The Great Arizona Elephant Hunt

In the summer of 1935, my father performed an act of harmless subterfuge that propelled me into a deep and lasting love affair with outdoor Arizona. I was five years old, and we were vacationing in beautiful Oak Creek Canyon near Sedona.

On the second day, I pulled my first trout from the sparkling waters of Oak Creek. At least I thought it was mine. Years later, my dad confessed he had placed one of his own fish on my hook when I wasn't looking.

No matter. I vividly remember running up the path to our cabin, shouting, "Momma, I caught my supper!" On that special day, I became more firmly hooked than the twice-caught trout-obsessed with the out-of-doors.

During my early grade-school years, Dad and I fished for trout throughout the White Mountain area, often in remote places on the Fort Apache Indian Reservation. Those were small, cold streams that could be reached only after miles of walking through deep pine forest. I am reasonably sure we sometimes fished in places where no human had ever wet a trout line before.

From about the age of 11, I accompanied my dad on nearly all of his birdhunting trips. I bagged my first duck from a blind at the edge of Stoneman Lake in a swirling December snowstorm. We hunted quail in the rugged hills around the old mining towns of Mayer and Humboldt, and doves in the flatlands near Buckeye and Gila Bend.

In the fall of 1943, I unexpectedly graduated from birds to big game. It happened on a quail-hunting trip about 40 miles northwest of Phoenix, near Morristown. In those days, Morristown was only an old store and gas station and a railroad siding. My dad's hunting and fishing pal, Doc Gatterdam, was with us. We parked near the station, then fanned out into the desert.

Near noon I worked my way out of a deep arroyo onto a flat stretch of cholla and waist-high creosote bush. A grove of mesquite trees stood about 50 yards away. Pausing, I listened for quail talk that would indicate the presence of a covey. But what I heard was a thrashing sound in the mesquite trees and the snapping of branches. Something big was in the grove. Maybe wild burros, I thought.

Suddenly the branches parted-and an elephant emerged, walking straight toward me!

I dropped to one knee so it wouldn't see me and grasped my 20-gauge shotgun tightly, my thumb on the hammer, just in case. My heart was banging against my ribs, thumping so hard it made my eardrums throb. Slowly I backtracked to the arroyo and slid over the bank. Then I poked my head above the edge so I could observe the elephant.

The huge beast kept coming. Wide-eyed, I watched its progress. When it was about 30 yards away, it turned to its right, moving away from me at a quick, steady shuffle. The thumping inside me eased a bit.

Then something strange happened. Instead of holding my safe position in the arroyo and pondering the how and why of an elephant in the desert, I clambered out, seized by a compelling urge to track the huge beast.

With my shotgun at the ready and moving in a low crouch, I solemnly pursued the elephant through the desert growth. Sometimes I traced its course only by a footprint or the movement of branches; sometimes I caught a glimpse of gray hide. Once, warned only by a huge ear flapping among the mesquite leaves, I nearly stumbled upon the animal. The thumping inside my rib cage started again, but it wasn't enough to deter my pursuit.

Finally the elephant halted, looked back, and waved its trunk in the air like a wand. I froze. Did it sense my presence? Then somewhere behind me I heard a voice calling, "Hey, Sunshine. Take it easy, baby!"

From another direction came a second voice. "She's up there!" Then I caught sight of two men running, both carrying lengths of chain. One passed within a few feet of me; he gave me an incredulous look as he ran by.

I watched as the men secured the elephant and turned it back toward the highway. Having nothing better to do, I decided to walk with them. "What're you doin' out here?" one asked as I strode along. "He looks like an elephant hunter," said the second man. They both laughed. So did I.

When we reached the highway at Morristown, a small crowd was waiting. The big trucks of a circus caravan stood nearby, along with a black-and-white Highway Patrol vehicle. Several cars had stopped, and curious travelers loitered along the shoulder of the road. Doc and my dad were leaning against the fender of our auto, eating sandwiches. From my position beside the elephant, I called out to my dad, "We got him!"

A bite of bologna sandwich exploded from Doc Gatterdam's mouth, and he bent over laughing. Then everyone started clapping.

Over the years, I sometimes wondered why I pursued the elephant. No answer surfaced until I happened upon an intriguing book, The Dragons of Eden, by Carl Sagan. The book traces, scientifically and theoretically, the evolution of the human brain. One of the author's theories centers on the possibility that the modern brain contains genetic imprints or messages passed along through countless generations.

If Dr. Sagan's theory has merit, it could explain why I tracked the massive creature instead of running from it. Perhaps, for a few moments, the young boy hearkened to the call of ancient ancestors and joined them as they ran, barefoot and armed with spears, across a primeval plain after a fleeing mammoth.

Or perhaps it was just youthful curiosity. Who knows?