MAY-B-8

RAINY DAYS THAT I BROUGHT ON BY HAVING THE BRONCO WASHED,

ALONG WITH LARYNGITIS SQUELCHING RUNNING,

BRINGS ME UP THE ROAD INTO PENNSYLVANIA

TO ZIMMERMAN WILDLIFE ART

MAY 21—23, 2001

            I knew I could break any drought through my most time-honored and tested maneuver:  I had the Bronco washed and waxed.  It has not stopped raining since.  So now I have the residual of all the heavy flowering of the Derwood trees, now dropping litter of petals and leaves in spring, now caked on my vehicle having been washed from the trees.  Daily, deer are posing for me under the Derwood azaleas, as they munch away at the verdant green jungle now in full bloom all through my woods, and with a “nesting” urge that has the does picking out places all around my house to be bedding down for the fawning that will start any time next week.  You may remember the “Afternoon of A Fawn” which I had witnessed last year, just at July 1 before I took off for my rendezvous with destiny in Chautauqua.   I will keep looking again for that bright new spring happening in the Derwood deer woods this year.

            I had made an elaborate plan to make my first taxidermy-collecting trip north up to Zimmerman Wildlife Art in Martinsburg Pennsylvania to collect my Dall ram trophy, and to introduce George Sevich and Christian Elwell to each other and also have them meet Marcus Zimmerman.  The connections worked for the former, but not, alas, for the latter.

            Meanwhile, I have been trying to connect with Joe Brewer in North Carolina and find out when he will be home, so that I can come down to Fort Bragg and collect my “Boar’s Head” trophy from Cumberland Island last year.  I had hoped to do that on my way to visit Craig and Carol Schaefer and Rodger and Peggy Althoff in Georgetown and Pawley’s Island South Carolina, where I had been invited to come, possibly for the Memorial Day weekend that would proceed my leaving for Denver the next week.

            In addition to large quantities of new taxidermy coming home, I ha been sending out deposits and buying licenses for a series of different experiences that might generate new taxidermy.  I have bought an Arizona license by phone in order to have the permanent number for my license, in order to apply, once again, for the Arizona Desert Big Horn, which will probably keep getting refused, and partly refunded, until I have accumulated enough preference points to run a higher chase of success some day at another sheep species—a slam or super slam collection of these sheep trophies is a very rich man’s sport, even without the additional tag fees of the Gobi Argali and the Marco Polo sheep of middle Asia. There is still a slender possibility that I might still go to northern Kamchatka to do a Kamchatka Big Horn Hunt along with a high chance of collections a giant brown bear if George Sevich finds one more hunter to make it possible to defray the cost of the helicopter that would have to get us up there into the rugged mountains where his guide Constantin would be waiting with horses and camps with Bighorn sheep already scouted.  Maybe Marcus Zimmerman has the right idea, as you can see from his web site www.zimmermanwildlife.com where it has the slogan “Wild Sheep are Our Passion.”   He gets to see all the finest trophy sheep in the world that come to him for an uncompromisingly high quality taxidermy job, and he never has to leave home.  I am also early in the application pool for Colorado elk, and will soon have to get all the applications in for the Cumberland hunt

            When I had originally talked with Marcus Zimmerman as I was in the Berkshire Medical Center, midway between my Alaska Brooks Range Hunt and the Kazakhstan High Altai, I knew I was talking to an unusual fellow.   He sounded to be an older man, and there was another Zimmerman in the business, whom I thought might have been his son.  He turns out to be quite a young man and Kenny Zimmerman, the other taxidermist, is his younger brother.  I knew they were isolated in the Pennsylvania countryside, but I was further surprised when I had actually arrived there.

FORT DETRICK RENDEZVOUS WITH GEORGE SEVICH
IN FREDERICK MARYLAND

            I have never been in Fort Detrick.  It feels very much like any army base, with the self-contained R and R facilities, commissary, PX, and the feeling of a very small world dedicated for eight hours of each day to some specified artificial mission and the other sixteen hours toward being a young and unrestrained American high school graduate—e.g., like being on Tripler in Hawaii, marking time until the poo-poos of happy hour.  I had to check in at the guard gate, and my license number, both driver’s and vehicle’s were taken, and then I drove on to follow the sketch I had from George by phone, looking for large satellite dishes.  I saw none, but got into the small corners of the base where once there was Biologic and Chemical Warfare research and stockpiles, now turned over to the NCI—of which I  DO have some immediate and direct knowledge in the inner workings of bureaucratic government.  Of course, I was lost.  But then, so are the people who work in a small warren of the complex every day, since no one had ever heard of Building 1650, which did not even show up on maps.

            After wandering among a half dozen non-plussed and clueless individuals in what were described as “sensitive areas” largely deserted of any personnel (imagine what havoc I could cause if I were an infiltrating sapper!) I called the phone number for the building 1650 and got George directly who was waiting.  So, I went back to the main gate and made a left turn toward a distant area where there WERE two large satellite dishes, and a prominent building, marked US Army Signal Corps.  Right!  No, that was not the one either, but I did get a three floor tour of a large number of rabbit warren hutches, with the usual mementos of a family somewhere thumbtacked to fiber board dividers, all of them deserted.  I finally tracked down a couple of contract cleaning crew, who told me they never had heard of Building 1650 either, as I was looking out of the window at a low-lying building under the first satellite dish marked  Building 1650.  So, I pulled in to that building on which was displayed the sign “Direct Link US/Russia Communication System” and saw George Sevich standing outside the building.

I learned a lot about his own history in the contractors’ relationship with this “hotline” link, which has outlasted several bids from competitors and the dissolution of the USSR to be maintained 24 hours, with someone in that building on Christmas and other holidays who is fluent in Russian, running decodes and testing the system for even one second outages, with test patterns of text running through it to be sure it is being received on either end.  George is one of the only non-military ones allowed on either end, having been in Red Square on New year’s Day as the new millennium rolled in, since both sides were very worried that all kinds of computer glitches could have caused nuclear havoc on that fateful day, and NORAD had Russian officers, and the Russian Army intelligence had US officers standing in each position to monitor the transition.

            The cold war brought lots of “grade inflation “ to both military and diplomatic corps, and now there are other economic and other issues to be addressed.  All the pieces of the old USSR should still be using this link as well, but although they are still holding on to the thousands of warheads, such countries as Kazakhstan have no means of delivering them anywhere, and are really only holding them as a bargaining chip for one principle buyer—the US.  Neither Russians nor US are going to slip a few megatons to some terrorists for a few bucks, so that the nuclear threat continues to be mavericks—but solely because of the scale of the security project to keep these munitions in control until their destruction is a reason to keep tight communication links.  Armageddon by accidental glitch would not be in any of the principals’ interests.

            George was employed long-term by Bendix.  Bendix had five-year contracts renewed to maintain this link which they had constructed.  Bendix got bought and rather devalued with the highly respected name disappearing under Honeywell, the new owner, but the latter company is also now being bought by GE, subject to EEC decision on the foreign effect of this merger.  A combined attack by Boeing and Comsat attempted on the last renewal cycle to wrest the control of this lucrative government sinecure from Honeywell, but the government is happy with the stability of the system and had even extended the contract beyond the renewal point at least once. So, George still owns what was Bendix stock as an employee of that now-defunct unit, which would devalue further if the GE purchase is not approved internationally—and still the big dishes and their constant digital upgrading require nurture as the antidote to the cloak and dagger of the old cold war

THE RIDE IN THE RAIN THROUGH MARYLAND
COUNTRYSIDE IN THE FULL BLOOM OF SPRING
INTO THE SPORTING TURF OF BOTH MD AND PA

            The 40—70—48 route is familiar to me enroute to Cumberland, and I could drive it sound asleep---as I often did while moonlighting in Cumberland to ransom back my sons a quarter century ago.  The clean green and open countryside is very pretty along the route, and there are any number of established –and now new—sporting goods places along the way, some of them huge.  George and I had gone to the new Galyans, of which I am now a “preferred customer” in Gaithersburg, and I noted they have about a dozen stores, one in Grand Rapids, three in Minnesota, and one in Northern Virginia.  There is a new Gander Mountain in Chambersburg we might stop at on return or we could look into a classic hunting store named Hendershot's at Hancock.  I drove the Bronco through Breezewood (the “town of motels”—the developers’ dream of bright neon all day and all night in what had been a verdant Pennsylvania mountain valley.)   I noted gasoline at $1.63, about twenty cents cheaper than in my area of Maryland, so I said I should be reminded to gas up before I left PA.  I did, when we had dinner on return at Breezewood at a Family Restaurant—surprisingly good—and went on to Hancock, MD where we found that the Hendershot's had closed at five o’clock and gas in Hancock was $1.57!   So the variation in gasoline prices, between high and outrageous, must not have to do with the state tax, but capricious whim of retailers.

We stopped along a trout stream---the Juniata River that flows to the Susquehanna—and went into a huge sporting good store named the Juniata, in the middle of nowhere.  It’s only neighbor is---another sporting goods store—about a half mile away along Route 30, as we went 26 to 36 and further into the good black dirt of Amish farm country.  I saw a sign for “Zimmerman’s” but it was “Zimmerman’s Bulk Groceries” and we passed “Zimmerly’s”---if you are starting to get the picture.  I made all the right turns on the directions that Marcus Zimmerman had given to George after each of us could not find Martinsburg PA through MAPQuest.com.  I had spoken with him twice—once in September of 2,000 when I had the Dall sheep skull and cape forwarded to him, accompanied by the entire fleece, when I had learned a little about the quality work he did.  I got their brochures and their self-confessed higher rates, but they had two statements: “We are not a ‘production taxidermy unit’, but interested in the artistic expression of a smaller, quality, custom work on each piece.”  The second statement is “Wild Sheep Are Our passion”---and you may have seen that if you clicked on www.zimmermanwildlife.com I had pictured Marcus Zimmerman as an older fellow who had a Kenny Zimmerman working with him, whom I guessed might be a son being primed to take over the business.  George had carried a number of his brochures as Eurasian Expeditions, and had hoped to have him advertise his hunts, and maybe George could steer some business toward him by offering him a special hunt—perhaps to accompany me toward a Kamchatka Bighorn Ram.  We were wrong on both counts, and I am the one who first sensed this as I turned into Spring Farm Road.

            The road was freshly graveled.  It coursed through a field of freshly cut alfalfa laying in neat rows where it had been raked by the kind of e implements I remember from my earliest youth in being brought out to the real working farms in Michigan.  I stared at the good rich earth and the crop in it, and slowly realized what was different.  Not only is this an “organic farm” but I did not see big tire tracks of churned up dirt from a big tractor.  No, this farm was carefully tended by “tractors” that both plowed and fertilized simultaneously.  Their names are not New Holland or Ford, but Percheron and Clydesdale or Belgians.  I came around a nursery where there was a pretty buxom young girl in a modest full-skirted dress and prim apron and bonnet, working around despite the sprinkles of rain.  I saw a whole family, mother and daughters, all in long dresses and aprons and bonnets, hopping over the seed rows, planting a row of vegetables, seeming oblivious to the rain.  I tried to photograph them without making it obvious that I was doing so.  We pulled along side a barn where there were three Amish buggies, with the horses in the traces, two of them covered by canvas raincoats as they were parked, and in the barn there were the horse drawn mowers, plows and rakes that had just been taken in during the rain.  All around them were men in plain clothes and buttoned shirts with bib overalls held up by braces.  They had beards without mustaches, and kids dressed identically, but sans beards, hanging out around them during this brief break in the rain.  I raised a hand in salute out of respect for these salt of the earth hard working farmers and their diligence and faith—if in no other thing than the fertility of the good earth.

            I recognized the farmhouse, office and shop, with a bronze bust of a big horn ram in front of a sign set among manicured flowers “Zimmerman Wildlife Art.”  This was probably the fourth sign for a Zimmerman I had seen, so I would reckon that this name and the folk associated with it in this tight community are rather well known, if not almost exclusive, in this area.  I pulled up next to a fancy trailer with a painting on the side of it, the kind of trailer that I see at sporting goods shows, and outdoor exhibits—a mobile showroom.  I had said to George, “These are the kind of folk, whose hand you shake—even if by phone—and they will try to pursue you to give you back your change and be sure they have done the best they can for you in every regard, from fine Pennsylvania Dutch cooking to taxidermy.  I am glad my ram is in his hands, and I do not believe most Amish plain dirt farmers could be too interested in an exotic trip to hunt in Asia, since it may be their passion to display the results, but foreign to their lifestyle in this small valley where they take that buggy over there to church and “Sunday-go-to-meetin’” rather than jetting off in their lifetime to half the miles I may have flown last month.

            The door says “Authorized Persons Only,” and I entered it apologetically. I figured they would have to be somewhat circumspect about who it is that walks through the door of a taxidermy workshop, since many foreigners with Maryland license plates might as easily be PETA-types as sportsmen who made the effort to get to this out of the way place.  On entering, I met a young fellow in his twenties, who introduced himself as Kenny, and who knew my name, saying I was expected and that Marcus was down in the barn.  George took out his Eurasian Expeditions brochures while I was drawn into the studio—big, well-lighted, and with spectacular displays of magnificent trophy wildlife, most of them assembled in full-mount group habitat displays. There was a bull caribou pursued by three leaping timberwolves.  A bighorn ram was reacting to the leap of a cougar.  A big male lion was dragging a wildebeest.  One central floor display was a one-third scale mountain scene with a Gobi Argali ram on the left (Gordon Rockefeller, #1 of 2000) and on the right a magnificent Marco Polo ram (also Gordon Rockefeller, who is awaiting the completion of his new trophy room to be built around this centerpiece.)  There is a big horn ram, which has won the best big game taxidermy trophy in the world this past year—down by Kenny Zimmerman.  I took a few photos.  It seems that the Zimmermans have the pick of the best of the big game trophies on earth, and do a few birds—but no fish—and are selective about what they do.  There is a Ruskin quote on the wall, that whatever is done should be done, not according to the lowest price or the cheapest materials, but for the pride of craftsmanship.  

I came around the corner of their showroom, and recognized him immediately.  He is slightly turned, with head high, on an American walnut plaque.  Beneath him is a name plaque with the text I had provided, including the Brooks Range and the guide Christian Elwell, and Jacques Adventures as the outfitter.  What occasioned much of the comment, I learned later, was the range of the .300 Win Mag BAR shot—so, of course, I had to tell the full story to add the experience—more valuable than even the trophy.

            Then, in came Marcus Zimmerman.  I had to do a double take when I introduced him, since even when I had talked with him by phone upon the completion of the trophy I still had a different image.  He appeared half my age, wearing a plain shirt and pants and red braces.  With him was barefoot cute Amish boy named Tyler, dressed identically.  He introduced his younger brother Kenny.  George had given him the brochures and had said that perhaps we could steer him some new business.  Marcus said “Well, we really aren’t looking for new business.  We are interested in doing a good job and keeping the clients we have got.”  I spoke with him about the “Phantom of the Derwood Deer Woods” and about my search for a new cape for a remount of this trophy.  He said he might have a few capes that could fit.  I described the waterbuck cape that was salted and described as having the hair slipped, so that it just came back with the scalp mount on a plaque.  Perhaps each of these could be re-done. I should have the maral stag and the roebuck here rather than North American Taxidermy, which seemed the right place at the time.  But I had them guarantee delivery of everything I have in their shop within six months—and that includes trophies from Africa I have had gathering dust over there for now fourteen years.  That was all a year ago, and they had not even sent the capes for tanning when I had checked after the six month deadline, so I would be justified in picking it all up and carrying it up here despite the premium prices—over which I would never haggle seeing the quality of the work they do. I put in a call for Christian Elwell whom I was expecting after he had visited his grandfather, Fran’s father, in Loch Haven PA, so that we could look over the capes I had had tanned but not bleached awaiting his view of them.  I saw Russ’s last elk, which Fran had dropped off, just as Kenny was putting the tanned hide on the manikin mold.  I photographed Russ’s new elk being mounted, so from my calculations, his house is now filled up and it will be time for him to discuss a new trophy room as well!

I left both of our cell phone numbers if Christian should answer the call I had left for him. [Later I found he had to make a nine hour detour when Janine’s mother in Vermont had a water pump failure, which he found out while on his way to Pennsylvania, so he will come down to visit later—and then he can pick up Russ’s elk and also view my graduation present to him and decide whether he wishes to have the capes bleached.]   I paid the balances, and saw the signature and the number on the back of the walnut plaque, as I carried the ram out to the Bronco--#1885.

I told Marcus I would not have had the trophy shipped out for anything to preclude this remarkable visit to his shop, and I hoped to come again as one of his clients and show him a few other pieces that I would be interested in his opinion about the repair potential.  I f I should be so lucky as to drop a Kamchatka BigHorn (it is a dangerous contagion to catch the lust after a “Slam” or “Super Slam” on Sheep, since that is a sport, not for plain old hunter-gatherers like me, and not even for millionaires, but for billionaires—and it is not an accident that the name on the pair of magnificent rams in the studio is “Rockefeller”), I would know that I would want to have it sent over to Marcus for a full mount to appreciate the experience all over again and the wilderness environment the trophy represents.  Then I will be talking about a new environment, being a trophy A-frame cabin retreat, rather than just a “game room” addition. I drove back to Fort Detrick and to Montgomery County as the sky opened up and a deluge hit. When I looked back through my rear view mirror, what I could see would be the approaching headlights behind me—framed by the full curl of  my Dall ram, almost as magnificent as he appeared on the summit of the Brooks Range, restored by a craftsman “at the top of his game.”  And his passion is wild sheep.

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