Ya’ never know what you’ll run into when you travel to the high mountains. Every once in a while, you run into things that aren’t supposed to be there. This was one of those interesting times when all I had with me was my flintlock rifle. A flintlock rifle is a rifle that you load from the muzzle. The powder is measured and poured down the front of the barrel. A round lead ball is dropped down the barrel to sit in top of the powder. The rifle is fired when a piece of flint strikes a piece of metal called a frizzen, which throws a spark into the powder in the pan to touch off the rifle. It takes time to reload this type of rifle. One shot’s all you get.
The winter of 2003 was a particularly harsh winter with sub- zero temperatures and deeper than normal snow fall, especially in the high mountain. Christmas had passed and my wife and I were anticipating’ the New Year. December 26th is the start of the late primitive weapons season where only a flintlock ignition rifle, .44 caliber or larger, loaded with black powder, patch, ball, and iron sights is allowed.
It was just before sunup when I headed for the back country. My property borders a National Forest. I step right out my back door and into the mountains. The weather forecast predicted a bright sunny day in the teens, promising to be a beautiful day for hunting. I was excited about a day in the mountains; Like the ol’ saying goes, “A bad day hunting in the mountains is better than a good day at work”. I grabbed my trusty flintlock, possible bag containing my patch, ball, powder, and skinning knife. In my eagerness to get going, I left my backup pistol behind. I never go into the mountains unarmed. One never knows what they’ll encounter up there. I like to go as far as I can onto the back country to get past the fair weather hunters. In my many years hunting, I have had some close calls with wildlife.
After a couple hours of walking’, I was a ways back, where the terrane is quite rugged. The Mountain Laurels and Hemlocks are thick in here so the snow covering’ the ground is much thinner due to the thick foliage. I set up for a spell on a well-worn Deer trail when I heard a sound that I hadn’t heard since my Marine Corps days hunting at Camp Pendleton, California. As I listened, the sound seemed to get closer. As I assessed my situation, I suddenly realized how foolish it was to forget my revolver. Well, it is what it is, I thought. The best way to deal with an aggressive predator is to either shoot it or try to put some distance between you and it. I didn’t want to shoot it if I didn’t have to, so I decided to quietly skedaddle out of there.
My ol’ grandpappy taught me a long time ago, you only kill for 2 reasons. Food and self-defense. If I could get out of there without doing it harm, that’s what I was going to do.
I decided it was time to put some distance between me and the all too familiar sound. I stood and checked my flintlock. Opening the frizzen, I brushed the old powder from the pan, cleaned the touchhole with my hole pick well. I took out my knife and sharpened the contact edge of my flint and wiped any moisture from the flint and frizzen face. I then checked the position of the flint, tightened the jaws to ensure my rock was secure, then lowered the **** to the half **** position. Lastly, I primed the pan with fresh powder, closed the frizzen and double checked myself. All the while keeping my ears open.
Well, I thought, I was as ready as I would ever be, so I headed back down the mountain as quietly as possible. My rifle was laid across my arms ready to go.
99% of my hunting is with my flintlock. I think I’m a better than average shot with this old rifle, however only one shot between me and this aggressive predator is not odds I wished to test.
I moved slow and quietly as possible back down the mountain. After about an hour of easy stepping, I had traveled what I estimated to be a mile or so and I thought I was in the clear. I took my time; I was more concerned with stealth then speed. I went through an area of little snow with frozen leaves and pine twigs showing. The forest canopy is quite thick in this area, not much snow makes it to the ground. However, there was a thin layer of ice under the powder. My boots seemed to make an awful loud crunching sound as I walked over the frozen ground. Every step brought the echo of crunching leaves, snapping twigs, and frozen ferns. I stopped to listen; the crunching continued for three more steps then stopped. I waited silently, listened to the silence of the cold mountain air for a few seconds before continuing to walk as silently as I possibly could. After a few steps I could hear the echo again. I knew now that I was being stalked. Stalked by a predator who’s not supposed to be in this part of the country.
I slowly covered about fifty yards when I entered a small clearing. The clearing was about thirty yards across. I knew this was it. It was time to end it. Either I was going to get it, or it was going to get me. I moved to the far side of the clearing as quietly as I could on the crunching ice and set up in a stand of Mountain Laurels. If I missed my shot or didn’t kill, I knew I had a fighting chance with my knife among the dense, twisted, gnarly branches of the mountain laurel’s. Well, that’s all I had, so be it.
As I snuggled into the mountain laurel’s, and quietly, with my hand over the lock to muffle the click, pulled the **** to full ****, checked the charge in the pan closed the frizzen and tapped the priming powder away from the touch hole. I aimed my old flintlock rifle directly at the trail I had just exited. The quiet was eerie. My ears strained for the slightest sound, any sound that would betray the beast's position. Seconds passed, and then a minute, nothing. The only sound I heard was a slight breeze as it moved through the trees. Cocking my head to one side in an effort to focus, there it was a faint crunching of footsteps. Got ’cha, I thought to myself.
The seconds felt like hours. It was close and creeping closer. After a few tense moments, the predator entered the clearing through the same trail opening I had used minutes before. I lined my iron sights right on the chest of this wonderful animal. Beautiful, I thought to myself. He was the most magnificent thing I had ever seen. I had seen quite a few out west. He was rather large animal with a very heavy dark brown winter coat, large head, slender body, and long tail. As soon as his front paws hit the ground, he looked me square in the eyes and I stared back, finger on the trigger, unblinking. Our eye locked in anticipation of each other’s next move. I wanted him to decide his own fate. I had him dead to rights and he knew it. We stared at each other for what seemed an eternity but were in reality only a few seconds.
The cougar let out a sound I had never heard a cougar make before. The sound sent a chill up my spine. The sound echoed through the trees carried by the cold crisp winter air. At that moment the cat turned disappearing from the clearing through the same trail opening it had entered. I stayed at the ready as I listened to the crunching of his footprints fade into the distance. When I felt confident the cougar had left the area, I put my rifle back on half **** and slowly made my way down the mountain listening for that all too familiar echo.
Since that day, I look for cat sign when I go in the deep mountains, especially when I go through that area. To this day, I can see in my mind’s eye the look on the face of the cougar when our eyes locked. I like to think he has the same memory of my eyes locked on him.
The winter of 2003 was a particularly harsh winter with sub- zero temperatures and deeper than normal snow fall, especially in the high mountain. Christmas had passed and my wife and I were anticipating’ the New Year. December 26th is the start of the late primitive weapons season where only a flintlock ignition rifle, .44 caliber or larger, loaded with black powder, patch, ball, and iron sights is allowed.
It was just before sunup when I headed for the back country. My property borders a National Forest. I step right out my back door and into the mountains. The weather forecast predicted a bright sunny day in the teens, promising to be a beautiful day for hunting. I was excited about a day in the mountains; Like the ol’ saying goes, “A bad day hunting in the mountains is better than a good day at work”. I grabbed my trusty flintlock, possible bag containing my patch, ball, powder, and skinning knife. In my eagerness to get going, I left my backup pistol behind. I never go into the mountains unarmed. One never knows what they’ll encounter up there. I like to go as far as I can onto the back country to get past the fair weather hunters. In my many years hunting, I have had some close calls with wildlife.
After a couple hours of walking’, I was a ways back, where the terrane is quite rugged. The Mountain Laurels and Hemlocks are thick in here so the snow covering’ the ground is much thinner due to the thick foliage. I set up for a spell on a well-worn Deer trail when I heard a sound that I hadn’t heard since my Marine Corps days hunting at Camp Pendleton, California. As I listened, the sound seemed to get closer. As I assessed my situation, I suddenly realized how foolish it was to forget my revolver. Well, it is what it is, I thought. The best way to deal with an aggressive predator is to either shoot it or try to put some distance between you and it. I didn’t want to shoot it if I didn’t have to, so I decided to quietly skedaddle out of there.
My ol’ grandpappy taught me a long time ago, you only kill for 2 reasons. Food and self-defense. If I could get out of there without doing it harm, that’s what I was going to do.
I decided it was time to put some distance between me and the all too familiar sound. I stood and checked my flintlock. Opening the frizzen, I brushed the old powder from the pan, cleaned the touchhole with my hole pick well. I took out my knife and sharpened the contact edge of my flint and wiped any moisture from the flint and frizzen face. I then checked the position of the flint, tightened the jaws to ensure my rock was secure, then lowered the **** to the half **** position. Lastly, I primed the pan with fresh powder, closed the frizzen and double checked myself. All the while keeping my ears open.
Well, I thought, I was as ready as I would ever be, so I headed back down the mountain as quietly as possible. My rifle was laid across my arms ready to go.
99% of my hunting is with my flintlock. I think I’m a better than average shot with this old rifle, however only one shot between me and this aggressive predator is not odds I wished to test.
I moved slow and quietly as possible back down the mountain. After about an hour of easy stepping, I had traveled what I estimated to be a mile or so and I thought I was in the clear. I took my time; I was more concerned with stealth then speed. I went through an area of little snow with frozen leaves and pine twigs showing. The forest canopy is quite thick in this area, not much snow makes it to the ground. However, there was a thin layer of ice under the powder. My boots seemed to make an awful loud crunching sound as I walked over the frozen ground. Every step brought the echo of crunching leaves, snapping twigs, and frozen ferns. I stopped to listen; the crunching continued for three more steps then stopped. I waited silently, listened to the silence of the cold mountain air for a few seconds before continuing to walk as silently as I possibly could. After a few steps I could hear the echo again. I knew now that I was being stalked. Stalked by a predator who’s not supposed to be in this part of the country.
I slowly covered about fifty yards when I entered a small clearing. The clearing was about thirty yards across. I knew this was it. It was time to end it. Either I was going to get it, or it was going to get me. I moved to the far side of the clearing as quietly as I could on the crunching ice and set up in a stand of Mountain Laurels. If I missed my shot or didn’t kill, I knew I had a fighting chance with my knife among the dense, twisted, gnarly branches of the mountain laurel’s. Well, that’s all I had, so be it.
As I snuggled into the mountain laurel’s, and quietly, with my hand over the lock to muffle the click, pulled the **** to full ****, checked the charge in the pan closed the frizzen and tapped the priming powder away from the touch hole. I aimed my old flintlock rifle directly at the trail I had just exited. The quiet was eerie. My ears strained for the slightest sound, any sound that would betray the beast's position. Seconds passed, and then a minute, nothing. The only sound I heard was a slight breeze as it moved through the trees. Cocking my head to one side in an effort to focus, there it was a faint crunching of footsteps. Got ’cha, I thought to myself.
The seconds felt like hours. It was close and creeping closer. After a few tense moments, the predator entered the clearing through the same trail opening I had used minutes before. I lined my iron sights right on the chest of this wonderful animal. Beautiful, I thought to myself. He was the most magnificent thing I had ever seen. I had seen quite a few out west. He was rather large animal with a very heavy dark brown winter coat, large head, slender body, and long tail. As soon as his front paws hit the ground, he looked me square in the eyes and I stared back, finger on the trigger, unblinking. Our eye locked in anticipation of each other’s next move. I wanted him to decide his own fate. I had him dead to rights and he knew it. We stared at each other for what seemed an eternity but were in reality only a few seconds.
The cougar let out a sound I had never heard a cougar make before. The sound sent a chill up my spine. The sound echoed through the trees carried by the cold crisp winter air. At that moment the cat turned disappearing from the clearing through the same trail opening it had entered. I stayed at the ready as I listened to the crunching of his footprints fade into the distance. When I felt confident the cougar had left the area, I put my rifle back on half **** and slowly made my way down the mountain listening for that all too familiar echo.
Since that day, I look for cat sign when I go in the deep mountains, especially when I go through that area. To this day, I can see in my mind’s eye the look on the face of the cougar when our eyes locked. I like to think he has the same memory of my eyes locked on him.
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