Chapter 1

Hunting Elk in season, I got medium lost. Water flows downhill and my house is in the valley. I didn’t know where I was but I heard running water. I may have to call Davey to get back to my van but I headed toward the sound. My .30.30 Contender was in my homemade shoulder holster. I’m glad I had it ... any of my shoulder arms would have never allowed me to go where I went, find what I found and carry it out.

I’d been there before ... once ... and ten times. I’d shot an elk across the gorge and it took ten days to carry it out ... in eighths ... quarters were too heavy. I had no business being there I knew what might happen.

Ah ... the gorge ... it’s almost a thousand feet straight down from where I shot the elk to the dead elk that was only a hundred and fifty feet away. It would have been fine ... if the elk had had the courtesy to die where he was shot ... but ... no ... the bastard flinched and ended about three quarters of the way down ... across from me. And even then I’d have a look ... decide to pretend I didn’t shoot it ... but the game warden saw it, wandered over to where I was standing, looked down and said, “Whooboyhowdy ... that is going to be a bitch getting out of there. Let me see your license.”

So ... I had it to do ... and I did.

It was some years later when I was standing in the same place, saw an elk and didn’t shoot ... this time. When I was down there last time I noticed a slight rock fall and at the top of the fall was a dark spot and I remember thinking... ‘I need to look at that.’ I didn’t ... then ... now I remembered thinking I should look. Over the few years since the hike(s) the slight rock fall had fallen more and the dark spot was visible from the gorge rim. Well ... visible with my binoculars.

‘Welp ... No time like the present.’

Somebody needs to remind me that that thought is inappropriate at my age. I thought I was over the “Hold my beer and watch this” stage of Darwinism. Evidently I wasn’t.

I could see where I went down the first time and the holds were still there.

At the bottom I jumped across the rivulet and moseyed over to the rock fall, slipped and slid my way to the top and stepped over the edge. I remembered ... distinctly ... thinking when the last time I used my flashlight it was getting dim. And did I change batteries?

I had.

It was a sorta tunnel/cave. Someone had done a bang-up job of turning a hole in the gorge wall into a home. The slide had covered the hand fitted block stone wall into a cave mouth. Inside there was a pass at making four rooms.

By the archaeological evidence this was older than historic. Supposition required me to make note of the tools and debitage found in the back of the dwelling ... broken grooved stone mauls, bone wedges, broken or incomplete projectile points, assorted conchoidal chert spalls bespoke pre neolithic occupation. Broken pottery and a broken short bow convinced me of several thousand years of temporary occupation. The broken rifle told me of fur trade useage. This hole was an ancient relic and I shouldn’t have taken the weapon.

A halfstock .53 caliber J&S Hawken? You bet I took it ... and the possibles bag, powder horn and Green River butcher knife went along on the way to lost. So did the Hudson Bay 4 point capote.

Archaeologists are aware of the consequences of uncovering a body. You KNOW the bones are at least a hundred years old ... possibly a dozen centuries or more ... you know it. The artifacts with or near the body attest to the time period.

The police don’t ... and they will do their possible to pin it on the discoverer.

I covered him up. Let the next guy be the goat.

If I’m lucky the next rain will cause that portion of the gorge wall above the last fall to collapse and bury the dwelling.

Hiking out I stumbled upon a local reenactment of the fur trade. I knew those guys ... I was supposed to be there. But they know my outfit and an original J&S Hawken did NOT number in my possessions.

So ... rather than go there I turned left instead of right ... and got medium lost.