tall tales
Our trailer squats on a flat spot where
upland and bottomland collide. It’s ranch
country, so up on top, of course, it’s wide
and open and dry. There are some decadent
stands of big cottonwoods in the river valley,
along with thick shrubbery that extends up
into the attendant coulees. We suspect the
primary reason the grand trees don’t seem
to be regenerating is from thrashing and
grazing pressure, but we’re careful to keep
our thoughts to ourselves, lest we alienate
ourselves with our ranch hosts. Substantial
acreages of the bottom land have been
converted to irrigation farming, producing
grains and other crops, but even here
livestock is often run. In addition to cattle, a
few sections hold horses, which these days
seem to be kept mostly for traditional reasons
and nostalgia. Across the road from the trailer,
there’s the bull pasture, and to the east and
west, interspersed by tree and other cover, a
number of various sized fields irrigated with
circular pivots.
Gazing at the vastness of the scene in front
of me, it’s easy to understand why the west
is often referred to as ‘Big Sky Country’. The
term might have been coined in Montana, but
59 Wild Guide
. Winter 2018
southern Alberta has similar scenery. Plus, I
can’t think of a better way to describe the
unfettered view of miles and miles of rolling
grassland with the occasional dot of a clump
of poplars and a never-ending skyline. Even
though it’s early in the morning and light
levels are still low, there’s an obvious hint of
green to the viewscape that greets my eyes.
In the fall, for the most part, the scenery
out here is usually a simple mixture of yellows
and browns, plus whatever colour the sky
happens to be. When snow blankets the
ground, it can be hard to separate heaven
from earth.
It is a very dry place we hunt, although this
year, on the drive in, we had commented on
the height of the grass and how things didn’t
seem near as brown as they have in the past.
There were also vibrant splashes of reds and
orange in the coulees. We conclude it must
have been a good growing season, and hope
this translates into a bumper crop of birds.
We had also talked how things actually
appeared to be somewhat lush, although
as we rolled along it struck me that ‘lush’ is
probably not the best word to use in a country
where the ground is largely carpeted with
cactus. I glance down and see I’ve narrowly
missed walking into small clump of prickly
pears.
Brill has finally stopped her antics and
leads me back inside the trailer. The ‘boys’
have just about got things cleaned up, and
it looks like we are ready to go. My gun is
already in the truck, so all I have to do is don
my vest, make sure there are enough shells in
my pack and pick up Brill’s water dish. Glenn
has jugs of water for both us and the dogs.
Rob pours himself a thermal cup of coffee
and then ruins it by pouring in a dollop from
a can of Carnation evaporated milk. Brian has
made himself a thermos of hot tea, which he,
as with Rob’s coffee, never has to share.
I suspect our plan to ‘have a quick hunt
before anyone else arrives then come back to
camp and have a big breakfast’ is doomed to
fail, which I mention to Brian. He laughs and
doesn’t need to remind me that it’s a plan
we’ve made before and one which has never
worked out. If we’re lucky, we may get to eat
by early afternoon.
All of us engage in some non-serious
banter then decide, like we always do, to
head east past the ranch house and hunt on
the edge of Reg’s largest pivot.
With dogs and hunters loaded into two
trucks, the ‘Trailer Park Boys’, a name taken
from the TV show and whom we are referred
to by the locals, and only somewhat because
of our accommodations and habits, finally
pull out. It’s Day 1 of a new season.