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An unearthly sound shatters the quiet of the house from the depths of the basement. It blasts me out of my Zen state, as I stand over the sink completing the nightly kitchen cleaning routine. My fingers grip and ring the dishrag as I calm my frazzled nerves. Another sorrowful bellow, followed by stuttering hiccups breaks the peace of the early evening. My gaze lifts to find the familiar view of the backyard but to my horror, a yellow leaf brazenly waves at me from the stately ash tree in the center of the yard. It’s that time of year again; it’s the end of summer! The faux wapiti bugling from the basement confirms it.
I reflect on the speed at which the long days of the Albertan summer shorten to ripened grass and yellow jackets. I now must prepare myself for an onslaught of all things hunting. You see, I married an outdoorsman, an Alberta Outdoorsman!
The auditory assault continues but I find my sense of humour among the grunts and wails emanating from my husband’s basement domain. To state that my husband is a hunter is just the tip of the iceberg. His outdoor affliction is a constant theme in his everyday life. As his partner of thirty years, it’s part of my everyday life, too. Like most outdoorsmen, my husband is a hunter, a fisherman, a conservationist, and environmentalist. His calm sensible nature and his voracious appetite for knowledge also make him the person you want close when things don’t go as planned. He is also the one who introduced me to the fun and beauty of backwoods Alberta.
My husband’s love of the outdoors started at a young age. His family has a long history with farming and ranching, as well as the Alberta Parks system and the forestry industry. His grandfather was Park Warden at Elk Island for 24 years. He was said to have been a marksman with his .270 Winchester. In fact, while John Wayne was shooting a scene for The Searchers (1956), the star was filmed pointing his rifle but it was Grandpa Roberts who took the shot off camera. Hollywood wouldn’t get away with filming and distributing a live kill in a movie in this day and age.
For a time, his father was also a Park Warden, but at Elkwater Provincial Park. His uncle and cousins worked in the forestry industry in both Alberta and British Columbia.
Many of my husband’s early years were spent in the Elkwater area or out exploring the Porcupine Hills. He once rode home from Fort MacLeod to Medicine Hat on a Greyhound bus with a wild turkey in a black plastic garbage bag that he and his great uncle shot. We still have the tassel.
As a young boy on the acreage, his father had to ration his pellets so my industrious outdoorsman learnt how to stalk, snare or trap his quarry. Looking back, my husband states he can’t remember seeing any gophers after July. He was also fortunate to have been able to go camping with his extended family. Something he’s always enjoyed.
Growing up, my family did not go camping. Our outdoor lifestyle consisted of civilized day trips to all the scenic spots southern Alberta has to offer. On the way home, we’d often stop for an impromptu picnic on a prairie backroad or sit in the cool of the shade after picking chokecherries. We’d climb hoodoos and dodge a snake or two. Watching storm clouds form over the Cypress Hills and gathering clamshells on the banks of the South Saskatchewan River were the norm. I think the only time I’d used a toilet that didn’t flush was on a family holiday to visit relatives in small town Manitoba. So imagine, to my utter surprise, the delight at my first time roughing it on our first weekend camping trip together. We took a tent, sleeping bags, hotdog sticks, and a cooler full of food, a cooler full of liquid refreshments, and a tiger torch with a bottle of propane. This came in handy to get a fire going quickly for coffee in the mornings.
As a matter of fact, little Timmy and his family were at the tenting spot beside us. The first morning, little Timmy was being coached by his father on how to properly build a fire. My impatient outdoorsman loaded the pit with wood, set up the propane, and out came the torch. The initial whoosh of the dry wood catching followed by the snapping of the sap igniting caught little Timmy and his dad on their second attempt to keep some kindling lit. After watching my outdoorsman strike the torch and touch wood, little Timmy commented to his daddy that their fire was boring and taking too long! We drank a pot of coffee and had bacon and eggs before the fire at little Timmy’s was burning. It was a great weekend and like any young couple in love, our two-man tent and meager supplies was enough to accommodate our needs.
As the years progressed, so did our camping experience. The bright blue, nylon two-man tent quickly evolved to a 10’ x 10’ outfitter’s canvas tent, then into a not so gently used camper.
A few years later, we got rid of the camper and purchased a much larger canvas tent with enough room for a comfortable double cot and a chemical toilet.
Not too many years ago, we finally bought a used trailer with an actual bedroom, toilet, and a shower! I secretly call the trailer Gerald after an older gentleman I remember from my youth. After numerous years of disinfecting and countless deodorizers, I still smell Gerald’s “old man armpits” in this functional trailer. Gerald’s purchase was facilitated by my fears and my husband’s requirements. When you’re married to an Alberta outdoorsman, you don’t camp with hook-ups and other folks within yelling distance. We were backwoods, off-the-grid type of campers. We needed an affordable rig that was tough.
My ideal holiday is an all-inclusive resort at a tropical locale. I want someone waiting on me hand and foot (not me doing every chore that I do at home, but with double the effort). Although I enjoyed our trips to the scenic mountains, I was painfully aware of the presence of bears. Sleep didn’t come easy or at all to me in the outfitter’s tent, so smelly armpits were a small price to pay for solid walls, a gas stove, and a quiet generator!
Our late summer holiday camping excursions always had a purpose. Sure, the quading and hiking on abandoned forestry roads and game trails was a blast. We’d fish for cutthroats in deep mountain pools surrounded by vistas that make this landscaper (of 21 years) weep, but we also spent many an evening driving along bumpy, dirt roads spotting animals and exploring for great hunting locations. Each season, we’d camp further and deeper into Crown land... always spotting and always fishing.
These excursions into our beloved mountains slowed as more people discovered and tainted the beauty of the area. We haven’t been back since 2018 when several flat spots in the Race Horse area had a group of semi-trailer units hauling large toy carriers and living accommodations.
I remember one pre-hunting season holiday; we were camping at around kilometre 23 in the Oldman. It was a great camping spot in the meadow of an oxbow cut into the side of the rock face. There was easy access to a sandy shoreline and fast, deep water, perfect for fishing and relaxing in the sun. Although there was an open meadow in front of our temporary residence, we were flanked by dense forest and the base of the mountain on the other side of the water. We’d not seen or heard a soul in three days. Keep in mind that these were the walled tent days, so to make my life easier, my handyman outdoorsman welded a valve and spigot to a ten-gallon metal pail. He’d haul the water, heat it over the fire, and then hang the pail from a tree at a manageable height. Voila! I got a shower.
It was day four of isolation and my grimy outdoorsman was enjoying sudsing up in the bright sunshine with his luxurious shower when without warning, out of the deep forest emerges a trail ride with about fifteen female riders. I suspect it was a church group because after the initial audible gasps and embarrassed giggles, there were many sideways glances through half-closed eyes. My nature boy outdoorsman didn’t blink an eye and continued with his shower. I know... I was watching.
It’s fair to say that after thirty years of camping with an outdoorsman, I find wood smoke nostalgic and I long for the mountains. I also say that all of the preparations before, plus the tasks of cleaning and storing everything when you returned, always makes me want to take a holiday. I try to help as much as I can, but my organized outdoorsman always takes his time and with practiced care, he methodically gets the job done.
During his “hunting on horseback” phase, my equine outdoorsman had the extra task of his horses and trailer to attend to. RIP Rusty and King. I did come to appreciate the horse trailer (which evolved into the purchase of a cargo hauler) to keep bears out of our supplies and cart our surplus of gear. It should be mentioned that in all of the years’ backwoods camping with my outdoorsman, I had never seen a bear. We saw steaming piles of bear scat and fresh trail marks, but never a bear. One time we were fortunate to see a wolf. The sighting lasted a second before the animal abruptly turned back into the woods.
The bugling from the basement finally ceases. My outdoorsman must be taking stock of his calls because a moment later, I hear the distinct call of a rabbit in distress followed by what I think might be a doe. My mind wanders to the thought of our little chest freezer in the basement. Do we have enough room for a moose if he’s successful filling his tag? That little chest freezer has been with us for 30 years. It’s held deer, elk, moose, goose, pheasant, partridge and several varieties of native fish. I remember the very first deer it held. It was a nice mule buck that my outdoorsman brought home after a successful hunt south of Elkwater. The weather was still warm out so rather than field dress the animal he brought it home to hang in the cool of our garage. We were still newlyweds and my wanting to help far outweighed my disgust at the sight of blood and death. As soon as the garage door rolled up and the truck backed into the garage, I was out of there! To my embarrassment, my newlywed outdoorsman enlisted the help of the petite, German lady next door. She eagerly came over, wrapped her strong German arms around the beast, hefted it up, and helped hang him from the rafters. Needless to say, the neighbours were the recipients of many coils of sausages that season. Anything to make room in the freezer.
It’s all quiet from the basement now. My outdoorsman must be cleaning the rifle he took to the range before supper. The distinct aroma of Butch’s Bore Shine wafts up into the kitchen. I bought that as a Christmas gift online last year. Usually, when I shop for my outdoorsman, the fellows in our local “The Outdoorsman” shop know I’m always good for buying gift certificates. If the local retailer can’t help, it’s just amazing what you can buy online these days. I’ve noticed that my normally technology shy outdoorsman has recently become on a first name basis with the courier driver. Technology has allowed my outdoorsman to travel the world and experience animals and hunts in lands we will never visit.
My well-read outdoorsman is often on his tablet reading articles on the histories of regions that interest him. At a glance, any device will have information on every conceivable topic you might need. Articles with opinion pieces usually get ignored, except those for a good laugh. Even though technology is great, my old school outdoorsman still insists on paper maps and hard copies of hunting and fishing regulations. They litter every coffee table surface and inhabit space in each bathroom.
I really can’t complain. I’ve discovered the pull of the Alberta wilderness and have had the time of my life alongside my Alberta outdoorsman, as we ride our quads deep into the woods or bob quietly in our belly boats at opposite ends of a deserted lake. We’ve hiked amongst colourful mountainside flowers and have had a large beast answer our call on a quiet country road at dusk.
I’m proud of my Alberta outdoorsman. He keeps up on products and technology and regularly visits the local range to keep his skills solid. My outdoorsman is a member of all the local gun clubs, has volunteered hauling clay at the trap club, and participates in a variety of events and tournaments. He purchases tickets for most fundraisers involving conservation, the environment, or wildlife. My principled outdoorsman has strong political beliefs but the only opinion he shares is, “If you’re going to own a gun, support your local gun club!”
I wipe down the kitchen counter and place out two cups. I hear the snap of the two chain pulls turning off the lights in the basement. My outdoorsman is coming upstairs for our nightly coffee and conversation about our respective days; I’ll bet we talk about hunting. ■
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