On the road again...

We stayed just outside of St. Louis last night. Not a bad first day on our way to the wild West. Not a problem with Indians, wild animals or our horses. On the contrary our "campsite" was equipped with two comfy beds, hot water and high speed Internet. Wow - can you imagine the look on Louis and Clarke's faces. We're such whimpy pioneers demanding another room if we found conditions to be beneath our expectations. Tragic and unbearable living conditions such as odors, small insects and peeling wall paper. Perspective and relativity...I guess.

Elk Hunting 101

Hoochie Mama : a cow call; a device used to mimic the call of a cow (female elk); or as Wayne put it -- the sound of love calling to the big bull (male elk). This is hand held and you simply depress it to get the desired sound of love. As opposed to the Hot Lips call that you actually keep in your mouth.

So, to put it all together. You're out in the mountains (because that is where elk live - you wouldn't want to try this in the backyard - although, Martha, you might scare the rooster to death ?? PRIMOS.COM) You depress the Hoochie Mama and the big bull hears it - comes running because he is looking for some hottie cow chick. He is extremely disappointed when the only thing he finds is some oddity that looks like a tree holding a Hoochie Mama and a big bow.

And that, is the purpose that drives us west. The "hunt". The instinct. The reason we are at the top of the food chain. We are the hunters not the hunted. As natural as nurturing is for we mothers is the "hunt" for most men. When the first hint of fall drifts through the air my man gets this far away look in his eyes. The bows and guns are ready. Practice has been made perfect. The lures, calls and attire are in order and the "hunter" emerges to take down his prey like some mighty warrior that is haled as provider and protector of his tribe.

You can have your soft-handed, fresh smellin' "Ralph Lauren" who buys his meat at Krogers and I'll take my camo -wearin', primitive man (who incidentally shops for clothes at Tractor Supply). I'll go with him (he who has been know to return from the woods smelling like doe urine) 3000 miles to hunt down that 800 lb. hairy mammal. Take it down with a bow and arrow and bring it home to his family. How can I not let him hang his trophies on the wall?