So I finally got around to digging out the dry storage room--quite the collection of odds and ends. Among the loot I have found memorabilia, old romantic letters from my handsome, soldier husband, and I found this paper by Michael which seemed like a perfect addition to my blog.
The Hunting Trip
I was on the top of the mountain in four feet of snow. It was late at night, around 12:00 midnight. The moon and the stars were out in the dark blue sky. I was laying on the back of my Dad's Isuzu two wheel drive pick-up truck. It has a shell on it, and I was looking out the side window watching my dad and my uncle Richard dig snow. You might wonder how we got there.
It was the night before the day of the deer hunt and Richard, Dad, and I were going up the mountain to go deer hunting. As we got further and further up the mountain we got stuck in the snow, by a lot of trees. Someone stopped to help us. They had a four wheel drive pick up truck and they helped us get out of the snow. You would think that my dad would have stopped there, but he didn't. We just kept going up the road. I was sleeping in the back. Next thing I knew we were stuck again.
Dad and Richard were digging the snow. No one else was around. After they dug for awhile they backed up and we got right out, and we rammed over the snow and kept on going. We were out in the middle of nowhere and we got back on the road. On the side of the road there was a big hill of snow and there were deer prints on it.
My dad got out of the truck with the flashlight and climbed up the hill to see if he could see a deer, but he didn't see one. So he got in the truck and drove off again. I went back to sleep. Next thing I knew it was morning and we were up on a ledge, and my dad and Richard were awake. They were getting breakfast ready. After breakfast we drove along the edge of a hill and we checked to see if the chains were there and they were; ten minutes later we checked to see if the chains were there, and they weren't there.
We drove back a ways and parked. We had lunch and we went back to see if we could find the chains. We drove some more than parked the truck again, got out and looked around. We looked for the chains for a long time. We walked along the tire tracks and we looked for deer and the chains, but we didn't see either. Then we saw deer tracks off the road and followed them. When we came back to the road, we saw a four wheel drive pick up truck that was stuck in the snow. It was spinning its wheels and the snow was flying about 12 feet into the air, but it wasn't getting out of the snow. We went down to where the truck was stuck and Dad and Richard talked to the man who was stuck. We walked behind the truck and went into the hills looking for deer. We walked through a bunch of trees, saw some deer tracks, and we followed them to another bunch of trees and the tracks disappeared. We kept on walking and found a warm spot to rest.
Finally after a long day, we started back home. We headed down the mountain and a couple hours later we got stuck again in a big hole in the road. While we were stuck we saw a huge truck with big wheels and the driver stopped to talk. He drove on and we tried backing the truck and we got out okay. We rammed around the hole in the road and continued down the mountain and we went home.
It was cold and wet and tiring, but we had a good time in our little two wheel drive pick up truck.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The Deer Hunter (a humorous expository piece) written by Kirby Crowley 1994
The rifle deer hunt in Utah is almost a state holiday, observed by nearly every male and many female residents. Many BYU students, as they witness the annual frenzy for the first time, consider Utahns barbaric. As a transplanted Utahn and a convert to the hunt, I have learned to classify Utah deer hunters by method and purpose of hunt into the following groups: the beer hunter, the road hunter, the traditional family hunter, and the back country hunter. As most hunters of all classes are male, I will use the masculine gender in the following descriptions.
The Beer Hunter
The beer hunter is noted for the massive quantities of alcoholic beverages brought on the hunt and the amount of ammunition carried--either not enough to do the job or enough to outfit a small country's army. Other notable qualities include lots of loud talk and laughter and shooting at anything that "moo"ves. The beer hunter is in one way like the animals of the forest: He marks the boundaries of his camp well. Stay very far away from this class. His purpose seems to be to remember very little of the event.
The Road Hunter
The road hunter begins his hunt on the drive up to camp, the night before the official opening of the hunt. He is often up before dawn, cruising the back roads of the high country (and sometimes the back roads of town) looking for his easy prey. He is to be thanked for his contribution to the Department of Fish and Game in the way of fines for shooting during illegal times. Riding in the back of a pickup or with the barrel of his gun sticking out of the window, he is ready for the easy shot. The extreme road hunter will even insist on an uphill or level shot, making it easier to recover the kill. His purpose is to get the easiest kill in the valley and spend as much money on gas as possible.
The Traditional Family Hunter
The traditional family hunter goes with the entire extended family, camping in the same place year after year, usually at the spot where Grandpa took Dad years ago. The only family members excused might be pregnant women or mothers with very small children. They establish their camp early the night before the opening, and get up before dawn so they can hike to their favorite rock or stump just as the sun comes up. Their pockets are full of trail snack, ready for a full day of patient waiting. When there are family members not yet old enough to carry a rifle, but big enough to make the hike, these younger members will often be used as "dogs" to flush out the deer during the middle of the day. At the end of each day, the hunters return to camp, where dinner, campfire stories, and roasting marshmallows finish the day. Their purpose is to spend time together and perpetuate the family tradition of the hunt. They occasionally bring home meat, which is shared among all the family members.
The Back Country Hunter
The back country hunter is the serious sportsman. He begins his hunt months before by selecting the area to hunt, where he and only a close friend or two will scout out the trophy deer he intends on taking. Over two or more weekend scouting trips, he will identify the habits and watering holes of the chosen prey. He and his friends will establish a base camp in the area one or two days before the opening of the hunt, and are prepared to travel several miles into the back country in search of a single deer. Bucks smaller than the intended trophy size are passed over in search of the one previously identified. The back country hunter is fortunate if he came on horseback, or hauling the carcass out can be a long day in itself. (Not having a horse only gives him another good hunting story to relate to lesser hunters through the years to come.) His purpose is to bring home a trophy, stories, and the toughest, wildest deer meat.
Every type of hunter seems to enjoy the hunt for his own reasons, and come home with stories to tell and sometimes meat for the table. Whichever type of hunter you are, or will be, do remember these three things: most important, hunt safely, second, have consideration for the other hunters out there, and third, have fun.
The Beer Hunter
The beer hunter is noted for the massive quantities of alcoholic beverages brought on the hunt and the amount of ammunition carried--either not enough to do the job or enough to outfit a small country's army. Other notable qualities include lots of loud talk and laughter and shooting at anything that "moo"ves. The beer hunter is in one way like the animals of the forest: He marks the boundaries of his camp well. Stay very far away from this class. His purpose seems to be to remember very little of the event.
The Road Hunter
The road hunter begins his hunt on the drive up to camp, the night before the official opening of the hunt. He is often up before dawn, cruising the back roads of the high country (and sometimes the back roads of town) looking for his easy prey. He is to be thanked for his contribution to the Department of Fish and Game in the way of fines for shooting during illegal times. Riding in the back of a pickup or with the barrel of his gun sticking out of the window, he is ready for the easy shot. The extreme road hunter will even insist on an uphill or level shot, making it easier to recover the kill. His purpose is to get the easiest kill in the valley and spend as much money on gas as possible.
The Traditional Family Hunter
The traditional family hunter goes with the entire extended family, camping in the same place year after year, usually at the spot where Grandpa took Dad years ago. The only family members excused might be pregnant women or mothers with very small children. They establish their camp early the night before the opening, and get up before dawn so they can hike to their favorite rock or stump just as the sun comes up. Their pockets are full of trail snack, ready for a full day of patient waiting. When there are family members not yet old enough to carry a rifle, but big enough to make the hike, these younger members will often be used as "dogs" to flush out the deer during the middle of the day. At the end of each day, the hunters return to camp, where dinner, campfire stories, and roasting marshmallows finish the day. Their purpose is to spend time together and perpetuate the family tradition of the hunt. They occasionally bring home meat, which is shared among all the family members.
The Back Country Hunter
The back country hunter is the serious sportsman. He begins his hunt months before by selecting the area to hunt, where he and only a close friend or two will scout out the trophy deer he intends on taking. Over two or more weekend scouting trips, he will identify the habits and watering holes of the chosen prey. He and his friends will establish a base camp in the area one or two days before the opening of the hunt, and are prepared to travel several miles into the back country in search of a single deer. Bucks smaller than the intended trophy size are passed over in search of the one previously identified. The back country hunter is fortunate if he came on horseback, or hauling the carcass out can be a long day in itself. (Not having a horse only gives him another good hunting story to relate to lesser hunters through the years to come.) His purpose is to bring home a trophy, stories, and the toughest, wildest deer meat.
Every type of hunter seems to enjoy the hunt for his own reasons, and come home with stories to tell and sometimes meat for the table. Whichever type of hunter you are, or will be, do remember these three things: most important, hunt safely, second, have consideration for the other hunters out there, and third, have fun.
The New Friend (short story) written in 1995
This is the one story I actually got paid for. I don't know if it ever got published though. I got $60.00 from the Friend. Does that make me a professional writer? : P Short career. . . .It is also based on an actual event from my childhood. I was about 5 years old. Not my finest hour--but one I learned a powerful lesson from. A good lesson to learn at an early age I guess--Don't be a snotty little brat!
"Naa naa ne naa naa," I taunted as Susy ran away down the sidewalk.
Susy was my friend, but today I had a new friend, Tina, who had just moved in across the street. Tina had curly brown hair and blue eyes that sparkled when she laughed. She liked all the games I liked, and we had played together all afternoon--at least until Susy came. Then I said I didn't want to play with her and Tina didn't either.
It wasn't that Susy wasn't fun to play with. We had spent many hours that summer climbing the big tree in her yard and riding our bikes down the sidewalk. Sometimes we jumped on my trampoline with the sprinkler on underneath or shared banana Popcicles--our favorite flavor. I could have invited Susy to play. I just didn't want to.
Susy stared at us. Her coppery hair shone in the sunlight and her big green eyes reflected surprise and hurt. A tear slid quietly down one freckled cheek. She brushed it angrily away.
"You're rude," Susy said crossly.
"You're a cry baby." I said.
Tina laughed.
"Let's go," I said.
We ran away from Susy, but she followed us out onto the sidewalk in front of my house and stood some distance away glaring at us. That's when I yelled at her, "Naa naa ne naa naa." I felt triumphant as I saw her turn to leave and I laughed as I taunted her. I couldn't remember having ever been mean before, but it made me feel powerful watching Susy run away. I knew she was leaving and now Tina and I could be best friends.
Suddenly Susy turned. Her green eyes blazed through her tears. In a sudden fluid motion she reached for the ground, and gripping a small stone she found there, hurled it toward us. I felt a sharp stabbing pain as the stone hit me in the forehead. Susy looked at me wildly for a moment and then she ran away. I felt a bit dizzy. Looking down at the sidewalk I saw a drop of crimson staining the grey cement.
"Oh, Jenny," Tina said, "you're bleeding. We'd better get you home."
Tina led me along and I walked bent over, watching the red drops leave a trail. My mother was sitting on the back porch watching my little brother play with little cars and talking to a neighbor lady, Mrs. Barnes. All I could see were the legs and feet of Mrs. Barnes which were bare on this hot summer day, and tan. Her toenails were painted a bright red--brighter than the drops that kept hitting the ground.
My mother exclaimed, "Oh, what happened?" and jumped up to get a gauze pad to try to stop the bleeding.
"I got hit by a rock," I explained quietly.
"What? How did that happen?"
Suddenly, I felt ashamed. I remembered what I had done to Susy. "I don't know." I lied.
Mom's face was worried. "This looks deep," she said. "I think we'd better have it looked at."
Before I knew it, Mom had me in the car and was heading towards the doctor's office. I sat silently holding the gauze pad on my head. All of my bravado was gone. I was scared and I felt awful. It was my fault. Warm salty tears dripped down my nose and onto my jeans where they left damp spots. I noticed that there was blood there too.
The nurse took us right in and I had to lie on a table covered with white paper that crackled when I moved. Soon the doctor was there, Dr. Hiatt. He was wearing a white coat, his black hair was slicked back from his face and his brown eyes were concerned but kind.
"Well, let's have a look," he said.
After a moment he addressed my mother, "Well, we're lucky it wasn't a bit lower. She might have lost her eye. As it is, the scar will be in her eyebrow, so it won't show too much, but we'll have to stitch it. It will take five or six stitches to close it up."
Dr. Hiatt put a white cloth over my face. It had a hole in it so that just the gash in my head showed through. First he gave me a shot to deaden it--right in my eyebrow. That hurt the most. After that, the stitches just felt sort of prickly. I got a big bandage to cover it and I got to go home.
When I got home everybody fussed over me, and I had to tell the story of my stitches to Tina and her mom, and to Mrs. Barnes. Then Susy came over. Her mom was with her. They both looked really sorry and Susy had a Popcicle in her hand. She held it out to me. It was banana, our favorite flavor.
"Oh," Susy said in a quiet voice, "Jenny, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to hit you really. I was just mad. I wanted to throw that rock past you, just to scare you." She paused and bit her lip. Her eyes were brimming again with unshed tears.
I had never felt so ashamed. I wanted to tell her that it wasn't her fault. I wanted to tell her that I would never treat her so horribly again. I wanted to tell her that she was still my friend, that she would always be my friend, even if I found new friends. But I didn't say any of these things. I just said, "Thanks for the Popcicle. It's my favorite kind."
Susy smiled then, a warm quiet smile.
I took her hand. "Let's go eat this on the back steps," I said. "We can share it."
By Sherri S. Crowley
"Naa naa ne naa naa," I taunted as Susy ran away down the sidewalk.
Susy was my friend, but today I had a new friend, Tina, who had just moved in across the street. Tina had curly brown hair and blue eyes that sparkled when she laughed. She liked all the games I liked, and we had played together all afternoon--at least until Susy came. Then I said I didn't want to play with her and Tina didn't either.
It wasn't that Susy wasn't fun to play with. We had spent many hours that summer climbing the big tree in her yard and riding our bikes down the sidewalk. Sometimes we jumped on my trampoline with the sprinkler on underneath or shared banana Popcicles--our favorite flavor. I could have invited Susy to play. I just didn't want to.
Susy stared at us. Her coppery hair shone in the sunlight and her big green eyes reflected surprise and hurt. A tear slid quietly down one freckled cheek. She brushed it angrily away.
"You're rude," Susy said crossly.
"You're a cry baby." I said.
Tina laughed.
"Let's go," I said.
We ran away from Susy, but she followed us out onto the sidewalk in front of my house and stood some distance away glaring at us. That's when I yelled at her, "Naa naa ne naa naa." I felt triumphant as I saw her turn to leave and I laughed as I taunted her. I couldn't remember having ever been mean before, but it made me feel powerful watching Susy run away. I knew she was leaving and now Tina and I could be best friends.
Suddenly Susy turned. Her green eyes blazed through her tears. In a sudden fluid motion she reached for the ground, and gripping a small stone she found there, hurled it toward us. I felt a sharp stabbing pain as the stone hit me in the forehead. Susy looked at me wildly for a moment and then she ran away. I felt a bit dizzy. Looking down at the sidewalk I saw a drop of crimson staining the grey cement.
"Oh, Jenny," Tina said, "you're bleeding. We'd better get you home."
Tina led me along and I walked bent over, watching the red drops leave a trail. My mother was sitting on the back porch watching my little brother play with little cars and talking to a neighbor lady, Mrs. Barnes. All I could see were the legs and feet of Mrs. Barnes which were bare on this hot summer day, and tan. Her toenails were painted a bright red--brighter than the drops that kept hitting the ground.
My mother exclaimed, "Oh, what happened?" and jumped up to get a gauze pad to try to stop the bleeding.
"I got hit by a rock," I explained quietly.
"What? How did that happen?"
Suddenly, I felt ashamed. I remembered what I had done to Susy. "I don't know." I lied.
Mom's face was worried. "This looks deep," she said. "I think we'd better have it looked at."
Before I knew it, Mom had me in the car and was heading towards the doctor's office. I sat silently holding the gauze pad on my head. All of my bravado was gone. I was scared and I felt awful. It was my fault. Warm salty tears dripped down my nose and onto my jeans where they left damp spots. I noticed that there was blood there too.
The nurse took us right in and I had to lie on a table covered with white paper that crackled when I moved. Soon the doctor was there, Dr. Hiatt. He was wearing a white coat, his black hair was slicked back from his face and his brown eyes were concerned but kind.
"Well, let's have a look," he said.
After a moment he addressed my mother, "Well, we're lucky it wasn't a bit lower. She might have lost her eye. As it is, the scar will be in her eyebrow, so it won't show too much, but we'll have to stitch it. It will take five or six stitches to close it up."
Dr. Hiatt put a white cloth over my face. It had a hole in it so that just the gash in my head showed through. First he gave me a shot to deaden it--right in my eyebrow. That hurt the most. After that, the stitches just felt sort of prickly. I got a big bandage to cover it and I got to go home.
When I got home everybody fussed over me, and I had to tell the story of my stitches to Tina and her mom, and to Mrs. Barnes. Then Susy came over. Her mom was with her. They both looked really sorry and Susy had a Popcicle in her hand. She held it out to me. It was banana, our favorite flavor.
"Oh," Susy said in a quiet voice, "Jenny, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to hit you really. I was just mad. I wanted to throw that rock past you, just to scare you." She paused and bit her lip. Her eyes were brimming again with unshed tears.
I had never felt so ashamed. I wanted to tell her that it wasn't her fault. I wanted to tell her that I would never treat her so horribly again. I wanted to tell her that she was still my friend, that she would always be my friend, even if I found new friends. But I didn't say any of these things. I just said, "Thanks for the Popcicle. It's my favorite kind."
Susy smiled then, a warm quiet smile.
I took her hand. "Let's go eat this on the back steps," I said. "We can share it."
By Sherri S. Crowley
Kyle's Ride Home (short story) written in 1995
I like coming home with Mom, Kyle thought, I get to sit in the front seat. Kyle tilted his head so that he could see the treetops whiz by. Trees are very high, higher than cars. He tilted his head back further. Now he could see the sky. It was blue. And clouds, just a few wispy ones. They were white. Kyle liked colors.
"I like orange and green," Kyle said.
Mom glanced over at Kyle, "You do, huh."
"Orange is for dragons."
"Oh," said Mom, "and what is green for?"
"Not dragons, ninjas," Kyle replied.
"Mmmmm." Mom was busy driving now.
Kyle looked back at the trees. Orange dragons fly over trees, he thought, but ninjas can jump high. My green ninja can jump so high he can kick that dragon. I think that dragon will pop if the green ninja kicks it.
"Mom, can ninjas kick dragons?"
"What?"
"Can ninjas kick dragons?"
"Well, I don't know, son."
"Well, my green ninja can jump high. He can kick a giant dragon hard."
"Well, if the ninja kicked the dragon, wouldn't the dragon get mad?"
"Dragons pop when green ninjas kick them," Kyle answered. Boy, moms don't know anything about orange dragons, he thought. James knows about ninjas and dragons. I love to play with James. James knows how to kick just like ninjas. I like the way James kicks. Hi-yah! Punch and then kick.--that's how. I can play "Hi-yah!" when I get home.
"Are we home yet?" Kyle asked.
He peered out the side window. Red and white and green houses lined the road. No orange houses. Why aren't there orange houses, he wondered? Probably the dragons ate them.
"We'll be home in five minutes," Mom said.
"Dragons eat orange houses," Kyle said, "I can play "Hi-yah" when I get home."
Mom laughed, "What's hi-yah?" she asked.
"You know--ninja stuff," Kyle replied. "Does Dad know ninja?"
"Well," Mom wrinkled up her forehead, "I'm not sure. You could ask him."
"Okay."
A bicycle went by. A man was riding it. He had on a helmet and black tight shorts. He rode along side the car for a few moments. Kyle liked bicycles. He had a blue bicycle. He had a helmet too. His bicycle had training wheels. He could ride fast. He could ride his bike in the driveway. He could ride as fast as a car.
"I can ride my bike fast," Kyle said.
"Yes, you can," Mom said.
"I can ride in the driveway."
They were almost home now. Kyle could see grandpa digging in his garden.
I have a worm at daycare," Kyle said.
"Oh, really?" Mom smiled.
"It's gone now. It got lost in the sand. It was red."
"Maybe you can find a new worm tomorrow," Mom suggested.
"Okay."
Kyle smiled. He liked red worms, orange dragons, and green ninjas. As mom pulled into the driveway, Kyle spotted his blue bicycle. Kyle liked colors too.
By Sherri S. Crowley
"I like orange and green," Kyle said.
Mom glanced over at Kyle, "You do, huh."
"Orange is for dragons."
"Oh," said Mom, "and what is green for?"
"Not dragons, ninjas," Kyle replied.
"Mmmmm." Mom was busy driving now.
Kyle looked back at the trees. Orange dragons fly over trees, he thought, but ninjas can jump high. My green ninja can jump so high he can kick that dragon. I think that dragon will pop if the green ninja kicks it.
"Mom, can ninjas kick dragons?"
"What?"
"Can ninjas kick dragons?"
"Well, I don't know, son."
"Well, my green ninja can jump high. He can kick a giant dragon hard."
"Well, if the ninja kicked the dragon, wouldn't the dragon get mad?"
"Dragons pop when green ninjas kick them," Kyle answered. Boy, moms don't know anything about orange dragons, he thought. James knows about ninjas and dragons. I love to play with James. James knows how to kick just like ninjas. I like the way James kicks. Hi-yah! Punch and then kick.--that's how. I can play "Hi-yah!" when I get home.
"Are we home yet?" Kyle asked.
He peered out the side window. Red and white and green houses lined the road. No orange houses. Why aren't there orange houses, he wondered? Probably the dragons ate them.
"We'll be home in five minutes," Mom said.
"Dragons eat orange houses," Kyle said, "I can play "Hi-yah" when I get home."
Mom laughed, "What's hi-yah?" she asked.
"You know--ninja stuff," Kyle replied. "Does Dad know ninja?"
"Well," Mom wrinkled up her forehead, "I'm not sure. You could ask him."
"Okay."
A bicycle went by. A man was riding it. He had on a helmet and black tight shorts. He rode along side the car for a few moments. Kyle liked bicycles. He had a blue bicycle. He had a helmet too. His bicycle had training wheels. He could ride fast. He could ride his bike in the driveway. He could ride as fast as a car.
"I can ride my bike fast," Kyle said.
"Yes, you can," Mom said.
"I can ride in the driveway."
They were almost home now. Kyle could see grandpa digging in his garden.
I have a worm at daycare," Kyle said.
"Oh, really?" Mom smiled.
"It's gone now. It got lost in the sand. It was red."
"Maybe you can find a new worm tomorrow," Mom suggested.
"Okay."
Kyle smiled. He liked red worms, orange dragons, and green ninjas. As mom pulled into the driveway, Kyle spotted his blue bicycle. Kyle liked colors too.
By Sherri S. Crowley
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