Flintlocking in Wyoming
Leonard “Len” Pritikin (right) with his Wyoming pronghorn and guide Chuck Atkinson (left). Photo by Tom McFarland.
When Del Battles and I decided to go elk hunting last year, we contacted Dale Atkinson, an outfitter from Moran, Wyoming. This was an excellent choice as he took care of all of our needs. Of course, we were extremely lucky in drawing a license. Even though we didn’t get to fire a shot, it was about the greatest hunt I ever was on. The scenery was just beautiful. Every day we ascended from 7,000 feet to 8,500 feet on horseback. Our mounts were belly deep in snow for the most part. We did see two bull elk, but they were two mountain tops away and when we made our stalk the following day, they had already been picked up in the migration and were gone. We could have brought plenty of elk tracks home with us but the air freight would have been prohibitive.
We applied for elk again this year but dame fortune refused to smile on us two years in a row. Being a farmer, Del couldn’t get away in October for the Wyoming mule deer and pronghorn antelope season. So this time I applied for myself, only, and sent my application to Dale to insert the best areas where I might have a chance for game with my flinter. As luck would have it, I drew both permits. Dale’s brochure states two hunters to each guide and they will try for 3 pts. each side on mule deer on a 3 day hunt and 11-inch horns on antelope during a two day hunt. This being buck season only, the does got off scot-free.
On arriving at the Casper Airport, I was picked up and taken to the motel that was to be our headquarters for the next week. Dale introduced me to Tom McFarland, from Baltimore, Md., who was to be my hunting partner. Tom works for the phone company and he is a sports photographer for the Baltimore area high schools and colleges. During the next five days together I must have seen him take 500 pictures. I am a professional coward and I don’t like anyone around me that is holding a firearm unless I’m sure they know what they are doing. Fortunately he had hunted quite a bit for different species, so that made me feel better.
Tom seemed to be a pretty nice fellow, but something seemed to be wrong. Then it hit me, this strange guy wasn’t using black powder. His rifle was 2/3 the length of mine and it had a telescope on top. Oh well, it takes all kinds of people to make a world and I decided not to hold his idiosyncrasies against him.
Chuck Atkinson, Dale’s son, was to be our guide. Chuck had also been my guide the previous November for elk and he sure seemed to know his way around in the woods.
We were out bright and early Monday (opening day) and we saw plenty of does but neither Tom nor I could get a buck. Tuesday started out with rain. When it was light enough to start glassing the area, Chuck was scanning when he said, “Tom there is your shot.” Two beautiful bucks were standing silhouetted against the skyline 300 yards away. I didn’t even take my flinter out of the truck as I doubt if it would have gone off in that downpour. Secondly, Chuck knew that I didn’t want to shoot at anything that was more than 100 yards away. Tom had no trouble getting his buck that morning.
After taking the usual 30 or 40 pictures, we started the one-quarter mile drag back to the truck. This terrain instead of being up and down is mostly up when you have to drag. We were slipping in the mud practically all the way. A word of advice here; never hunt with a partner who is a professional photographer. Chuck and Tom dragged the deer, while I dragged about 40 pounds of cameras, lenses, film, filters, etc., and Tom’s rifle. Probably would have been easier for me to help drag the buck. His buck had 3 pts. on one side and 4 pts. on the other. A very nice trophy.
When we got in that night, Dale suggested that I hunt antelope the next day and give the deer area a chance to dry out. Tom didn’t have an antelope license but he wanted to go along for the ride and maybe take a picture or two.
On the drive north to the Edgerton area we saw quite a few pronghorns. We made one short stalk toward a group standing in a bushy area, but a sentry, using his eyes as 8 power binoculars, must have noticed us and they shifted into high gear and left the area doing about 50 mph.
(Let me digress here momentarily to state that Chuck Atkinson is 26 years of age and has lived an outdoor type life. I am in my late 50’s and I go outdoors to buy a newspaper and then back to my easy chair and soft life.)
Back to the truck and another likely area. Chuck was using the spotting scope to glass the area very carefully, when he noticed a herd a couple of miles away. He mentioned that there was a good buck in the bunch and we’ll try for him. He drove a ways and left the truck in a hollow and we started out on foot.
Chuck kept saying “you’ll have to keep up with me.” (See digression above and note age and physical condition(s) differentials between us.) We walked through draws that probably are stream beds if it ever rains or when the snows melt in the spring. The only sounds you could hear were my heavy breathing and Tom’s camera clicking. After about one mile of this, Chuck motioned for me to bend over and follow his lead.
When I started walking bent over I ran into a real problem: the clanging of my binoculars, priming horn, and bullet block with my extra patched balls. Each had become a pendulum swinging independently of, and banging into each other. I immediately overcame this by grasping all three in my left hand while I held my rifle in my right. We only traveled this way for 400 or 500 yards when the signal was given to get down and crawl. With both hands full this is an almost impossible feat to accomplish. Next time I will toughen up my elbows before a hunting trip, as that is how I ended up crawling.
We only had to crawl for a couple of hundred yards when Chuck peeked over a rise and came back and apologized for not being able to get me any closer, as the antelope were contentedly grazing at 150 yards away. My heart was pounding from the exertion of the stalk and I could hardly catch my breath as I primed the pan and eased up toward the top of the rise. Chuck said the buck was the top one on the left.
Tom later told me that he almost burst out laughing when he saw me trying to aim with that 42-inch barrel rising and falling with my heavy breathing. One hundred-fifty yards was a much longer shot than I had ever fired with my Renard flinter. I squeezed the set trigger when my sights lined up near the top of his back, and behind his front shoulder. At the shot, the entire herd of about 20 animals took off. A miss!
I just lay there, very disappointed, trying to breathe, when Chuck said, “Come on quick.” After 150 yards or so of running stooped over, he peeked over the rise again and came back down and asked if I had reloaded. They stopped with the buck out about 50 yards. My rifle was still empty and I couldn’t stand up to load since I would be over the rise where they would see me. Now I know how the Civil War soldiers felt when they had to load while lying on their side.
First I emptied a vial that held 90 grains of 3F and then the bullet block over the muzzle and short started the .460 ball with Indian Head patching down the barrel. I finished up with the ramrod, and primed the pan and pulled the cock back to full bent; then crawled to the top again. By this time the buck had moved out to what Chuck said was about 90 yards. This time I held right on and fired. They all took off again over a rise and my heart really sank. Then Tom yelled out that only the does came up on the other side. At this my adrenalin brought me up on the run with Tom and Chuck trailing me, and there he was. On examining him we found that my shot went thru his heart.
His horns measured 12 inches. A very respectable pronghorn antelope trophy. When we returned to the motel, all of the other hunters that were billeted there couldn’t get over the fact that an antelope could be brought down at that distance with what they called an “old musket.” The usual firearm history lesson then ensued and hopefully we muzzle loaders gained a convert or two.
Having one more day to go on my deer hunt, we started out again bright and early. Chuck and Tom left me in a wooded patch while they were going to traipse around the area and see if they could get anything to move my way, so that I could fill my license. After they were gone about a half-hour, I decided to walk back to the truck which was 200 or 300 yards away and eat an early lunch.
I was taking plenty of time walking back and was almost to the large meadow where the truck was parked, when I scared up a beautiful buck whose head looked like a bushel basket full of antlers. A fleeting glimpse was all that I had and I would not take an unaimed snapshot at any animal. He disappeared in front of me by keeping some trees between us. Meadow stretched out left and right. I would have been able to see him if he had turned.
When I got to the meadow, I sat down between two trees whose branches formed a cave-like opening, all the while keeping my eyes on a small grove about 100 yards ahead. My plan was to sit there until Tom and Chuck returned and then send them on a wide circle around the grove and maybe scare him back toward me.
All of a sudden I heard a noise behind me and a little to the right. I very slowly turned my head and standing there was the very elk that posed for the insurance company emblem, standing not 20 ft. from me. Evidently he followed the same trail that the buck and I both used not 15 minutes before. He most likely couldn’t figure out what was wrong, but his senses sure must have put him on the alert. All of a sudden he lowered his head to get a better look at me. The year before when I had an elk license I couldn’t get closer than two miles and now this magnificent animal was daring me to spit in his eye.
After staring at me for a lifetime, which was probably 10 seconds, he lifted his head and ran about 200 yards out into the meadow in front of me; stopped and looked again. Deciding that I would not make a suitable rival for his harem he laid his head back so that the antlers seemed to cover his entire back and slowly trotted off into the distance.
Tom and Chuck stared at me in disbelief when I told them about the elk until they checked out his tracks.
The buck deer never did come back to keep his date with destiny while we were there, but I didn’t really mind. Maybe next year. Tom, Chuck and I tallied up the wild game that we had seen on this hunt and the totals were approximately 70 deer, 200 antelope, one porcupine and one huge beautiful bull elk.
As soon as the elk applications come in the mail we are going to apply and hope Del Battles and I can fill our tickets.
By Leonard Pritikin