Deer Hunting in Ten Sleep

It was the fall of 1967 and I was staying on Big Jon's farm in Perry Iowa.  His mom and dad had a farm that brought in corn and soybeans.  I learned to drive a tractor and operate a plow and disc in their cornfields.  I also learned that there is nothing colder than a steel tractor seat at 5 a.m. in Iowa.

Perry Iowa is known for its cornfields and deer.  The deer are corn-fed so their meat is delicious.  We had beer.  We had a roof over our heads.  So when the conversation got around to going deer hunting I expressed interest.  My assumption was that it would involve getting up early and driving a short distance to where somebody knew there would be deer.  I obviously didn’t know anything about deer hunting.  This particular conversation took place in a bar near Perry.  A proper deer hunting trip would require clear heads, attention to detail, solid leadership skills and careful planning for all contingencies.  We of course had none of these.   If we had done even one of these things this wouldn't be a good story.  Remember, this was being discussed late at night, in a bar, with alcohol.  What we had was youth, a can-do spirit and the natural stupidity that goes along with all of that.

I quickly learned that, in order to properly hunt deer you have to drive at least 800 miles away from wherever you currently live.  Can you say, “Road-Trip”?  By going west from Perry the requisite 800 miles would put us in Wyoming.  As with any good road trip you need plenty of beer.  We also needed rifles and ammunition.  Nothing says a good time like four drunks in a car with guns.  Like the Blues Brothers, we were on a mission from God.  We left that very night.  Denny was still wearing dress shoes.  We didn't know exactly where we were going but we wanted to get there quickly.  The hunting season was just a day away.

Route from Perry, Iowa "B" to Ten Sleep, Wyoming "A"

We packed a toothbrush and a few changes of underwear.  Just for clarity, we each had our own toothbrushes and our own underwear.  We bought several cases of beer for the trip.  Since there were four of us going that would at least get us beyond the city limits of Perry.  We packed up all of this in my Oldsmobile and headed westbound on US 16.  In the car were Big Jon, Denny and myself.  There was another blonde headed friend of Jon’s whose name escapes me.  For all I know he could have been that world famous hunter, Dick Cheney.

When the odometer indicated we had gone beyond the required 800 miles, we began to look for our spot.  That spot turned out to be Ten Sleep, Wyoming.  This unusual name had two differing stories of origin.  Someone said it was because ten Indians once slept there.  The second story states that it got its name because it took an Indian ten days to travel there from Fort Laramie, or ten sleeps.  Whichever story you pick it involves some sleeping Indians.

Downtown Ten Sleep at Rush Hour

It took four drunks about 16 hours of actual driving time to cover the 866 miles from Perry to Ten Sleep.  It took 20 hours if you count the pee breaks from all of the beer.  To this day if you travel old US 16 along our route you will see large dead patches where nothing will grow.  These are our pee break spots.  They were so numerous in South Dakota that area is now known as The Badlands.

If this sleepy little town hadn’t already been named for its “ten sleep” distance from Fort Laramie we would have called it “Fifty Piss Stops” which is its true distance from Perry, Iowa.  The current population of Ten Sleep is about 260 people.  In 1967 the population was probably about the same.  I can’t see that it would have grown any as the whole town was made up of a bunch of men and an equal number of nervous female sheep.  Even the ugly sheep looked nervous.

We had spotted deer just about everywhere we looked while driving into town.  We could taste the venison.  A quick stop at the Ten Sleep Mercantile allowed us to purchase four fluorescent vests and four deer hunting licenses.  You needed one license for each deer you brought out and had to tie one tag to each deer as proof.  The fluorescent vests were so the deer could always know where you were so they could stay out of range.  Big Jon managed to buy another license using a borrowed driver’s license to get around the one-man one-deer limit.  We checked into a motel that rented by the day or by the hour.  Since the motel allowed pets (sheep?) I assumed that was why they had an hourly rate.  I spotted some hay on the motel floor.

Since we had seen plenty of deer on the open range just outside of town we just knew we would quickly bag our limit.  We woke before dawn of the first day of hunting season.  We drove out of town and waited for the sun to break the horizon to signal the start of our hunt.  In the distance we heard the single crack of a rifle followed by the soft rumble of hoofs taking every deer within a hundred miles off of the open range and on to private property.  Within three minutes of the start of the hunting season all deer were safely ensconced on private land and out of our reach.  All but one.

You know that slow kid in high school.  The one who doesn’t quite figure out what’s going on as quickly as the other kids?  Deer have them too.  One deer ignored the mass exit stage left to the land of safety.  Big Jon found him and shot him from about a mile away.  I couldn’t even see the deer when I was told where it was.  The Remington .220 Swift with a scope was able to send a bullet at 4,300 feet per second to remind the dumb deer, however briefly, that he should have followed his buddies to private property. 

We now had four available deer licenses left and one deer.  Big Jon found a local freezer to store his first deer so we could continue to hunt.  While it was below freezing at night the daylight hours raised the temperatures a bit and meat might not last without proper storage.  We continued to hunt the available open range but not a deer in sight.  Tromping through the snow all we saw were moose tracks.  There were moose tracks everywhere.  Just our luck.  We had $25 deer licenses and couldn’t afford the moose license that went well over $100.   I remember we stumbled all over seeing nothing but moose tracks when we decided to break for lunch.  We wandered into the local café.  The place was crowded with hunters and it looked like we were going to have to wait a long time for a table.

Fine Dining in Ten Sleep

We stood there waiting and began talking amongst ourselves.  Our conversation went on for just a short time when someone in our group muttered the words, “moose tracks”.  All of a sudden you could have heard a plastic fork drop.  The place went quiet except for our conversation.  We stopped talking when we realized everyone else was listening.  One of the hunters asked, “Did you say, moose tracks?”  We said yes, lots of them.  He then asked where we had seen them.  Someone in our group pointed and before we could give much more in the way of directions, the place cleared out.

It seemed the café was full of moose hunters who hadn’t seen a moose track, a moose plop or even a Canadian quarter since they arrived.  (Just for clarity, I know the Canadian quarter has an elk and not a moose)  Their expensive moose licenses were burning the proverbial hole in their pockets.  The only benefit to us was that we didn’t have to wait any longer for a table.  Our waitress looked pissed.

Canadian Quarter

Since we weren’t having much luck in the deer department we hung out a bit longer in town.  We talked to a couple of locals and mentioned our dilemma with all of the deer now safely on private property.  One of them suggested that we try this sheep ranch outside of town.   He said that the rancher occasionally would take in a few hunters for a fee.

We drove out to the sheep ranch and found the rancher.  He had sheep high up in the mountains that were looked after by his workers.  These would be the guys who made the female sheep nervous.  The rancher offered us the bunkhouse and told us not to expect much.  We said that we were sure it would be fine.  We checked out of our motel and basically paid the rancher what we were spending at the motel for a room.

This bunkhouse was no motel.  I’ve stayed in some cheap creepy motels before but this place beat them all.  It seems that the sheepherders stay up on the mountain with the sheep for the entire summer, without bathing.  When winter comes they bring the sheep down from the mountain to the ranch and they stay in the bunkhouse.  I had assumed the rancher meant that the sheepherders slept in the bunkhouse but, from the smell, it might just have been the sheep.  In certain cases it would have been sheepherders AND their girlfriends.  I’m guessing that the sheepherders and the sheep share similar habits when it comes to personal hygiene.  I asked the rancher if he worried about the sheep getting pregnant and he said, “Naaa-aaah”.

Ten Sleep Call Girl

We brought with us plenty of provisions.  Provisions in those days meant lots of beer and perhaps some “health food in a bag”, otherwise known today as chips and jerky.  We woke up the next morning at oh-my-god-it’s-early.  My bunkmates woke me up.  I didn’t share my bunk with anyone but I was certain that I was not alone.  My bed was alive, and not in a good way.

We all jumped in the back of the rancher’s pickup truck.  He drove slowly up the mountain with all of us keeping an eye out for deer.  We turned a corner and the first deer met his maker.  It was felled by a barrage of 30.06 and 30-30 slugs.  This 150 pound deer now weighed 200 pounds with all of the lead rounds stuck in its carcass.   I think Denny claimed this one.

We continued on toward a canyon.  The rancher dropped us off and mentioned that this would be a good spot.  He would take supplies on up the mountain and meet us later.  We hatched a plan that would have made General Eisenhower proud.  Just like D-Day, it would be a three-pronged attack.  Two people would work one side of the upper canyon ridge, one would work the other side of the canyon ridge and I would go down into the canyon.  The theory here was that either the deer would be spooked up out of the canyon toward the ridges or down toward me.  I stood a good chance to get lucky since Denny would be on one of the upper ridges and he was still wearing his dress shoes.  He was slipping and sliding all over the place.  I fully expected to see him tumbling down the side of the canyon.  I only hoped he would flush out some deer on his way down.

I took my borrowed 30-30 lever action Winchester down into the canyon.  It was good to be hunting alone.  I was hunting Bambi and I wasn’t sure I could actually kill a deer.  I had to learn to hate the deer.  What were the deer really guilty of?  Well, for starters, they were directly responsible for getting me to drive 866 miles across three states.  They were guilty of getting me up at an ungodly hour this morning to sit in the back of an open pickup truck in freezing weather.  I had been forced to share my bed with unseen constantly moving critters.  I was forced to buy a $25 license to even attempt to hunt the mangy bastards.   I was now tripping over rocks descending a canyon without water or food or even beer.  Who could forgive such an affront to my well-being?   Damn those deer.

30-30 Winchester Model 94

I made my way to the bottom of the canyon and saw no deer.  I eventually found a stream and was able to quench my thirst.  It wasn't beer but it worked.  It was good, cold, and most assuredly cleaner than the brown stuff that came from the tap in the bunkhouse that I used to brush my teeth.  I heard deer but never saw them.  I would take two steps and I would hear twenty-four hoof steps.  This had to be either one deer moving fast or three deer keeping just out of range.

Going down into the canyon was difficult.  Climbing out of the canyon involved the same obstacles but now I was meeting them going uphill.  It is good to be young and stupid.  I decided to climb up the side of the canyon instead of walking back the more gradual incline that was my earlier path.  I continually heard the snapping of twigs and the tromping of hooves.  The climb up was grueling.  About halfway up the side of the canyon I had to rest.  I found two trees that had fallen parallel to one another just close enough to allow me to rest between them.

I think I may have dozed off because I really didn’t hear the deer until they were almost on top of me.  The two fallen trees acted as sort of a blind.  At least they hid that damn orange vest that the deer obviously used to their advantage.  I opened my eyes and slowly turned my head.  I saw a large rack.  In Miami that last sentence would have a totally different meaning.  Here in Wyoming it would mean only one thing, walking venison.  There was one large buck and two smaller doe.  One male and two females could mean only one thing; these were polygamous Mormon deer who had wandered into Wyoming from Utah.

I took aim and dropped the buck with my first shot.  Then I watched in horror as my prize rolled down deeper into the canyon.  I shot it a second time just before it came to rest against a tree.  I now had to figure out how a 230-pound human who could barely walk into this canyon alone was going to get a 200-pound mammal back to the road.  So much for careful planning.  I left my spot and began to climb back up out of the canyon.  I fired a couple of shots to see if I could get someone’s attention.  After a while I ran into Big Jon.  Together we went back to get the deer.

We field dressed the deer to make it lighter and I understand some of this process keeps the meat from getting gamy.  I was from Miami so what did I know.  In Miami we only have drug dealers to shoot and they are really hard to clean.  We used our belts around the legs and carried and dragged, mostly dragged, the deer back to the road.  When all was said and done we had more deer than we had tags to make them legal.  We strapped the five legal ones with tags to the top of the Oldsmobile and put the better meat parts of our “overage” in the trunk.  This minor overage amounted to about seven deer.  Twelve deer and four guys in an Oldsmobile with poor shocks and weak springs.  We were so overloaded the drive shaft started wearing through the floor.

Jack, Denny.....(deer on roof)...Big Jon

We then began the drive back to Iowa where we would eventually hoist the deer with block and tackle and butcher the meat for storage.  That Oldsmobile was never the same after this trip.  We had to pop the metal roof back into shape after we unloaded the five legal deer carcasses.  The trunk forever had an unpleasant odor.  I sold it shortly after my return to Miami.  For the rest of my stay in Iowa I ate venison and turkey, usually at different meals but we weren’t picky as long as there was enough beer.  The large quantity of turkey involves another story that I will tell in a later installment.

It Could Have Ended Badly