Last Chance

The cold wind whipped across the open jeep as it climbed up Quail Canyon dugway then over Wolf Hole where we turned west toward Tweedy Points and the hidden Canyon country. A heavy quilt thrown across my legs and feet an wrapped around Clay made the cold more endurable, but far from pleasant. The slanting rays of the early morning sun didn't seem to have any heat in them. The old jeep purred along at 15 to 20 mph over rolling hills and swales of sagebrush and cedar trees, interspersed with patches of good grass, as the road wound its way mostly west and a little southerly. Beyond Emily's Pond the draws deepened into canyons that drained into Pocum Draw. Here it turned south by way of Tweedy Draw that drained into Hidden, a big canyon which drains all the hills west of Poverty Mountain and northwest of Parachant, so named because it's not discernable by the lay of the land until you are quite close to it's edge. Ballard is not far behind us in his pickup truck with Shaggy in the back. Keith, my brother, is riding shotgun with him.

The bottom of Hidden Canyon is quite broad with vegetation of yucca, catclaw and rabbit brush, with some bunch grass and blackbrush. We turn down canyon a couple miles or so to Last Chance Canyon that comes in from the south. Here the road climbs back up into the pinion pine and cedar tree country and not many miles farther we arrive a Last Chance Spring, a trickle of water in the bottom of a deep canyon that keeps a stock trough full. Two pole corrals for working cattle stand on the west side, in one of which the water trough is located. Backed up against the ledge on the east side of the canyon is an old dilapidated lumber cabin. Cows have been using it to get out of the winter storms so we make camp to the south of the corral. Ballard waters Shaggy, then puts her in the north corral away from the water so the cattle can still drink from the trough. He had brought a bale of hay for horse feed.

It's about noon now but the chill factor of the wind makes us wish for heavier coats and longjohns to warm our legs. I build a fire in the most protected place I can find but still the flames lick out along the ground with most of the heat swept away before it raises high enough for us to feel. We fix something to eat from the cupboard mounted on the back end of the jeep. There are fresh deer track around the water and along the trail coming down the canyon. The tall ridges on each side of our camp look like good mule-deer range. That afternoon we scout up the bottom of Last Chance a ways where we see plenty more deer signs. We should have good hunting on the morrow.

Back at camp that strong wind is so miserable we crawl into our sleeping bags early to get away from it. Next morning, before day light Ballard builds a fire and starts fixing breakfast. I hate to get up because the cold wind is pushing as hard as ever, but finally it must be done so on goes my shirt and pants under the tarp. next my shoes and coat as I hurry over to the fire but all the heat goes drifting up the canyon from flames about 6 inches off the ground. Getting warm is a futile effort so we just hump and shiver, wishing that wind would calm down. Ballard always brings plenty of good grub so breakfast is tasty in spite of the miserable conditions.

We are high up on the side of the west canyon ridge by the time it gets light enough to see very good. Keith and Ballard are in the lead picking out the route with Clay riding Shag just back of me. No sweat from climbing these ridges and we still have on our coats. My nose feels like an icicle but if it is it's melting some cause it drips often. On top we turn to the northwest a ways and see 3 or 4 buck across a broad canyon about 500 yards distance. We can't figure a way to approach closer without a lot of effort so just fire over couple of good luck shots which sends them bounding out of sight. We separate to work the country better, moving in a westerly direction. A couple of miles brings us to the rim where the country breaks off toward the Grand Gullch Mine and Pacoon. Working along the rim to the south doesn't push out anything so we turn east to south a little. Clay and I stay together, he's riding Shag most of the time.

After awhile I hear the crack of Keith's 30-30 rifle. No second shot so I figure he's got a buck down. Clay and I move in that direction and in a few minutes we see him across the draw gutting one out. He's a nice big buck, but no trophy antlers. We hang him up on the north side of a big tree. He'll cool out quick in this cold wind. Like Jackson says "There's no great loss without some small gain." We untie our lunch sack from the saddle and hunker down on the leeward side of the same tree and it's not long before Ballard joins us. That sunshine doesn't have much heat in it but it's better than out in the open. We angle back to the west by south a little. I get a running shot but miss and after a mile or two we meet Ballard. The sun is now laying to the west so he says we best head toward camp and pick up that hanging buck on the way in. When we load the buck on Shaggy I take a picture or two to remember things by and we send Clay, leading Shaggy with the meat, down a side draw that converges with Last Chance Trail. I work along the ridge above so as to keep an eye on him in case that carcass goes to one side. Ballard takes a wider swing toward camp, looking to jump a buck and Keith takes a circle the other way.

At camp the skinned out quarters of the buck are hung on the fence posts. We have heart and liver for supper, which is evidence of a successful hunt, just cooked enough to take out the red color, with plenty of pepper and salt. Slurp, smack, get me another piece would you, Clay? That good meat takes our minds off some of the miseries of the cold wind. Seems like by now it's been blowing forever and we don't complain so much about it. just before dark a little bunch of cows came down the canyon to water but when they saw us they spooked and ran back up the trail. Maybe during the night they will sneak by us and tank up at the trough. The days travel has been long, hard and cold so we get into bed right after supper. The sound of the wind moaning up the canyon lulls me to sleep and the next conscious sound is that of Ballard rustling around. The wind is still moaning its lonesome song and when I flip back the tarp I see the camp fire reaching out to the south and low down. The sky is filled with many stars, cold and far away. On the eastern skyline the bloom of a new day is beginning to show, so I get dressed in a hurry and holler at Clay to rise and shine.

Today we hunt on the east side of last Chance and then circle way to the south. I down a nice fat little 2 pointer and later on Ballard gets another one about the same size. Keith downs a big 3 point that's twice the size of my 2 point and we hunt back to the first one and take him to camp. While Ballard skins him out, Keith and I return to get the other two. The sun has sunk out of sight but is still shining on the top of the ridges. About every big post in that corral has a quarter of venison hooked over the top, sure looks good. We cook up another big Dutch oven full of liver and heart and munch on that for an hour or so. We're getting climatized, we just naturally lean about 10 to 15 degrees into the wind.

Just after dark sets in Clay takes the flashlight and walks down the road to take care of biological need. After a bit Ballard sees a light flashing up through the trees. "My hell, here comes an outfit, let's hide the meat!" He jumps over the corral fence and yanks a hind quarter from off a post. He's about to chuck it over the fence on the west side when I holler to him, "It's just Clay with the flashlight." He practically melts on the spot. As the adrenaline drains out of him he hardly has the strength to lift that piece of meat back up on the post. My what a relief. In those few seconds of alarm he visualized the headlines of the county newspaper:

"Local magistrate caught red handed violating game law." It made such a vivid impression that he spent a fitful night an by next morning the thrill of the hunt had vanished and he was hankering to get out of there. I told him to load up shaggy and head out, that I would bring the venison and camp later on in the jeep. The wind was still blowing hard and cold so Clay decided to ride in the cab of the pickup with Keith and Ballard. I felt sad and disappointed that this good hunt was coming to such an abrupt end, but consoled myself with the fact that we did have quite a bit of good meat and none of it had been shot up.

After trimming and cutting it up some more I put it into meat sacks and packed it on top of some quilts in the bed of the jeep. The bedrolls, Dutch oven and paraphernalia went on top, grub and "fightin tools" go in the rear mounted cupboard. I filled the gas tank from a 5 gallon can that set on the back end by the cupboard, I refilled the water can with good mountain spring water, taking my time, in no hurry to return to town. About the time the sunrays reach the bottom of the canyon the wind dies down to a gentle breeze. As I mobilate up Hidden Canyon toward the mouth of Tweedy Draw there's hardly an air current moving. I'm mighty tempted to drive up Hidden as far as the road goes and camp for another few days. Such a nice warm lazy fall day, perfect for camping out. Sure wish Clay was with me. I know I won't enjoy it much alone, so turn the old jeep up the road toward Pocum Draw.