Making a List and Checking it Twice

Some years ago, my family started drawing names at Christmas. Between my parents, five kids and four spouses, finding and buying meaningful gifts for everyone just got too cumbersome. I opposed this idea at first, because I just really liked getting presents.

Now that I am older and wiser, it's a tradition I've come to embrace. My resources are now focused on buying one family member what they really want. I’ve always considered myself a top selection in the annual drawing of names. The last few years, my wish list included mainly items for my house - a ladder, a magazine rack, a Bissell Little Green Machine. All relatively straightforward, readily available, one size fits all gifts.

That is, until this year. My brother-in-law, Kyle, drew my name, which means that my second oldest sister will be shopping for me. When she asked for a few hints in post-Thanksgiving e-mail, I sat down to consider what I really wanted.

I had nothing. There was really nothing pressing I needed, nor anything of great importance that I truly coveted. Sure, if a 37 inch LCD HD television showed up under my Christmas tree, I'd be okay with that. And I'd like a digital camera, a Browning shotgun and there is a pink fly-fishing vest I've had my eye on. But those are all items I'm perfectly capable of buying myself, and well beyond our Christmas spending limit.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that my Christmas wish list was so short not because I lacked creativity, but because my life is truly blessed. I've got more than a girl really needs, and more than this girl certainly deserves.

To start with, I'm blessed with a supportive and loving family. True, they don't quite understand my new obsession with all things outdoors, but that aside, they are pretty amazing. Last year about this time, my father suffered a stroke and we spent the holidays in a hospital in Denver. Having always been a bit of a daddy's girl, the whole ordeal sent my world into a tailspin. But we pulled together and pulled through it, and now Dad is back on his feet, cracking bad jokes, playing dominos and attempting to navigate his way through cyberspace.

I also have one of the coolest jobs on the planet. I get paid assist with projects like the antelope capture and bighorn sheep transplant, and what's more, I get to force my captive e-newsletter audience to read my stories about such adventures. And I'm surrounded by talented and dedicated coworkers who are more than willing to share their passion for wildlife and wild spaces with me.

I get to live in, work for and explore the state of Wyoming, where the mountains are almost never out of sight, pronghorn darn near outnumber people and it is still possible to find a quiet place in the wilderness to escape to.

But when I'm tired of being alone in the woods, I also have a great cast of friends to come home to. They are the best kind of friends - friends to shoot with, hunt with, fish with, gamble with, yell at the refs at a UW football game with, laugh with and cry with.

I have pictures of my first hunt, a freezer full of meat and a self-confidence I never really knew I had.

And finally, I have a new puppy to laugh at, a grown dog who loves me unconditionally and a cute boy that calls occasionally.

So Santa can skip my house this year - I've already got the most precious gifts I'll ever receive.

Merry Christmas.

So That's Hunting

I leaned into my rifle, my cheek pressed against the stock, my finger resting above the trigger, every molecule in my body quaking like an aspen leaf in the stiff Wyoming wind.

"Take a breath, let half of it out and squeeze the trigger," I thought in my head, remembering my hunter ed instruction and the hours of practice at the range leading up to this moment.

But that was then, on flat ground with paper targets. This was now, with sage scratching my knees and a living creature in my sights.

Through the scope, I watched the antelope take a few more short steps, then stop and turn broadside toward me.

"Shoot! Shoot," voices urged. Not in my head this time, but voices behind and to my right. It was Michael, my trusty hunting guru on this trip, and a few men in a pickup that had stopped to chat as I set up away from the road. Just what I needed my first time out - an all male review.

I steadied my hands, put the crosshairs in place and squeezed. And just like that, I was a hunter. The antelope took a few faltering jumps and fell. One shot, 230 yards, my muzzle still warm.

Holy cow.

"How do you feel?" Wendy asked, eyeing me. It was a question I was to be asked time and again by fellow hunters, family and friends - How did I feel? What was it like?

How could I answer that? Elated? Sad? Excited? How exactly do you describe the experience of hunting big game? I was at a total loss for words for the strange mix of emotion I felt coursing through me - a combination of satisfaction, humility and even some sadness, with a little bit of adrenaline thrown in for good measure.

As we walked down the hill, it only got more difficult to comprehend. My prey was dead, life having drained from its eyes just moments ago. My shot was a little forward, hitting through the meat of the shoulder instead of just behind it, but the job was done. A small trickle of blood showed where the bullet had entered.

My god. I did that.

Until that moment, that experience of my first hunt, I had no idea what hunting was really all about. Oh, I thought I did. I figured folks liked it for the excitement, the challenge and the basic fun of being outdoors. True, its all those things, but hunting is also so much more.

I've heard hunters described as blood-thirsty, trigger-happy, or killers. As I prepared for this first hunt, I wondered if I could pull the trigger. After all, I cried each and every summer when I'd have sell my 4-H and FFA animals, even the summer I was twenty. I rescue birds trapped in Christmas lights and kittens trapped in window wells. Could I really knowingly, intentionally kill another living creature?

Obviously the answer is yes. And those same anti-hunting voices will call me names and blaspheme me to the heavens. True, I did kill. But the moment when you pull the trigger is just a tiny part of the whole hunting experience, one moment in a string of memories that makes the whole experience special.

Hunting is learning something new, from calibers and manufactures to bi-pods and cammo patterns.

It's the tiny bit of vindication felt when Outdoor Guy picks up the Cabela's flyer and discusses what would be a good woman's gun without finally dumbing-down the conversation so said woman can keep up.

It's a sick feeling in your stomach when you sign the credit card receipt for a brand-new Remington 700 SPS 7mm08 in Mossy Oak break-up when you really needed new carpet in the living room.

Hunting is the smell of gunpowder, a good three-shot grouping and adjusting for wind and distance at the range.

It's a spur of the moment scouting trip with a good friend, filled with good conversation and sightings of antelope, deer and sage grouse that perk your senses and make you happy for reasons you still can't explain.

Hunting is the anticipation of the season opener, not sleeping the night before you have to get up at 3:30 am, or if sleep comes, dreaming weird dreams of four-horned antelope, getting to the field without your gun or ammo, or Wyoming Wildlife magazine editors in trees calling elk in the city park.

It's knowing almost everyone else in the world is still asleep while you have the privilege of witnessing the glorious reds and pinks and yellows of the sunrise from a fourth-generation working Wyoming cattle ranch.

It's ham and pastrami sandwiches and Doritos on the tailgate plotting strategy after a morning of getting skunked.

It's confidence in yourself and your firearm when the heavens smile upon you and the conditions finally come together and you draw down in the perfect moment.

It's a text message with just three words - "Got my antelope," and feeling a tremendous sense of pride, accomplishment and camaraderie as you press the send button.

And hunting is all the work that comes after the shot. Its learning to skin and butcher your quarry, following the natural lines of bone and muscle to remove tenderloins and hams and that will fill the freezer and your belly for months.

Hunting isn't just the moment you pull the trigger. The whole hunting experience is the awakening of a part of your soul- the part that is wild and primal and guttural and instinctual - a part you did not know existed before, the part that connects you to the creatures and the earth and the sky and the very essence of our being.

So that's hunting.

Now I get it.

The Legend Begins

photos by Mark Gocke, Jackson Region Information and Education Specialist

I wore several hats at the Wyoming Game and Fish Department's 2007 Wyoming Hunting & Fishing Heritage Expo held earlier in September in Casper - canoe pond lady (actually I think it was Miss Canoe Pond Lady), news release distributor, announcer, gopher and door prize distributor. But my favorite, if most reluctant, role that weekend by far was as a member of the Wyoming Wildlife magazine Media/Celebrity pentathlon team.

Seeing as how I'm not technically media, a celebrity, nor a particularly good shot, when my good friend and Expo coordinator Wendy Hayes asked if I'd fill in on theWyoming Wildlife team, I tried my best weasel my way out of it. Didn't Erin need me at the canoe pond? Surely my time was better spent helping the Expo planning office deliver water to thirsty volunteers or reuniting wayward children with worried parents.

Nope, Wendy told me. I was expected at the Media/Celebrity pentathlon at noon in exactly three weeks. No excuses.

Some friend.

The idea for the pentathlon came from conversations between the Expo planning office and Weatherby Foundation International (WFI). The Wyoming Expo was celebrating its 10^th anniversary, and WFI was celebrating 10 years of supporting not only the Wyoming Expo, but also outdoor expos in general. While Wyoming didn't pioneer the expo concept, we were one of the first states after Texas to begin hosting an annual outdoor expo. Wyoming Game and Fish Department employees wanted a way to help showcase the fun and educational opportunities offered by participating in outdoor activities. Weatherby Foundation International, for its part, thought outdoor expos were a great way to carry out its own mission of educating the non-hunting public on the beneficial role of ethical sport hunting and its contribution to wildlife conservation.

Dave Lockman, a former WGFD employee who now serves as a project leader for WFI's outdoor expo campaign, pitched the idea of a pentathlon to get members of Wyoming's media to attend the Expo this fall and see first-hand all the great activities offered. Members would compete in the same skill areas offered in the youth pentathlon - shotguns, muzzleloaders, air guns, rifles and archery.

What a fun way to give Wyoming reporters a taste of what the Expo is all about! Soon the concept was expanded to include celebrities, possibly even some of national stature like actor Rick Schroeder and former screen goddess Bo Derek, both respected for their marksmanship, or world-renowned hunter Craig Boddington.

I was all for the idea, that is, right up until the time I was told I'd be competing. I could handle the .22 long rifles and the air guns. I've spent enough time at the plinking range with a .22 and at the carnival with an air gun to be confident I could at least get on paper. The other three areas, well, lets just say I'm more Bo Peep than Bo Derek.

Saturday of the Expo dawned, and the pentathlon loomed large. Fortunately, Boddington, Schroeder and Derek all had prior arrangements, but I still had to face up to the press, members of the Game and Fish Commission, employees from the forensics lab and a few other Wyoming notables.

"Oh, by the way," Wendy asked, "did I tell you Gregg Arthur is going to be on your team too?"

Excellent. Now my humiliation could be public and professional. Gregg Arthur is the WGFD deputy director. Watch me take him out at the knee with a wild arrow. Nothing like maiming the big boss to help further your career. I made a mental note to cross Wendy off my Christmas card list.

At noon, I checked in at my designated starting skill - shotguns. I found Deputy Arthur and our other teammate, Chris Madson, Wyoming Wildlife editor and, for all intents and purposes, a pretty crack shot.

As Chris, Gregg and I found our shotguns and adjusted ear and eye protection, a knot formed in the pit of my stomach. I'd shot a shotgun a total of 2 times. Not two sessions, two shots. Both missed. Maybe the third time would be a charm.

"You shoot trap, Teresa?" Gregg asked.

"Uhhh, once, at the Becoming and Outdoors Woman camp this summer," I replied.

Gregg wasn't so impressed. I made a mental note to add Wendy to a different list altogether. Wendy was a dead woman.

We took our places, I raised the 20-gauge to my shoulder, called for my bird, prayed to whatever saint it is who protects fools and small children, pointed the gun at the ever-rising target and pulled the trigger. I missed...and missed... and missed...eight times. On bird number nine, the target exploded in a small puff of orange.

I tried to act nonchalant, like I'd been there before. Yeah, it was only a matter of time before I found my shooter's legs, so to speak, and started knocking down the birds. No big deal. Madson caught my eye and I realized I wasn't fooling anyone.

"Are we having fun now, Miss Teresa?"

I admit it, finally hitting that bird was fun. I could get into this!

The rest of the day went about the same. I wasn't great, but I wasn't supremely awful either. At least I still had a job to come back to on Monday! I ended up 1 for 3 in muzzleloaders, 5 for10 with the .22 andalmost perfect in the air gun. By the time we made it through the archery range, I was grinning like an idiot and Wendy was re-friended.

My team didn't win - that honor went to the U.S. Olympic shooters. But I don't think we were last either. And all in all, it was exactly the result the Expo planning office wanted from the pentathlon - getting the participants to realize anyone can learn to shoot and seeing just how much fun the different skill areas can be.

In fact, I think I've got some actual mystique going for me now. At the banquet that evening, several coworkers asked why I didn't archery hunt, seeing as how I tore it up on the archery range that afternoon and had so much experience.

I was puzzled. I'd done fairly well, but one poor yucca on the range will never be the same after shanking shot number seven.

"I hear you competed in archery in 4-H from the time you were 12, and you were the total archer. You've never told anyone at the office you were a competitive archer!"

Actually, what I'd said was that I had shot a bow once at 4-H camp when I was 12, and that had been the sum total of my archery experience. I started to explain, but was cut off by the emcee beginning the evening's program.

I decided to just stay quiet. A girl needs a few secrets, right? And I'll have 364 days to practice between now and the 2nd Annual Expo Media/Celebrity pentathlon to uphold my new kick-butt bow-hunting reputation. Just don't tell Gregg Arthur...

One of the Family

White hairs frame his face and fall across his muzzle, hairs that just a few years ago were black and shiny. His coat is a little duller, his eyes a little cloudy and his breath is downright nasty.

"Two words, Rowdy my friend," I tell him, scratching in his favorite spot under his chin and along his throat. "Breath mint."

Seemingly offended by my comments about his offensive breath, he wanders off, stumbling slightly as his hips fail him. There's no mistaking it, my dog is old.

It's been more than 13 years since I took one look at his sweet little puppy face and fell in love. Never mind that his feet were the size of small soup bowls, indicating that he could grow into a larger dog than I knew my parents really wanted. I knew instantly he was the dog for me. I had to have him. If only picking out a husband were so easy...

I grew up around dogs, from Charlie Brown the Basset Hound, to Roscoe, our whining, fretting Blue Heeler mix that was never without a ball in his mouth. But they were never MY dog - they were always, first and foremost, loyal to another family member. My parents have always believed it was best to have two dogs, so when we lost Bandit, my brother's Shepard mix, I knew it was my chance to get a dog of my very own. And so after six weeks of searching, I found Rowdy in the local animal shelter, all saucer eyes and big feet, and talked my mom into bringing him home.

Now, Rowdy is my dad's dog. Sure, he's always glad to see me when I drop in to visit my parents, but he's definitely found himself a new champion in my father. When I left for college he became Dad's buddy. Rowdy used to sneak downstairs to where my dad was watching tv and pull the blanket off the couch, his signal that he wanted to play. Dad would wrap the blanket around his arm and Rowdy would attack it, biting and growling like a vicious attack dog. After he retired, Dad started meeting his fellow retirees at a local restaurant for coffee each morning, with Mr. Rowdy faithfully lounging in the passenger seat. Like it or not, I'd been replaced.

I know everyone in the family has noticed that Rowdy has lost a step. It's hard not to, because the dog is now as deaf as a post and has a hard time getting up the back steps. We just don't say it out loud because that would make it real. It's too hard to think about losing a family member. And that's what our dogs have always been, one of the family.

A few weeks ago, I was visiting with a friend about his own aging canine, this one a saucy Springer Spaniel named Boots. I almost broke down and cried on the spot when Jon said all he wanted was to give her one last good trip in the field, let her bring back a few final pheasants, create a few final memories before it was time to hang up her cammo collar and become strictly a house pet, or before it was time to say goodbye once and for all.

"I'm losing my hunting partner," Jon told me. "I can't imagine not hunting behind her. I've never done it, she's been there since I brought down my first bird."

I asked if he'd considered getting another dog, letting the pup learn from the Queen Bee herself, and shortening the time he's hunting without a dog. I told him I felt an older dog often benefits from the company of a younger dog, as Rowdy did from his schooling sessions with my own pup Hoops.

"I've thought about that, but there's no way I could get out the guns and my gear and get out of the house without Boots. I couldn't leave her at home, looking out the window, wondering why in the world she didn't get to come," he explained. "That'd be like benching John Elway."

Hearing the finality in his voice, I let it drop. After all, I'm the girl who still refers to the mare she sold almost a year ago as "my horse."

What is it about these creatures that allows them to weasel their way into our lives and our hearts? How is it that big brown eyes and puppy breath can break my rule of no dogs on the bed so effectively that now a night in a hotel room without Hoops's familiar figure at my feet seems strange? How can an whining, obnoxious mutt that about got my sister thrown out of our family for bringing him home reduce my strapping, commanding father to tears at his passing? And its not just dogs, sometimes it's a cat, a horse or even a bird. Even my friend Ferd, who thinks the only good animal is one you can eat, engaged in a custody battle with his sister over Starlite the cat in their childhood, and even eulogized Starlite on his Myspace page when he died.

There's plenty of studies out there that proclaim the benefits of pets. And whether you get a dog as a hunting tool or a cat just to control your mouse population, pets have a way of sneaking into your life. We complain about the expense of vet bills, bemoan the possessions lost to wayward teeth and claws and pretend like we'd be just as well off without them. But what we get in return far outweighs those costs. They become our hunting partners, car companions, dish washers, seat warmers, alarm systems, exercise buddies and sometimes even our therapists. Dogs, cats, horses, and in my case even a pig, their species doesn't much matter. Without ever realizing it, our pets become part of who we are as people.

Eventually, Jon will get another dog. He's too much of a dog person not to. And his next dog might be a better hunter, one that helps him fill his bag more often, doesn't snore and won't chew up her doggie bed. But I know that when Jon hangs up his own gun at the end of his life and heads to the proverbial happy hunting ground in the sky, Boots will be waiting, leash in mouth, ready to hunt again. And Jon wouldn't have it any other way.

Afterword:

I wrote this column a few weeks ago, knowing that chances to sit down and write between now and the conclusion of our Expo would be few and far between. Little did I know just how few my remaining days with Rowdy were. Today, on my way into the office, my mom called and said it was time to say goodbye. Rowdy's spirits and spunk were still there, but his body was failing him. After a prolonged, and what appeared to be a painful seizure Sunday night, it was obvious that we needed to have him euthanized. I'm sure we could have nursed him through another few months, but that would have only served our own selfish purposes, human owners not wanting to let go of a loyal and trusted friend. But with pet ownership comes the responsibility of minimizing their pain, regardless of how much it hurts our own hearts. And boy does this hurt right now.

But time heals most wounds, and soon, the sting of saying goodbye will be replaced with the warmth of a thousand memories of Rowdy, my first dog, our family friend. And just like Boots, I suspect he'll be waiting there, sitting just on the other side of the threshold of the afterlife, eyes bright, tail wagging, ready to beg for bones or a scratch on the neck.

Until then, old friend. Until then.

Model Behavior - Fishing, not fashion, faux pas

I think I’ve found a new way to make money. It’s a job I’m perfect for, and I’m pretty sure there’s no one out there more qualified than me. I’m going to become the poster-child for how NOT to fly-fish.

It’s a perfectly brilliant plan. I’ll hire Mark Gocke, our Jackson Region Information and Education Specialist, to be my photographer, grab my waders and fly-rod and hit the trail. Mark can snap a few pictures of me while I fumble and bumble about. Then I’ll sell those photos to fly-fishing and outdoor books, magazines and Web sites as examples of what not to do when you’re on the water.

No longer will editors waste precious hours setting up photo shoots or arranging to use amateur models to demonstrate poor casting techniques. I can easily provide such shots for them. Best of all, I don’t even have to act – I really am supremely awful. Finally I’ve found my God-given talent.

Why in just a few hours of fishing the Jakey’s Fork in June, I could have demonstrated how to lose six flies in under an hour, how to inextricably snag your line with a single false cast and how to unhook a fly from the laces of your wading boots.

Fishing the beaver ponds in Vedawoo, Mark could have even gotten some great video of me lumbering after my water bottle as the creek swept it downstream. He better pack some extra tapes though, because I bet it took me a good fifteen minutes to untangle my line. Maybe viewing the footage will help some physics professor win a Nobel Price for figuring out how its possible to get fifty-nine different knots in twenty-feet of line in under six seconds. Not only am I an aspiring model, I’m also a wonder of science.

Or, some linguist somewhere might be interested in the new swear words I invented when I heard my line snap and realized my last remaining elk-hair caddis, the first fly I’d tied myself, went zipping off to parts unknown. Maybe before the summer is over, there will be a whole new dialect attributed to yours truly. Shimonkaluk…all the cool kids are saying it.

I could branch into product promotion if necessary. During the course of a few hours fishing, I could easily work in placement of products such as Band-Aid or Neosporin. If I'm not pretty enough for ads, I might consider product testing. Did you know a Cabela's Genesis Pro fly rod can be whacked on the ceiling at least seven times without breaking and that elk hide with hair is not a good ingredient for dog food?

And finally, I'd be willing to test some of those super-secret mini-cams to see if we could catch Lance Burton or Chris Angel practicing their magic tricks on me and sell it to the A&E channel. After all, someone must be using slight of hand to plant my cell phone and car keys in my waders. I would have sworn I left both safely in the car trunk, but as I went to release the brook trout I landed, out they popped and plopped into the water. Note to self: Car remotes can get wet and still function. Cell phones, not so much.

I wonder if Mark’s available for antelope hunting season as well?

Antelope in Spanish is Antilope

June arrived in Wyoming, bringing warmer temperatures and antelope fawns. In a cooperative effort with the country of Mexico, the Wyoming Game and Fish Department planned to capture American pronghorn antelope to transport to Mexico to help that country boost populations of the peninsular and Sonoran pronghorn. It was time to start our capture efforts.

The pronghorn of Mexico have struggled the last few decades because of disease, predators and declining habitat. To save these populations, wildlife biologists from Mexico put together a program using captured pronghorns from the United States, specifically Wyoming. Antelope fawns from Laramie county are captured and flown to the Mexican state of Zacatecas. Once all the scientific studies are completed, some American pronghorn may be released to breed with the Mexican pronghorn if the DNA proves to be similar. Some American pronghorn does may be used as surrogates for fertilized Mexican pronghorn eggs. But for now, the fawns will grow to maturity on wildlife preserves or other protected areas.

My first day, I reported to the capture headquarters, a large outbuilding on the F.E. Warren Air Force base. The crew from Mexico was already there, organizing bottles, wipes, ear tags and two weeks worth of snacks. Introductions were made, with me tripping awkwardly over their Spanish names.

"You are Teresa? Welcome," said Jorge, one of the capture's lead workers. He pronounced my name Tah-ray-zah, instead of the hard American pronunciation of Ter-eee-sah. Oooh, it sounded so mysterious and exotic as Theresa. Theresa, the mighty huntress.

"Me llamo Teresa, si. Hola," I replied, taking Jorge's outstretched hand. With that one sentence, I exhausted my entire knowledge of the Spanish language, unless I needed to order a beer later.

We helped feed the few fawns captured late the evening before. Then Cheyenne Game Warden Jon Stephens organized us into teams and sent us on our way. He had secured permission to capture fawns from several surrounding properties. Armed with a net, a map, a pet carrier and really no idea of what the heck I was doing, we were off.

Jorge rode with us the first morning, providing me with my first embarrassing moment of event. "How do you say antelope in Spanish," I asked him.

"Anti­lope," he replied.

"Yes, but what's the Spanish word?"

"Anti­lope," he said again.

"How do you say it in Spanish," I asked again, thinking maybe he didn't understand me.

He looked across the front seat of the SUV at me, a smile tugging at the corners of his tanned face. "Antilope. It is basically the same word, just a different spelling."

I suddenly remembered another Spanish word... estupido. I think its meaning speaks for itself. Actually Jorge said he and the crew used the word berrendos, another word for antelope. Anti­lope, berrendos, either way, I was ready to catch some fawns.

Two days of glassing, driving, more glassing and more driving produced absolutely nothing. We saw one fawn nestled on private land we didn't have access to, and another phantom fawn we saw once but could never locate again. The Great White Antelope hunter I was not.

Our third day capturing proved the third time is indeed a charm. I was working with Wendy, my good friend and counterpart in the Conservation Education unit of Game and Fish. We spent the morning tooling around the Air Force Base, but spotted no fawns. Oh, once we thought we saw one and prepared to sneak up on it, right up until a bird landed on its head and we realized it was just a rock. I was getting a lot of use out of the word estupido this week.

As we made our way back to the capture headquarters, we took a wrong turn and had to backtrack.

"Uh oh, there are lights behind us," Wendy said, easing our SUV to the side of the road.

A military police officer in combat fatigues approached our vehicle while his partner stood behind, his M-16 trained toward us.

"Whatever you do, don't say the words bomb or terrorist" I wise-cracked, trying to ease my own tension. We definitely hadn't done anything wrong, but its amazing how two soldiers with assault rifles will make you question every move you've made, including the night before when the cashier only charged me for one nail polish instead of two and I didn't return to the store to correct her mistake.

"I'll donate the nail polish to charity!" I promised aloud.

My repentance was unnecessary. After confirming we were the "animal people," the MP waved us on our way. Still, I'd return the nail polish in question. Best to not tempt fate.

Our luck improved after lunch as we moved to a nearby ranch. After about half and hour scanning the hillsides, Wendy spotted a solitary doe standing amid a group of rocks. As we watched, the doe gave a few warning squeaks at us and took off over the hill. I sucked in my breath as I realized one of the rocks was actually a fawn, its head nestled in its back legs. At least I was pretty sure it was a fawn.

"Here, you take the net," I told Wendy. I wasn't going to be the one who caught a rock.

Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I crept to the fawn, keeping my body between it and the path the doe had taken. From the other direction, Wendy started to raise her net. The fawn was about eight feet in front of her when it leapt up and bolted over the hill. I took off up the hill after it.

Why I thought my stubby legs could keep up with North America's fastest mammal, I'll never know. By the time I crested the hill, the fawn had hit the crest of the hill two hills in front of me.

"Zut alors," I swore. Wendy looked at me quizzically. "It's French. I don't know any more Spanish."

As we approached the end of the day, our frustration level rose. "I want to capture just one," Wendy said, thumping the steering wheel. "Uno!"

Forty-five minutes later we gave up and headed to the main road. Just then we spotted them. A single doe with a fawn at her side. We watched as the fawn took a few steps then bedded down into the tall grass and disappeared from sight. If I hadn't seen it go down, there's no way I would have ever spotted it, regardless of how powerful my binoculars were. Nature's camo at its very best.

While I sang camp songs and walked loudly to hold the fawn's attention on me and away from Wendy, she snuck up from behind. Reaching into the grass about five feet from where I thought the fawn was, she camp up with our prey. Ahhh, redemption. It smelled so sweet. Or maybe that was Wendy, now covered in antelope fawn pooh.

Triumphantly, we returned to the barn, our female fawn in Wendy's arms. We were greeted with high fives, smiles and offers to take our photo. I was a rock star!

The fawn was tagged, weighed and given some milk. We told our tale to anyone who cared to listen, or just anyone who would stand still. After giving Harriet, a.k.a. #67, a.k.a "our fawn," one last snuggle, Wendy left for a weekend trip to Nebraska and I went to brag to my family.

Epilogue
Almost two weeks of capturing produced more than 150 fawns from the Cheyenne area. They were flow to Mexico in two waves, including our little Harriet. Over the last four years of capturing, more than 300 pronghorn have been transplanted to Mexico. With a little luck, Harriet and her new friends can help bring the Mexican pronghorn populations back from the brink.

Adios, little fawns. Vaya con Dios.

Jackalope Hunting…Got Your Peanut Butter Ready?

Last year about this time, I received a letter from a constituent requesting Wyoming Governor Dave Freudenthal to extend jackalope hunting season beyond just the single day of June 31. The one-day season, in the letter writer’s opinion, made it very difficult for nonresidents to make it to Wyoming to hunt this particular species.

Growing up in Wyoming, I am pretty familiar with the elusive jackalope and its legend. But like any good writer, I conducted some research before drafting a response. Turns out, there is quite a lot to learn about these rare little buggers! So in the interest of improving our collective hunting prowess, I offer the following helpful hints and facts to ponder when on the trail of the mighty jackalope.

• First of all, be sure which species you are hunting. A true Wyoming jackalope (Lepus temperamentalus) is a cross between a jackrabbit and an American pronghorn, and has antlers similar to a pronghorn. Jackalope are brown to gray in color, weigh between six and eight pounds and have horns up to 10 inches across.


• Do not confuse the jackalope with its more common cousin, the antelrabbit, a hybrid of the cottontail rabbit and now extinct pygmy deer. Antelrabbits are a richer shade of brown and have horns up to 12 inches across, with 3 to 4 points being common.


• Jackalope are thought to be mighty and powerful creatures. Jackalope milk is rumored to be medicinal and can be used to treat numerous ailments and afflictions. In fact, the milk comes out already homogenized because of the animal’s powerful leaps! According to one Web site, it is useful for people experiencing too many Mondays, two left feet, bad work attitudes, selective deafness, and baldness or graying of hair. You may drink the milk, or mix it with egg whites and use it like shampoo. I plan to try mine to help with the allergies that have plagued me since spring warm-up.


• Jackalope season is only two hours, 12 a.m. to 2 a.m. on the morning of June 31— that’s because it is a nocturnal animal. In fact, according to my biologist friend, Janet, they only mate during lightning storms. With Wyoming’s persistent and long-term drought, it’s no wonder they’re so hard to find!


• To locate a jackalope, try singing. They have a rare ability to mimic the human voice. My good friend, Ranch Foreman Ryan, swears the jackalope sing back to him when he’s out checking cows at calving time. “They prefer country music, but I’ve heard them harmonizing with me to a little Def Leppard and Whitesnake,” he swears. “I guess they have a thing for 80s hair bands.”


• When chased, the jackalope uses this ability to throw off its pursuer, shouting things like “He went that-a-way,” or “Hey, over here!” They are sneaky and deceptive— don’t fall for their trickery!


• Ty, the editor for the Wyoming Wildlife News, suggests locating the wiley creatures by locating their nests in stands of sagebrush. “The nests are above ground because their horns are too big to fit in an underground burrow.”


• Zach, a self-proclaimed jackalope expert, suggests baiting them over whiskey and peanut butter. Apparently when the peanut butter sticks to the roofs of their mouths, they get distracted and are easier to catch. He never would tell me exactly how to use the whiskey…some sort of proprietary secret, I’m sure.


• According to Small Game Hunter Carl, the jackalope is really a pacifist at heart and will first and foremost avoid conflict. When cornered, however, he will use his powerful horns to fight to the death rather than be taken alive. That’s why you’ll never see one in a zoo or wildlife preserve. They just don’t survive in captivity.

But one thing I didn’t understand, why the short hunting season? After applying for my own jackalope license, I went to the best source I knew, a Wyoming Game Warden. I fired off an e-mail asking for more information. Imagine my surprise when I received the following e-mail back from my friendly warden.

“Silly Outdoor Girl! Jackalopes can only be hunted on June 31 because, like the creature, that date does not really exist.”

The jackalope is actually a fictitious animal. The legend of this animal started in Casper, Wyoming, in the 1930s when Douglas Herrick, a local Wyoming resident, created a taxidermy mount of a rabbit with a pair of deer antlers. The creation was sold to a Douglas, Wyoming, hotel, and the legend snowballed from there. To this day, the city of Douglas is commonly known as the jackalope capital of the world. The Douglas Chamber of Commerce has issued thousands of souvenir jackalope hunting licenses over the years.

You were ready to go hunting with me June 31, weren’t you?

Don’t worry, it’s a legend all of us Wyoming folks like to perpetuate on unsuspecting visitors and transplants. Sort of a right of passage to become an honorary Wyomingite. Now you can tell family and friends back home everything you know about jackalope…if they believe you, tell them I’ve also got some land for sale right here in Wyoming where the wind NEVER blows!