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   My brother-in-law called me one day several years ago and suggested we go bow hunting for elk in a remote wilderness area he heard about. It would be during the end of September and the first week of October. The weather was supposed to be great, and it is a beautiful time of the year in the Rocky Mountains. Our wives agreed to go along and maintain the camp while Jose and I were out hunting.

   We met at a town that consisted of one building that served as the post office, general store, bar, and gas station. From there, we drove about fifty miles of bad roads, dirt trails, and cow paths up into the forest. We set up our tents near a rocky stream among the towering pines. We built a circle of rocks in the stream to hold our pop, beer, and water to keep it cold in the icy water. Another ring of stones arranged between our tents served as our campfire and cooking area. Our campsite was pretty cozy when the sun went down and we turned in for the night.

   An unexpected rain came up in the night. When we got up in the morning, the little stream had swollen considerably and all the beverages had been washed out of their rocky correl. From then on, when we wanted something to drink, we would walk downstream looking for a wayward can or bottle. Before the end of the trip, we found most of what had gotten away from us. Those we did not find will be a pleasant surprise for another hiker or hunter.

   On the first morning, after a hearty breakfast, Jose and I grabbed our backpacks and bows and took off for the day in hopes of bagging a nice bull elk. Jose planned to go south out of camp and hunt on the far side of an open meadow. I would go east up the side of the mountain, planning to find a good spot near the tree line. We would meet back at camp at sunset. I hiked for quite some time and decided to stop at a clearing to rest and take in the scenery. The aspens were golden yellow making a stark contrast to the background of dark green pines. Snow glistened farther up the mountain above the tree line. I decided to blow my elk call while resting and enjoying the view just in case an elk was nearby. A few seconds after my first call, I was answered with a bugle that sounded exactly like Jose calling. I thought the return bugle was a signal from Jose letting me know where he was. It was not unlike Jose to get his directions confused, so I assumed he had gotten turned around and was just a hundred yards or so below me in the thick pine forest. Not wanting to ruin his hunt, I promptly continued my hike up the mountain. When asked about his hunting location when we got back to camp that evening, I discovered he had indeed been where he said he would be, at the end of the meadow. I had apparently happened to be close to a bull elk and sneaked away from him, assuring I would never see him.

   Since we were camping in bear country, the ladies waiting in camp were well armed for their protection. My sister, who is a rather short individual, carried a long barrel .45 Colt revolver on her hip. She looked comical as well as formidable. My wife was packing a .45 auto. Between the two of them, they could take care of any intruder that had the misfortune to stumble into camp. Jose and I were both careful to announce our return in the evenings. It would not be good to sneak up on them. (to be continued)

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