Spread Creek
Excerpt from Prodigal Son: A Life of the Outdoors, Drugs, and Redemption - Chapter 3
By Jeremiah Kalb
Brrr . . . it was freezing cold. Dennis poked his head out of the tent. Under the moon’s dim light, he saw his dad lighting the frost-covered Coleman stove. Dennis ducked back into his sleeping bag. He twisted his back and stretched his neck to get comfortable to savor a few more minutes of warmth.
When I can smell the bacon and coffee, I will get up, he told himself.
For Dennis, Spread Creek was nostalgic because he had been visiting the area for ten years with his dad and older brother to hunt wild game.
“Spread Creek is in the Bridger-Teton National Forest about 30 miles northeast of Jackson, Wyoming, as the crow flies,” Dennis says. “And almost six hours from our home in Gillette.”
A collection of small brooks, Spread Creek originates from the Snake River, located to the west of the area, right next to the famous Jackson Lake.
Amidst the remote alpine scenery and striking views of the Teton mountain, one expects to see many animals: moose, elk, deer, grizzlies, and black bears.
“I was looking to bag an elk on this trip,” Dennis says, age 21 at the time.
Outside, his dad was turning potatoes and cracking eggs. “Dad made us breakfast every morning before we started hunting.”
Dennis could now smell frying bacon, the most pleasant scent he knew in the cold wilderness.
Slowly turning to his right, the cot next to him was empty. He had not noticed that his brother, Monty, was already out of the tent.
“Judas Priest,” he mumbled to himself. If he did not get up now, he risked the chance of his brother eating his portion of the bacon. He quickly put on clothes over his long johns and jerked up the tent flap.
“Morning,” said Dennis to his dad and brother, rubbing his eyes. Shivering, he went to the fire and warmed his hands at it.
“Morning,” Monty growled back.
While Dennis’s dad finished his work at the stove, he and Monty watched the orange fire crackle.
“Breakfast is ready,” Dennis’s dad announced, setting out the eggs, bacon, and potatoes. Monty elbowed his younger brother as they filled their tin plates. Dennis responded in kind.
All seated around the fire, their dad said a blessing on the food, and the three ate quickly. The father and his sons were only a few days into their two-week hunt but anxious to hike up the ridge before sunrise. The hunting trio needed to make the long trek from one end of the meadow to the other to reach the ridge.
“It took us about an hour and a half of walking to reach the top where the first clearing was.”
Before the first clearing, Dennis took shots at two elk but missed. “This is one of the reasons I ran out of bullets,” he laughs. “I needed those bullets later for the five-point.” Dennis always kept four bullets in each front pocket and four in a coat pocket.
Fuming he missed two times on each elk, Dennis was huffing and puffing halfway up the ridge, putting on a good show of his physical conditioning.
“We’re close,” Dennis’s dad wheezed. “We’re close.”
Monty took the first clearing. Continuing up further, Dennis’s dad and he took the second and third clearings, respectively.
Breathes coming in gasps, Dennis was grateful to find an old fallen tree where he positioned himself. “I liked using the branches for a gun rest.”
Orienting himself to the terrain, Dennis heard an elk bugle behind him but paid no mind to it. It sounded like it was a quarter of a mile away. He refocused his eyes on the meadow below him, enjoying the sunrise.
It was now a waiting game. Any successful hunter knows you quietly wait and watch, ready to spring into action if the moment arises. Like many hunters before, Dennis had the time to immerse himself in the peace of disconnecting from the rest of the world and his job back in Gillette.
“I enjoyed taking in the quiet, that is for sure,” he says.
Cold and shivering, his thoughts drifted off to the warm sleeping bag that awaited him that night. A good distraction for the moment.
As Dennis waited and the morning marched on, the bugling he heard earlier continued getting closer. Dennis counted ten bugles before it eventually trailed off.
He slowly scanned the timberline with his 4x Power Weaver scope and spotted something. Much to his delight, Dennis watched a bull elk emerge from the blackness of the timberline approximately 475 yards away.
“I’m sure this was the elk I heard bugling earlier in the morning.”
The elk stepped out into the sunlit meadow, where Dennis saw a big rack of horns. Steam came off its nostrils.
“I settled the crosshairs on his chest, took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger.”
Dennis’s first shot from his 30-06 Springfield rifle using a 180-grain bullet hit it directly behind the front shoulder. He continued firing, grazing the elk’s neckline four times and hitting its legs, causing it to stagger and fall, but still alive.
“By now, I’m out of bullets and unsure what to do.” The rest of his bullets were back at camp two miles away. He processed his limited options.
“I thought about getting close enough to take my knife and slit its throat, but it was a big animal flailing around.” He knew he was no Samson, the legendary Israelite warrior who killed a lion with his bare hands.
Then all of a sudden, Dennis’s dad popped up. When his dad heard the shooting stop, he hustled to the third clearing. “Why aren’t you shooting?” he quizzed his son.
“Well, I don’t have any more bullets,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “My dad shook his head, called me a knucklehead, and told me I should have walked down to the elk to shoot it.”
“Let’s go finish him,” his dad directed.
Sometimes young men still need their fathers to save the day, and this day was that day.
The father and son scurried down the ridge, not saying more than ten words between them. Fifty yards from the elk, Dennis’s dad raised his gun and made the kill shot.
Dennis was relieved and glad to pose for a picture next to his prized elk. Afterward, they began the laborious task of field dressing it. “Once we got it skinned and quartered, my dad could not put its hind quarter on his shoulder and carry it out. It was too big.”
The two decided to construct a nine-foot stretcher using pole timbers and a tarp, carrying the five-point elk two miles to camp, one hind quarter at a time. It took them through the next day to finish the job.
“For the rest of our hunting trip, Monty razzed me because I ran out of stinking bullets,” Dennis chuckles. “I never made that mistake again.”
Excerpt from Prodigal Son: A Life of the Outdoors, Drugs, and Redemption - Chapter 3
By Jeremiah Kalb
Brrr . . . it was freezing cold. Dennis poked his head out of the tent. Under the moon’s dim light, he saw his dad lighting the frost-covered Coleman stove. Dennis ducked back into his sleeping bag. He twisted his back and stretched his neck to get comfortable to savor a few more minutes of warmth.
When I can smell the bacon and coffee, I will get up, he told himself.
For Dennis, Spread Creek was nostalgic because he had been visiting the area for ten years with his dad and older brother to hunt wild game.
“Spread Creek is in the Bridger-Teton National Forest about 30 miles northeast of Jackson, Wyoming, as the crow flies,” Dennis says. “And almost six hours from our home in Gillette.”
A collection of small brooks, Spread Creek originates from the Snake River, located to the west of the area, right next to the famous Jackson Lake.
Amidst the remote alpine scenery and striking views of the Teton mountain, one expects to see many animals: moose, elk, deer, grizzlies, and black bears.
“I was looking to bag an elk on this trip,” Dennis says, age 21 at the time.
Outside, his dad was turning potatoes and cracking eggs. “Dad made us breakfast every morning before we started hunting.”
Dennis could now smell frying bacon, the most pleasant scent he knew in the cold wilderness.
Slowly turning to his right, the cot next to him was empty. He had not noticed that his brother, Monty, was already out of the tent.
“Judas Priest,” he mumbled to himself. If he did not get up now, he risked the chance of his brother eating his portion of the bacon. He quickly put on clothes over his long johns and jerked up the tent flap.
“Morning,” said Dennis to his dad and brother, rubbing his eyes. Shivering, he went to the fire and warmed his hands at it.
“Morning,” Monty growled back.
While Dennis’s dad finished his work at the stove, he and Monty watched the orange fire crackle.
“Breakfast is ready,” Dennis’s dad announced, setting out the eggs, bacon, and potatoes. Monty elbowed his younger brother as they filled their tin plates. Dennis responded in kind.
All seated around the fire, their dad said a blessing on the food, and the three ate quickly. The father and his sons were only a few days into their two-week hunt but anxious to hike up the ridge before sunrise. The hunting trio needed to make the long trek from one end of the meadow to the other to reach the ridge.
“It took us about an hour and a half of walking to reach the top where the first clearing was.”
Before the first clearing, Dennis took shots at two elk but missed. “This is one of the reasons I ran out of bullets,” he laughs. “I needed those bullets later for the five-point.” Dennis always kept four bullets in each front pocket and four in a coat pocket.
Fuming he missed two times on each elk, Dennis was huffing and puffing halfway up the ridge, putting on a good show of his physical conditioning.
“We’re close,” Dennis’s dad wheezed. “We’re close.”
Monty took the first clearing. Continuing up further, Dennis’s dad and he took the second and third clearings, respectively.
Breathes coming in gasps, Dennis was grateful to find an old fallen tree where he positioned himself. “I liked using the branches for a gun rest.”
Orienting himself to the terrain, Dennis heard an elk bugle behind him but paid no mind to it. It sounded like it was a quarter of a mile away. He refocused his eyes on the meadow below him, enjoying the sunrise.
It was now a waiting game. Any successful hunter knows you quietly wait and watch, ready to spring into action if the moment arises. Like many hunters before, Dennis had the time to immerse himself in the peace of disconnecting from the rest of the world and his job back in Gillette.
“I enjoyed taking in the quiet, that is for sure,” he says.
Cold and shivering, his thoughts drifted off to the warm sleeping bag that awaited him that night. A good distraction for the moment.
As Dennis waited and the morning marched on, the bugling he heard earlier continued getting closer. Dennis counted ten bugles before it eventually trailed off.
He slowly scanned the timberline with his 4x Power Weaver scope and spotted something. Much to his delight, Dennis watched a bull elk emerge from the blackness of the timberline approximately 475 yards away.
“I’m sure this was the elk I heard bugling earlier in the morning.”
The elk stepped out into the sunlit meadow, where Dennis saw a big rack of horns. Steam came off its nostrils.
“I settled the crosshairs on his chest, took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger.”
Dennis’s first shot from his 30-06 Springfield rifle using a 180-grain bullet hit it directly behind the front shoulder. He continued firing, grazing the elk’s neckline four times and hitting its legs, causing it to stagger and fall, but still alive.
“By now, I’m out of bullets and unsure what to do.” The rest of his bullets were back at camp two miles away. He processed his limited options.
“I thought about getting close enough to take my knife and slit its throat, but it was a big animal flailing around.” He knew he was no Samson, the legendary Israelite warrior who killed a lion with his bare hands.
Then all of a sudden, Dennis’s dad popped up. When his dad heard the shooting stop, he hustled to the third clearing. “Why aren’t you shooting?” he quizzed his son.
“Well, I don’t have any more bullets,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “My dad shook his head, called me a knucklehead, and told me I should have walked down to the elk to shoot it.”
“Let’s go finish him,” his dad directed.
Sometimes young men still need their fathers to save the day, and this day was that day.
The father and son scurried down the ridge, not saying more than ten words between them. Fifty yards from the elk, Dennis’s dad raised his gun and made the kill shot.
Dennis was relieved and glad to pose for a picture next to his prized elk. Afterward, they began the laborious task of field dressing it. “Once we got it skinned and quartered, my dad could not put its hind quarter on his shoulder and carry it out. It was too big.”
The two decided to construct a nine-foot stretcher using pole timbers and a tarp, carrying the five-point elk two miles to camp, one hind quarter at a time. It took them through the next day to finish the job.
“For the rest of our hunting trip, Monty razzed me because I ran out of stinking bullets,” Dennis chuckles. “I never made that mistake again.”
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Jeremiah Kalb Writing, LLC
1846 1st Street, Suite 324, Idaho Falls, ID 83401