The snow storm of the previous day was dissipating into a peculiar winter pink of breaking clouds. Scuttles of grey snow squalls swirled around the ridge tops, and tumbled down the canyons. A peek-a-boo sun reflected frigid crystals of suspended flakes. The air shimmered. I loved this land and knew it well. This particular section was one of my favorite treks on any given pre-dawn morning during elk season.
Outcrops of rock and conifer on the ridge high above LaBonte Canyon were ensconced in a light and powdery blanket. I moved like a whisper in the gathering light a few steps at a time. My eyes carefully probed the terrain. I listened for any tell-tale sound. Then I saw the tracks! His length of stride and size of hoof print gave him away. “Definitely a bull, alone, and a big one,” I thought. I followed the tracks around the base of a massive cliff and they disappeared through the ghostly trunks of leafless aspen.
An expansive sage meadow was just beyond the base of the cliff. It dipped down into a small dry wash which wove in and out of stands of sparse timber and then skirted the edges of a smaller meadow. It was then swallowed by a dense patch of twisted and gnarly dark timber. Virtually impossible to hunt, this was where he was headed to bed for the day.
His tracks showed no signs of hurry. Here and there the snow was disturbed where he had stopped to browse. I followed the hoof prints with utmost care, eyes ahead and not down. Several trees had missing bark where he had stopped to rake his massive antlers, knocking tufts of snow from the needles above. I estimated he was no more than a few minutes ahead of me. He would almost certainly reach the timber before I could get a clean shot. The instinct of a thousand generations of hunters sent me skirting his tracks, plotting an interception course. I made for a point by the dry wash where I was almost certain he would be entering the quiet eerie shade of the dense conifers. There was an almost imperceptible flow of energy, his to mine, now connected in the pursuit.
I reached the opposite edge of the meadow, selected a firing position and lay prone, concealed by a log. The barrel of the rifle rested on a stump to steady it, legs sprawled cold in the snow that rose over my legs. Seconds later the antlers appeared from the dry wash, one hundred fifty yards away. He was a mere ten yards from the safety of the woods. I took a deep breath and exhaled, my eye slid to the scope, trigger finger poked out of the gray wool mitt. I stretched it across the trigger guard. Slowly the great beast emerged from the wash. He bent to browse, neck and upper shoulder obscured by scrub oak. One more step forward. He was now just yards from the tall basket weave of tree trunks. I took a moment to admire him. Then the .270 recoiled against my shoulder.
Minutes later I was kneeling next to him. I marveled at the beauty of his shaggy gold coat impressed by the size and mass of his antlers. My feelings were tinged with respect and prideful remorse.