A Pack Trip Triathlon : The Story of a Four-Day Hunting, Fishing Extravaganza for Six in the Ansel Adams Wilderness of California

Hi, my name is Hudson and I’ll be your horse.

Oh, swell, the start of a four-day hunting and fishing pack trip into the Ansel Adams Wilderness, and you draw a nag named after an obsolete car. The look in his eyes speaks an inside joke for all the other oatburners. Hey, fellas, I got me a real dude this time!

Horses know.

A Long Beach fireman named Dudley Pratt draws a horse named . . . Dudley.

Hudson, Dudley, Bugsy, Cosmo, Cinderella, 10AC--get it, Tennessee ? -- these and other steeds and mules were the transportation to a parcel of sportsmen’s paradise in the Eastern Sierra where golden trout splash in the creek and almost everybody gets his deer.

It’s Dink Getty’s special place. He almost makes his guests wear blindfolds.

Dink--given name, Duncan Morgan Getty--runs the Frontier Pack Train and hides a college education behind a facade of rustic eccentricity. His horse is Heisman, an appropriate steed for packing a 6-foot-7, 270-pound load who claims to have been “the smallest kid in my family.”

Deer season opens in this zone the next day, and Getty is taking six hunters back into his happy hunting grounds.

“Six hunters going in, and six nice bucks will be coming out,” he says.

Some confidence for a zone where success has run 14-30% in recent years. But four of the hunters have been going with Getty off and on for 15 years and swear it’s true.

Bob Weiland of San Diego, a sales manager for a landscaping company, says: “We’ve had 100% success the last three years, 90% the year before that. I’ve used four bullets the last four years.”

Weiland, Roy Chitwood of Los Angeles, Terry Hardgrave of Fountain Valley and Red Laatsch of Carlsbad started going with Getty in 1977, soon after he took over the pack operation.

A couple of wranglers talk as they cinch up the loads on the mules.

“Funny to see your breath in the morning,” says one.

“I have to wear my longjohns now out here feedin’,” says the other. “Hate puttin’ on cold pants. I leave ‘em under my sleepin’ bag at night.”

The dude makes a mental note.

Others are Getty’s pals, Tom Countway, a Bishop doctor, and Bob Berger, a seasoned hunter-fisherman from Sylmar. Neither drew tags for this zone this year, but they have come along to help.

Pratt and his friend, Jim Sweeney, a Buena Park fireman, are newcomers. They have never bagged deer, after futile tries in other zones the last three seasons, but have high hopes this time. This is the group that heads up the trail above Silver Lake, through aspens turning gold with the first blush of fall.

There is only one stranger.

Getty whispers to the reporter: “I told ‘em you were a game warden.”

As the group moves up through the granite trail, Getty tells how the rotating presidents of the Eastern High Sierra Packers Assn. take the California governor on a pack trip every year.

“(Bob) Tanner (of Mammoth) got to take Ronald Reagan one year. I got Jerry Brown.”

That was in 1978. At a cost of $275,000 to the taxpayers, stairs were cut into the granite in a couple of difficult sections to make the trail easier--hence, the “Jerry Brown Steps.”

Trouble was, Brown never used them. Got kicked by a mule in Yosemite a week earlier and didn’t go.

Wouldn’t have stopped Dink. His first year on the hunt, he fell off his horse and broke an arm but went anyway. The second year, he broke a leg and still went. The third year, he didn’t go. Appendicitis.

This is a guy who rolled his car in the Nevada desert one night and, while waiting for the paramedics, killed time gambling in a little casino.

“Just don’t bleed on the tables,” the pit boss told him.

On the trail, Hudson quickly establishes who is boss, stopping to eat and drink at every opportunity.

“I think he’s got your number,” Getty says to the dude.

The horses are wheezing and panting. Getty announces: “My motto is, ‘A bad ride’s better than a good walk.’ ”

Climbing at this elevation, it’s hard to argue. The trail skirts Alpine lakes until the trees thin out, marking timberline above 10,000 feet. In a while the terrain levels off, and the riding is easier. Then the camp comes into view.

Kevin Peterson, the chef, already has the cook tent set up and a hot lunch ready, but Getty says cooking isn’t Peterson’s primary talent.

“He may be the best fly-fishing guide in the area.”

He’ll try to prove that later. First, Getty indicates the direction of the open-air lavatory and a shovel with a roll of toilet paper around the handle leaning against a tree.

“When that’s gone, you know it’s in use,” he says.

That private place up the hill offers a marvelous view of sunrise over the Mammoth basin.

Meanwhile, the hunters use 30-power scopes on tripods to scan the slopes across the mile-wide valley, all the way to the 12,300-foot ridge of shale. A few mule deer are spotted moving among the brush and small trees, and the hunters start to plot their tactics for the morning.

Berger will work with Pratt and Sweeney, who are unfamiliar with the area. They plan to ride to the head of the valley, leave their horses and pick their way along the ridge until they’re above the deer, blocking their escape route over the top.

“When they come to you, shoot the last one, because he’ll be the biggest,” Berger says.

Pratt and Sweeney are skeptical that the deer will break up onto the open shale rather than run for cover in the valley.

“You’ll see,” Berger says.

Getty nods toward Berger: “He’s tougher than his years. He won’t let ‘em down. He’ll get ‘em on top if he has to carry their guns and packs and everything.”

Bedtime. Getty pulls on his sleeping bag like a pair of pants and flops under the stars. Dudes sleep in tents. Morning. Peterson stirs up the fire, which flickers through the side of the tent. Coffee is on. A flashlight on a watch shows 6 a.m.

Berger, Pratt and Sweeney ride out at 7. Later, Getty and Laatsch will ride up the valley, then return on foot along the slope. Weiland and Hardgrave will go down the valley, then halfway up to the shale line and move back toward the center. Finally, Chitwood will perch on a large volcanic rock halfway up the slope, and Countway will move to the bottom of the slope, closing the loop.

As Getty explains, “(The deer will) be running into the trap--either into (Weiland and Hardgrave) or into those guys up in the shale. If it’s done right, there’s no reason for everyone not to get his deer. But it’s important that everybody does his job and not free-lance.”

Getty says he hasn’t shot a deer in 15 years.

“I don’t hunt anymore,” he says. “I enjoy orchestrating the hunt.”

The movements of the deer and the hunters across the valley are visible from camp, as from a seat high on the 50-yard line.

Getty once tried two-way radios to direct the hunters, but it seemed less like sport than a military operation.

Another time he toyed with the idea of a miniature, radio-controlled helicopter to herd the deer toward the hunters, but that seemed even less sporting.

Here, it isn’t necessary, anyway. Long before the first shots, the reasons for the high success rate are apparent: fairly open terrain, good hunters, a good plan.

Getty used to take five SWAT policemen hunting. “In four years, they took 21 shots and got 20 deer,” he says.

As the hunters slowly work into position--climbing is slow above 10,000 feet--the deer are active. Here and there, bucks pair off to lock antlers, either to impress the does or to scrape off the last of their spring velvet. They seem unaware of the hunters’ approach.

“My goal is to get six by noon,” Getty says. “Things will start happening about 9:10.”

It is 8:30. At 8:35, Getty, looking through a ‘scope, says, “Oh, look at that bunch of about 20 deer. Are those all does?”

A closer look reveals a few bucks in the group. Then, at 8:35--a shot, then another.

“Geez, who’s shooting?” Getty exclaims. “We’d better get goin’.”

He and Laatsch ride out. Peterson is left in camp to watch the drama unfold.

Squinting through a ‘scope, Peterson says: “I’ve hunted a lot of deer since I was a little kid and I’ve never seen it like this. Twelve bucks!”

A little later, the source of the shots is still unknown, but the hunters are all in position. Sweeney scrambles down the shale, about 600 yards from one group of deer. They turn their white rumps toward Sweeney, tentative.

“They aren’t spooked but they know something’s up,” Peterson says. “If they go that way, Dink can push ‘em right back.”

Later, in a postmortem, Sweeney says: “I didn’t have better than a 500-yard shot.”

The deer stop to graze in a grassy clearing, then one buck breaks downhill and a few others follow, splitting the group.

Peterson, at 9:40 says: “I’d say in about five or 10 minutes, all hell’s going to break loose.”

Getty can be seen walking down the valley from the left. Now the deer are in flight. At 9:50, the deer are running toward Weiland and Hardgrave. There are shots.

Hardgrave says later: “Roy was below me, Bob (Berger) and Dudley were above me. I was probably 350 yards away--too far to take a shot, and if I missed, they would scatter and ruin it for the rest of the guys. Then they started moving up toward the shale at a diagonal but they didn’t get any closer to me. I moved up closer, and Bob (Weiland) fired a couple of shots, and I fired one.”

Weiland says later: “By then, there were 21 deer. I was 500 yards away. I fired to turn ‘em. I was afraid they’d go behind me and out over the top.”

At the shots, the deer circle and split, some running up the shale the other way, others along the grass line. At 10:03, eight white tails disappear over the top, making their escape.

Two minutes later, there are more shots. These are the first kills, by Pratt and then Sweeney.

Pratt says later: “(Berger) told me to go down (the shale) and find a place that looks good and just stay. I saw the herd coming up. I got out my binoculars and started counting back and saw the big guy. I could have taken a 100-yard shot broadside but he was hidden behind the others, like bodyguards. They wouldn’t move, so I shot over their heads, and they moved again. They stopped, and his neck was poking out.”

From 200 yards, Pratt shot and missed, then shot and scored a clean kill. A minute later, Laatsch hailed Sweeney from below that some deer were higher up.

Sweeney says later: “I saw one buck . . . waited . . . saw a couple of does. Then finally, I saw the buck. He was the last one and the biggest.”

After saying a silent thanks to Berger, Sweeney shot from between 300 and 350 yards--also a clean kill. Then it was the others’ turn.

Hardgrave says later: “Bob and I decided to hold our ground. Sure enough, five came back around a ridge and a couple walked toward me. I picked one out, and after I shot, Bob shot.”

Altogether, four kills. It’s all over in 15 minutes.

Chitwood is first to return to camp, scooping a cold beer out of the stream on his way in. He says he took the early shots.

“I was working my way up to the rock and jumped ‘em,” he says. “Came across a little hill and there they were.”

One was a four-point, another a three. But they ran, and he missed. Although his shooting risked upsetting the game plan, Getty says: “If you had seen how big that one was, it was worth it.”

Later, Pratt’s buck checks in at 255 pounds.

“That’s the biggest deer I’ve seen taken out of here,” Berger says.

“It’ll be the biggest in the zone this year,” Getty predicts.

Sweeney’s is next largest at 225.

“Two rookies, two fine deer,” Getty says.

Chitwood goes down the valley with Getty to get his that evening. They are back in an hour.

“Executive hunt,” Getty says.

The next morning, the whole group organizes to complete the sweep for Laatsch. The deer return, but he misses three long shots. The next day is the same.

Getty points out that on the first day, Laatsch had passed up a 300-yard shot on the same buck shot by Pratt, rather than break the game plan.

“It was a team hunt and he’s a team player,” Sweeney says.

Five deer carcasses hang to cure, wrapped in muslin to keep the flies away.

“I’m good for about three hunts a year,” Getty says. “And after that, I’m about ready to say, ‘Give ‘em a break.’ ”

Attention turns to the stream and the golden trout that wait there. Fly rods come out. Which is best?

“The smallest you’ve got,” Peterson says.

This isn’t the Madison River, or even Hot Creek. The first thing Peterson does is switch a novice’s leader from two-pound test to a strand so light it’s barely visible. Then he ties on a size-16 yellow-bodied Humpy dry fly he has tied himself.

No great, looping casts are required, just considerable stealth and a delicate touch to place the fly at the precise spots in the pools, which are no larger than throw rugs. Peterson walks well away from the stream, then approaches it at a crouch. The water is so pure here that movement, a profile against the sky or a shadow on the water will cause the fish to flee. Peterson flicks out the fly.

“The technique I use is a little unorthodox,” he says, dropping the fly onto the flow, just below a falls. “Let it drift right through the pool, then drag it back up . . . slowly, very slowly. Then let it drift down again.”

Peterson’s trained eyes are riveted on the fly, which is a speck on the smooth surface. Suddenly, it disappears, and he reflexively twitches his rod to set the hook. The wild goldens are very quick. It doesn’t take them long to realize the phony fly is not food, and then they are gone. An instant’s hesitation by the angler and the fish is lost, probably for the day.

But Peterson is quick, and a little golden, hooked lightly in the lip, is thrashing as he gently leads it to the bank. Without lifting the fish from the water, he cradles it in one hand and slips out the barbless hook with the other, then points the fish into the current to make sure it is recovered enough to swim away.

Goldens are special, but not because they are the official state fish and certainly not for their size. The best catch this day will be about 12 inches. The limit is five, and the use of bait--even worms--is permissible. But, as Robert Elman wrote in “The Fisherman’s Field Guide”: “Somehow it seems shameful to use anything other than flies to beguile the delicate, aristocratic trout of the high country.”

It is probably less shameful to keep them, but all catches will be returned to the stream, better appreciated in pictures than on palates. Zoologist David Starr Jordan described goldens-- Salmo aguabonita-- as “the most beautiful of all our beautiful Western trout.”

Their coloring runs the spectrum from yellow to orange to red to violet. They were discovered in California in the drainage of the upper Kern River and are found only at the higher elevations, not in any roadside streams.

Many more goldens are caught and released in a fine day of sport. Getty muses that it’s too bad one can’t catch and release deer.

After lunch, the mules are loaded for the trip back out, bearing the deer. Hudson and his friends are brought back from the meadow up the valley where they have been happily grazing the last few days.

Hudson takes his time going down, often pausing to study tricky places and picking his way carefully, hoof by hoof. He keeps falling behind. His rider, knees and hips aching, is asked to urge him on.

After about two hours, Hudson loses a rear shoe. It is suggested that the rider dismount and walk him over the rough spots.

The rider is pleased to make the sacrifice. He isn’t sure, but he thinks Hudson winked.