Fathers pass on hunting camp tradition

Fathers pass on hunting camp traditionReported 1st By Big Fork: What’s in a name? On their face, they don’t really mean anything; but taken with their deeper context, a name can sometimes tell a story. We have names for the places at our elk camp in southwest Montana. There is Lost Tooth Creek, where my young son lost a tooth one year; There is Eight-Second Ridge, where I was thrown from a horse while chasing loose horses; and there’s Laira’s Spring, where a friend shot her first elk. Those names now are being passed to the next generation of elk hunters in our camp: our young sons. While my sons have been experiencing our elk camp for a few years now, my friend Robbe’s son is the newest addition to our elk camp legacy. 

Getting to our camp is not always easy, and when it’s a six-hour drive from Bigfork, it can be grueling. I showed up at elk camp last Saturday morning after a long slog through the night highways. I left my car at the trailhead at about 4 a.m. and struck out into the cold morning air. After a 30-minute steep hike to camp, I threw my gear inside my tipi and shouted to the wall tent next door. No one was up. 

“Hey Reese, throw another log on our fire, will ya?” Robbe asked from inside the tent. I peeked inside and was hit with a nice gush of warm air from the stove; standing outside it registered 11 below Saturday morning. Plus wind chill.

Robbe’s son, Parker, was sound asleep, curled up in his sleeping bag. I walked off into the light of the morning. Our creek had four inches of ice on it.

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