Took off solo along the Morita Camp trail early Saturday morning, heading for the upper Wailuku River and the wild bulls and fat pigs that live there. Blue skies, warm air, feelin' good. Had my ankle cast beneath my right boot from a broken ankle/torn ligaments 12 weeks ago and 9 stitches in my right arm from trying to break up a dog fight 9 days ago and coming in last place. Ankle felt great and arm was no problem at all. I also had my GPS-coupled EPIRB, registered in my name with all the appropriate contact numbers, in case my world fell apart and I had to call in the cavalry.
Life is good, I thought, trudging along through the mud and over and under fallen logs and through thick brush and sliding along slippery rocks for 3+ hours, carrying a 30 pound pack full of survival gear, until I came to the Garden of Eden right down along the river where suddenly everything changed and the underbrush was gone and the mud was gone and it looked as if Tarzan would come swinging through the trees at any minute, horny and looking for Jane. All the gear was still where Evan Bouret hid it. Set up camp with my Tyvek tarp tent [25 ounces total for a 10 X 9 tent, ground cloth, stakes, grommets, and ropes]. Took a breather for an hour or so and set off after the wild bulls.
I saw 4 cows and a calf during the next couple of hours but passed on all of them, holding out for a honker bull. Another hunting buddy, Tony [Evan, you know him], a guy who hunted wild cattle as an animal control officer, had told me stories of some huge black bulls that occasionally pop up and that's what I wanted---nothing less. Tons of sign everywhere---cattle and pigs---but no more sightings. Used my GPS to navigate back to camp. Ate some nuts and Quaker Oats granola bars and hit the sack at 6:30 PM. Heard some pigs after dark but was too pooped to even go watch them boogie along the river in the moonlight.
My clothes were sopping wet from the mud and from sweat so I laid them next to my sleeping bag for the night. Alarm goes off at 6:15 AM and I wake up to drizzle and 40 degree temps. Clothes were so cold and wet that I said to heck with it and went back to sleep. Woke up at 7:30 and it was raining harder and there was no sign of it letting up so I slid on my pants, froze my cojones, cussed, slid on my sopping, frigid socks, cussed some more, slithered into my frozen shirt, really cussed this time, limped 100 yards back into the trees, took a dump, ate 5 granola bars [after washing my hands, of course] and headed upriver looking for my monster black bull. I keep a compression sack full of warm, dry clothes in case of emergency but never, ever use them otherwise, even if I'm uncomfortably wet and cold.
Saw more cows and maybe a small bull [couldn't tell] but no large bulls. Hunted until noon and headed back to camp. The Rain Gods were really pissed off at me, it seems, and let 'er rip. The sky turned the color of a gorilla's ass and the rain fell in buckets. It must have rained 5 inches in one hour and never for a second let up. I packed, hid all the gear right where Evan had left it, and took off down the trail, heading for my truck. A 3-hour hike, I figured.
I figured wrong. Really wrong.
It got cold and I began to shiver, even though I was working my butt off trying to navigate down the trail, sinking deeper and deeper into the mud and break-dancing along the greasy rocks. I fell so often that it became no big deal and I fell on my hand so hard that the bandage covering my arm wound got knocked off and the hole opened up and blood was everywhere. I took care of the wound as best I could and kept going. 3 hours later I was half way back to my truck. My pants were covered in mud clear up to the belt. The mud [I always thought that there were rocks 6 inches beneath the surface] was up to my crotch in places and normally easy walking became a game of ice skating on 2 1/2 feet of snot. My GPS wasn't able to acquire satellites because of the overhead tree canopy, so I knew that my EPIRB would not pinpoint my location, in the event that things fell apart. It was not an emergency, by any means, but it was thoroughly unpleasant and I was beginning to think that the outcome was in doubt, as my Marine OCS instructors would say.
I plugged along and came to the last kipuka [Evan and Nic---that's the big one before you climb up into the stunted ohia trees]. Just before I climbed out, I saw a fat sow, nose in the mud, digging for treats. Her fur was soaked and so was she. I wondered if she was as miserable as I was. She was only 15 feet away and I had my .300 Win Mag in my hands. I'm 60 years old with not a lot of time left and I looked at her, working her fat little butt off to survive in a terribly inhospitable place, and said "Hello, pig." She looked up at me, startled. "Good luck, my friend," I said, and slogged up the trail out of the muddy, rainforest kipuka to the cobblestone trail in the stunted ohia trees.
I continued on for another 45 minutes, using my headlamp for the last 1/2 mile, and finally made it to the truck. I was too tired to celebrate and too old and too beaten down and too wise not to realize that this was my last hunt into the upper Wailuku. It's a nasty hike and a lot can go wrong. The only people I know who will go with me are Evan Bouret and Nic Barca and both of them have moved to other islands. The other guys who have gone in with me will never go again, preferring easier ventures like running back-to-back marathons in the Rocky Mountains and swimming from Guam to Australia and back.
I had a ball going in there after the bulls and will have fantastic memories for as long as my mind works but that was my last hunt into the upper Wailuku. It's No Man's Land back in there and too many things can go wrong. A broken ankle or a twisted knee or a pissed-off bull or hypothermia---heck, a zillion things---can go wrong and The Man with the Sickle will come along and punch your ticket.
Evan and Nic---There are two tents, a tarp tent, a tarp, and some other gear right where you left them. Take them or use them---they're all yours. No way will I go back in there for a bunch of gear.
I look forward to hunting sheep up on Mauna Kea and pigs at Laupahoehoe and turkeys and goats and all of that, but no more bulls on the upper Wailuku. You can beat the odds for only so long and then the odds will beat you.
Aloha for now. Attached is a photo of my Tyvek tent. I can't say enough good things about it if you're into light weight and bugs or crawling critters aren't a problem.
Life is good, I thought, trudging along through the mud and over and under fallen logs and through thick brush and sliding along slippery rocks for 3+ hours, carrying a 30 pound pack full of survival gear, until I came to the Garden of Eden right down along the river where suddenly everything changed and the underbrush was gone and the mud was gone and it looked as if Tarzan would come swinging through the trees at any minute, horny and looking for Jane. All the gear was still where Evan Bouret hid it. Set up camp with my Tyvek tarp tent [25 ounces total for a 10 X 9 tent, ground cloth, stakes, grommets, and ropes]. Took a breather for an hour or so and set off after the wild bulls.
I saw 4 cows and a calf during the next couple of hours but passed on all of them, holding out for a honker bull. Another hunting buddy, Tony [Evan, you know him], a guy who hunted wild cattle as an animal control officer, had told me stories of some huge black bulls that occasionally pop up and that's what I wanted---nothing less. Tons of sign everywhere---cattle and pigs---but no more sightings. Used my GPS to navigate back to camp. Ate some nuts and Quaker Oats granola bars and hit the sack at 6:30 PM. Heard some pigs after dark but was too pooped to even go watch them boogie along the river in the moonlight.
My clothes were sopping wet from the mud and from sweat so I laid them next to my sleeping bag for the night. Alarm goes off at 6:15 AM and I wake up to drizzle and 40 degree temps. Clothes were so cold and wet that I said to heck with it and went back to sleep. Woke up at 7:30 and it was raining harder and there was no sign of it letting up so I slid on my pants, froze my cojones, cussed, slid on my sopping, frigid socks, cussed some more, slithered into my frozen shirt, really cussed this time, limped 100 yards back into the trees, took a dump, ate 5 granola bars [after washing my hands, of course] and headed upriver looking for my monster black bull. I keep a compression sack full of warm, dry clothes in case of emergency but never, ever use them otherwise, even if I'm uncomfortably wet and cold.
Saw more cows and maybe a small bull [couldn't tell] but no large bulls. Hunted until noon and headed back to camp. The Rain Gods were really pissed off at me, it seems, and let 'er rip. The sky turned the color of a gorilla's ass and the rain fell in buckets. It must have rained 5 inches in one hour and never for a second let up. I packed, hid all the gear right where Evan had left it, and took off down the trail, heading for my truck. A 3-hour hike, I figured.
I figured wrong. Really wrong.
It got cold and I began to shiver, even though I was working my butt off trying to navigate down the trail, sinking deeper and deeper into the mud and break-dancing along the greasy rocks. I fell so often that it became no big deal and I fell on my hand so hard that the bandage covering my arm wound got knocked off and the hole opened up and blood was everywhere. I took care of the wound as best I could and kept going. 3 hours later I was half way back to my truck. My pants were covered in mud clear up to the belt. The mud [I always thought that there were rocks 6 inches beneath the surface] was up to my crotch in places and normally easy walking became a game of ice skating on 2 1/2 feet of snot. My GPS wasn't able to acquire satellites because of the overhead tree canopy, so I knew that my EPIRB would not pinpoint my location, in the event that things fell apart. It was not an emergency, by any means, but it was thoroughly unpleasant and I was beginning to think that the outcome was in doubt, as my Marine OCS instructors would say.
I plugged along and came to the last kipuka [Evan and Nic---that's the big one before you climb up into the stunted ohia trees]. Just before I climbed out, I saw a fat sow, nose in the mud, digging for treats. Her fur was soaked and so was she. I wondered if she was as miserable as I was. She was only 15 feet away and I had my .300 Win Mag in my hands. I'm 60 years old with not a lot of time left and I looked at her, working her fat little butt off to survive in a terribly inhospitable place, and said "Hello, pig." She looked up at me, startled. "Good luck, my friend," I said, and slogged up the trail out of the muddy, rainforest kipuka to the cobblestone trail in the stunted ohia trees.
I continued on for another 45 minutes, using my headlamp for the last 1/2 mile, and finally made it to the truck. I was too tired to celebrate and too old and too beaten down and too wise not to realize that this was my last hunt into the upper Wailuku. It's a nasty hike and a lot can go wrong. The only people I know who will go with me are Evan Bouret and Nic Barca and both of them have moved to other islands. The other guys who have gone in with me will never go again, preferring easier ventures like running back-to-back marathons in the Rocky Mountains and swimming from Guam to Australia and back.
I had a ball going in there after the bulls and will have fantastic memories for as long as my mind works but that was my last hunt into the upper Wailuku. It's No Man's Land back in there and too many things can go wrong. A broken ankle or a twisted knee or a pissed-off bull or hypothermia---heck, a zillion things---can go wrong and The Man with the Sickle will come along and punch your ticket.
Evan and Nic---There are two tents, a tarp tent, a tarp, and some other gear right where you left them. Take them or use them---they're all yours. No way will I go back in there for a bunch of gear.
I look forward to hunting sheep up on Mauna Kea and pigs at Laupahoehoe and turkeys and goats and all of that, but no more bulls on the upper Wailuku. You can beat the odds for only so long and then the odds will beat you.
Aloha for now. Attached is a photo of my Tyvek tent. I can't say enough good things about it if you're into light weight and bugs or crawling critters aren't a problem.
