It became my mission in life to find acceptance within this community. I would do virtually anything to make friends with this town. It was mid-October when I wandered into one of the towns numerous saloons. I was approached by a few of the local boys, who seemed genuinely interested in getting to know me.
"You're 'that photographer fellow' that just moved to town, right?"
I turned around to see a tall, burly gentleman, sporting a goatee, wearing Wrangler jeans and a tattered flannel shirt. His name was Dave, he was amongst three other guys, and he was pointing at me.
"Yea." I was cautious not to let on too much.
"I've seen you around town. ...seem ok to me." A compliment, no doubt.
"Hi, I'm Denny." I extended my hand.
He shook it, and passed it around to his chums, introducing each. Charlie, Greg, Mike and Skipper, all seemed nice enough. Surrounded by flannel and ball caps, I asked the gentlemen if they would care to join me here at the bar. They agreed, and each took a bar stool on either side of me.
We talked, and drank the afternoon away. Each ordering a round in turn. The conversation seemed centered on me, as hard as I tried to change it's course, it always came back to me. When I said that I was from Chicago, you could hear the eyes rolling. There was some laughter, suggesting that I was the butt of an 'inside' joke.
"Now why is that funny?" I asked with a smile.
"Oh, I don't know. We get a few 'citiots' through here every so often." Dave offered.
"Citiots?"
"Yea, big city types who come through here thinking they know everything." Blurted, Skipper, a cocky, rail-thin, fellow with unwavering blue eyes.
"Oh..."
"Big city-idiots." Clarification came from a big man. At nearly 300 pounds, and easily 6 foot, Charlie spoke through a well-trimmed beard.
"I get it."
"They come from California mostly." Greg was probably my height and weight, about 5'11", 200 pounds, but was in much better shape. He was clean-shaven, with short hair. Almost business-like in his dress and manner.
"Cause a lot of problems, do they?"
"Are you kidding? They come out here, because everything is so beautiful, and then try to change everything to suit themselves." Dave was getting hot-under-the-collar.
"They buy land and houses at top dollar, so the locals can no longer afford to own anything." Charlie put in his two cents.
"They try to outlaw hunting and logging and mining. They've taken away all the good paying jobs." Skipper joined in.
"Californians suck!" Mike was stocky and had a large, full, ratty beard. He stood about 6'6". A thoroughly imposing man, he spoke as if he just caught the first part of the conversation. If Skipper was the smart one in the bunch, Mike was his Gilligan.
"Sounds like you get a lot of them." I was attentive, and thankful not to be a Californian. "We've become a fad. Everyone in Hollywood has to have a ranch in Montana, now." Skipper had his fingers on the pulse of movie stars everywhere.
"They don't even know what a ranch is!" Mike interjected.
This conversation went on for a while. I sat in relative comfort, never offering the fact that I had lived in California for 5 years, and had a teenage daughter there.
"Well, I'm not from California,..."
"No, you're from Chicago." Mike charged.
"Know what Charlie Russell said about you..." Skipper accused.
"You're a skunk." A slam-dunk from Mike.
I didn't even know who Charlie Russell was, at that time. Come to find out, C.M. Russell was a cowboy artist. Rather, a prairie poet, scholar and frontier artist, until his death in 1926. He is so revered in the region, that most towns have named streets, hospitals, and libraries after him, and there are countless museums honoring him. Apparently, he had no love of Chicagoans.
"Aw, you don't seem so bad, though." Greg was sympathetic.
"I was just poking fun." Skipper brightened his tone a bit.
"Me too!" Once again, Mike allied with the others.
We continued, in a noticeably lighter vein, drinking and talking. The conversation began to go over my head when they started talking about hunting.
It's not that I have anything against it, but I have never lived in an area where hunting was a way of life. I knew nothing about it. I related this bit of information to my comrades, who were both astonished and amused. Being open to new things, I decided that I should learn often necessary craft. The guys smiled, and agreed to take me under their collective wing and teach me. However, being a novice meant that I was not to roam the plains stalking the majestic Buffalo. No, I would be limited to a smaller, less popular prey for my first hunt. The elusive Jackalope.
"What on earth is a Jackalope?" My ignorance was amusing to my comrades.
"Right there." Dave pointed to a stuffed and mounted animal, sitting on it's own perch over the bar. I had never seen such an animal. But, then again, I'd never seen a cow up-close. It looked like a long-eared rabbit. The only difference being that it had antlers. Seriously!
They went on, at length and in great detail, describing the unmistakable Jackalope.
"First, the Jackalope is not a cross between a jackrabbit and an antelope." Dave established a reasonable certainty.
"No sir, that's a myth." Greg agreed.
"Actually, it's cross between a jackrabbit and a whitetail deer." Skipper offered up a curious genealogy that can paint a mighty unpleasant picture in your head.
The story goes that they were originally discovered in Douglas, Wyoming before they were seen throughout the northwest. They're nocturnal, which is why there are so few photographs of them. And, lastly, they don't hop. They lope!
"Good hunting?" Seemed like and appropriate question.
"...Tough!" Mike volunteered.
"They're rare. Hard to find, but easy to kill." Skipper knew all.
"Really?"
"Heck, ya! I got one with a slingshot!" Greg spoke from experience. "We don't even bring guns anymore." Dave smiled.
I listened with all the intensity one can muster, when you're half-in-the-bag. Suddenly, Greg made a silent dash for the door.
"Where's he going?"
"He's going to go get the stuff." Dave explained.
"What stuff."
"Hunting gear." Mike grinned a big grin, that almost worried me.
"Why?" I knew the answer.
"We're going hunting, tonight!" Dave asserted.
"You are?" Couldn't I just stay here and drink?
"You too!" Mike put all questions to rest.
Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe I was just trying to fit in with my newfound friends. But, I decided to give it a try.
We waited for Greg to return, and talked about this evening's hunt. They said we should go all the way to Canada as the Jackalope are bigger up there. I felt a little uneasy about trying to cross a national border in this condition. And besides, I didn't need a trophy on my very first outing. Luckily, I was able to convince them to hunt a little closer to home.
It was dark when we left the bar. Greg was sitting at the wheel of a blue, rusty, 1974 Ford F-150, that had been custom painted, with a paint brush. Mike took the passenger seat, and the rest of us hopped into the back with the hunting gear. As we headed out of town, I scanned over the supplies that Greg had found so necessary to bring. There was an inordinately large quantity of beer, a miner's helmet, an oversized, orange hunting vest, a pair of knee-high fishing boots, a slingshot, and, 3 little red wagons with long pull strings and a set of antlers bolted to the front of each. I couldn't wait to see which one of these guys was going to have to use all this stuff.
Dave cracked open a beer and handed it to me. "You're gonna need this stuff!" He claimed.
"Me? I'm not sure..."
"If you're gonna hunt. You're gonna have to wear the gear!" Skipper was quite definite on this point.
He went on to explain each piece of equipment and its role in bagging our game. Let's talk beer. It helped to mask the human scent, that would scare off a Jackalope before you ever got near it, and being 'Point man' meant that I would have to drink the most. The miners helmet would limit the amount of light in the area by shining only in front of me and making it a lot easier to run. The oversized orange vest was required by law for Jackalope hunters. Making them more visible to other hunters, and less likely to be mistaken for prey. The knee-high boots would keep your feet dry and save your lower legs from the thorny weeds that inhabit the prairie.
"What about those wagons?" I needed to know.
"Lures!" Charlie said proudly.
"Lures?"
"Jackalope lures!" Dave could sense my confusion. "How are you going to pull those little guys out of the brush without lures?"
"I don't know." I really didn't.
Dave, Charlie and Skipper began to unveil a complicated plan for catching jackalope. I appeared to be listening when, in fact, I was actually picturing the face of my lovely Montana lady. Wouldn't she be proud to see me getting along so well with these local fellows? I was concerned that I would never fit in with the residents of this wonderful little town. And now, look at me, out on a hunt with five newfound friends.
We were about 3 miles from town when the truck stopped. It just stopped, right there in the middle of a gravel road with nothing but grass and shrub all around. And it was dark. Very dark. The prairie has a way of holding onto the darkness like nothing else.
"Here..." Charlie handed me a second beer. "You should take this more seriously."
I didn't want to seem like an ingrate, so I downed the rest of the beer I had been holding and opened the other.
We left the relative safety of the pick-up and began unloading the necessary equipment. They began to adorn me like a Christmas tree, shaking out the vest and putting it on me, and then the miners helmet.
"Take off your jeans." Mike insisted.
"What?!"
"It's for your own safety." Skipper added.
"I don't get it."
"Jackalope hate denim the way a bull hates the color red!" Dave said.
"But, ...I, ...But,...Bulls hate red?!"
"That's right. Let's not forget, jackalope have antlers. Do you want to get mauled?" Skipper was persistent.
I wish I had known that before we trekked out here. Given the circumstances, what could I do but comply? I stripped down to my boxers and immediately put on the boots.
"Don't forget this." Charlie put the slingshot in my waistband.
I must admit to feeling more than a little foolish standing out there, dressed this way. The guys removed the lures from the back of the truck and handed me the pull strings.
"Your first hunt. Are you nervous." Skipper beamed
"Naw. I've been waiting for this moment my whole life!" I lied.
"Wait! We need a picture!" Greg was terribly excited about this. He ran to the cab and returned with a surprisingly nice camera. It was an Olympus K-1000, with a 30-70mm zoom lens and a flash attachment.
At the sight of the camera, my mood lightened. Finally, I had found something that was familiar to me. Greg must know something about photography, to spend the money on such a camera. We had something in common. If nothing else, I could envision us sitting around the pub, discussing focal lengths and reciprocity factors. It gave me strength in my hour of need. Dave, Mike, Charlie and Skipper lined up behind me for the photograph. There I stood, with a miners helmet over my fedora, wearing a large, orange, hunting vest, that draped down to my thighs, nearly covering my boxer shorts, and a pair of knee high hunting boots. Holding clothes lines, attached to three little red wagons, I smiled for the camera. Gregg snapped off two or three frames and everybody piled back into the truck, except me.
"Don't forget the plan!" Dave shouted as the truck circled around.
It took only a moment for them to disappear into the darkness. Only the rattle of the old pick-up, speeding down the gravel road, remained. And soon, that faded too. No lights, no sounds. This was not my turf. How did I get here? I suddenly felt terribly out-of-place. I calmed myself by going over 'the plan'. My job was to drag those lures out into the pasture, slowly. So as not to cause too much commotion.
I began to walk out into the darkness of the prairie. Those lures were noisy, so I kept the pace down to a crawl. I went about a hundred yards before my nerves got the best of me. This seemed like a likely place to turn around.
According to the plan, I was to get those lures turned around, switch on the light on my miners helmet, and run, very fast, back to where the guys were going to hide the truck. Slowly, methodically, I circled the lures and switched on the light. Keeping the pull strings taut, I began to run. Running less than 5 yards, I stopped cold.
Standing there alone, in utter darkness, except for the light beaming from my forehead, my heart sank. I was drunk, cold and utterly disappointed. Did they tell me where they were going to hide the truck? Was I even listening?
Everything seemed to fall apart, at that moment. I thought I was doing so well. Those four guys went the extra mile, teaching me the ropes. Gathering up the gear. Bringing me all the way out here. And now this. I felt negligent and discouraged.
There was plenty of time to beat-myself-up as I walked back into town. I imagined a truckload of guys sitting in some gully, waiting for me to arrive with a pack of jackalope in tow. They would wait, and then search, and eventually give-up and hope the best. There would be no explaining my incompetence. No redemption for the 'citiot' who wanted to learn to hunt. I would forever be the outcast. A pariah, to be scorned throughout my community. I felt terrible. Not just from the guilt, but from the cold and all that beer. I really felt terrible.
It was nearly sunrise when I found myself on the outskirts of town, walking down the main street of town. I was nearly deaf to the din of the lures as they bounced across the asphalt, and my legs were numb from the cold. Nothing in my life had ever prepared me for this. Does it get any worse?
A quick flash of red and blue lights answered that question. I stiffly turned my upper body just enough to see a police cruiser, at a crawl, directly behind me. I pulled my lures to the side of the road.
The officer drove up along side me and rolled down his window.
"Aren't you 'that photographer fellow'...?" The officer asked in firm, unfettered voice.
"Yeah."
"Are you stoned?!" He was not in a good mood. His expression was one of disbelief.
"No." I was tired and on the verge of an excruciating hangover but, no, not stoned.
"What the hell are you doing?!" He seemed to be having a hard time deciphering all that his eyes were telling him.
I began to relate the story from the past evening. He listened, dutifully, acknowledging the facts as I presented them. He knew the bar. He knew the guys. He knew about hunting. However, when I got to the word 'Jackalope', his eyes widened. A broad smile crept across his face and, as I continued, he let loose with a roar. I tried to complete the story, but his laughter became more constant and brutal. It was so unrestrained that I feared he might miss the part about hiding the truck. I made several attempts to continue but, his eyes were becoming blood-strained, and he was gasping for air. He waved me away, frantically, flailing his hands and arms, as if to say, 'you're killing me, here!'
I walked away, slowly at first, not fully understanding his amusement. The sound of the lures barely drowned out his fiendish cackle. I walked more quickly. Two blocks down the street, I turned to check on the officer, only to see a man, in a police care with its lights flashing, suffering the effects of his own giddiness, fitfully slapping the door and pointing in my general direction.