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I have taken on the task of scanning in all the pictures and memorandum that my brothers and I found while going through our parent’s effects. I knew Mom had a lot of pictures but phew!, what a task, and I’m barely getting started.

Some of the more enjoyable times I shared with Dad were when he took us hunting. And we did a fair amount of that back in my younger years when we lived in Phoenix.

While scanning in one of my Dad’s scrapbooks, I found a short story he wrote and submitted to the Outdoor Life magazine. Along with the story was a rejection letter (hey, I know about them). Anyway the rejection letter to Dad went:

Ord L. Shumway, Ltjg MC USNR
July 9, 1951

Dear Lieutenant Shumway:

We appreciate your kindness in submitting this story, but regret that we cannot avail ourselves of the material.

Sincerely,

P. Allen Parsons
Associate Editor

Well Dad, here is your ‘Kaibab Cottontails’, finally “published” more than 58 years later.

“Don’t worry, we’ll find them,” Johnny Hill reassured me as we piled into his pick-up, guns and ammunition safely tucked away in back. Johnny was recalling other forays to within twenty-five miles of the south rim of the Grand Canyon to flush the small gray cotton-tailed speedster of northern Arizona. Only two years ago heavy snows reduced the rabbit population on the pine covered slopes of the Kaibab Forest but great rabbit warrens still flourished at lower elevations among the limestone canyons and volcanic hills of the cedar forests. To the north and east lay some of the great open country comprising the home of the Hopi and Hualpai Indians. My companion was reared in this setting and in his thirty some odd years had become acquainted on deer and elk hunts with the mountain roads and trails as well as the far flung water holes; but it was January now and rabbit fever burned in his eyes as he turned the wheels of our car northward towards cedar country.

The day was clear and radiant and the snow had thinned to white patches brightening the north side of the slopes as we left the highway and jolted along over a wide plain dotted with sagebrush and an occasional scrub cedar. Twenty minutes of this and we were approaching a water hole on the edge of a cedar stand when Johnny slammed on the brakes and pointed excitedly at the side of a hill rolling away to the south. I saw them immediately, three brown shapes easily the size of full grown shepherd pups, loping away form the water hole single file, raising a thin rial of dust behind them. So rapidly did they move that although the distance was not in excess of four hundred yards they were only in sight a few seconds before they faded into a bunch of scrub cedar on top of a rocky knoll.

“Coyotes!” John said simply as he shifted into low gear. Visible evidence that there were other rabbit hunters in this area that neither walked upright nor carried guns. So wily is the coyote that he is seldom seen in daylight unless come upon suddenly as we had done. He is no match for a speed cow pony in a race across open country but given a little cover he can disappear as quickly as a raindrop on a hot skillet.

A half mile further we turned off the rod and John pointed out the landmarks. To get lost in this country I knew would be a painful experience for it was many miles between ranch houses and many of them were deserted this time of year. We parked on a shelf that sloped gradually from four great volcanic promontories a mile to the east to the deep and rugged canyon a like distance to the west. Our plateau was heavily wooded with cedar and traversed by ravines leading toward the gorge. From vantage points we could see to the north the distant rim of the Grand Canyon clearly defined by the rays of the winter sun. Our hunting plan was to take opposite sides of a ravine and work along the edge in order to flush the bunnies from the rocks below as well as from dead falls and brush on top. Johnny was busy dropping “long rifles” into the magazine of his bolt action 22 and I had the choice of my 20 gauge or a 22 semi-automatic. I chose the shot gun, a choice I had reason to regret later.

Johnny’s prediction was correct; we had found rabbit country all right. I had walked about a hundred yards from the car when a ball of fur bounded away to my right from beneath a fallen tree and his snowy-white powder-puff tail disappeared over the edge of the ravine before I could bring my gun into action. In the same breath I saw a pair of cottontails bobbing through the woods ahead of me just out of range. This experience of brer rabbit literally beating me to the draw was to be repeated several times before I recalled something John and I had discussed previously. During the warm part to the day the cottontail prefers to sit on the shady side of a bush or rock out of the sun, thus he not only stays cool but his coloring blends readily with his resting place. He is almost invisible to a hunter approaching from the sunny side and frequently makes his getaway being careful to keep bush or tree between himself and his enemy. It was only after I remembered this fact and began approaching from the rabbits side of the cover that I began to take game.

I bagged my first cotton on the run at thirty yards as he vacated his hiding place with a jet propelled start and made for a pile of boulders. My shot caught him in full stride and somersaulted him neatly. Every now and then I could hear the crack of Johnny’s 22 and knew that he would be doing most of his shooting at running targets as this bunch of bunnies were plenty spooky. I remembered the coyotes we saw and wondered if they had been hunting my ravine this morning.

Occasionally, though, a rabbit would prefer to wait us out. Any quail hunter will recall how after a covey is flushed the singles may lie hidden until the unwary sportsman almost steps on them and then rocket into the air at the last minute with a whir of wings sufficient to rattle even the most experienced. The cottontail has a similar practice when he thinks he is well hidden that adds a great deal of spice to the hunt. This maneuver was illustrated shortly when after a couple of misses at my hard running quarry I stepped around a deadfall that had appeared deserted enough as I approached. Suddenly a cottontail exploded in full flight from almost beneath my gun hand and so rapidly did he draw away that he had gained a full twenty-five yards before I could swing my gun to my shoulder and fire. The pattern caught him in the hind quarters and snapped his back.

It was while I was retrieving this rabbit that I made my best shot of the day. Another cottontail had been squatting beneath a bush ten yards from my kill and did not run until I stooped to pick up the first rabbit. He fled toward the ravine which was not fifteen yards away. There was no time to aim, I simply swung my gun to chest level and fired just as he was disappearing over the edge. There was a flurry of fur but I was not sure I had bagged him until I found him stretched out half way to the bottom of the gulch.

I reached the canyon Johnny had told me about and was starting back along the lip of one of the larger ravines when I abruptly stopped short. What I saw started little prickly feet climbing up the back of my neck as I sucked in a quick lung full of air.

“There he is,” I whispered to myself trying to control my excitement; for here was the reason the rabbits were making good on so many of their fast starts today. It was for this fellow they had been practicing. Darkly silhouetted against a patch of snow and not fifty yards away was the biggest lynx of a bobcat I had ever seen. He was lean and insolent as he trotted away from the ravine and started over the slope leading to the plateau to my right. It was then that I remembered the 22 semi-automatic nearly a mile away in the car and I got mad. Here was the biggest, meanest old cat in the mountains within easy rifle range and all I had was a 20 gauge single with #5 shot! I scrambled up the side of the bank in an effort to intercept him and when I reached the plateau I was puffing and sweating partially from the climb and partially from excitement. My exertions had gotten me a few yards closer to the cat and I could see him plainly slipping at his leisurely trot between the cedars. He was even bigger than I first thought and for a moment it struck me that perhaps he was a mountain lion as there were some known to inhabit the area, but the tail he swung behind him was blunted and bobbed. I knew though that he was a good twenty inches tall at the shoulders and that I wanted that pelt badly. I waited for him to come by a small cedar, held high, and blazed away. I must have sprinkled him with shot as he gave a great bound and went galloping off through the trees. I followed him until I lost his tracks in the rocks but I doubt that I had more than stung him.

When I returned to the pick-up Johnny was waiting and I found that we were both a couple of rabbits short of the days limit. We discussed our adventures of the morning over our sandwiches and decided to hunt the other side of the canyon that afternoon.

During the morning I had seen several long-eared, gangling jack-rabbits go bounding off through the flat and during the afternoon we bagged several. These members of the hare family in spite of their great size are very fleet of foot and have a habit of periodically leaping high in the air in flight presumably to give the countryside the once over to see what they are running from or to. Some of the natives call them “antelopejacks”, but they are of little value as their meat is stringy and gamy. They make great inroads on the range grasses when present in large numbers and have been known to carry disease, but for a light rifle they make a challenging target.

John and I finished the hunt both packing 22’s and by mid afternoon had our limits of fat cottontails. Later as we headed out of that wild and picturesque country aglow and pleasantly fatigued from the days activity I knew that next year would find us back in the cedars of the Kaibab again to steal rabbits from the hunting grounds of the bobcat and coyote.

Ord L Shumway

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Gary Shumway is the author of Winging Through America and SCUBA Scoop.