I'm not sure how many of your were ever boy scouts. I'm not sure how many of you were ever drummed out of the scouts for fighting, but that's a tale for another day.
At the ripe old age of 13, my step-brother Gary and I decided to go camping, as we had many times before, in the foot hills of southern Oregon. We had grown up
there and knew our way around those hills and most of the farms they bordered. As was our practice, we continually tried to improve on the "bush" skills we had
aquired with our short stint in the scouts. We would often find ourselves miles from home while wandering on a squirrel hunt. Southern Oregon grows the biggest
grey-diggers you ever saw. The goal was to bag enough to make ourselves each a pair of "mountain man" shoes. We had been given a pair of Mossberg .22's for
Christmas the year before and both had become fair shots.
Well, Gary and I had hiked up into the top end of a small canyon not too far from home and figured it was a good place to bed down. We went about cutting down
branches and pine bows to build a lean-to up against a large tree. We collected fire wood and fried up some long-thawed hamburger for ourselves and Poncho our wiener dog.
Spread out our sleeping bags, laid our guns beside us and settled in for a fine sleep in the woods. I'm not sure what time it was when we heard something large crashing
through the brush towards our camp, but you'd think between the fire embers and the full moon we would be able to see something......anything. It didn't take long to clear the
fog and realize something wasn't right with the bush snapping and the dog loosing his mind, so we grabbed our rifles and leveled off at the brush just downhill from us in the draw.
What a mess! I couldn't get out of my tangled sleeping bag....the dog barking like I'd never heard before and my brother inventing new swear words with every breath. I just knew
someone would find our mangled bodies, still in our sleeping bags and the stupid dog nowhere to be found. I can't remember ever being that scared and numbed to the bone.
Well a fire-fight ensued that night. With the number of shots we got off (at what we didn't know), you'd have thaught there was six of us. What a commotion! When
we had run out of ammo we threw on our boots, grabbed our coats and followed the dog (growling all the way down the hill which didn't help matters) for what seemed
miles to the county road that lead back home.
The next day we told our dad about the monster in the woods and how we were sure we killed it. He put us the car and we drove back to the hill and hiked up to our camp.
The campsite was a mess. Everything was flattened. To top it off, we found blood around the camp and on our gear. It sent shivers up my spine. Then we noticed the
hoove prints in the dirt. Gary and I started half laughing, half crying when we realized what had happened. We had opened fire on a small heard of cows! It never entered our
little minds that we were camping in open-range. We never heard a word about any cattle being shot up as a .22 probably had little effect on them and you can bet we never
told anyone about it either.
At the ripe old age of 13, my step-brother Gary and I decided to go camping, as we had many times before, in the foot hills of southern Oregon. We had grown up
there and knew our way around those hills and most of the farms they bordered. As was our practice, we continually tried to improve on the "bush" skills we had
aquired with our short stint in the scouts. We would often find ourselves miles from home while wandering on a squirrel hunt. Southern Oregon grows the biggest
grey-diggers you ever saw. The goal was to bag enough to make ourselves each a pair of "mountain man" shoes. We had been given a pair of Mossberg .22's for
Christmas the year before and both had become fair shots.
Well, Gary and I had hiked up into the top end of a small canyon not too far from home and figured it was a good place to bed down. We went about cutting down
branches and pine bows to build a lean-to up against a large tree. We collected fire wood and fried up some long-thawed hamburger for ourselves and Poncho our wiener dog.
Spread out our sleeping bags, laid our guns beside us and settled in for a fine sleep in the woods. I'm not sure what time it was when we heard something large crashing
through the brush towards our camp, but you'd think between the fire embers and the full moon we would be able to see something......anything. It didn't take long to clear the
fog and realize something wasn't right with the bush snapping and the dog loosing his mind, so we grabbed our rifles and leveled off at the brush just downhill from us in the draw.
What a mess! I couldn't get out of my tangled sleeping bag....the dog barking like I'd never heard before and my brother inventing new swear words with every breath. I just knew
someone would find our mangled bodies, still in our sleeping bags and the stupid dog nowhere to be found. I can't remember ever being that scared and numbed to the bone.
Well a fire-fight ensued that night. With the number of shots we got off (at what we didn't know), you'd have thaught there was six of us. What a commotion! When
we had run out of ammo we threw on our boots, grabbed our coats and followed the dog (growling all the way down the hill which didn't help matters) for what seemed
miles to the county road that lead back home.
The next day we told our dad about the monster in the woods and how we were sure we killed it. He put us the car and we drove back to the hill and hiked up to our camp.
The campsite was a mess. Everything was flattened. To top it off, we found blood around the camp and on our gear. It sent shivers up my spine. Then we noticed the
hoove prints in the dirt. Gary and I started half laughing, half crying when we realized what had happened. We had opened fire on a small heard of cows! It never entered our
little minds that we were camping in open-range. We never heard a word about any cattle being shot up as a .22 probably had little effect on them and you can bet we never
told anyone about it either.
