Indian summer sun reflects through the dog hair lodgepole pines and onto my shoulders. The
wind-stunted aspens have turned a flaming gold…an omen of the end of backpacking for the
year. One last meal of bread and cheese before bearing my abode for a week. Sun-warmed pack
straps greet my shoulders as the load conforms to my pack.
Laces tightened, bellies full, we start on the well-worn trail that follows the west fork of the south
fork of the Sun River in the Bob Marshall Wilderness Area. At the first bridge, we meet a packtrain
of dirty, but smiling guests of a famed packer. They tell us stories of bugle crazy elk and old bear
sign in the meadows some six miles ahead. The conversation has definitely heightened my
anticipation of this evening.
The countless hooves and boots of the season have pulverized the trail into a layer of fluffy soil
and scattered rocks. The swirling dust of the trail is pierced by the haunting laughter of a Redbreasted
Nuthatch. These denizens of the forest are the acrobats of the bird world, hanging
upside down from a branch and launching into flight from that position. Along with the white
flashes of Dark-eyed Junco tails, the woods are a display of avian color on a green canvas.
A dark fan with gray edges struts along the path. A nervous head swivels in all directions in a
spastic attempt to observe us. Surprisingly tame, the Blue Grouse allows these potential
predators to move within feet of it and it’s previously concealed companion in the underbrush.
This situation makes one wonder how a bird this oblivious to us has been allowed by natural
selection to become so ubiquitous on the forested landscape. Pondering questions like these
seem to lighten my pack and ease the trail.
Coming into a meadow, dried and hardened from the days of scorching sun, vistas of Prairie Reef
and the Rocky Mountain Front are seen in every direction. A striking transformation takes place
within me at this moment. No longer am I an observer of the natural world. The immensity of this
place affirms my own measure of insignificance. I have become a part of rather than apart from. I
am no more or no less important than a Gray Jay or a Common Snowberry bush.
Several trail-bisecting creeks that threatened to wet my feet and cause blisters are crossed, and
we reach a river-bordering meadow that has been designated to be our home for the night. Packs
drop and relief rises. Gear is removed, "How in the world am I going to get all this stuff back into
there?" The tent is pitched and sleeping bags, pulled from their convenes, are laid out. Sticks and
tender are gather for a cooking fire. The match, well placed, bursts into warmth immediately (that
never happens!). Potted water boils and dehydrated refried beans are added for dinner. I’m
always amazed at how a dehydrated meal tastes so wonderful and fills me so well after a long
hike.
As dinner is inhaled, a sound, so faint that one wonders if one actually perceived it, reaches our
ears. The sound surfs the waves of golden, washed light that illuminates the open parks across
the river. The unmistakable hallmark of fall in the mountains is conveyed in the noise…the bugle
of the bull elk. I am determined to find this elk and capture him on film. Perhaps the light of
fortune will shine on me and provide my camera with the classic bull elk: one who possesses a
massive rack and has steam pouring from his bugle. We don daypacks full of equipment and the
search begins.
Creeping along the edges of successive meadows, I notice that each and every anthill has been
torn and scattered. A bear passed this point recently, and the real question is: "Is this the work of
Big Brother or his smaller cousin?" Practiced bear safety represses my fears and apprehension.
The bugle becomes increasingly louder as we approach. The bull has to be in the next meadow
across the muddy gully that separates us. Packs are shed and camera equipment removed.
We decide that I will stalk up to the edge of the meadow for the shot. Up a steep gully-side, the
bull’s form emerges through a spruce. He is slowly cruising his domain, but no cows are visible.
They must be here, but where? Dropping to a crawl, the edge nears, my shot almost certain. A
glance up rewards me with a face of a puzzled cow. An exchange of thoughts takes place in that
instant: "What are you doing?" thinks the cow. "Please ignore me, I only have a camera," I think.
Her shrill bark shatters the scene. The cow bolts towards the bull.
No purpose in stealth now. From the unseen portion of the meadow, thirty other elk burst from a
natural salt lick. The bull gathers them and herds to the top of the park. Leaving his now gathered
cows; he stomps down the meadow towards us, aggressively displaying his superiority with
grunts and swings of his impressive antlers. Primal emotions of dominance are clearly evident in
this beast.
As we turn to leave, a second bull materializes on the opposite edge of the meadow. Obviously
younger, he is waiting for opportunity to reign in this throne.
Swollen feet sigh as boots are finally taken off and toes tuck into the pleasant, chilly sleeping bag.
Darkness envelops the valley and stillness suppresses alertness. Distant bugles sliced through
the silence. Two Great Horned Owls emit their deep, familiar "Hoot" from moving positions as a
Boreal Owl joins the moonlit chorus from an unknown place. A typical wilderness experience, I
am tired, awake, the icy ether of night flows across my face, and a profound enjoyment warms
me.
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