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I just got an email from my uncle who retired to rural Wyoming from comfortable suburban Northern California a couple years ago. I found it particularly moving and share-worthy.

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Elk Hunting

It was likely my first and last hunt. It turned into one of those life-transforming experiences. We (Marion Robinson and his father, Bruce, the people whose coop farm my wife joined) left at 6:30 in the morning and headed to a steep canyon country west of the Snake River Canyon (the one you drive through on the way to Jackson). We were to meet a couple of friends of the Robinsons at the top, where they went on horseback by a different route. We climbed extremely steeply up the walls of the canyon, Marion on one side, and his father and I on the other. This climb makes the one you, Mark and I did a trivial piece of cake. The weather was wintery, with rain and snow and low chilly clouds obscuring visibility on many occasions. The climb was grueling, up slopes of 45 degrees and sometimes steeper. There are no trails. Bruce once fell and only just managed to grab onto a protruding root and thus didn't go a long way. Of course we are carrying back packs and rifles, the latter often getting caught in branches. Once we got to the top of the ridge we had to continue ascending the ridge to the top of the canyon. We saw evidence of elk everywhere: we were in elk city! But we didn't see any elk.

Eventually we got to the top (after about 2.5 hours) where we managed to get in touch with with Marion, who climbed on the southern ridge. He had already found the two friends on horseback, who had a nice fire going. We all sat around the fire trying to dry out. Our pants and boots were steaming profusely. We ate and drank water, and generally warmed up and restored our energies. It was time to start heading back along the huge ridge Marion came up on. The three of us spread out hoping to cover a broader swath of ground and thus increase our chances of running into an elk. I was on the side closer to the deep canyon by which we came, Bruce in the middle, and Marion on the side paralleling another deep canyon. Somehow we lost touch with each other. I yelled out frequently, but never heard a response. I tried twice to start coming down the side of the canyon to then follow the canyon to the bottom and then eventually the road. But each time I would end up on top of a near vertical cliff. I had to climb back out, which was a grueling effort up an extremely steep slope, fighting shrubbery all the way. Of course, the shrubbery also made it possible to climb and descend by grabbing onto branches. The effort exhausted my energy and rendered my legs sometimes unable to obey my will; they were stiff and extremely sore, as was the rest of my body.

At one point I suddenly saw a bull elk, at a distance I estimated to be between 200 and 300 yards. Under normal circumstances, I knew I could make the necessary shot. But with my fatigue, I doubted that I could hit the side of a barn at that distance. And, even if I managed to "harvest" it, we would never be able to get it out. I had no clue where Marion and Bruce were! And I realized that here is this beautiful animal, who easily manages life in this unforgiving wilderness. At that moment, I could only feel respect for the animal. As the elk noticed me, it trotted past a ridge and disappeared. I fired three quick shots (A universal distress signal), but heard no response. Half an hour later I repeated the process, with the same results. I was beginning to think that I may have to try to survive the night, even though I was wet, and the temperature was already below freezing. But the thought of how this would scare Halina and my partners persuaded me that I must make an effort to get out of there before nightfall. I said "Please God let me find a way out of here." I ate a few dates, drank some water, and again attempted to find a way down. As luck, or God, would have it, I did come to a place where the slope of the canyon wall looked more manageable. It still looked precarious, but by now I knew I needed to get down before dark, one way or another. So I started to climb down. Twice I fell and tumbled 10 to 15 feet, grabbing branched to eventually arrest the fall. My rifle kept getting tangled up in branches, and was throwing me off balance to further complicate my descent. It was slowing me down terribly! As I was reaching complete exhaustion, I finally decided that I needed to get rid of the rifle. I looked at it and then tossed it into a thicket of mountain maples. At the same time I told myself that I will no longer hunt, that it didn't make sense to risk losing my life and depriving my wife of her husband, and my kids of their father for the sake of a rite of manhood. I am practically 61, for God's sake! Why did I need to do this?

I did mange to finally make it down to the highway, after several more falls, bang ups, a somewhat sprained knee, skinned shin, etc. I am just glad that I've been exercising in the gym, that I am now stronger than I've been since my high school days, that my bones are strong, that I am not afraid of heights and exposure, and that my willpower and faith were stronger than my body.

When I hiked back to the pickup, Marion and his father were not there. That really worried me. It meant that they may still be up there in the wilderness looking for me, or they had some problems of their own. I took off the backpack and started thinking that I have to start going back up, on a trail now, to find them. I didn't know how I would do that, given how exhausted I was. As I turned to look up into the canyon I saw a most wonderful sight: Marion with the hunter orange hat emerging from the shrubbery and saying "God, am I glad to see you!" "Am I glad to see you!" I responded. Turns out they had gotten back to the truck earlier, did not find me there, and decided to go back to look for me. Marion made a fire for his father to rest by, and he was to start the arduous task of climbing back up onto the ridge where we last saw each other. It is now past 5 PM, and really cold. He is wet, just as I am. Fortunately, as he started the climb, he saw me walking up on the highway.

We got into the truck and started towards home. I was extremely sore and tired, but elated that it all ended well. Marion said a beautiful prayer of thanks for the happy ending. It turns out that Marion also had fired three quick shots; did it three times and never heard an answer. We must have been really far from each other, and on opposite side of the broad ridge. He was extremely apologetic, said he should have known better than suggesting that we spit up under the circumstances. But I told him that I am to blame. When I first lost sight of his father's orange hat, I should have backtracked immediately up the ridge to find him. Instead I kept going, thinking that all I have to do is descend into the canyon: how hard could that be?

When I dropped Marion and Bruce off at their farm, I gave Marion my nice rifle case and all the ammunition I had (his rifle is the same caliber). I miss my rifle, into which I put a lot of work to make it precise. It was a beautiful rifle with a high precision scope, and an excellent shooter by the time I finished working on it. The total cost was around $1600. But its loss was part of a deep lesson that I will never forget. I think my life was changed permanently. And I think I made two new friends. I am amazed that Bruce was able to make the trip. Although he really struggled, and said he'll never go there again, this comes from a 72 year old man who had heart bypass surgery 10 years ago! Marion is a wonderful young man. The way he relates to his father, his respect and concern for him told me everything I need to know. I'll go on some of their hunts, in easier territory from now on, as an observer and photographer. The bonding I saw between the two of them tells me that these experiences will make us great friends. And for that too I am thankful.

Cheers,

Mark

Indeed it is. He showed me that rifle when I was up there (went shooting with him too, not with that one, though), and he was pretty excited about all the work he'd done to it, and about the upcoming hunt. It's definitely a moving story.

That was a very moving story. Thanks for sharing, Peter. It reminds me of my own uncle. He too, lived in Wyoming and was working on building his dream cabin before he passed. He was the consummate hunter and fisherman and Wyoming was the perfect place for him. Often he would tell us about drinking coffee on his porch and watching the elk move through his "backyard." Like your uncle he had an immense respect for the wildlife around him and enjoyed sharing the same space with them.

Thanks for sharing! I am glad that all ended well. I am not a hunter, but I love the outdoors and have had some great backpacking experiences in Wyoming and Montana.

Peter
Thanks for that!