I’ve got a lot of admiration for outfitters and hunting guides. They remind me that we have contemporaries living amongst us who know what pre-Columbus Indians knew. Tuned into nature in a way most don’t even have a glimpse of. My hats off to them, and Big Eddie, too.

HUNTING CAMP COOK

Fall is hunting season. Airports from Bozeman to San Antonio are filled with men in camouflage suits carrying gun cases out of Baggage Claim. They are here to stalk the fleeting deer and the wily elk. And, they bring with them millions in revenue, part of which winds up in the pockets of outfitters and guides.

Good hunting camps do much to attract hunters, often year after year. Some camps are elaborate, others Spartan, but all boast a good cook.

Hank’s brother Dan ran a guide service in the Big Hole. He enjoyed much repeat business due, according to other outfitters, to his reputation of having the most entertaining camp in western Montana.

The star of the Big Hole Wilderness Experience and Wildlife Procurement Extravaganza was Big Eddie, a puppy-hearted pit bull/Power Wagon cross. At six foot six, 280 with a full beard, he took up a lot of room in a two-man tent. He was officially the camp cook.

There was a natural hot spring near the camp. Dan had tapped this resource by installing an eight-foot stock tank in the spring, thus creating the only hot tub on the mountain. One twilight, a member of the hunting party came in dog tired. He swung up the trail to the hot tub, anticipating a good soak before supper.

Unbeknownst to him, Big Eddie was basking in a little hot water therapy. As the hunter stumbled into the clearing, Big Eddie rose to his full height, shedding water like a three-hundred-pound buffalo robe, and covered himself in surprise! The frightened hunter wheeled, and ran into camp screaming there was a grizzly bear in the hot tub!

On another occasion, Big Eddie had stayed in camp during the day to watch the sourdough rise. From his tent that morning, he spotted a nice cow elk ease into a clearing near camp. Eddie grabbed his gun, chambered a shell, and stepped through the flaps. His dangling suspenders caught on the upright and jerked him over backwards. A shot rang out! The propane tank exploded! The supply tent caught on fire, disintegrating a pack train full of expensive, down-filled, waterproof, brand-name, guaranteed, color-coordinated, Davy Crockett–recommended, eco-approved, nothing-under-three-hundred-dollar stuff. Not to mention a couple of Weatherby rifles.

But despite his frequent Boone and Crockett screwups, Eddie had a way about him that reminded the visiting hunters that they were in the presence of a primitive force.

Eddie served stew one night. The whiner of the group stirred it with a spoon and then griped, “I don’t like carrots.” Big Eddie bent over the petulant hunter. He took the plaintiff’s fork and picked the carrots out of his bowl one at a time, and ate them.

“There,” he said.