Man in the Arena

 “The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena… who does actually strive to do the deeds… who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly”  ~ Teddy Roosevelt

Staring down the pre-dawn highway I had one question: “Why did I take this chance?” The brilliant fall weather at camp the day before filled me with bravado, but now – ramifications of failure set squarely in the forefront – I questioned the decision, and the thought of returning in humiliation made me sick. 

It started as a hunting trip with some good customers and Kent Brown of our sister company. They were hunting elk, but me? Buffalo. The first day after stowing gear and wandering about camp, Clint, my guide, sidled up to me and asked, “Do you want to go after a really big buffalo?” It seems there was a ranch near Firth, Idaho where a big, lone aggressive bull had come down from the hills disturbing cattle. The rancher needed the animal gone and asked this outfit if they could bring someone over and take care of it. I hesitated a full quarter second so as not to appear over eager before answering, “Yes.”

The next morning, still dark, we ate breakfast and headed out in Clint’s ‘80’s-vintage Ford pickup (what else?) and he gave me the lowdown on the situation: “You’ve got to put him down first shot”, he said sternly. “If you nick him and he starts running, he isn’t going to stop and he’s going to run through every strand of barbed wire from here to the next county.”  “Most people shoot too high on a buffalo” he continued, “but the hump is all fat. Need to hit him in the middle – right behind the shoulder. Just clip the fatty part right behind the shoulder.” “Got it”, I replied mentally. “Clip the fatty part.” And if that wasn’t enough to kindle self-doubt, a call from the rancher on Clint’s cell sure was. They were concerned. If a wounded buffalo tore up their fences, they’d be in a lot worse shape than they were now. Does this guy know what he’s doing? Clint assured them that I did, hung up, then turned to me with less assurance and more threat and repeated: “You’ve got to put him down.“

Now I began questioning a lot of things, including choice of firearm. I’d gone traditional with a Marlin lever action (Model 1895) Guide Gun shooting what you know as the official US army cartridge of 1873, the 45-70 Government. It didn’t quite have the trajectory of a football, but with a little more velocity it would have. In any case, I wouldn’t be sniping buffalo; we’d have to get in close or no dice. As my concerns grew, I looked for an escape:  “Hey Clint, did you bring your .300 mag to back me up?” Clint looked at me with surprise, confusion and annoyance combined before he exploded, “You said you didn’t want me to back you up! I left it at camp.” “Yeah” I said. “That’s right. I was just checking.”

When we arrived we met the rancher, a woman, and her teenage son. He’d go with us to show where the buffalo could usually be found that time of day, while she would watch from her truck through binoculars. (An audience. Awesome!) We drove slowly into the field, passing through rickety gates and glassing for the animal as we went, and were rewarded when the brown speck we were looking at from 300 yards suddenly stood up. It was our buffalo! We stalked as close as we could, 154 yards per Clint, and he handed me a shooting stick that I didn’t want – wasn’t stable in the wind – but didn’t have time to argue about. When I finally scoped him I literally gasped at the sight of the (pardon the cliché) magnificent beast, and paused in admiration. It was a perfect shot, but he was quartering away and it wouldn’t be for long. So as the wind rocked me and I marveled at the animal I hesitated until I knew Clint was about to burst wondering what I was doing. And then, “Boom!” I felt more than heard the shot from the 45-70 and simultaneously saw the buffalo jump straight up in the air and come down without taking another step. A half-second later Clint also jumped straight up in the air, came down and clapped me on the back yelling excitedly “You got ‘em!” The rancher’s son looked on stoically, processing the whole thing and figuring this must be how it’s done. “Yes, Son.” My cool demeanor conveyed, “This is precisely how it’s done.”

Well, that’s pretty much the story. Except when Clint skinned him out he pointed to where my shot landed. Clip the fatty part my ascot! I had shot two feet back and 16 inches high – and had severed his spine in the process. That’s why he never took another step. I was immediately embarrassed – It was a lucky miss. But after thinking more about it I recognized the unequivocal reality of what had just happened: I risked failure for the chance to succeed, and had succeeded. 

And as I reflect on it even now it also happens that most people I’ve worked with over the years are the same way. They’re people of action – not playing it safe or shrinking from what needs to be done just because they might end up looking foolish. Instead they wade in and sometimes fail, but most often succeed, and go on to get results we need to be a superior company to work for and do business with. It’s a big part of what separates us from our competition. 

I forever marvel at these people. They always step into the arena, understanding that eventually we recover from nearly every failure. But success … well, that’s something that can last a lifetime.

[I’ve recounted this story as accurately as possible, but Kent Brown has a slightly different take. In the interest of transparency, his version is presented on the back page as well as part of a screenplay he’s written about the incident. You can believe whichever version you want, or neither. Thanks.]

Kent Brown Version

The ranchers in Firth Idaho were just a hair uneasy, and they had every right to be. You see, a rogue buffalo of exceptional size had been a terrorizin' their land for days. Spookin' cattle and runnin' through barbed wire fences like the November winds run through the scrub oak.

It was going to take a special kind of man to drop that menance. But a special stranger just happened to be passin' through, and he was a carryin' a Marlin 45-70 Guide Gun.  At 154 yards Tony's slug found its mark in the Buffalo's spine. It dropped to the ground paralyzed, and narry a strand of barbed wire was snapped in the event.

The ranch widow let out a sigh of relief as her boy peered out from behind her farm dress and apron strings. She turned to him and said, "Don't you worry none, Seth. The angel that we have been praying for is here, he brung lever action justice, and modified trigger vengeance with him. That great beast won't bother us no more."

Some people over to Logan Canyon say they felt the tremor when the buffalo dropped, but the people over to Logan Canyon say a lot of things.

They erected a statue of that special stranger in the town square of Firth. The statue is 6'5" tall because that is how they remember the stranger now, and the legend grows with each season that passes through those mountains.

Screenplay

Seth:  Momma, what are we going to eat?  The snow is already coming in, and most of the cattle ran off through the broken fences.

Momma:  Don’t worry Seth, the stranger said he would send provisions, he ain’t never let us down before.

Seth:  Momma, do you think the stranger would mind if I said an extra prayer tonight, just for him?

Momma: No Seth, I don’t think he would mind that one bit. Now you get to bed – we got more fences to mend in the morning.

Seth: Not as many as we would be mendin’ ifin’ it weren’t for the stranger and his rifle…Bang!...Bang! (Seth mimics firing a Guide Gun)

Momma: Ok now Seth, lights out, bedtime for my little Buffalo hunter (Momma kisses Seth on the cheek and turns down the lantern next to his bed. She smiles as she re-reads the stranger’s note, and her mind wanders back to the events of that day. Maybe they will make a go of this ranch, after all.)