Published in the Wyoming Tribune-Eagle on Monday, March 26, 2007 3:05 PM MDT

Art of the wild

Taxidermy’s about more than just bragging rights

By Ty Stockton
© February 21, 2007

CHEYENNE – I grew up under the shadow of a giant buck mule deer.
My dad shot the deer in the early 1970s, and it was one of the first animals he ever had mounted by a taxidermist. I suppose that deer is a big reason I like to see good taxidermy, but also a reason I don’t have any heads hanging on my own walls. Dad’s deer was mounted by someone who knew how good taxidermy should look. More than three decades after it was first hung above a mantel, in the right light, it still looks like it could hop down from the wall and start browsing on Mom’s ficuses. Dad never had the deer scored, so I don’t know if it even qualifies for the record books. But it’s one of the tallest, widest, stoutest, most symmetrical five-pointers I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a lot of mounts. That – and the fact that I’m lucky to bring a critter home from a hunt at all, let alone such a magnificent specimen – could be the reason I haven’t bothered to have any of my own trophies mounted. Sure, like most hunters I know, I have a nice collection of antlers and antelope horns. I even have a few antler mounts. But ask most taxidermists, and they’ll tell you antler and horn mounts aren’t true taxidermy. Taxidermy, as defined by Webster’s Dictionary of the English Language, is “the art of preparing and mounting the skins of animals to give a lifelike effect.” That’s what taxidermy is, but it doesn’t answer the question of why hunters feel the need to hang dead animals on their walls. Bob Tucker, who owns Tumbleweek Taxidermy in Cheyenne, says an animal doesn’t have to be the biggest critter in the record books to be worthy of being mounted. “The trophy thing’s in the eye of the beholder,” he says. “People get stuff mounted for a variety of reasons. It’s a personal thing.” Troy Hall, the owner and operator of Artistic Impressions Taxidermy east of Cheyenne, says he thinks there are basically three reasons people mount the animals they shoot. He says some of his clients want to have something by which they can remember their hunt. For others, it might be a way to prove that they’re good hunters without saying a word. And the third contingent, which is where Hall himself fits, view taxidermy as a form of fine art.

Tangible reminders
“For most people,” Hall says, “it’s about the memory of the hunt.” As he says this, he looks toward the corner of his shop, where a nearly finished moose hangs on the wall. The moose is far smaller than the trophies of its species you’d typically see mounted. In fact, if you were to cut off the antlers and put them on a scale, they’d probably weigh less than some of the antlers from mule deer Hall had in his shop that day. “The guy who shot that moose knows it’s probably the only one he’ll ever get the chance to shoot, and to him, it’s just as much a trophy as any Boone and Crockett moose would be.” Ron Mimm fits into this category. He’s lived in Colorado, Montana, Alsaska, California, Oregon, and now in Cheyenne. He says his moves were based not just on the possibilities of making a good living in the construction business, but also on how the hunting opportunities in each prospective new state of residence stacked up. His specially designed trophy room is home to an impressive display of animals from more than a handful of states. A large, full-body mount of a Kodiak grizzly bear stands atop a row of cabinets on one wall. Pointing at the bear, Mimm says, “I like to see the animal in pretty near the same position or the same turn as it was when I took the shot. That’s how that bear looked when I saw him through the scope.” The same is true for the other animals lining Mimm’s trophy room. A Dall’s sheep looks out from the wall, its head turned slightly to the left, just as it was when Mimm came across it on an Alaskan glacier. A black bear from Colorado turns the other way, its mouth and nose wrinked slightly as though it’s testing the wind, belatedly sensing danger. And a stately bull elk is the room’s centerpiece, and it seems to rivet you with its gaze as you walk in the room’s entrance. As Mimm tells the story of that long-ago hunt, you can easily picture the bull staring down the hunter as it stands amid the trees of a Colorado forest.

Bragging rights
Though few hunters would readily admit it, there’s probably at least a bit of braggadocio in each mount on their walls. I know my dad is proud of that deer above his fireplace, and when visitors come to the house, it’s never long before they comment on the muley. Dad’s always happy to tell the story about the hunt, but deep down, it’s clear he’s pleased that somebody has noticed the size of the rack and realized the accomplishment it represents. After all, few hunters ever even see a deer that big, let alone bring it home. I have an elk antler mount in my office that’s also a source of pride. It’s just an average-sized rack, and I didn’t shoot it. But I enjoy telling the story of how I found the rack while I was bowhunting with my dad, and then made a Herculean trek over a deadfall-strewn mountain while carrying the antlers, my pack and my bow. Incidentally, it’s also an opportunity to fill people in on the rules regarding picking up antlers that are still attached to the skull cap. By Wyoming law, if the antlers aren’t shed naturally, they must be reported to a game warden, who will determine whether the animal died of natural causes, or if it was poached. The warden will give the antlers to the person who reported it, as long as there isn’t any suspicion of an illegal kill. I wasn’t aware of that law when I picked up the antlers, but I knew enough to call the warden from the sliver of cell phone reception near camp and ask to arrange a meeting so I could buy an interstate game tag from him. I gave him the UTM coordinates to the spot where we found the carcass, and after a brief interview, he told me I could take the antlers home. So my elk antlers are a nice way to get people to invite me to brag a little bit, but my pride is always tempered by the fact that I can at times be an ignorant fool.

Natural art
Aside from being a way to remember a great hunt or proof of a hunter’s prowess, taxidermy can be a work of art. And if not true art, it can at least be a thing of beauty. Tucker says his early work may have fallen a bit short of the beauty mark. “I got started doing taxidermy when I was 12 years old,” he says. “The first thing I did was a groundhog. It didn’t look very good. It looked like a furry frog when I got it done.” But after a bit of practice, his finished products are now works of art. A full-body caribou in his basement looks like it only came inside to warm up during a hard winter on the tundra, and a red fox curled next to a sagebrush appears ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. “I like animals,” he says. “I like to see ‘em, even when I’m inside.” Mimm also recognizes the beauty of wildlife, even if they’re no longer living. “They’re so beautiful, I think it’s important for people to see them,” he says. Hall says the artistic merits of a mount are important if the hunter wants others to appreciate it. “It shouldn’t just be a dead animal stuck on the wall,” he says. “Some guys say their wives won’t let them put a mounted antelope on the wall, but she’ll hang a picture of one. If you do it right, the mount itself can be fine art.”

A new point of view
Whether you view taxidermy as a reminder, as a boast or as art, next time you find yourself in a home or a business with mounts on the wall, try to look at it from a different angle. Ask the owner about the animal. You’re sure to be treated to an interesting story about an unforgettable hunt, but you might also get a brief glimpse into the heart of the hunter.