We've had the pickup loaded since last Thursday, and it is Sunday evening as I write this. The plan was to leave Friday morning, make the six-hour drive to southeastern Montana, and hunt birds and antelope for a few days.
But then it started raining Friday morning. Carl, the landowner, called and suggested we wait a day. He said the same thing Saturday morning, and this morning he told us that everything was "a muddy mess," and that it would be wise to wait still another day. We will, of course, heed his advice because I know how miserable the "gumbo country" can be when it is wet.
Seven years ago an early snowstorm dumped a foot of snow onto southeastern Montana. Laurie and I watched the weather, decided we'd make the trip. We hunted pheasants one day, bucking snowdrifts and wading through tangles of matted grass. We shot four roosters.
At 1 a.m. I heard raindrops on the tent roof, turning to a steady rain. It was still pouring at 9 a.m. when we broke camp with a sodden tent and muddy Labradors. Fortunately, we had camped in a hayfield so we had no trouble driving to the county road, but I had the Dodge in four-wheel-drive all the way to the highway. It was still raining when we departed for home at 1 p.m.
Two years ago we danced with the weather. It would rain, quit for a day, and then rain again. After more than two weeks of this I finally ran out of time due to an elk hunt in Nevada that began in early November. I never did get down to southeastern Montana.
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In much of eastern Montana and western North Dakota the soil is a silica type that turns to gumbo when wet, and believe me, it is nothing to trifle with. I have been stranded many times in hunting camps throughout that country, waiting for the land to dry out so I could move around. It is difficult even to walk in this country when it is wet, because the gumbo builds up on one's boots until each weighs 10 pounds! As an acquaintance once said, "God will do what He wants with this country."
The worst ordeal in dealing with gumbo I ever experienced took place half a dozen years ago in the Missouri River Breaks in Montana. A young friend and I each drew either-sex elk permits, so we decided to hunt out of the same camp. Jason towed a four-horse trailer loaded with two horses behind his Ford diesel pickup. He shot a decent 7 X 6 bull opening day while I stayed in camp with the flu.
Long story short, it began raining about the third day ... really pouring, and against my better judgment, Jason wanted to "make a run for it." So we each took down our tents, packed up everything in the rain, and I eased my Dodge up a quarter mile road to the bench and fairly level ground. Jason had a difficult time getting his rig up there because of the horse trailer, but finally made it.
I led the way across the open prairie, following the road that eventually would lead to pavement. But while trying to negotiate a small hill, Jason's trailer fish-tailed, went off the road and he was stuck. The wheel wells had filled with gumbo, keeping the wheels from turning, so Jason had been dragging the horse trailer with jammed wheels! Now, what to do?! He couldn't leave his horses, so he slept in the horse trailer with his horses. Laurie and I rented a cabin in Zortman, which was 20 miles or more from where we left Jason.
In the morning we returned to the horse trailer and brought a hot breakfast for Jason. By then, a couple thoughtful elk hunters had stopped, jacked up the horse trailer, removed each of the wheels, and chipped out the drying gumbo, which was much like concrete, and replaced each wheel. It was midday before we finally got Jason, his horse trailer and horses back to the highway. I don't think Jason ever has hunted the Missouri River Breaks since having that dreadful experience.
That's why I am sitting in my rec room right now, and watching the National League playoffs. I'd rather be hunting, but I know what it's like to deal with gumbo mud!
