There is no greater high than the echoes of bugling elk surrounding your camp in the stillest hours of the night: then to hear it echo across the timberline the next day, enticing a strong pursuit of these magnificent animals. Spotting them on the ridge line after hiking long and high into the hills was a reward all of its own. How swift and strong they moved, how the wind favorably carried our scent away from them, how close we came. The herd bull was completely beautiful. He stood high in the clearing with a golden, sunlit coat; his long legs, face, and 6-point antlers as black as the woodland. He held his head with pride and stature, a God of this valley, testing the air with a sense of knowing that he was being stalked, but he could not see us, he could not smell us. Our purpose was not for the game of flesh, but purely for the rush of the chase; so instead, we exchanged a knowing and mutual appreciation with this bull, observing from a careful distance, and so when he decided to move on (assumedly having spotted the dog), he carried his bulk with a casual gait. Benji, myself, and my two mountain men friends watched him wander away with his harem into the forest, and their chatter only briefly touched upon our presence. We were an insignificant element to their day, other than the exchange of warning that is already prime this time of year. They, however, have not ceased to enchant us since our bright-eyed descent of the mountain - back into civilization, where I am pacing restlessly around an old house with the itchy wings of one who wants, more than anything, to fly back up there and count coup all over again, and again, and again, hungry for the opportunity, and well aware that there is still a wide world that is left for me to learn and be shaped from.
Posted on: Mon, 29 Sep 2014 17:43:15 +0000
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