Forward                                                    

                                                                            Of Moose and Men

I was in the Anchorage office of the Statewide Investigative Unit on a Saturday, finishing up some interview transcripts and case reports – the results of investigating commercial wildlife crimes such as illegal guiding, illegal commercial fishing, and high profile crimes like Same Day Airborne.  Same Day Airborne is the act of taking a big game animal on the same day you were airborne.  You cannot take an animal until after 3 AM the day following the day you were airborne, on your way into your hunting location.  An aircraft may not be used to spot, herd or molest big game animals.  The law proscribes some severe penalties for violating the Fair Chase doctrine hunting is firmly anchored in and violations will not be tolerated and be severely dealt with.  This often includes seizure and forfeiture of aircraft and all equipment used in the offense.  The office across the hall was Anchorage Post where patrol officers worked when not running from complaint to complaint.  Bob Beasley was the only one at post that day and he was logging in evidence from his shift.

     I heard the phone ring and shortly Bob came across the hall telling me he needed help and needed it right then.  He was in a hurry so I grabbed my sport coat and headed out the door with him.  It was February and a fair day – about 15 degrees and in his patrol vehicle, he told me a cross country skier had just been stomped by a moose in Russian Jack Park off Bonniface Parkway.  When we arrived, an Anchorage Police cruiser pulled in behind us.  We saw a very large cow moose standing over a woman who was laying in a cross country ski trail, face down and not moving.

      Bob grabbed his shotgun and we eased out of the truck.  The moose’s ears were laid back and we could clearly see she was agitated, and as Bob and I moved closer she started to get real antsy and I saw why.  There was a “calf” with her – a big calf about 600 pounds worth.  I asked Bob if  he could put a slug in her head and be ready to follow up with another if necessary.  The Anchorage cop did not have a riot gun or rifle with his patrol rig, so he couldn’t help much.  I knew I could hit the cow moose in the head, but had little faith my S&W 4006 would kill her with one shot.  I told Bob it was up to him and I would cover.

     I knew Bob was good with the shotgun because I had watched him in qualification rounds in the past.  He aimed and let one rip and the show was on!  The cow moose staggered back a little and Bob thumped her in the head with a second shot.  She started to fall forward onto the downed woman and I shot the moose six quick times.  It fell to the right of the downed woman, and Bob, me and the cop quickly ran to see if the skier was hurt and required an ambulance.  She was OK except for some facial bruising and a little complaint of sore ribs, and the Anchorage cop hustled her to his waiting car.

    But we weren’t done yet, and Bob and I looked around for the calf.  It had cornered some skiers who were watching the show and now they were in a hum.  We yelled at them to get their skis off in case they needed to do any ducking and dodging, and I started up the hard pack ski trail while Bob circled around in an attempt to run the calf off.  We were just about on opposite sides of the calf when it dropped its head and headed straight at me at a dead run.  This was starting to get serious!

     I saw Bob was in danger if I shot and missed.  He’d probably catch the bullet, but if I didn’t shoot, the enraged animal would have me!  I screamed his name and he ducked behind a tree when that freight – train of a moose calf was little more than an arms length from me.  It kept coming and I quickly double tapped it in the chest.  It was dead when it brushed past me and fell in the trail.

    Almost in shock, I sat down in the snow and just looked at my Smith which had just saved me from serious bodily injury or worse.  Bob came walking up with a big grin on his face and said, “Those overrated 40’s really do work.”  I smiled and said: “You write the report slick.”

    Bob moved on to become Chief of Police in Hoonah, an Indian Village on Chichagof Island in southeast Alaska.  He is now Chief of Police out in Dutch Harbor – out in Deadliest Catch country.

    How did I end up as I did?  Some live from cradle to grave not knowing what living and life are all about.  I feel very sorry for the unaware.  To live one’s life on tip toes is what I believe the good Lord intended.  I have certainly been a ballerina, on my toes my whole life.  The following sixty short stories, dedicated to my Mom and Dad, will explain in some amusing and some sad detail why It Takes One To Catch One.

Ah yes, life in the Last Frontier.

Chapter 1

Gram & Gramps

ertile, Minnesota, an unlikely spot for a wanderer to sprout from.  My aunts and uncles nearly all seemed to live there.  Almost 1000 people for a population.  Right smack in the middle of paradise.  It had a lot of lessons for me that were hidden away while I was in Gramp’s ice shed waiting for Leo to declare Orange Crush time.

We lived in Syre, Gary, Twin Valley, Manitoba Junction, Tacoma, Fertile, Meckinock, Crookston, East Grand Forks, Grand Forks, West Fargo, Miles City, Warden, Butte and I finally left home from White Bear Lake.  It was like a dream for a kid.  I got to meet and cherish so many friends.  I still have contact with a lot.  They are what your values are based on.

Meckinock is worth mentioning here.  I was a pre school kid and into everything.  Catching craw dads in the creek, getting electrocuted by weed burner electric fences that stretched across the creek, visiting friend’s houses that had flies on the windows so thick you could barely see light shining through.  That was on the INSIDE folks.  Crusty.  A value lesson I still hold dear.

When we lived in West Fargo I was starting school, sort of.  I had been in kindergarten in Grand Forks learning how to take a nap on a rug I brought to school, LOL.  Stressed teacher.  Funny what you remember when you’re older.  We lived in a couple houses in West Fargo.  One was actually a converted chicken coop.  It was right on the bank, sort of, of the Red River.

When we moved to Miles City I was getting a bit older.  I was in the second grade.  We lived in 6 houses that I remember.  The first was a place right down by the Yellowstone River.  The neighbors had a bird bath that was made of cut and polished agates that were collected from the river bank.  It was beautiful, I was impressed.  We lived in the Mouse House down by the Tongue River, so named by my mom because of the mice that invaded from the field out back.  I think I was in the 4th grade there.  I had a paper route and experienced my first pay check.  Wonderful thing, didn’t last long.  I gave that up so I could fish in the Tongue and the Yellowstone.

I’d follow the railroad tracks to the Tongue River and fish for channel cats, shad and anything that would bite.  I spent lots of time at the river.  Then we moved to the east side of town where my dad eventually bought a house.  First place was a two story that was semi perfect.  I’d pick asparagus along the irrigation ditches, pick plums in a pasture just east of us, dodge rattle snakes, catch garter snakes, We’d climb Sentinel Butte to gather mica and scorpions.  Mom hated to go through my pockets when washing clothes for fear of what she’d find..

Miles City is where my dad started taking me hunting.  He was a friend of a guy named Bill Stokes.  Bill owned a jewelry store in Miles City and liked bourbon as much as dad did.  I ain’t got a clue where or how they met, maybe at the Cross Roads Inn out toward Glendive or as I learned to call it, the Cross Eyed Inn.

They hunted out south of town on Pat Wilson’s ranch.  Pat was a fun loving guy.  He’d come and play poker in our camp tents all night long.  There were a lot of silver dollars shuffled back and forth.  A lot of bourbon disappeared on those hunts.  I have some really fun deer hunting stories from those trips.  Take a lot of telling to get them in here.

We then moved to Warden, Washington.  I was crushed.  I was in the 6th grade.  Didn’t take long and I had friends.  Gary Jones, Scotty Berdan, Gary Brent.  Haven’t seen or heard from them in 44 years.  Warden is in the middle of the Columbia Basin.  Pheasants, ducks, coyotes…..damn…..it was awesome.  I could tell you stories of how the ducks and geese would black out the sky, how the pheasants were so damn thick you’d have to plan a hunting trip to keep from limiting out too quick.  My dog would even catch pheasants when I went out to feed my pigeons.  That’s a separate story.  One I still hold tight.

Chapter 2

Passing

 have had many folks in my life wonder and ask, why I am the way I am. A hard question to answer. Hell, I’ve lived damn near everywhere, done nearly everything, had fun at stuff most people just dream of and come as close to death as can be imagined without having to go through resuscitation.

I guess I can blame it on my childhood. As a kid, about 4 or 5, I hung with my grandpa a lot. He owned a beer joint in northern Minnesota and loved to hunt and fish. At that age I used to help him with the beer coolers at the joint by cleaning the ice blocks in the ice shed out back. They packed them in there with saw dust in the winter. They were 100 pound blocks. I’d ice pick them into manageable sized chunks and Leo, a crusty old fart who worked for my grampa, would haul them in and stuff the coolers full to cool the beer and soda. I’d get rewarded with an orange Crush soda after it was all done. I still remember Leo, don’t know what happened to him.

I worshipped my grandma and grandpa. They were my life. I’d stay with them in the summer and explore the Sand Hill River. I’d pick buckets of choke cherries for gram to make jelly out of and fish and swim at Bare Ass Beach, a swimming hole on the Sand Hill. Gram would scold and tell me “be home by 6” when I’d head out on an adventure. I’d usually hear the 6 pm whistle blow from the fire hall when I was miles away from getting home, up in the Sand Hills with my cousin Donny. We were bad J.

I got to know nearly everyone in Fertile, Minnesota where they lived and where my mom and dad grew up and met and fell in love. It was a slice out of yesterday. People were trusted up front. Kids were safe from predator types as the community would have hung anybody who hurt a kid, with or without a trial. Guilt is obvious on its face. Think about it.

I grew older and the summer visits were now a real adventure as I rode the train by myself, changing trains in Fargo, North Dakota to ride the Red River branch line of the N.P. It ran to Fertile all the way to Winnipeg. The rails are no longer there. The tracks have been torn up. Sad.

In 1963, when I was camped with friends up at Delmo Lake east of Butte Montana, my gram passed away. My dad came and got me and we rode the North Coast Limited in the Pullman cars back to Minnesota for her funeral. Hell of a trip, still feel sorry for myself about her leaving me.

I’m not a good story teller so if no one wants to hear anymore, I understand.

Chapter 3

Small Towns

et’s see, OK, back to Minnesota.  Hey, I was born there on a dark and wintry night so I can go back anytime I want toJ.  When we lived in Miles City I’d drive my folks nuts during the summer and whine and beg to go visit Fertile.  All my wild cousins lived there, Jim, Junior (Norm), Jerry, Jennifer, Donny, Dana, Delrae and occasionally, my cousins Terry, Carter and Jill would come up from Moorhead to visit, later came Brian, Renae, Brent and on and on, partners in crime, fellow explorers.

When I was in the 4th grade, mom and dad finally put me on the North Coast Limited.  A Northern Pacific Mainstreeter.  Dad was an employee of the railroad so he had passes and one with my name on it.  I rode alone, imagine that today, from Miles City, Montana to Fargo/Moorhead.  I changed trains in Moorhead and caught the Red River train of the N.P.  That train cut off the N.P. mainline at Manitoba Junction and went north.  All the way to Winnipeg Canada.  Manitoba was nice.  When a bottle of soda was a dime in Minnesota, you could score one for seven cents in Manitoba.

From Manitoba Junction you travel north past places like Hawley, Twin Valley, Gary, Syre (Si-ree), then into Fertile.  Coming into Fertile you’d cross a huge trestle over the Sand Hill River which has since burned down when the rails were being cut and taken up for salvage.  Acetylene torches can do that stuff.  Continuing, you crossed the bridge over the highway and pulled into the depot.

Backing up a bit, we lived in Syre when I was born.  Dad had two cars back then.  A model T and an old Dodge I think.  That cold February night must have been a mad dash to get mom to the hospital in Ada about 35 miles away.  Wonder if he used the Dodge or the T?  I’da gone for the T, cool car J.

Dad was the depot agent/telegrapher for the railroad in Syre.  He and mom and my older brother lived in a stone house.  There was one other house in “town” and a family named Best lived there.  There was a Lutheran church and an elevator and the depot.  That was it.  So…….., you think you lived in some small towns huh?  Seems to me when we left, the Best’s moved into the stone house and tore theirs down.  Now the depot is gone and I’m not sure if the elevator is still there.  That Lutheran church will be there forever probably.

When I started walking I used to play with our dogs.  Greatest hunting dogs ever.  Duke and Cindy.  Black Spaniels, good dogs.  I still think about them from time to time.  Dad raised crows for some goofy commercial venture and I remember the crows sitting on top of one or both dogs.  A crow isn’t too smart J.  In the spring the river (creek, and small creek too) would flood all the way to the house.  Mom and I and Denny would play in the yard floating around in dad’s fishing boat.  My uncle Albin and dad built a home made tractor and that was used for getting through the swamp too.  Doubt it?  Hey, I have pictures!  It was a fun little place for a 1, 2 & 3 year old.  I can’t believe I actually remember some snips of Syre after all these years.

Dad trapped in the winter to supplement his income.  He’d catch fox, muskrats, mink and ermine.  I remember watching him skin stuff down in the basement.  I was hooked.  I became a trapper and was, and still am darn good at it.

Back up in Fertile. I visited up there until just before I went into the Air Force.  I spent a lot of time fishing in Little Andrew Lake, Maple Lake, Union Lake and places I’d go with Donnie in his boat.  Don’t think I ever did catch a walleye in Minnesota but Northerns became almost an obsession.  Bluegills, Sunfish, Bullheads, but Northern Pike, now that was the holy grail for me.

When we weren’t chasing fish, we were down at BAB trying to be frogmen.  Donnie and I made spear guns of sorts.  We cut a length of copper tubing and attached a piece of rubber inner tube, yup, when inner tubes were real rubber, then cut a straight piece of clothes hanger for the spear.  Swimming around in a semi polluted river with no goggles looking for a fish to spear.  Trouble with the clothes hanger spear is it would launch and immediately track in whatever direction it felt like, sometimes in a circle.  Surprised we both survived that clever invention J

Ah yes, the snapping turtles in the Sand Hill.  You’d have to really check the sandy beaches close as the turtles would burrow into the sand and the sand would settle smooth.  Occasionally you would find one about the size of a wash tub bottom and a head half the size of a football. The only disturbance you would see in the sand is where it’s nose poked up.  Imagine walking along bare foot and getting nailed by one of those monsters.  Ouch!

Fertile is where I learned to fish for gophers.  What a hoot!  On the highway into Fertile there is a nice grassy slope just to the left as you head north.  This is where Fertile residents, probably garden club members, have set up a flower bed and spelled out “Fertile” with flowers.  The grass is kept mowed and it is an impressive sight when coming into town.  Gophers were everywhere on that grassy slope.  I’ll name no names here but I’d get an old bait casting rod and reel with braided line and my partners and I would go fish gophers down there.  All you needed was a slip knot for terminal gear and find a gopher sticking his, or her I suppose, head out of a gopher hole.  Spook the gopher down the hole and go loop the slip knot around the edge of the hole.  When the gopher comes back up to whistle at you, set the slip knot.

You had to learn to pull hard enough to flip the gopher out of the hole or it was a short battle.  You’d have to cut the line if they got back down the hole.  When you had one up on top it was like fighting a big fish.  They’d run and claw the ground, zipping back and forth and biting at the line.  Then the big challenge, letting one go.  I got bit a few times but there wasn’t any rabies back in the 50’s J.  We never killed one and the slip knots we tied were loose so if the line were cut or bitten off, the knot relaxed and was easily removed.  A couple I flipped into a bucket and let the line go limp and bingo, they were free.

Chapter 4

Things Learned

 learned a lot of neat stuff in Fertile.  I learned about home made motor bikes from a kid named Pleasant.  I think that was his last name.  He lived about halfway between my Grandmother’s house and my Uncle Norman’s place, about a block or so between.  He was an older guy and he built a Schwin up with a small 4 cycle engine on it.  As I recall, the centrifugal clutch drove a huge drive belt that was looped around a home made pulley track on the rear wheel.  Always wanted to build one J.

I learned about tunnel craft over at Donnie’s.  My Uncle Norman ran the Cities Service oil delivery business in town.  There was a garage at his place big and tall enough to park the oil delivery truck inside.  In the winter, the snow would drift up on the east side all the way to the top of the roof.  My cousins and I would dig tunnels in that snow bank and huge caves.  Funny we didn’t get killed in a cave in.  We’re talkin’ kids about 5 to 12 J.

I learned about rail torpedoes.  Again, I won’t name names, but we’d strap ‘em to the rails close to the depot and wait for the afternoon passenger train.  It got noisy.  We’d run and laugh and knew Wally was in hot pursuit.  Wally Ellegard was the town cop and we knew he watched us kids like a hawk.  Now I’m thinkin’ he soulda watched his kids like a hawk.  Grant Ellegard, his youngest, used to amaze me with stunts he pulled.  He had a real live monkey named Willey, I think it was.  Poop throwin’ little brown furry varmint.  No, not Grant, the monkey.

I learned about cleaning bullheads from my grandfather Ted.  We’d catch a bunch out in Maple Lake and he’d drive a nail in their head and cut the skin around the gills.  Then he’d use pliers to strip it off.  Weren’t very big but he liked to boil them in salt water and eat them.  They were excellent.  I use that pliers/vise grip trick to pull the skin off halibut.  Who says old folks can’t teach you something now and then J.

I learned about tobogganing from Jimmy, Junior and Jerry.  Donnie was there too but by the size of his eyeballs I’d hafta say he was somewhere close to me on the learning curve J.  We’d all hike out to the Brickyard, BAB area and there was an impressive hill out there in the Sand Hills.  Trouble is, there was a barbed wire fence at the bottom that no one saw.  We all get on the toboggan and prepare for the rapid decent into what I’m thinking is a lot of broken bones.  Order of seating is important to note here.  First up front was Jimmy.  Brave guy, then came Jerry, then Junior, then Dennis, then Donnie and tail end Charlie was good ole Steve.  We take off down hill and as we approach the speed of light, I dig my heels in and zip right off the toboggan.  Then Donnie and Dennis and Junior and Jerry and finally Jimmy.  Speed didn’t bother Jimmy it was that six strand barb wire fence that finally came into focus.  The toboggan zoomed right through it nearly all the way back to the railroad tracks.  Didn’t ride toboggans much after that, not even if they were being pulled on a level street by my dad J.

I learned about coin collecting, sort of.  My Uncle Duane ran a coin machine business in Fertile.  When I was real young I’d sit and watch as he hand counted the gum machine, juke box and pin ball machine money he’d collect from them.  I would notice there was a particular penny from the gum machines he’d put in a separate pile and not roll.  I learned later they were zinc/steel pennies and they were the reason for a lot of jams in those machines.  He’d haul them to the dump and dumped them all in pretty much the same spot.  Tried to reduce the circulation supply so service calls would settle down.  I also remember most of the nickels had a buffalo on them, a lot of the pennies had an Indian’s head on them and dimes were mostly festooned with the bust of Mercury.  I should have started a collection.  Quarters were different too.  What were they called?  Liberty quarters?  Silver, I know that.

I’ve often thought I should have used a metal detector and looked for those 1943 pennies.  The outside of the pile would be all corroded and worthless but I’ll wager the center of the pile would be in good shape.  Actually, Duane should have kept them and turned them in over in Thief River Falls where his competitor was doing business.  Have your cake and eat it too I always said J.

When I was a bit older I’d come to Fertile from Montana.  Almost seemed like there were no paper dollars in circulation in Montana.  I’d show up with a pocket full of silver dollars.  Morgan and Peace dollars.  Morgan’s were pretty.  An eagle with spread wings on one side and a beautiful impression of Liberty’s head and face on the other.  The engraving was outstanding.  Peace dollars were nice but not as impressive.  An eagle with folded wings on one side and a less detailed Liberty head on the obverse, betcha didn’t know I knew that word, didja ?   We’d head for the pool hall and I’d confuse the counter people with cartwheels.  Paying for malts, not milk shakes, but real honest to goodness malted milks, with a cartwheel and nearly always getting the change for a fifty cent piece.  I lived for letting them know I just gave them a dollar and they’d argue a bit until I asked them to look.  I’ll wager very few went into the receipts for the day and were replaced by a cheesy paper dollar, a silver certificate, which ain’t so “cheesy” today J.

I was in high school on one trip in the summer.  I had ordered a Sturm & Ruger Super Blackhawk.  Remember those days?  Back when you could order a gun from a mail order house without the federal government having a conniption fit?  I ordered this one while I was in Butte and had it shipped to Fertile, Minnesota.  I was staying at my Uncle Donny Bakken’s place and Duane and I went looking for ammunition when it finally arrived at the depot.  I think Donny signed for it as you had to be 21 years old to have a pistol or some such stuff.  No, no, I remember, I had to sign an affidavit, which was not required by federal law, when I ordered it from Parker Distributors out of New Rochelle, New York.  Yup, 21 years old and a ranch hand, hey mom and dad didn’t care, much J.

That revolver cost $95 and I would soon have some fun with it.

A Super Blackhawk.  Awesome beast!  Almost more steel than I could hold up in front of myself.  I think I was 16.  Might have been Donny Bakken I was with when we found some Winchester 240 grain lead ammunition up in Erskine, Minnesota for the gun.  Donny fired it once and came up with a plan J.

He suggested we go to the pool hall about 2 PM when he knew the Ness Locker Plant had a cow or bull that had to be killed for steaks and burger.  He knew Wally, the town cop remember?, would be there and we’d get Duane in on it too.  All was set, we descended on the pool hall.  I still wasn’t quite sure what was going on or what my role would be.  The Ness Locker Plant was sort of right behind the pool hall and kind of right behind grandma and grandpa’s place.  As luck would have it, Ness was there too.

We all slid into a booth with Wally and started BS ing, well……, not me so much, with Wally and Ness.  Guns somehow J came up and Donnie belittled Wally’s .357 Mag. As a cop gun and the berating and defending started from all points around the booth.  I kept my mouth shut J.  The .44 magnum cartridge and power was brought up and Wally immediately launched into defending his .357.  I kept my mouth shut J.  He finally crossed the line and claimed his .357 could outclass a .44 any day of the week.  I meekly asked, OK, how about today?

I knew Ness was in on it from the go and figured whatever was in store, he knew about it.  Wally looks at me and casually asks “just how are we going to prove it?”  I look at Donnie and Duane for a little guidance and it was quick in coming.  Donnie says, “Steve, go get your Super Blackhawk and some ammunition,” “Mr. Ness, you have something Wally can shoot over at your locker plant?”  Wally started to squirm a bit.  Ness: “ya, I have a Holstein that has to get butchered tomorrow I guess.”  Donnie kicked my feet and Duane shoved me out of the booth, I hot footed it to Donnie’s house down the street to get the gun and ammo.

By the time I got back the argument Re: a .357 Mag and a .44 Mag was in full swing.  I kept my mouth shut J.  I gave the Ruger to Donny and the ammo to Wally.  Ness says, “let’s go over to the locker plant.”  We all leave by the alley door and walk about 100 feet to the plant back door.  When I get in there I see a Holstein bull about the size of Godzilla standing chained in a stanchion on the east south east side of the inside of the plant.  I’m told, and so is Wally, that’s the “cow” to be killed.  Wally farts around with the gun, finally loads it then asks if it is single or double action.  I tell him “single action” as I head for the back door.  I just barely get outside when I hear a Hiroshima blast and notice about eight or ten bricks come flying off the southwestern corner of the packing plant.  I went back in and see Wally, Donny, Duane and Mr. Ness all fumbling around trying to shake the pizzazz out of their ears.  I grab the gun from Wally and unload it.

The bull is quite dead.  Wally shot it in the forehead (if cows have that sort of thing) and the bullet went down it’s spine and came out on the left side and clipped the gorilla chain off it’s neck.  The bullet then went whistling through two more walls and out of the building by punching the bricks out of the south westerly corner.  I think Wally was convinced but I don’t think he heard my asking him J.

Them were the days my friend J