What could possibly go wrong?

A "take down" version of a Sako Mannlicher

Hunting is adventure. Beyond the challenges and exhilaration of the ups and suffering through the downs are lessons learned, surprises, pure fun, and mishaps. Almost no one escapes these eventualities.

Many of you know that the founding of Pantheon Hunters® is the direct result of a learning experience that occurred ages ago. Fresh out of college in 1974, employed and with a few paychecks under my belt, I booked myself on a combo hunt in British Columbia through a well-known agent.

It was a disaster. I did not know what I did not know, and neither did the outfitter. Fast forwarding to the end, I came home empty handed. When asked what I shot, I said “nothing.” And the quippy question that flew back at me was, “What do you mean, you got nothing”?

Then and there, I vowed never to let that happen again. I became a student of hunting worldwide and applied data and business skills to plan all my future hunts. Fast forwarding again, the personal hunting success that ensued and the knowledge and skills that I gained positioned me to help others avoid risk and do the right thing the wright way.

In the maturation process, you learn that a mistake is never a loss. It's either a redirection, protection, or a realization. Learning and vigilance is a way of life in this industry if it is to be done well, meaning with predictably positive results.

But that hunt in B.C. was more than an epiphany for me and the genesis for starting an international hunting consultancy. It was as calamitous and funny as much as it was a disaster.

I arrived in camp thinking that the hunt would be conducted on a 1 guide to 1 hunter basis. Wrong; it was 2:1. OK, I rolled with it. The hunter I got paired up with, John, was a total hoot, a real beauty. He owned a carpet store in Los Angeles but should have been a card-carrying comedian.

We shared a very small tent. On the first night, John placed his loaded .300 Weatherby on the ground between our sleeping bags. The muzzle was pointing at my foot. When I politely asked why he wanted a loaded gun in the tent he told me he was concerned about grizzly bears attacking in the middle of the night. Meanwhile the horses had cowbells around their necks to ward off bears, and the ringing was irritatingly constant. I eventually convinced him that he did not have anything to worry about. He reluctantly obliged and unloaded his rifle.

We left camp late the first morning because the horses had wandered off to high heaven during the night. After just a few steps out of camp, John leaned over in his saddle and said, “Listen, if we see a grizzly, just shoot it.” Stunned by what he said, I explained that I did not have a license for grizzly, to which he said, “Doesn’t matter. When that thing is on my wall, nobody will know the difference.” That was John. Funny and crazy but serious.

The horses sluggishly led us further into the hunting area, but we saw nothing. We reversed course after a long day in the saddle and headed back in the dark. The horses pranced as usual, sensing they would be able to dump us off before too long.

As we approached the camp, we could see that it looked strangely different. Among the evidence of a disturbance that gradually appeared under starlight, the tent that John and I had slept in had been flattened and shredded by a grizzly. John had a field day with “I told you.” So, from that night forward, John’s Weatherby laid loaded between us – magazine full, and none in the chamber, thankfully.

The brewing nightmare was unfolding more on Day 2. My horse had a set of lungs and gut muscles that defied any attempt at cinching the saddle down tight. Boots on the ribs and yanking on the straps only worked for a half-hour periods. The number of times I had to de-horse and yank tighter caused a slow-down. I sensed that the guide wanted to shoot it.

About an hour’s ride out of camp, we spotted the back end of a moose feeding about 400 yards away on the edge of a lake. The head was partially submerged as it fed on grasses poking up from under the surface. The guide said, “Let’s go,” declaring that it was a cow. I kept my binoculars trained on it and told him I thought it was a bull. Well, his initial doubts turned out to be wrong when a slight turn of the head revealed it was a good bull, still dripping with a bit of velvet.

We were not in the best position to get closer. While deliberating on what to do to get closer, out from the scabbard came John’s Weatherby. He got into a sitting position and said, “I can take him.” The guide obliged him.

Boom! Pause. Boom! Pause. Boom! Reload. The moose was still standing with no apparent evidence that it was hit. John looked over at me and yelled, “Shoot.” I was trying to process his request, barely believing my ears, and grasping the reality of this emerging circus. He yelled for me to shoot twice more and much more sternly. He wanted that moose no matter what.

Hell, thinking it might be wounded, I picked up my 30.06 and let one rip. The bull dropped in the water. To this day I don’t know if I hit it because two different bullet holes indicated that John had to have hit it at least once if not both times. It didn’t matter. John was happy as a meadowlark.

The moose carcass partially submerged in the water was no fun at all and we spent the day butchering it and packing it out. The remains of the carcass would hopefully attract a grizzly, and we checked the carcass several times before the hunt was over.

A few more days into the hunt, and thus far personally skunked on moose, caribou, and goat, my horse started acting up again and as we quietly rode along the water’s edge checking to see if a bear was feeding on the carcass. I could feel the saddle slipping and dismounted to cinch it up several times.

But that horse was pure evil. Shortly after re-mounting the nth time, I could feel the saddle slip hard and fast. It rolled with me on it until I fell off completely. That saddle continued rolling until it was completely under the horse. It goosed the horse, which did a High-Ho Silver and took off.

As we watched the horse disappear into the forest, all the while dragging the saddle with it, I remember seeing my Sako Mannlicher in the scabbard bounce along with the saddle which was still under the horse. Then there was total silence. The horse was in another postal code. Simply stunned, we all looked at each other in disbelief.

We took up the trail. We started to find chunks of my gun as we followed the tracks. It was almost unfathomable, but the beast had sheared the bolt out of the action. The stock fractionalized into bits; it was toast as was the Leupold scope and sling. What power. John asked if I now wanted to borrow his Weatherby!

The guide was concerned that he would have to pay for the gun. I told him not to worry about it; accidents happen. Plus, I had gun insurance purchased from the NRA!

But we started to wonder if a loss from an accident like that would be covered. That night at camp, we started crafting the language that would hopefully work with the insurer. John had me role playing the phone call with the insurance company, all the while giving me advice about how to explain what happened.

We hunted for mountain goat the next day and spotted some billies on the face of a gray granite mountain across the river. The water was horsehead deep and so viciously fast that we could not cross where we wanted. And the guide disappointingly said he knew of no other crossing point. The hunt was over.

Immediately after returning home, I filed an insurance claim and finessed the “the story” of what happened. A few days passed and the phone rang. An authoritative voice responded to my "Hello" with “This is Lloyds of London, insurer for the National Rifle Association. We received your claim and have a number of questions.”

I froze as I internalized the serious tone. But before I could say anything, I heard raucous laughter on the other end. It was John. He could not contain himself.

Many years later, I still miss the guy. I would thank him for an experience that shaped my future. That hunt set me on a path to build knowledge, discernment, and diligence. Thank you, John.

I bumped into the guide at the SCI Convention the next year. I asked whatever happened to my horse, and he responded by saying that he sold it to a rodeo. Little did I know that I helped that beast start a new career.