That’s what filled the air inside the cars and trucks heading out of town in the wee hours last Sunday morning.
Big game hunters young and old were feeling the same thing, a sense that the day held special possibilities that can’t really be described. Those feelings, however, can be represented by the dreams and daytime reveries that most folks have had from time to time since they went off on their first hunt, however long ago that might have been. And it is especially difficult to explain it all to people who have never hunted or dreamed of it.
My friend Casper, the Dude and I piled into my truck and made our way east a couple of hours before first light. We hadn’t planned on a long hike in the dark, so we only needed enough time to get to a particular place where we would be able to start hunting as quickly as we could strap on our packs and head into the hills.
The banter during the drive focused on Casper’s interrogation of the Dude. It was the first time Casper and I had been out with him on a hunt. Casper tried to pry a pretty thorough resume out of the Dude while we drove. There was plenty of time for questions and answers over the next two hours.
“What kind of rifle are you using?”
“How did you get started hunting?”
“Does anyone else in your family hunt?”
“Do you cut up the meat yourself or do you pay someone to do it for you?”
“Can you do your share when you help pack out my elk this afternoon?”
And finally, “How long have you lived in Montana, by the way?”
The Dude held his own from start to finish. To that last question he answered, “Going on 15 years pretty soon.”
“Oh, boy, I don’t know if 15 years is quite long enough to qualify you to go hunting with us,” Casper replied with mock disapproval.
In the dim light of the camper shell we made our final plans, checked our equipment, and headed off into the first streaks of dawn. Casper and I had a general plan to cut a wide swath across foothills to the west, and then climb toward the edge of the snow on the far side of the valley. The Dude, being a bit younger and bouncier of step, was delegated to scale a high ridge and aim for a series of parks more than a thousand feet above us and to the east.
As we parted, Casper whispered to us:
“Remember, if one of us gets an elk, we’ll wait 15 or 20 minutes, then fire two quick shots. That will let the rest of us know we should head back to the truck and get ready to help haul the critter out.”
We always do that.
It almost never works. At the end of any day, elk or no elk, we recount the various shots we have heard throughout the day, and only rarely have we heard the same shots from the same general direction at the same time of day. I attribute my failure to hear what my companions hear to my declining ability to hear in general. I can’t speak for my companions.
Sunday was another in lifetime of those precious hunts - a painfully beautiful fall day, alone in the hills with nothing but my thoughts and the countryside underfoot.
Every one of those days afield, last Sunday included, comes to a close far too soon, but not before we have a chance to explore up close the folds and dark places, the mysteries, and the spectacular vistas that grace this country in all directions. These are hours I will remember and cherish through the long winter days and years ahead.
When we found our way back to the truck at the end of the day we spilled out the tales of the things we saw and the way the land felt as we walked and climbed and gazed out upon it. We tried to compare notes on shots we heard and where they might have come from. Without explaining it, we knew how each other felt, and we were again glad to be alive with a chance to walk in wild country.
And the seeds of sweet anticipation were sown again for other days still ahead.
Greg Tollefson is a Missoula free-lance writer whose column appears each week in Outdoors. He can be reached at gtollefson@montana.com.
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