There ought to be a law against anyone attending a fishing trip who doesn’t understand the seriousness of yelling, “moose!” around a temperamental young bull of said species.You see, when I was 14 I attended a camp owned by the corporation for which my father worked. One warm summer afternoon, Tom, a boy my age; Vern (Tom’s dad), Bob and his 3-year-old son, were lazily fishing in a canoe on the Little Snake River in the state of Idaho. The fishing was lousy and our attention span, along with any hopes of catching fish, withered in the heat of the sun.
Tom had just finished telling a joke when I spied something downstream.
“Hey, look,” I said. “There’s Bullwinkle.”
A few yards from us was a young, but very large, bull moose, standing knee-deep in water, feeding off the river bottom.
“Bullwinkle, where’s Rocky?” I yelled, and with that remark, my companions burst into laughter, and silliness overtook us.
Our jocularity caught the attention of young Bullwinkle, who stared back at us.
“We’d best quiet down,” suggested Vern. “We don’t wanna rile the big fella.”
We hushed and Bullwinkle went back to eating. But before long we were acting giddy again, when suddenly Tom lost the smile on his face.
“Look!” he bellowed.
Bullwinkle was shaking his antlers at us.
“Hush up now or we’ll be in a heap of trouble,” Vern said, and this time there was more than a hint of concern in his voice.
Just as we finally quieted down again our 3-year-old partner pointed downstream and hollered, “Moose, Daddy!”
Bullwinkle again shook his antlers at us.Turning ghostly pale, Vern bestowed upon us the wisdom of age, “Let’s get the #### out of here!” And as if on cue, Bullwinkle began swimming toward us.
Bob and Vern slapped the water with their paddles, moving the canoe toward shore. Now I must interject something here. Just before this incident occurred, I had read an article about a fisherman who had been treed 12 hours by a moose. So it shouldn’t seem odd that when we were a couple of feet from shore, Tom and I leaped from the canoe (we both swore we heard Vern and Bob yell “jump!”), pushing it back to the middle of the river.
Once on shore, I ran straight up the river’s embankment, looking for a tree to climb. You know, it’s a strange feeling when you are being chased by a moose and suddenly realize that the only trees big enough to climb are rotten and will collapse under your weight. Luckily, I spied a Jeep Cherokee not far from me. If Bullwinkle was still on my heels, I figured on climbing that Jeep and sitting on the roof.
I didn’t see the moose, but what I did see was astounding. To the right and a little behind me, Bob (all 300 lbs of him) had his son by one arm and was running up the steep embankment. Not far from Bob was Vern, running stride for stride with Bob.Vern had been in a motorcycle accident years earlier and had seven compound fractures in one leg. These injuries left him with a permanent limp. Yet, he was running faster than the rest of us.
The following spring Tom called me to ask, “Hey, going to camp this summer?”I hope I didn’t damage his hearing when I slammed the phone down onto its receiver.
6 comments:
Britmum said...
That was such a great story and made me snigger. Oh boy I bet you wished they had video cameras then. LOLTake care
Thursday, November 2, 2006 1:47:00 PM EST
Britmum said...
P.S. can I add you to my blog roll?
Thursday, November 2, 2006 1:47:00 PM EST
Doug Bagley said...
Hey britmum,you're more than welcome to add me to your blog roll. Thank you for asking.
Thursday, November 2, 2006 5:34:00 PM EST
Hale McKay said...
Great tale! I've never been chased or even threatened by a moose - a billy goat or two - but never a moose!I'd have hung up too.
Thursday, November 2, 2006 9:53:00 PM EST
cmk said...
Scary fellows those moose--too big to mess with! (And I have only seen ONE, at dusk, while driving down the highway, in the wild.) Good story.
Friday, November 3, 2006 7:33:00 AM EST
JunieRose said...
Doug,Another good story!You have had some interesting experiences! :)Junie
Friday, November 3, 2006 11:27:00 AM EST
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
Camping Our Way
Camping with my grandparents was always an adventure. It was never planned that way but it always seemed to turn into an unforgettable experience.
One year, while spending the summer on their farm in Idaho, Gramps asked my brothers and me if we would like to fix up the camper and at the end of our stay he and Grams would take us home in it, camping and fishing along the way.The fact that we (meaning Grandpa) would have to right the pickup so it cold carry the camper, made the idea more intriguing.
The pickup and camper were not a matched set. The camper originally belonged to a one-ton truck which my grandfather sold, minus the camper. For some reason he replaced the vehicle with a three-quarter ton truck which not only meant that his new pickup was too short for the camper but also too light to carry it. We would have to lengthen and strengthen the chassis of the truck for it to carry the camper.
Grandpa had his own shop on the farm equipped with all the tools he’d need for the job. With a few trips to the scrap yard for metal, and a trip into town to buy a longer driveline, we’d be set.
The truck was a four-wheel drive. Back then you had to manually lock and unlock the hubs of the front tires to put the vehicle in or out of four-wheel drive mode. So when my grandfather put the truck up on blocks to start working on it, he locked the front wheels in gear as an extra precaution to keep the truck from rolling when it was cut in two.
One day, while the pickup was cut in half, younger brother walked through the shop door and asked Grandpa if he could listen to the truck radio as he watched him worked.
“Yeah, go ahead, I don’t care.” Gramps either had a great amount of patience or was terrifically starving for some company. Personally, I think anyone who let us kids around his equipment and tools must have had a death wish.
Now, when sitting in an automobile, making ready to turn on the radio, one has a couple of choices: turn the key in the ignition backward, toward one’s self, or forward… which can engage the engine of the vehicle. Call me silly, but it’s been my experience that engaging the engine is not the preferred choice, especially when the vehicle is cut in half, sitting on blocks.
It just so happened that grandpa was squatting in front of a rear tire, welding a piece of framing to the truck, when my brother turned the key forward. Yeah, you got the picture right. The engine cranked, and with those front hubs locked in, the front of the truck jumped forward off its blocks. The jolt and vibration of that action caused the back part of the frame, the part Grandpa was wielding on, to roll off its blocks directly on Grandpa’s left foot.
“Damn fool kids!” (Gramps’ term of endure meant for my brothers and me), he screamed louder than the maximum decibels allowed by most cities noise ordinances.
Thank goodness, no permanent damage was done…and Gramps wasn’t badly hurt either. Heck, after a week, his cast didn’t bother him much while working on the truck.
The day arrived when the truck was finished, the camper on the back of it, and the cast off Grandpa’s foot. We loaded the camper with our stuff for the trip and went on our way.
Our first night on the road we spent in a camp ground which was noisier than a New York subway during peak hours. Finally, at 2 a.m., when Gramps could stand the noise no longer, he climbed into the cab, started the engine, and pulled out of camp to search for a more peaceful place of rest.
Eventually, Grandpa found a secluded, quiet, grassy spot, which appeared to be unoccupied, though it was hard to tell, it was so dark and out.
After a few good hours of sleep, Gramps arose at about sunrise and stepped outside of the camper to search for a tree to “water.”
I bolted upright out of bed, being jolted out of a deep sleep by the crashing of the camper door as Granddad practically ran through it, attempting to set a new world record in camper entering.
“Holy cow, have you looked outside yet?” Gramps was so pumped up he was practically foaming at the mouth.
“No, why?” we asked.
“No time to explain,” was all we could get out of him, for at neck break speed he dashed out to the cab of the truck, started the engine, and raced us out of there so fast we barely had enough time to wave goodbye to our unexpected hosts, and thank them for their generosity, as we scrammed out of their back yard. They must have felt bad about it too, for they were running after us, waving their arms in the air, and shouting some inaudible words. It’s sure good to know there are still some nice folks left in the world.
A few nights later we were camped in the mountains near the end of an old logging road that trailed off the highway. After supper, looking out of the camper window into the night, we observed bats flying among the trees. Someone suggested we step outside to get a closer look.
“Let’s take the flashlight to see them better,” I suggested. And so we did, not realizing bats are attracted to light.
Suddenly, our ears were pierced by the screech of some wild, ferocious creature—Grandma!
Now, you have to know my grandma. She gets rattled easily. Once, when Gramps was filming a bear in Yellowstone National Park, the bear began to saunter Gramps’ way. Sitting safely in the cab, Grams panicked and locked the doors—while Gramps was still outside the safety of their truck . . . with a bear on his heals.
“Yiiiikes!” she screamed as bats swooped down upon us. And with that, we all were certain that a bear had Grandma in its clutches or she had a bear in hers.
Well, after Grandma’s screech, our bat watching resembled something more like a reality show called, “Survival of the Fittest,” with all five of us trying to rush through the 3-foot wide camper door at the same time.
I happened to be the unfortunate person to be the one to first grab hold of the doorknob and open the door…right into the middle of Grandpa’s back (which had previously undergone five surgeries).
After he regained consciousness, Gramps picked himself up off the ground and entered the camper, demanding to know who opened the door into him.
Nobody said a word, but sitting across from me at the table Grams did tap my foot with hers and smiled; acknowledging that she knew who the culprit was but would keep it our little secret. She always was my favorite grandma.
5 comments:
doodlebugmom said...
"wild, ferocious creature—Grandma'hahahahaha! love this one!
Monday, August 13, 2007 1:06:00 PM EDT
kristi noser said...
Doug, every one of your posts (that I have read) makes me laugh. Thanks for another.
Monday, August 13, 2007 3:56:00 PM EDT
BS said...
You never disappoint! I start looking for your newest post on Sunday ...
Monday, August 13, 2007 8:46:00 PM EDT
JunieRose2005 said...
Doug,I love your great childhood adventures! :)Junie
Tuesday, August 14, 2007 5:38:00 PM EDT
LZ Blogger said...
Never went camping with my grandparents, but I did used to go fishing with my grandpa down in Mexico. ~ jb///
Tuesday, August 14, 2007 6:35:00 PM EDT
One year, while spending the summer on their farm in Idaho, Gramps asked my brothers and me if we would like to fix up the camper and at the end of our stay he and Grams would take us home in it, camping and fishing along the way.The fact that we (meaning Grandpa) would have to right the pickup so it cold carry the camper, made the idea more intriguing.
The pickup and camper were not a matched set. The camper originally belonged to a one-ton truck which my grandfather sold, minus the camper. For some reason he replaced the vehicle with a three-quarter ton truck which not only meant that his new pickup was too short for the camper but also too light to carry it. We would have to lengthen and strengthen the chassis of the truck for it to carry the camper.
Grandpa had his own shop on the farm equipped with all the tools he’d need for the job. With a few trips to the scrap yard for metal, and a trip into town to buy a longer driveline, we’d be set.
The truck was a four-wheel drive. Back then you had to manually lock and unlock the hubs of the front tires to put the vehicle in or out of four-wheel drive mode. So when my grandfather put the truck up on blocks to start working on it, he locked the front wheels in gear as an extra precaution to keep the truck from rolling when it was cut in two.
One day, while the pickup was cut in half, younger brother walked through the shop door and asked Grandpa if he could listen to the truck radio as he watched him worked.
“Yeah, go ahead, I don’t care.” Gramps either had a great amount of patience or was terrifically starving for some company. Personally, I think anyone who let us kids around his equipment and tools must have had a death wish.
Now, when sitting in an automobile, making ready to turn on the radio, one has a couple of choices: turn the key in the ignition backward, toward one’s self, or forward… which can engage the engine of the vehicle. Call me silly, but it’s been my experience that engaging the engine is not the preferred choice, especially when the vehicle is cut in half, sitting on blocks.
It just so happened that grandpa was squatting in front of a rear tire, welding a piece of framing to the truck, when my brother turned the key forward. Yeah, you got the picture right. The engine cranked, and with those front hubs locked in, the front of the truck jumped forward off its blocks. The jolt and vibration of that action caused the back part of the frame, the part Grandpa was wielding on, to roll off its blocks directly on Grandpa’s left foot.
“Damn fool kids!” (Gramps’ term of endure meant for my brothers and me), he screamed louder than the maximum decibels allowed by most cities noise ordinances.
Thank goodness, no permanent damage was done…and Gramps wasn’t badly hurt either. Heck, after a week, his cast didn’t bother him much while working on the truck.
The day arrived when the truck was finished, the camper on the back of it, and the cast off Grandpa’s foot. We loaded the camper with our stuff for the trip and went on our way.
Our first night on the road we spent in a camp ground which was noisier than a New York subway during peak hours. Finally, at 2 a.m., when Gramps could stand the noise no longer, he climbed into the cab, started the engine, and pulled out of camp to search for a more peaceful place of rest.
Eventually, Grandpa found a secluded, quiet, grassy spot, which appeared to be unoccupied, though it was hard to tell, it was so dark and out.
After a few good hours of sleep, Gramps arose at about sunrise and stepped outside of the camper to search for a tree to “water.”
I bolted upright out of bed, being jolted out of a deep sleep by the crashing of the camper door as Granddad practically ran through it, attempting to set a new world record in camper entering.
“Holy cow, have you looked outside yet?” Gramps was so pumped up he was practically foaming at the mouth.
“No, why?” we asked.
“No time to explain,” was all we could get out of him, for at neck break speed he dashed out to the cab of the truck, started the engine, and raced us out of there so fast we barely had enough time to wave goodbye to our unexpected hosts, and thank them for their generosity, as we scrammed out of their back yard. They must have felt bad about it too, for they were running after us, waving their arms in the air, and shouting some inaudible words. It’s sure good to know there are still some nice folks left in the world.
A few nights later we were camped in the mountains near the end of an old logging road that trailed off the highway. After supper, looking out of the camper window into the night, we observed bats flying among the trees. Someone suggested we step outside to get a closer look.
“Let’s take the flashlight to see them better,” I suggested. And so we did, not realizing bats are attracted to light.
Suddenly, our ears were pierced by the screech of some wild, ferocious creature—Grandma!
Now, you have to know my grandma. She gets rattled easily. Once, when Gramps was filming a bear in Yellowstone National Park, the bear began to saunter Gramps’ way. Sitting safely in the cab, Grams panicked and locked the doors—while Gramps was still outside the safety of their truck . . . with a bear on his heals.
“Yiiiikes!” she screamed as bats swooped down upon us. And with that, we all were certain that a bear had Grandma in its clutches or she had a bear in hers.
Well, after Grandma’s screech, our bat watching resembled something more like a reality show called, “Survival of the Fittest,” with all five of us trying to rush through the 3-foot wide camper door at the same time.
I happened to be the unfortunate person to be the one to first grab hold of the doorknob and open the door…right into the middle of Grandpa’s back (which had previously undergone five surgeries).
After he regained consciousness, Gramps picked himself up off the ground and entered the camper, demanding to know who opened the door into him.
Nobody said a word, but sitting across from me at the table Grams did tap my foot with hers and smiled; acknowledging that she knew who the culprit was but would keep it our little secret. She always was my favorite grandma.
5 comments:
doodlebugmom said...
"wild, ferocious creature—Grandma'hahahahaha! love this one!
Monday, August 13, 2007 1:06:00 PM EDT
kristi noser said...
Doug, every one of your posts (that I have read) makes me laugh. Thanks for another.
Monday, August 13, 2007 3:56:00 PM EDT
BS said...
You never disappoint! I start looking for your newest post on Sunday ...
Monday, August 13, 2007 8:46:00 PM EDT
JunieRose2005 said...
Doug,I love your great childhood adventures! :)Junie
Tuesday, August 14, 2007 5:38:00 PM EDT
LZ Blogger said...
Never went camping with my grandparents, but I did used to go fishing with my grandpa down in Mexico. ~ jb///
Tuesday, August 14, 2007 6:35:00 PM EDT
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