'The Varmint Hunter'

PHILIPSBURG, Mont. - As Bud Oakland navigates his silver Honda CR-V over a bumpy, hilly pasture, a few crows circle overhead. Oakland grins a bit and chuckles. "They recognize my rig," he says. "That's the fact. Here comes the killer."

PHILIPSBURG, Mont. - As Bud Oakland navigates his silver Honda CR-V over a bumpy, hilly pasture, a few crows circle overhead.

Oakland grins a bit and chuckles.

"They recognize my rig," he says. "That's the fact. Here comes the killer."

A minute later, the Coeur d'Alene man pulls his 11-year-old SUV to a stop and turns off the ignition. He pulls out a pair of binoculars and scans a hillside of short, yellow-grass, dirt patches and long ruts.

For a minute or so, there is nothing. No sound but for the wind that blows hard on this cloudy, cool Thursday afternoon not far from Philipsburg, Mont.

Then, Oakland spots what he seeks and focuses.

"Ah, there's that big one is, standing up," he says.

The big one is a Columbia ground squirrel, standing perhaps 8-10 inches tall near some grass some 75-100 yards from the Honda.

The 85-year-old slides a .17 Ackley Hornet from a case, chambers a single, shining bullet, and clicks the bolt shut.

He rests the rifle's barrel on a piece of foam attached to the driver's side window, and peers through a scope, fixing the crosshairs on the unsuspecting ground squirrel.

There is silence, until he squeezes the trigger.

The explosion of gunpowder in the cartridge sends the bullet zipping through the Montana air at a rate of 3,500 feet per second.

The ground squirrel falls and lays motionless. It is dead.

"Got 'em," Oakland said. "You can hear the plop when it hits."

Soon, another ground squirrel pops out and darts about between a clump of tall grass and a mound of dirt.

"I see him now. Let's take care of him," he says.

Again, he sights in.

Again, he squeezes.

Again, the ground squirrel falls.

The World War II veteran wearing the blue VFW hat, camouflage pants and a green sweatshirt will continue this for another 40 minutes or so. His shots rarely stray. When one does, he knows.

"I missed him. It didn't plop," he says.

Oakland makes the 254-mile drive from North Idaho usually at the request of ranchers. The ground squirrels do a few things very well: Multiply rapidly, and dig holes and ditches just as quickly.

It is a common problem for ranchers, who don't like them and prefer to rid their property of them because cattle and horses can be injured if they step into the holes.

"That's what the damage is," Oakland explains. "So consequently, whenever somebody says 'Hey, we've got a problem', I go there."

There is a law against poisoning the small, furry animals that appear cute and adorable, but there is another method: Shoot them.

So they call the man well known as the "Varmint Hunter."

"Consequently, the only way you can do this is lead poisoning like we're doing," he says. "They've got to have lead poisoning from me."

Young Bud

Oakland has been a varmint hunter for much of his life, starting when he was a boy growing up on the 340-acre family farm near Luverne, Minn., nicknamed, perhaps ironically, "The Gopher State."

Their property, he says, was at the intersection of what is today Interstate 90 and Highway 75, which comes out of Sioux City, Iowa.

He got his first BB gun when he was about 5 years old, and took up firing at birds and garage windows.

And boy, did he get in trouble for all the holes in those windows.

"Hell, yes," he says with a laugh.

His father went by Ed and friends took up calling the son, Edwin, "Little Buddy."

"The 'Bud' stuck,'" he says.

At 8, he received a Winchester 69 single-shot rifle as a gift from his father.

"My dad bought this .22 rifle for me. He said, 'I'll give you 2 cents for every ground squirrel tail you give me.'"

Shooting the small critters wasn't easy as a young Oakland first figured. But he would find a solution.

"If I could sit off a little bit further, I could shoot more of them," he recalled.

And with ammunition running just 15 cents a box, Oakland had the means, along with the talent, to carry out the task given by his father with staggering success.

"All of the sudden my kills went up in a hurry," he says. "All of a sudden, I was pretty well off."

He re-negotiated the deal with dad for 5 cents a tail.

"By the time I was 12 or 13 I had a reputation for killing varmints and it's been that way every since," he says. "Every kind of a varmint, no matter where it was or what it is."

Still shooting

When Bud Oakland speaks, you listen. The World War II veteran tends to emphasize certain words, especially when starting a sentence.

"Consequently ..."

"In fact ..."

"But ..."

He spells words, too, just to be sure you get it, and easily recites stories, facts, figures, people and places.

He talks as he drives just over 70 mph on Highway 1, and as he drives, he keeps his left hand on the steering wheel while the right rests on his leg.

The Honda zooms past rolling pastures, old barns and trucks, and roads that seem to lead to nowhere but for the snowy mountaintops in the distance. Oakland knows this area. He points out the meandering stream on the right is named Flint Creek. A tiny airport is called Riddick Field.

At 85, while most might be in assisted living homes or at their own home watching TV or reading, Bud Oakland shows a few signs of slowing. But just a few.

"Over the years, you discover there are certain things you can do and certain things you can't do," he says.

He has survived cancer. He has had both hips replaced. He just keeps going, something he credits to clean living.

"I never smoked or drank all my life," he says.

Oakland, who has called Coeur d'Alene home since 1951, retired in 1987 after 26 years as an All-State insurance agent. When he called it quits from his profession, it gave him time to travel with his wife Evie, spend time with his son Chuck and daughter Becky Clegg, and yes, shoot varmints.

He takes such trips, maybe five, six times a year.

But not alone. Not anymore. No driving after dark, period.

"My wife, she's not wild about it. She won't let me go unless I'm with somebody now," he says, pointing out his cellphone stays close so he can check in to let her know he's reached his destination.

On this day, he is headed to property near Philipsburg to rid a pasture of those ground squirrels. He's been coming here for almost four decades. No fee involved. He just likes the people, likes to help them by ridding their land of varmints.

"I know a helluva lot of people in Montana," he says. "They all know who Bud Oakland is."

Yes, they do.

Want proof?

At a ranch where he is a frequent guest, there is a marble stone on the ground with the words "Varmint Motel" etched on it outside a small, white house with a picket fence. It is here Oakland often stays. Rooms inside are simple. A bed, alarm clock night stand, dresser.

"There you're looking at the Varmint Motel," he says with pride.

He prefers to do his varmint hunting in Montana because he doesn't need a nonresident license. Other states, like Oregon and Washington, charge more than $100 for such license.

Some trips can take a few days. Others, just a day. Mostly in the spring, which is when the ground squirrels tend to come out more and he can get a good look.

"Once the grass pops up, you can't see them anymore," he says.

"They are smart. They stay in their holes, unfortunately. They don't usually come out until the weather is decent."

But when they do come out, sometimes Bud Oakland is waiting for them.

Bad news for the varmints.

On target

Oakland tells of a time he and a friend once shot more than 2,000 ground squirrels at a ranch in Dillon, Mont. - in a single day.

"Those were Richardsons, not these Columbia ground squirrels," he says. "They were everywhere."

In Arizona, he figures he probably killed more than 20,000 pigeons over the course of six years, brought in by private land owners to rid them of the disliked bird.

He is careful and calculated with his shooting. He wants - and gets - 90 percent accuracy. Most shots are at 75 to 100 yards.

"I'm not shooting at anything over 100 yards because I want 90 percent kills," Oakland says.

It's best with the wind at your back, he explains.

"There's no chance the bullet will drift," he says.

He travels with four rifles, two each of .22 Hornets and two each of the 17 Ackley Hornet, in case one malfunctions. The .22s have a six-shot magazine. The 17 is single shot. In a metal box are plastic bags, each with about 100 rounds of ammunition. A suppressor, or silencer, muffles the shot, protects his hearing, and doesn't affect the aim.

"It never changes its point of impact," he says.

He also has a pistol.

"Sometimes, they're so darn close, you can't even get the rifle around to shoot it, so consequently, that's what the pistol is for," he explains.

Oakland, a lifetime NRA member, is a member of the Varmint Hunters Association and reads Varmint Hunter Magazine.

"It's a hobby of mine and I really enjoy it," he said.

He gave up hunting deer, elk and moose long ago, and doesn't care for fishing.

"You can't see the fish," he says. "At least the varmints, I can see them."

With that, he goes quiet because as he scans the hillside with binoculars, one appears. It is a small, grayish shape that bounces across the field, then comes to a stop near a long, narrow rut.

That's when Oakland raises the Ackley Hornet and chambers a bullet.

"There's two more of them out there I see now. One on this closest mound," he says.

Not for long.