Lack of a kill can't mar hunt.

Byline: Bob Welch / The Register-Guard

EDITOR'S NOTE: This is the last in a three-part series.

SUMPTER - AT THE end of the day, the bone-weary hunters return to camp. They "water" their horses after busting holes in the creek ice, then gather in the mess tent to compare notes and engage in that well-known hunters' ritual: eating garden salads - after saying grace.

"Salad is long tradition," says Jason Schar, the Eugene man who invited me on this elk hunting trip in northeastern Oregon.

Three kinds of dressings are offered, plus a stunning homemade mix brought by Leroy Carlson, a jeweler from Puyallup, Wash.: an oil-based herb variety spiced with garlic and basil. Bob Coulter's 27-year-old son, Rob, wows us with chicken cutlets in a marinara sauce.

Like a drainage basin that funnels into a single river, all elk-camp talk eventually flows into a single subject: hunting. Like, "Great dinner, Rob. Say, where ya huntin' tomorrow?"

The hunting stinks. With one day left, only one guy, Carlson, has even gotten off a shot - and he missed. But the mood stays lively. There's more to this hunt than elk.

For starters, these guys clearly enjoy each other - and are more than just "huntin' buddies." One night, Pendleton veterinarian John Groupe, eyes glistening, talks of his 16-year-old son, Ole, dying in a fall near Mount Hood in 1994. And how John's friendship with Brad Wheeler, another member of our party, was galvanized because Brad was the one who broke the news to him.

Beyond the camaraderie, these guys like lassoing the last vestiges of a cowboy life that's elusive back home where you're paying mortgages or nail-gunning roofs or watching TV. When, in the middle of the night, a handful of horses break free and rumble through camp, the guys revel in the excitement with a sort of boyish, "snow day" delight.

Another reason they hunt the "cowboy way," I think, is because it involves a certain risk. While they pooh-pooh my city-slicker caution, they tell endless stories of injuries and near-misses. They are careful with their guns. And, in bed by 7, they hardly spend nights shooting beer cans off stumps.

But mention cougars and Groupe is telling about a mountain lion jumping a guy. Mention hunters who might be a few points shy of an antler rack and Larry "Hawkeye" Snook is telling about not only being "scoped" - looked at by another hunter through a gun's scope - but shot at. Mention me - "Cowboy Bob" - being bucked off Rusty and someone is telling about Schar's horse, after he'd dismounted, cartwheeling 300 feet down a ridge - and living to neigh about it. (After my accident, I heeded the advice, "If you get bucked off a horse, walk. It's safer.")

FINALLY, THESE guys are here for the challenge alone. On the last day, I roam the ridges with Carlson, the Jeremiah Johnson of jewelers.

He tracks elk with the diligence of a forensic pathologist. He explains the difference between cow and bull scat. (I'll never eat a black olive again.) He drags me up ridges steeper than an IHOP roof. He's thinking: Elk. I'm thinking: I wonder if I'm being scoped?

By midafternoon, the sub-freezing temperature drops. Carlson is a man on a mission. I am a man wishing I'd bought those battery-operated socks at GI Joes. "Check this out," Carlson whispers. "Cougar tracks!"

Oh boy! If I don't get shot or die of exposure, I can get mauled to death! I've read in "Outdoor Life" that if you come across a grizzly bear, you're supposed to pretend you're dead. "Make no eye contact and, if you can, talk softly to the bear. The bear is likely to maul you for a few moments, but then lose interest."

We've been tracking for eight hours. Carlson is thinking: Elk. I'm thinking: When you talk softly to a bear - or, in this case, a cougar - what do you talk about? The weather?

We find no elk. We return to camp, going past a sign that says "Ole's Basin," presented to John by the guys - in honor of his son.

Our group has been skunked. I've missed the essence of the true hunting experience: the shots, the hit, the blood, the skinning, the guts, the packing out of the meat. I've missed everything. Or maybe nothing at all.

When I explain how foreign that hunting can be to someone who hasn't grown up with it, "Hawkeye" Snook, who owns the Sports Corral in Joseph, says, "I never stopped to think that there are people out there who don't hunt."

It has been, to say the least, an enlightening week.

To honor my having survived, the guys autograph my fluorescent orange vest. Then Groupe, who's involved in the Pendleton Roundup, turns to me.

"Say, Cowboy Bob, for a story next year why don't you be in our parade?" he says. "You could ride Rusty!" The tent erupts in laughter, mine loudest of all.

I still don't `get' hunting, but I do get its best parts, of which there are plenty.

Bob Welch can be reached by calling 338-2354 or by e-mail at [e-mail].