The Clemens clan’s hunt in Alaska

We travel the world to see and experience interesting people or places. Some of those people, however, are in our own towns and communities. One of these is local Pahrump resident and businessman Ron Cross.

Ron is the owner of the Shadow Mountain Feed store with his remarkable wife, Patti. He is also an adventurer, with African and Amazon stories to tell. He comes by his adventurous spirit honestly: you see Ron’s mother was a Clemens and directly related to Samuel Clemens; yes, Mark Twain, and here the story begins.

In addition to Ron’s adventurous spirit, I think he has also inherited a story-telling gene, as this tale of his Alaskan moose, bear and caribou hunt demonstrates.

Ron, his uncle Dale Clemens, and cousins Mack and Mike Clemens, shared a 21-day mixed-bag hunt on Alaska’s Kenai Peninsula. Uncle Dale is the owner of the historic Fish House Sporting Goods store in Seward, Alaska and was a master hunting guide for more than 20 years. He retired, and the kids still own and operate the store, but he kept the hunting equipment (professionally known as “stuff”). This stuff included tents, camp gear and 16 horses, all of which seemed like old friends, and they were on their way “back to his old stompin’ grounds.” The trailhead was 40 miles north of Seward, where they then packed for two days, 60 miles into the bush, to one of Uncle Dale’s old hunting camps.

On the first day’s ride in, it was Ptarmigan stew for dinner, thanks to Ron’s “keen eye and steady hand,” or so he tells it. The horses were then staked out, and the second day’s ride was “uneventful” – if a ride through the Alaskan wilderness could be termed such. The main camp was then established and that’s where “uneventful” ended.

The third morning they awoke to a sizable black bear grazing and rooting on the hillside above camp, and the hunt was on. Ron was off, across the creek and through the alders, being careful to circle around and approach the bear from above – experienced bear hunters know not to shoot a bear up a hill, because if wounded, they have a habit of “rolling down” in your direction, getting a second wind (caused by pain and adrenaline), and doing bad things to the offending hunter if he is in the vicinity. Well, Ron got into position and made a good shot with his classic Winchester model 70 in 7mm Remington Mag, chambered with Federal 210 gr. bullets. “That’s the only gun I shoot,” says Ron. But, I bet he wished he had a 375 H&H magnum this time.

As you might guess, the bear rolled and ran into the thick alder. Not a place where Ron, I, or most hunters are anxious to go. He waited 20 minutes, as is the custom with wounded animals, and with his gun at the ready, went in. “The hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end,” he said at the time. Ron carefully worked his way through the alders, now his adrenaline is pumping; he stopped often and listened for movement, expecting any moment to have an angry bear spring from the bush, from behind a log or a boulder. He saw a dark shape, and imagined movement (I say imagined, because that is a familiar experience when hunting dangerous game). The bear lay dead, shot through the heart, but bears being the tough muscular animals they are, rarely succumb to a single shot, as Ron experienced with his next bear.

Ron’s second bear also followed a careful stalk, and a well-placed shot, but rather than run for the alders, it reared up on its hind legs to get a better fix on, and to intimidate, our hunter. He was intimidated, but a well-placed second shot to the center of the chest ended the contest.

Next, it was Uncle Dale’s turn. He rode out one morning with two horses on a day hunt to a “special place”, close to his heart and memories. We all know these places. He was able to visualize from previous years, a spot where caribou passed. He went to this spot, and like before, found caribou; now that’s what we refer to as “ownership” of a “special place”. A herd of 20 caribou was seen far off in the distance, heading his way. He hid the horses, and knowing where the caribou would cross, waited.

They came, followed by a huge double-shoveled bull. As he had experienced many times in the past, a careful aim and a steady squeeze of the trigger, the bull dropped in its tracks.

After field-dressing the animal, loading it on the pack horse, and riding back to camp, it was again time for a salute of brandy, tender caribou steaks, and yes, a fine cigar.

By the way, the brandy and cigar, as well as chocolate cake, potatoes and local newspaper sections highlighting the exploits of the high school basketball team, previously coached by Uncle Dale, were thanks to Aunt Joan Clemens, who on the 15th day of the hunt “air-dropped” the surprise “care package” to the appreciative hunters. Who would expect anything less from a family with such an auspicious heritage? Great-great-grandpa Sam would have been proud.