this morning have told me that I must be nuts like all crazy Texans or at the very least a little bit off my rocker. Perhaps it was just the overworked imagination of a flatlander’s mind exhausted from spending all this time in the rarified atmosphere of the high country or maybe it was a symbol of something psychosomatic going on within my head. One friend even suggested that I had just fallen asleep and dreamed the whole thing. Whatever it was I am not sure that I would have wanted to investigate it further and risk the chance of breaking the spell that it had on me at the time. The explanation may have been too simple for what my mind interpreted it to be and I wanted to remember it just the way I first saw it. Well, anyway, here is my story so you can judge for yourself.

This hunting trip found my hunting partners and I chasing mule deer in the mountains west of Raton, New Mexico and thus far it had been a hard seven day hunt, what with time spent scouting and actually hunting. Especially for me as I had been a little out of shape prior to starting this horseback adventure and as a result my body fatigue was getting worse each day. Finally, after much discussion with my partners I had decided that on the morning of the eighth day, I would ride a short distance from our camp and spend my day glassing from a rock promontory that overlooked the small stream that flowed by our camp. My feet were sore, my lungs had not quite gotten acclimated to the rarified air and my flatlander behind could not have taken much more mountain saddle time.

As is my way when in hunting camp, I arose earlier than my hunting companions and after putting the coffee pot on I began to saddle my riding partner, Shadow. Looking around camp I found that a damp, heavy fog had rolled in across the valley during the hours of darkness and it had put a slick coating on everything not covered by one of our tents, my saddle included.

It is funny how our preferences change as we get older. When I was younger I wouldn’t settle for anything less then the best optics on the hardest hitting “laser” guns, as a friend of mine refers to bolt action rifles. And I went through my share of them, trying to find that often sought after but usually unobtainable “perfect” hunting rig. However, as I have gotten on in years my preferred hunting rifles have become the old style Sharps, Springfields and muzzleloading firearms. Thus it was no surprise to my hunting companions that for this trip I had brought along my 1874 Sharps sporting rifle in .45-70 to hunt with. I have come to love the nostalgia these older guns seem to emanate. So after saddling Shadow and grabbing a couple of sandwiches, a few biscuits and a water bottle we were ready to go.

As we made our way slowly across the valley floor I noticed only a gradual transition between darkness and daylight as the fog had taken a solid hold on everything around us. Letting Shadow take the lead on the trail he know so well and just enjoying the ride I marveled at how calm and quiet it was. Almost as though nature was trying to tell me something but I just shook off the feeling of uneasiness and patting Shadow on the neck we continued on across the valley until we reached the base of the rock outcropping. I dismounted and walked Shadow into the shelter of a grove of Aspens and after making sure that he had could reach the small spring when tied off and had a bundle of grass nearby to feed on throughout the coming day I turned to face the climb to the top of the outcropping.

There was just enough light now to illuminate my way up the trail in the rocks so it didn’t take me long to reach my chosen perch. As I nestled into a comfortable position, I thought I heard a wolf howl off in the distance. “Naw, that can’t be a wolf, not this far south”, I thought. I knew that they had been reintroduced up in the Yellowstone country but I hadn’t heard of any in these parts. I chuckled to myself about how I was hearing things as I pulled a biscuit out of my pocket and began to nibble on breakfast. But just the same the howl had sent a shiver down my spine as I snuggled down among the rocks and waited for the fog to burn off enough to allow me decent shooting light.

I guess that my age and fatigue were beginning to show as I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew it was bright daylight. As I set up to survey my surroundings, hoping that my snoring had not scared all of the game into the next county, I faintly heard what sounded like something moving in the tree line out by the now distant creek bed. Hoping that it was one of the illusive mule deer bucks that I had come so far to find, I lay my unfinished biscuit down on the rock beside where I had been sitting and leaned the Sharps across the rock in front of me as I continued to scan the tree line for a sign of what was making the noise. Hopefully, it would be a good mule deer buck, and then because if the gods of the hunt smiled down upon me and I successfully harvested him I could relax and enjoy the rest of the trip. I could hear whatever it was getting slowly closer but I was unprepared for the shock I received when the noise maker finally stepped out from among the trees.

One second there was nothing there and then suddenly a man materialized beside the distant tree line, somehow seeming larger than life, almost as if he was being projected on a movie screen. At that distance I had no reference for his size but he seemed to be a gaunt giant in a dark, broad-brimmed, slouched felt hat. But it was his clothing was the most unusual. I couldn’t quite make out the color as it blended in with his surroundings so well, but if I wasn’t mistaken those were mountain style buckskins he had on. And in his arms he carried an old heavy barreled Hawkin style mountain rifle. The rifle appeared to be well used, with much of the browning worn off the barrel and the wood on the fore end appeared to have a shallow groove worn in it, as though from having ridden many a mile over a saddle horn. Over his shoulder hung a beautifully decorated possibles bag, which if I remembered my patterns correctly the porcupine quill decorations appeared to be from the Mountain Crow tribe.

He had a wild look about him with a long gray beard and even longer pepper, gray hair that hung loose along his slightly stooped back. I remember thinking that this was a character that meant business as I watched him lope across the valley floor in front of my rocky perch in a sort of half run, half walk that was swift and silent, with little wasted effort. His bow-legged lope being a testimony to his life spent in the saddle. Then I felt that tingling in my spine again as I realized that he seemed to be floating across the ground, not really making contact with it.

As I continued watching this strange apparition intrude upon my solitude I noticed the bright sunlight reflecting off of the thick blanket of snow on the ground for the first time, but I couldn’t remember when it had snowed. There had only been a slight drizzle in the cold mountain winds since we had gotten to camp. But there it was; a solid coating of white snow broken now only by what appeared to be the tracks of a running mule deer, either a large dog or wolf and now the man’s tracks as he followed the trail of those that had gone before him.

The hunter never glanced my way as he crossed the high country valley floor, even though I was sure that my orange vest stood out from the drab grays and browns of the rocks upon which I sat. Then I heard the howl again, as a large male wolf broke from the trees surrounding the base of the foothills in front of the running man. As the man bent over to pet his head and rub him behind the ears, the old male wolf knelt at the man’s feet.

This is when I heard the man’s voice for the first time as he straightened up and said, “Come on Dog, we gotta get a move on if we gonna catch that critter so’s we can eat tonight. And you knows how much I hate to miss my vettles. Besides we may have us another mouth to feed come night fall.” They took off again in the direction of the foot hills, following the deer’s tracks.

Then just before stepping into the shadows of the dark mountain forest, this stranger, this man of the past turned back and looked back in my direction. I realized then that he must have known I was there the whole time as he looked me in the eyes and slightly arching his left eye brow while looking back over his shoulder at the trees turned toward me once again, almost as if he was inviting me to join him on his hunt. Then, as though realizing that I would not be coming, he nodded his old hat in a friendly farewell and turned, disappearing into the forest. Or maybe the mountains simply swallowed him up.

I sat there stunned for a few minutes, until the light rain drops splashed against my cheeks bringing me out of my reverie. Slowly I stood up and shook myself as if to ward off a bizarre feeling. A quick glance across the little valley showed me what I thought I would see, that the snow was gone, replaced here and there by small patches of fog left over from the previous night. And the leaden sky above warned of the storm that was moving in, so it was time to head back to camp before the rains trapped me on this side of the creek. I looked out across the little valley one last time and wondered what in the world I had just experienced before I turned to the trail and made my way slowly down to where Shadow was picketed.

In my mind I wasn’t really sure whether I had seen the man and the wolf or if they had been the result of an overworked imagination caused by physical fatigue. Maybe I had simply fallen asleep and they were the result of an errant dream based upon my desire to go back in time 170 years to experience the times of the mountain men. Or perhaps because we had kindred souls, time and space had actually somehow folded and our lives had become intertwined, if only for a short period of time. But what ever happened, I often think of him and his wolf, running the mountains on the endless trails of their prey. There is probably a mundane rationalization that can explain him and his wolf but I’d rather not hear it, simply remembering the experience and not the explanation.