Red in Tooth and Claw, Black in Eye.

The Great Plains of Montana

By Prioleau Alexander

I am now, officially, a big game hunter. A warrior poet. South Carolina’s own Hemingway. My prowess at walking and scouting and walking is fast becoming a thing of legend throughout the Montana territory. Word may be trickling down to Wyoming as well.

It began a year ago after applying for a tag with the Montana Department of Natural Resources. My name was drawn, but it turned out to be a permit to hunt not an Elk, but a Mule Deer.

Okay, I’m a kinda-sorta-big game hunter.

Sure, I’ve taken my share Whitetail in South Carolina, but this was Montana! The Great Plains! Lewis and Clark! Sleeping under buffalo hides and smoking a peace pipe with the locals!

That would be me… immersed in the sustainable culture of hunting the plains, known to my fellow mountain men only as “Dances with the No Talent.”

My Montana buddy, James Raymond, planned to serve as the guide—no professional involvement. Just us, his two sons, and maybe a wigwam. When we spoke before my flight, he said, “This is fall in Montana. Ain’t like the Land of Cotton. If it’s above zero, we hunt.”

Above zero? Hmmm. That’s damn cold. Better pack a few extra layers of clothes. Socks. Maybe a jacket or two. Couldn’t hurt to bring some extreme-cold weather boots. Caps and electric socks. Hand warmers.

Delta Airlines stock rocketed up three points when they weighed my bag at the airport.

The thrill of experiencing Montana is knowing it’s a part of our nation where the buffalo roam, and the deer and the antelope play—and anywhere those three particular mammals pal around is a place once inhabited by America’s greatest and most iconic symbols: Cowboys.

Just after the Civil War the American Cowboy arrived on the scene-- tanned, tough, saddled up, armed to the teeth, and likely drunk. Or hungover. For some reason, most historians feel a great calling to pooh-pooh the cowboy myth, harping on their low wages, grueling work, and high mortality rate.

Well, duh.

That’s what makes the cowboy such a great symbol. Is America a nation of blue-bloods, bow ties, and ballet? Hardly. This nation – since day one – unfolded as a zillion acres of sweat, blood, and challenges. The American people have always sucked it up when the going gets tough. It’s who we are! Cowboys were, quite literally, the junkyard mutts of these United States: Confederate veterans, freed slaves, Mexicans, the occasional Indian—to a man, life served them the proverbial crap sandwich, and they had two choices: Munch away, or curl up, whimper, and die.

This post-Civil War heyday also graced us with all the cool good guys and bad buys. World Wrestling Entertainment couldn’t top this lineup: On the side of mayhem stood Jessie and Frank James, Cole Younger and his brothers, Billy the Kid, Butch Cassidy, the Sundance Kid—the list goes on. On the side of law and order stood equally toxic men—Wild Bill Hickok, Pat Garret, Wyatt Earp and his brothers, Doc Holiday, Judge Roy Bean—that list goes on, too.

I ask you: Does it get any better than this? Guns, leather saddles, horses, whiskey, cigars, and poker games, all dressed in a full-length duster with a low-slung holster tied to the leg? Men of black, white, red, and tan, all swaggering out into the high noon sun to do the work lesser men couldn’t handle?

Sadly, the era of the cowboy lasted only from about 1865 to 1890. First, some spoilsport figured out that the Longhorns could live year-round near the rail junctions, which eliminated the need for the cattle drive. Another spoilsport invented barbed wire, which allowed ranchers to fence-in their cattle over vast areas, thus eliminating the need for men to cow-sit the herd.

It spelled the end of this great iconic symbol, and men have bemoaned the loss for over a century. But going to Montana? Every time I cross the border of that beautiful state, I hear the lonely song of the cowboy, reclining by a campfire, with everything he owns on the ground beside him. For many men, those lonely tunes would be the most beautiful sounds in the world.

(Yippie yoyo…She had mah heart, but she wanted Fred… caught ‘em together, now they both dead… Yippie yah, kie yeah).

My flight landed in Missoula, and we drove to Polson, where we crashed for the night before heading through the Continental Divide to the Great Plains. I’ve traveled through Montana a few times, and love everything about it… but do wonder about the sanity of the hearty souls who settled it.

Dad: Well, Woman—spring has arrived. Our first anniversary here. What ya’ think so far?

Mom: Hmm. The nine-month winter with an average temperature of 2 degrees was a bit of a stretch. Being snowed into our hovel the entire time was kinda cozy, but I weren’t too fond of the aromatic nature of not bathing for three-quarters of the year. Losing young Joseph to the Grizzly was bad luck, and Cindy get snatched off by them Injuns tugged at mah heartstrings a bit. And I weren’t too fond of eating bark and toenails for the last three weeks. What do you think?

Dad: I think I shoulda listen to my Momma.

Mom: About what?

Dad: She warned me you’d be a complainer.

If you aren’t intimately familiar with the beauty of Montana, it really is what all the hearsay, well, says. In the Missoula area of Montana, it’s never-ending scenes of rolling hills. To the north of Missoula lies the city of Polson and Flathead Lake, to the north of that is Glacier National Park, and to the east is the Rocky Mountains.

God owns a time-share unit in Polson.

Needless to say, white guys stole most of the area from the Indians. Actually, we stole their original land, then stole the land where we sent them, then repeated that humanitarian act, and eventually stuffed them into the Flathead Lake region. After realizing we’d accidentally imprisoned the Indians someplace beautiful, we moved in. To their credit, the Indians said “enough,” and refused to move again. Even with the discovery of HVAC, RVs, and Californian Yuppies, they dug their heels into the soil, and stood fast on their reservation.

This makes things for my buddy James, who’s a lawyer, complex. There’s local law, state law, federal law, and tribal law. What law trumps what depends on the judge, but in general tribal law rules the legal roust. Rightfully so, the Indians are unrestricted by white-man laws regarding hunting, fishing, logging, and some property rights… so one can only imagine how many cases are dismissed when the lawyer Chief Dances With Torts points out the tribal law’s take on the situation.

James’ sons, Jake and Spencer, rendezvoused with us in the morning, driving a truck with a pop-up camper behind it—although that may be overly complimentary description. James describes it as a “pop-up camper,” but it looked a lot more like a Sanford & Son trailer, abandoned by the First Marine Division at Korea’s Chosin Reservoir because they were embarrassed to have it in their supply train.

James told me to load my gear, and when I headed for the truck he said, “Not there. There.”

“There” was an RV.

“I thought you roughed it on these trips,” I said. “Like with a teepee and cooking on a spit and setting a night watch to fend off the wolves.”

“Normally, we do,” said James. “My wife made me rent it because you were coming.”

Testosterone soaring!

We drove through the most beautiful scenery in the world onto the Great Plains, which are great… but plain. These are the sacred lands once the home of the nomadic Plains Indians, who moved with the migration of the Buffalo and changes in the weather. Winters in Montana are a killing field, and living on the windswept plains would be a study in cryogenics.

We pitched camp beside a reservoir, and James invested twenty minutes carefully arranging the vehicles to ensure the campfire stayed on the leeward side of the never-ceasing wind. As any visitor soon discovers, the importance of the words “leeward side” cannot be overemphasized when camping in the open in Montana.

I went to turn in around 8pm, and James asked me why so early. I explained my need for great quantities of beauty rest, and since we’d be in our positions before sunrise, it seemed to be the prudent thing to do. Everyone knows deer move in the early morning.

“Dude, you aren’t in the pines and hardwoods of the East Coast—you’re on the plains,” James explained. “Look around. You can see deer three miles away. We aren’t waiting for one to peek his head out of the deep forest at first light. We’ll get up at nine… scout around in the truck until we see some… then we’ll park the truck and run them down on foot.”

The words “9am” were music. The words “run them down,” not so much.

When we rose in the morning, it was well above zero degrees. In fact, 72 degrees above zero. I couldn’t stop smiling while dressing in jeans and a khaki hunting shirt. I tried to wear my coonskin hat, but it made me too hot, so I had to take it off.

After breakfast, James broke out the map to show me where we’d be scouting. I recognized the map style from my Marine days, broken into grid squares. On the military maps us Lieutenants carried, each grid square represented 500 meters x 500 meters. This map contained about a trillion grid squares. Note: Montana is big.

“Each of these grid squares,” James said, “is a mile by a mile.”

Note: Montana is too big.

We commenced to ride around, looking for my Mulie. After a couple hours, I spotted something in the distance, and we stopped and glassed the area.

“Good eye,” said James. “Probably a mile or so as the crow flies. You wanna chase him?”

After surveying the terrain between that deer and us, and arriving at the conclusion that the steep hills and valleys added an extra forty miles as the hunter walks, the decision was easy.

“Looks kinda small to me,” said I. “Let’s scout some more.”

We rode around in the truck for another 6-ish hours, when Jake announced, “I’m workin’ up a powerful thirst.” Oddly, I too was working up a powerful thirst. As fate would have it, James and Spencer also laid claim to a powerful thirst. Once overcome by said thirst, we drove into a hobbit-sized town—named something like Crushed Skull or Bleached Bones. Montana loves welcoming names.

In this town sat—well, exactly what you’d expect in a town inserted into the Great Plains without another town for 50 miles—a white clapboard hotel, a saloon with those cool swinging doors, a hardware and general store, and a couple homes pleading for a coat of paint. I half expected the man who shot Liberty Valence to stride out the saloon and shoot me, too. We sauntered into the saloon, took a seat at the bar, and ordered beers.

“Mulies?” asked the bartender.

“Mulies,” replied James.

“Mulies,” stated the bartender, raising his glass.

“Mulies,” we replied.

“I’m curious,” I said. “What brings a little town like this into existence?”

I was waiting for tales of territorial outlaws, an old timey jail, hangings, the need for a county seat somewhere.

“Prostitutes,” the bartender replied.

“Pardon me?”

“Closest towns are 50 miles that way, and 50 miles that way. Now some cowpoke might want himself a woman bad, but if he worked a spread around here, he’d be on a horse for two days to git one. A hundred years ago, one of the local ranchers did the math, and built himself a brothel. It’s gone now, but it was across the street by the hotel.”

“As you might imagine,” he continued, “someone comin’ into town for tryst with a young lady is gonna get liquored up, too… so we got a bar. The bosses and owners need an excuse for comin’ to town so often, so the merchandise store opened up. Someone shoots a nice buck, they wanna come to town to brag and buy a few rounds of whiskey, so we got the processing plant. That’s it, in short. We’re a town built on the backs of professional ladies.”

“It’s a cool spot,” I said to the publican. “If I was to move here, what job could I get?”

“Whatever job you bring with you,” he said.

“Job market kinda tight?” I replied.

“Well,” he said, “let’s see. You got me and April runnin’ this bar. Willie owns and runs the hardware store, and Candance and her husband run the hotel. So, there’s five total. Kinda tight.”

“Maybe you could get a job at the processing house we drove by,” James said. “Nobody likes grindin’ Mulies into sausage, I wouldn’t think.”

“Nah,” the barkeep said. “Got a few locals willin’ to fight with broken bottles to keep that job.”

We chat for quite some time, and the bartender told us a couple of big Mulies were taken between Shattered Shin Gulch and Paralyzed From the Neck Down Creek.”

“Let’s go!” I declared.

“Griz up there,” said the bartender.

“Let’s go back to camp and drink beer!” I declared.

We returned to camp and quenched our thirst until supper.

The next day we got up earlier, and James dropped me at a spot—not sure where, perhaps the moon? Per his directions, I followed a path down into a ravine, overlooking a small stream. James explained, again, that Montana hunting is different than the South. In Dixie we hunt deer based on where they go to feed; in Montana it’s all about water. Thus, this was overlooking a perfect watering hole.

The land spilled down into a creek basin, which featured a small island in the middle, covered in sage and cottonwoods. The sides of the basin soared upward—on the left it was sheer rock, and I couldn’t even see the plateau. On the right, the lower plateau exposed a magnificent view of the distant hills, with a critter path running along the edge of the wall, leading down to the creek. If I was to see a deer, it would be walking the path, bound for the water source below.

To my surprise, a very nice Mulie and two does sauntered over a ridge a “fair piece” away, and made their way to the path. Mule Deer are impressive animals, well-muscled yet fleet, as their survival often depends on outrunning a wolf—or worse, wolves. Their speed will carry them out of harm’s way, but the game comes down to endurance.

What most non-hunters don’t understand—and sometime refuse to understand—is the total absence of joy that comes with the actual kill. Shooting one of God’s gorgeous animals instantly fills a hunter with regret, loss, and sick feeling in the pit of their stomach. My friend who taught me to deer hunt told me that if I ever lost that sick feeling in the gut, I no longer deserved to be in the field.

The joy comes from the hunt—the pursuit, the skills needed, the comradery, and the very real fact that the animal will provide sustenance for the hunter and his family, and likely a few neighbors. A well place shot will drop the deer in a thousandth of a second, and yield the healthiest organic meat in existence. It is also a decision to bypass the cruelty of a West Texas feedlot, as many hunters I know consume not an ounce of beef a year.

With the Mulie now in sight, an important reality dawned on me: A Southerner possesses no concept of distance out in the Big Sky country, because it’s so, well, big. As way of an example, we were located 100 miles from the Rockies and could see them easily.

The Mulie wandered towards me, browsing without a care in the world. He did not know he was moving into the lair of “Papa” Alexander, a legend in the region, spoken of in hushed tones around the campfires of Mountain Men and Indian Braves alike. I peered at him through my scope.

My thinking was that his distance lay somewhere between 300 and 20,000 yards. Then, I remembered! When you’re shooting downhill, you must shoot… Low? High? My mind was as empty as a Kardashian’s. Sweat trickled down my brow, as visions of a 350-lb Mule Deer on my wall danced in my brain. Decision time—shoot high, or low?

The devil dances in the details, so I decided to split the difference and shoot badly. It’s impossible to testify with certainty my bullet even landed in the correct grid square, but I’m fairly certain the SOB laughed and high-hoofed a doe before trotting away into the distance.

Not all was lost, however. I experienced a righteous and violent scope kiss, and blood ran down my face. After snapping a really cool selfie, I posted it to Facebook, neglecting to remark on the miss… or the black eye that would soon become my defining facial feature.

That evening in the RV James’ sons challenged me to a game of Risk—I’d never played Risk, but it’s a game about pursuing world domination through diplomacy, bluffing, and military conquest. The lads knew the game well, and we all laughed at how quickly my countries would fall to theirs. But I did have one advantage: I’m a Marine, and they aren’t.

My brazen moves filled the game with unprovoked attacks, unneeded reinforcements, lies, refusals to join in alliances, and fighting on multiple fronts. (I did, however, pass on the opportunity to invade Russia in the winter.) The longer we played, the more beer we drank, the bolder my strategy grew. James, who is also a Marine, put Corps before blood, and cheered on every reckless frontal assault.

At the end of the game, James remarked only, “Lads, there’s strategy, then there’s the Marines. If you put a Marine in a hermitically-sealed, rubber room with two steel ball bearings, he’ll lose one and break the other. And when it comes to time to initiate a multi-pronged, well-planned and expertly coordinated strategic attack, a Marine will decide there’s too much reading involved, fix bayonets, and commence with a frontal assault. Remember that next time.”

After retiring as world emperor, I insisted they call me Alexander the Great for the remainder of the hunt.

In the morning we mounted the truck and began our pursuit anew. After a few hours we stopped by a Mormon farm and processing plant, to see if we could hunt their “back 40 (thousand).” Being Mormons, their kindness shined through—but they’d already allowed another group of hunters access.

Chances you know very little about the Mormons. Sure, you might know they live mostly in Salt Lake City, and lay claim to the world’s only all-white basketball team at Brigham Young, and their real name is something like Saints of Today on the Ladder of Jesus Christ… but other than that, not much.

Their religion, however, rivals anything Terry Pratchett might dream up, even on Discworld. Before getting started, let me say that while I find their faith to be a bit looney-tunes, I’m a Christian—and we Christians believe the secrets of the universe are contained in some parables told by a Jewish carpenter put to death for disturbing the peace, 2,000 years ago. Ergo, lots of people think I’m a nut, too.

With that said: The religion rocketed into existence when an illiterate petty crook Joseph Smith “wrote” The Book of Mormon. Smith crafted this masterpiece after an angel, named Moroni, appeared before him and said, “Behold! Go diggeth in the ground over by yonder tree and you’ll find gold tablets, engraved with the true story of Jesus written by my Pop, the Angel Mormon.”

Smith exhumed the tablets, and realized immediately their holiness-level demanded he never show them to another living soul.

Solution? Easy. Hardly an inconvenience: In 1828, Smith duped a cat named Martin Harris into assisting with his “translation” of these gold tablets. The tablets required translation, as the inscriptions were written in an unknown language. Remember, the tablets were waaaay too holy for Harris to see, so Smith sat behind a screen and dictated these nuggets of eternal truth by looking through a special stone, which magically transformed the scribble-scrit into English.

Harris, in a flash of reality, pondered the idea that perhaps this magic show was maybe-just-maybe a hoax. He took the manuscript home to show his wife, and promptly lost it. When he returned with the bad news, Smith proclaimed he already knew about the loss—and the Moroni was so pissed he’d already come and taken the gold tablets away. His subsequent firing of Harris was in no way connected to the fact Harris might notice the new wording was completely different.

In early 1829, after the Angel Moroni took some time to cool off, he returned the tablets to Smith. Smith subsequently drummed up another scribe, Oliver Cowdery, and the task began anew. The true story of Jesus Christ came to light on July 1^st, 1829.

Among those truths are: 1) A tribe of ancient Israelites came to America 600 years before Christ. 2) When Jesus returns to Earth, he will first go to Jerusalem, then to Missouri. 3) Jesus and Satan were brothers. 4) If a Mormon strives hard enough, they will grow in spirituality to the point where they become a God (like God), and get their own planet to rule over. 5) Number 4 is not a joke.

The fledgling church gained a few congregants and began to grow. Before long, Cowdery and another guy began insisting they too experienced revelations from God. This, of course, didn’t sit well with ol’ Joseph, who quickly experienced a revelation that only he could experience revelations, no-takes-back. He immediately dispatched the offending revelationers to undertake evangelism to the Indians.

By 1844, Joseph Smith was knee deep in good times, as Mormonism allowed polygamy, so men were signing up in droves, and throwing money at him. He even semi-owned his own city, Nauvoo. With over 15,000 adherents, Smith had money, women, and more than likely his own stash of ‘shine. Make it rain, Joe!

As is wont to happen when money and women are on the line, Smith had a falling out with two of his trusted advisers over, well, money and women. His advisors disapproved of Smith’s economic policies for the city, and also claimed Smith proposed marriage to their wives. (Imagine the life of the divorce judge in charge of the Nauvoo district). One thing led to another, with accusations and counter-accusations and declarations of I’m rubber you’re glue, and—cutting to the chase—Smith and his brother got dead at the hands of an angry mob.

Oddly enough, Smith’s youngest brother—the obvious successor to this goat rope—died mysteriously a few months later, and Brigham Young emerged as the man with the plan. Young had 55 wives, which offers a logical explanation for his volunteering for this “calling” that would keep him out of the house 24/7/365.

With all the trouble in the Midwest, Young declared the time had come to move someplace God forsaken, and he chose Salt Lake City. The fact that this made Young the official founder and colonizer of the territory and was thus appointed by the President to serve as the Governor is entirely coincidental, and played no role in his decision to choose Salt Lake… at least, that’s what I read on a gold tablet somewhere.

Under his direction, the Mormons built roads and bridges, forts, irrigation projects; established public welfare; organized a militia; built temples; formed sects in other states; slaughtered Indians; and slaughtered more Indians, which is to say they behaved the same way most white men of the era did.

Smith died in 1877 of cholera and inflammation of the bowels, so it could be argued the latter malady proved to be the most appropriate death in history.

Since those early days, Mormonism has exploded in growth, and currently counts over 6,000,000 congregants worldwide.

In closing, let me say there’s one thing hardly anyone knows about Mormons, because hardly anyone knows a Mormon. I’ve known lots, and the fact is this: They are the kindest, hardest working, most family-oriented people in these United States. They don’t drink alcohol or coffee, don’t use tobacco, and nary a single one has remarked my propensity to do all three. If you possess even a modicum of conservative thought, you’d be blessed to have a Mormon family as neighbors. So, yes, I believe their chosen religion is nutty—but they aren’t. Absolute salt of the earth.

We thanked the farmers, and promised we’d be back with a Mulie to process. I looked back as we were leaving, and the two men were chuckling… hopefully about my coonskin cap, and not our ability to take a deer.

We stayed on the Plains for three more days, traveling over the proverbial hill and dale. The vegetation changes quickly as the land rises, transitioning from grass, to scrub trees, to a wide variety of evergreens. Gulches cut deep scars into the slopes, as the Spring thaw generates torrents of water seeking a place to rest. Higher up is Griz country, where even the most experienced hunters grow wary—especially after harvesting an animal. An elk provides north of 200 pounds of meat, which requires several trips from the site of the kill back to the camp or truck. A small problem arises, as skinning and quartering an elk provides a very easy and tasty meal for a 500-pound beast comprised primarily of muscle, teeth, and claws. Many a hunter has returned to his trophy to find a Grizzly enjoying its pre-prepared buffet… and that’s one dinner party you don’t want to interrupt.

We saw no bear, but did round a bend on a dirt road, and came upon a trophy Big Horn Ram and his brood of ewes— extraordinary to see, but not an animal I’d shoot.

In our travels, another shot never availed itself. I don’t know if it was because the weather was so delightfully perfect that I began hunting in my kilt… or because of the powerful thirst that overwhelmed us every afternoon and took us out of the field before dusk… but the fact is that nary a Mulie presented himself.

It did not diminish the joy of the time on the Plains in any way.

An email arrived from James a week after arriving home, informing me a hunter was mauled by a Griz in the footprint of watering hole we hunted. I was pleased to hear the hunter survived, but also pleased to reconnect to the truth we live in a world where not everything is paved and tame. That we still live in a world where wild animals still stalk us in unsafe places… where sometimes we are not at the top of the food chain, but instead encounter the bloody-red tooth and claw of nature.

Remembering that is good for every hunter’s heart.