About 5 years ago, my friend Tim bought 15 acres of mountain land with a "cabin" and running water in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The running water consists of a stream that trickles through one corner of the property during the summer. No one drinks the water. The cabin was a shack connected to a dilapidated travel trailer with flat tires and a registration so outdated that it had been dropped from the DMV computer files. An outhouse stands about 20 yards away from the cabin door. The property boundaries make the land useless for development except for a few acres by the road. It is about 100 yards wide and very long, slopping down a steep incline about 200 yards from the cabin.

Tim let me use the property during deer season, which I appreciated. We'd often target practice with hand guns from the cabin porch. The area is beautiful, surrounded by the southern end of the Sierra National Forest. In return for the use of the property I helped with repairs from time to time.

About two years ago Tim decided to move a new travel trailer onto the property and build a new cabin. In order to avoid building regulations, the cabin was sitting on skids; there are no permanent improvements to the property. Last year, Tim decided to get some paid help to speed up the construction. This led to several encounters with some colorful local characters.

He hired two local dead beats who seemed to make a living dealing in contraband of one shade or another. Chuck and Bob were to build a new snowroof over the outhouse; I couldn't believe it when Tim told me he had paid them up front for the work. I told Tim that they would blow the money and have none to buy materials and have no incentive to get the job done. Sure enough, Tim offered them more money to get the job done, payable upon completion. The roof sagged last winter.

Chuck agreed to fix it. The problem was pinning Chuck down as to when he would do the work. So, last month Tim and I made a trip on a long weekend to work on his property and to find Chuck. We stopped in the general store, which is a gathering point for the local residents, and left word with Jake the owner to have Chuck contact us. Jake said "you mean Buffalo Chuck?" Tim said, "yes - have Buffalo Chuck stop buy the cabin this weekend". Chuck never showed.

Twin Trees is a small community with a couple hundred residents and consists of the general store and a beer bar that serves food. The general store also has a small restaurant that serves beer. Twenty years ago they had a rodeo; rodeo pictures still hang in the store and bar. The general store is actually an old school house. The restaurant used to be a large classroom. One wall is graced with a full length blackboard. Local news is posted on the board with chalk provided by Jake. On the day of our last visit, there were a number of notes in different handwriting protesting mining and logging.

After a weekend of hanging wood paneling, Tim and I decided to stop in the bar on Sunday morning for breakfast before the 5 hour drive home. Tim told me to order the food first because it takes so long to get served and then make phone calls home. We entered the dimly lighted establishment and walked up to the bar. A loud voice called out from the corner of the bar, "Tim! I never made it up there this weekend". It was Buffalo Chuck.

It is obvious where he got the nickname, Buffalo Chuck is hairy; black hair and beard everywhere. He had on a black cowboy hat and was drinking Red Wolf ale. It was about 9 am. Buffalo Chuck was as high as a kite talking a mile a minute with animated hands. The Red Wolf was not bringing him down. Sitting on the bar stool next to Buffalo Chuck was Jackson, a very big biker with a thick black beard wearing a cowboy hat over a lot of hair. Jackson was 6 feet tall and about 300 pounds. Jackson is an ex-con with a tattoo of a serpent on his hands and fingers. Jackson didn't say much but had an air of badness.

Tim took the bar stool next to Jackson and I the next one. Tim said that he noticed Buffalo Chuck had not made it to the cabin. We placed our order for breakfast and talked for a few minutes. Jackson told some jail house racist jokes. The air was tense. Tim got up and walked out, saying he had to make a phone call.

I thought I may be in trouble. Buffalo Chuck was fast talking to me jumping from subject to subject when he suddenly asked if I got a bear? He said, "remember last year you were looking for a bear up here to shoot?" I said that I had not, but if he knew where I could find one I would appreciate the information. He asked, "do you eat all of that stuff you kill?" I said yes, for the most part. Last year I ate a bobcat.

Jackson perked up, slowly turned to me and asked, "what does a bobcat taste like?" Of course I answered, "chicken". Jackson broke out laughing, "everything tastes like chicken, ho, ho, ho." That broke the ice and I knew I was OK for now.

Tim returned and we talked some more when Jackson leaned over to Tim and asked if he wanted to hear some poems. Tim said yes and Jackson started reciting his own poetry, as good as any I have heard, in the tradition of Robert Service. He did one about a sailing ship with crew trouble leading to key hauling a man. Another about cowboys on the range.

Jackson, the bad ass biker with crazy Buffalo Chuck, was a poet in disguise.

Tim asked Jackson if he had ever had his poetry published. Jackson answered no, but he would sell us some if we wanted to pay him. Tim said no, but his stuff is good. Jackson said that he will be going to Elko, Nevada for the cowboy poetry contest someday.

We finished eating, said goodbye, and went on our way knowing that Buffalo Chuck would never finish the roof work and thinking about this interesting life.

Winter came, and the outhouse roof was never fixed before the record snowfall hit. Tim's wife was using the outhouse when disaster struck, and drowned before rescuers could free her from the rubble. No one volunteered to do CPR to save her.

Buffalo Chuck disappeared the following day, shortly after news of the"accident" reached Twin Trees. County sheriff's deputies suspect foul play, and have initiated an exhaustive search of the more than 1,000 abandoned vertical mine shafts which dot the region. Progress is slow, and at the current rate wouldn't be completed until the year 2023.

Tim had a new outhouse built, and later married Buffalo Chuck's ex-wife.

There's a moral to this story - our fate is determined by a combination of circumstances and choices. How some become bikers and go to prison and others become poets. Some just go wild and crazy. How one man ends up with another man's wife.

After about 40 years of hunting, I went on my first duck hunt a few Wednesdays ago at San Jacinto Wildlife Refuge, in Riverside County. This was a humbling experience to say the least! I got my feet stuck in the mud repeatedly, fell in the water three times, and to cap the day off, got my feet stuck in the mud again, fell over and had to crawl on my belly through mud to get free.

This story began a few months ago. Back in the beginning of December a friend, David Paschke, called and asked me to send cards for a drawing to hunt at San Jacinto for every Wednesday and Saturday in December and January, he would do the same. If either of us got drawn, the card was good for two hunters so we would take off work if necessary and hunt.

David called me on Sunday of the last week of duck season and said that he got drawn for the following Wednesday. We both made some quick phone calls to get the day off work; I had to borrow waders since I didn't want to buy them to use once if I didn't like duck hunting. They didn't quite fit, but I figured it would be OK if I wore extra socks. I got 2 boxes of number 2 steel shot and was ready.

Tuesday night I got to sleep about 11 PM and got up at 1:30 am Wednesday. I drove from Orange County to David's house in Riverside. He drove us in his truck. We arrived at San Jacinto at about 4 a.m. and waited in a line of about 6 cars at the gate. We checked the drawing card and it was stamped #17. So we were #17 out of 25. At about 4:30 a.m. a game warden opened up the gate. (The hunt is highly regulated and run by Fish & Game).

We drove a short distance to the small office building and stood around out side. They started calling the hunters one at a time by the drawing card numbers. Each group chose a blind to hunt and paid $12 per hunter. By the time we got called the only blinds left were at the far end of the facility. After this was done, they had a meeting with the hunters and went over the rules of the hunt. They said that since it had rained a few days before, they were using "muddy conditions rules" which meant we all had to walk rather than drive to the blinds. David and I had a two mile walk to our blind.

I put on the size 9 1/2 waders over my 7 1/2 feet with two pairs of wool socks. I put on the back pack with our drinks and snacks, carried my shotgun in one hand and the 3 cell mag-light in the other hand. David had the huge back pack full of decoys on his back and carried his shotgun. (One of the rules was about ammo, we could only have 25 rounds in the field which meant a four mile walk for more ammo, we decided to make every shot count).

I had no idea what to expect when we arrived at the blind. I had pictured some kind of a permanent structure with a place to sit. WRONG!

When we got to our blind, in the dark, there were reeds around a small pond, 18" to 2 feet deep. Below the water was very thick clay mud, the kind that sticks to your boots. The mud was everywhere including the road we walked on to get there. Each of my boots were an extra 2 pounds from the mud by the time we got there. David started walking through the water right away muttering we had to be set up before starting time. Another rule was we could not shoot before 6:22 a.m.

I took about 6 steps when my feet got stick. The combination of the mud and the too big waders created a tremendous suction and I was latterly stuck in the mud. I tried to jerk my right foot free, and I fell over backward landing on my backpack in two feet of water. (I'm impressed with the Mag-light since I dropped it in the water and I could see the glow under the water). I used the butt of the shotgun to push my self back on my feet but I was still stuck. I retrieve the flash light, tried to get free again and fell over like before.

David called to me from the darkness, "Terry are you OK". I said, "no, I have a problem and need help". He came splashing over and couldn't believe how stuck I was. I grabbed his arm and he pulled me loose. I held on to his arm until he walked me over to some reeds where I could stand on bent over reeds and be hidden from view. Every time I stepped down in the mud I would get stuck again. David walked back to the little island he was going to stand on, surrounded by reeds. He put out the decoys.

At 6:22, the shooting started. I got a duck on the second shot. They were flying all around us, they are fast and fly low. We had a great time and got three ducks by 9 am when they stopped flying. It was time to leave.

David wanted me to help retrieve the decoys. I said I couldn't because I'd get stuck again. He grumbled and walked out and started throwing the decoys at the shore. They landed in the water a few feet from the shore line. David said, "Terry go get the decoys, you can at lest help with the ones over by you." I took about three steps and got stuck again. This time when I fell, I landed and rolled in the mud. By the time a crawled out I was covered in mud. David was laughing like crazy. (He said he nearly peed his pants).

by Terry P. Mathers

My friend Joe and I are varmint hunters; I am going to tell you about a hunting trip we took a few years ago. (While the basic facts of the story are true, some names have been changed to protect the identity of those who have not agreed to be quoted). This trip took place in the winter time, we were after coyotes with nice winter coats. We were hunting from my rig which is a Ford F250 extended cab, 460 engine, and with 4 wheel drive. It has 36" desert off road tires and has never been stuck. The truck is like a tank, it can go anywhere. (I once asked an acquaintance what he thought after I showed him my truck, he said "If I saw it stopped in the desert, I wouldn't stop to see if everything is ok". I never found out what he meant by that).

My good friend Joe drives an 18 wheel truck for a living. Joe doesn't just drive the trucks, he also loads and unloads them, he gets a workout every day. He's big and strong and has a dangerous demeanor.

A few months ago I had a confrontation with some "gang bangers" in Parker Arizona. It seems that the low lifes wanted the pay phone I was using and where making the point known to me until Joe arrived on the scene. Just his presence changed their whole attitude. There's an old saying, "Never try to run a bluff when your poke's empty." With Joe around, I had a full poke.

Of course looks are deceiving and Joe is a real nice guy, once you get to know him.

We have been hunting together for over 7 years so we work fairly well as a team. Joe is very good with the hand calls; we both shoot very well and love what we do. Joe taught me how to case skin coyotes and bob cats. I taught him to wear rubber gloves to keep from catching bad diseases from the animals. The first time he tried the rubber gloves, we were skinning two coyotes side by side, Joe said, "Terry these are like condoms for your hands." I answered, "yea Joe, it doesn't feel the same does it?"

We started the trip after work on a Friday night. We headed out the 91 freeway through the normal heavy traffic, so it was several hours before we got into our hunting area. We did a number of stands before I saw an animal. It was a beautiful coyote out 200 - 300 yards. I waited a minute after spotting it to see if it was going to come in any closer. I saw it clearly in the 3.5 X 10 50mm Leopold scope on my Remington 700 VS .223 caliber heavy barrel rifle. (That rifle is a "tack driver" which can shoot 1/4" groups with the 55 grain hollow point bullets I use). The dog was just standing there looking our way so I took the shot, down he went and never moved again.

I walked out carrying the .380 pistol I always take with me on these occasions in case the animal is still alive when I find it. Joe stayed with the truck. When I got to the coyote, I was amazed. It was a huge coyote with beautiful fur, just what we were after and not a mark on him. I found a small entry wound in the chest over the heart, no exit wound and no bleeding. I was ecstatic. I started to carry the coyote back when I noticed how far it was to the truck. The animal was very heavy and I tired fast. So, I slung the animal over my shoulder and held it's back feet with my free hand.

As I got back to the truck Joe was laughing and said "Terry I can't believe you did that with a dirty bleeding coyote". I looked back and saw that it had started bleeding from the chest wound as I carried it and I had blood all over the back of my pants from my crotch to my feet. We tied the coyote to the side of the camper on my truck to drain the blood while we drove on. I decided to not change into my clean blue jeans until the next day when we would be around other people again. I forgot about the blood.

Joe was driving along a dirt road when he said, "there might be something wrong with the motor, a red light came on the dash and the charge meter is running low." The red light was the battery light, the alternator had failed. We checked the maps and saw that the nearest town to where we were was Beatty Nevada, about 35 - 40 miles down dirt roads and trails. We put the coyote in the back of the camper on the floor, and headed that way.

We made it on just battery power to the Beatty Garage and I talked to the owner Brent. I asked if he could fix the truck and he said that he probably could if the parts store had an alternator. If not, it would take a few days. He said that he would make a phone call. I followed him into the office. (This was the junkiest repair shop I had ever been in and Brent was drunk). He said that he would install the alternator if I bought it, for a case of beer. I said OK. Then Brent got real nervous, he sat down at the dilapidated desk in the cruddy office. Pulled open a desk drawer and got out a pistol, a Tokerov 9mm, and laid it on the desk without looking up at me. Brent said "I'm well armed". I shrugged and said "Joe and I are well armed too". I told Brent to make the phone call, which he did and they had the part.

I suddenly realized that Brent was afraid of us. I was dirty, tired, had on a camo jacket and my pants were covered with blood. I tried to explain, I told Brent that we were hunting coyotes and the story of getting the blood on my pants. I asked if he would like to see the coyote in the back of the truck. Brent said no. He went for the part, I climbed into the camper and changed pants.

True to his word, Brent did return with the new alternator and without the sheriff. I paid him for the part and went to the nearest store to buy beer. We were on the road again within 20 minutes. We headed out into the desert again and found a place to set up camp. After some sleep and a good hot meal the world looked fine.