WELL WORTH THE WAIT
By: Cate Cook

Thermopolis hunter Barb Munger was lucky enough to draw a 2004 moose tag,  setting up camp in the Dubois backcountry, with husband Gary and brother Martin along, claiming to be her “guides”.  The trio left camp by dawn, riding 4-wheelers to their chosen area, but saw more sign of bear, including grizzlies, than of the coveted moose they were hunting. Eventually, the hunters spotted a small bull, but nothing Barb was willing to trade her very first moose tag for, and they spent the rest of the morning thinking that diminutive Bullwinkle may have been the only one on the mountain!

After stopping for a quick lunch, Barb and her team took advantage of the big ridge where they were stationed to survey the wide slopes and creek bottom below them, delighted to see some mooseą first a cow and calf, then a small bull, each coming singly into view in a moose parade.  They watched ten animals pass this way, then were rewarded with the sight Munger had been waiting for. The enormous bull that brought up the rear was a sight Barb cannot forget, his wide paddles awash in a golden glow of sunlight. As Martin remained on the ridge to monitor the big bull’s location, Barb and Gary picked their way down the slope. As Martin signaled to them that the moose was still in the same spot across the creek, Barb found she had no clear shot through the heavy brush.

As brother Martin went downstream in an effort to drive the beast out into the open, Barb readied her Winchester 270 short mag and shooting stick for a standing shot; she wasted no time firing when the bull was in the clear at 225 yards. Oddly, with no flinch or sound, the critter just walked back into tall brush. The trio waited and watched as the rest of the herd moved out. When the bull didn’t accompany them, however, Barb and her party went to investigate, and found her bull had dropped a mere 20 yards from where she shot him. As they field dressed the huge specimen and prepared to haul it home, the hunters discovered Barb’s near-perfect shot had passed between two ribs, piercing both lungs!

While the handsome mount awaits taxidermy work by Clay Little, at Red Canyon Taxidermy in Thermopolis, Barb figures she should have the forty inch-wide trophy rack officially scored.

With no special tags drawn this year, it will be up to a general elk tag to add a rival trophy to the Munger collection. Barb’s first moose will surely command a place of prominenceą on the wall, in the freezer, and forever in memoryą in this family.

When I began hunting the west in the late 60’s, I thought I’d never get the opportunity to hunt a Bighorn Sheep. After moving to Wyoming in 1971, my chances had to improve. They did, sort of. I got to hunt sheep with my son Dan in 1999 when he harvested his ram.

Years continued to go by and still no sheep tag for Leo. Then, that magical morning, I walked across the highway and opened the mailbox. An infinite number of letters from outfitters, congratulating me on my sheep tag, wanting me to book a hunt with them. I was going to call my son to tell him, but he had seen it on the internet and called to congratulate me. “It’s your turn Dad, we get to go again.” I’m not sure who was happier, me or Dan.

The day arrived and it was time to go. Camper hooked up and both of us fighting the horses to get them loaded in the trailer. Yep, hunting season! We make it to the Jack Creek trailhead on the Greybull River and prepare for the hunt. Wanting to get a spike camp set up the day before the season opens, we ride out at first light full of optimism and laughter. That was all about to change.

Riding horses in the country can be dangerous at times and you always have to be aware and careful. As we rode across a creek and headed up the trail, Dan’s horse blows up in a bad place.  I’m yelling at Dan to get off, he says he can’t. The horse is bucking and rearing up. Needless to say I’m scared. Finally, Dan jumps off the horse to the left, rolls down the mountain (not far, but far enough) and the horse rolls to the right. When the dust clears, Dan is ok but his rifle and spotting scope are broken, and we had to cut the cinch strap off the horse because he’s wedged in some downfall and rocks. To make a long story short, I didn’t hunt opening day for sheep. But we got back to camp safe and that’s what mattered to me.

Let’s jump forward to September 29, 2004. Back at it again, but with a new horse for Dan. I like to stop and glass a lot in the high country, around every corner, the country changes so much. “Dan, there’s a ram, how good is he?” 3/4 curl, broomed off, good weight. “He’s a shooter Dad.” We tie up the horses and take off after him. Two hours later we face that horrible scenario. The ram is just out of shooting distance and we’re rimrocked with no way to get to him. Back to the horses and on up the trail.

“Dan, let’s take a break and look around.” (Being 69 years old, I don’t sit in a saddle quite as well as I used to.) “Dad, there’s some rams. Eleven rams and two good shooters, but they are way, way up there, have a look.”

I looked through the spotting scope and saw a beautiful white horned ram, I had to take him. It took us two more hours to ride to the bottom of the valley we wanted to go up. I figured if we could work around this rim to the right, we might get close enough for a shot. We had to hurry because it was getting late into the afternoon.

We get into position, right where we wanted to be, but no sheep, they’re gone. Dan wanted to crawl out a little bit to see if they were in the creek bottom watering. Nope, but they were close. The rams were in a little depression and walked out just as Dan crawled out from behind the rocks. “You can use the rocks for a rest” he tells me. I crawled to the rocks, got a good rest and waited for the perfect shot. “When he gets broadside I’m going to shoot.” “No you’re not, he’s looking right at us, shoot now Dad!”

“CRACK!” off goes the old .338 and down goes the ram. Over forty years of waiting and it finally comes true. I look at my son and he won’t look at me. When we finally make eye contact, I notice my son has a tear in his eye just like his dad does. “I’m so proud of you dad,” he says. We take a moment to say a prayer of thanks for this wonderful moment, and then say another one to get back to the horses before dark.

Not only did I get to hunt with my son, but I also had it mounted by my son. He’s the owner of Horath Outdoors Tax-idermy in Riverton. That makes it even more special for me every time I look at my mount on the wall.