The SSY
Part three of the trilogy
Fall 1997, Middle Fork of the Flathead, Bob Marshal Wilderness, Montana – The hunter watched me search for the toolbox. It was behind a gro - cery cooler resting atop a base log in the cook tent. We had walked from camp that morning and came back for lunch. He munched on a sand - wich, "What are you looking for?" " a measuring tape. I saw some - thing yesterday while we were on horseback. Come on I'll show you." He followed me. "Grab your musket. We'll hunt that direction this after - noon." He nodded and lifted his rifle from where it hung on a side-pole timber hitched to the tent crotch. We walked past the corrals and to the trail that circled past camp. It was sunny and the snow from two days ago was melting. The path was muddy and churned up where our horse herd traveled back and forth to the hillside where they grazed. But, in the opposite direction it was smooth and mostly untouched. We tiptoed along and where it forked and turned at the creek I found the subject of my cu- riosity. "Holy mackerel, that's one hell of
