Cook Tent Shows

 

It was snowing at daylight when I climbed out of my sleeping bag, dressed in the cold wall tent, and walked through sifting flakes towards the cook tent where I knew the coffee would be hot and halfway to the top of the three gallon pot.

Bob McClintick, master camp cook, wouldn't let it run dry all day, even though he and I were likely to be the only ones in camp the entire day. 

Somebody might come in early with an elk; you never knew. We'd spend the day talking quietly, drinking coffee, sharing yarns, one of the best parts of any hunting camp; planning and working on the evening meal for twenty, and listening for distant shots. 

Here on the east side of Yellowstone Park in the Thoroughfare Wilderness of Wyoming, we were surrounded by elk, you could bet on that. You can't bet on an elk. You have to hunt them. Hard.

Three days into a six day hunt, my hard hunt was over. I had a nice five-by-five cut into four pieces, six counting the two back straps, and hung high on the meat pole where the bears couldn't get it. 

Technically, my hunt was over, but it's been a long time since I've considered a hunt to be only the shooting part. There were lots of stories and probably some recipes in that cook tent. When I pulled the flap back, Bob was sitting cross-legged smoking a cigarette next to the sheepherder stove. 

He might've been thinking; he might've been enjoying the moment, I don't know. If I was betting, I'd say he was enjoying the moment. In a Rocky Mountain elk camp, the cook tent is the most popular place "in town", especially when town is 70 miles away. 

At least twice a day (breakfast and dinner) the cook tent is so packed with people, you can't turn around without bumping into someone, especially around the coffee pot. Consider the distance from home plate to first base: 90 feet. That's how big Bob's tent is. You'd think 20 hunters, guides, wranglers, and camp-jacks could find some room somewhere in that 90 feet. They can, but they have to hunt it like they do the elk.

The wranglers, guides, and camp-jacks are eating by four in the morning; the hunters by 4:30. Everybody is mounted and on the trail by five, headed in 50 different directions, all decided upon the night before.

There are lunches in every saddlebag. You can imagine what time Bob gets up. Like I said, I think he was enjoying the moment. The way he was pulling on it, it looked like it might've been the best tobacco God ever grew.

Leaning close to where he sat, within easy reach of his long right arm, was a 12-gauge, Winchester pump shotgun loaded with three rounds of double-ought buck, followed by two deer slugs. Holstered and hanging by a nail just above the shotgun, was a long barreled, .44 mag, not the sort of cooking utensils I'm used to seeing back home in Pam's Place, but, then, the clientele is different, too.

A couple of years before I showed up, a grizzly bear came full-bodied into the cook tent at breakfast, nosed Bob in the rear end while he was flipping cakes on the griddle, and ordered up a batch of pancakes. He got 'em, and the whole other 90 feet of the cook tent.

Since then, the 12-gauge and the .44 mag are as standard as salt and pepper in Bob's cook tent. While I was there, I noticed that Bob had a nervous habit of looking over at the rear tent flap, the one the bear came through for breakfast, whenever he was at the griddle with a spatula in his hand. Like I said, the cook tent is a good place to pick up a story or two. 

"Bob', I said, picking up a clean coffee cup from the dish drainer and stepping over his outstretched legs towards the coffeepot, "I hate to do this to ya', but what's fer supper Grandpa?"

"It don't matter. I 'uz just sittin' here thinkin' about it. Beef tips in brown gravy over hot noodles. All you can eat."

"Beef tips? You got beef tips up here?"

"Well, I'd rather it be elk tips, that's what I make back home, but it's 'agin the law to serve wild game to customers. We got beef tips. Tender sirloin. It'll be good."

"Well," I said, "I've got some elk tips, or I will when I get home. Will it work on deer?"

"Sure."

"Do you mind giving me the recipe?"

"Not a bit. You want it for two, or 20?" he grinned, reaching into his shirt pocket for another cigarette.

"Well, probably two to start," I grinned back. "Let me get my note pad out."

When I was ready, he began. I noticed he kept glancing at the rear tent flap, for no apparent reason. "You need half an onion. One pound of elk tips. Two bell peppers. One-half teaspoon minced garlic. I get it in a jar. Good stuff. Two small cans of mushrooms. One package of beef gravy mix. Marinate the tips in Worcestershire sauce while 'yer doin' the rest of this stuff.

Sauté the onion after you chop it up. Remove it from the pan. Well, wait a minute: Add the garlic to the onions two minutes before you think they're done, and then remove both from the same pan. Brown the elk tips in the same pan (not too much, you want 'em a little pink in the middle).

Mix and add the gravy mix. Put the onions and garlic back in there. Add the mushrooms and chopped bell peppers. Cook it all 'til the peppers are good 'n tender. Pour out what you think you can handle over noodles, and stand back: There's gonna' be some action."

"Can I use rice?"

"Sure. I like noodles."

"I like both," I said. "How come you keep lookin' at that tent flap? You think that bear's comin' back?"

"I hope he doesn't. He better hope it, too. That ol' bear reminds me 'a the time up yonder in……."

"Wait. 'For you get started, we need some more coffee. Where d'ya keep it?"

We had more coffee; more stories, too. The best part of any hunting camp, next to Bob's Elk Tips On Noodles.

It snowed all day, right up until we heard a shot in the early afternoon, and just like the shot had something to do with it, the snow stopped. About as quick as I did this story, right….. now.

© 2006 Conrad M. Vollertsen