I cannot remember the first time a member of my family or one of my friends asked if it wasn't about time to see about getting myself some hearing aids. I do know that it was a long time ago. I have had a substantial hearing loss since early adolescence when an ancient .22 rifle backfired in the general vicinity of my face. I tried hearing aids a couple of times over the years, but they never seemed to do the trick. They just made jumbled noise seem louder, not more clear.

Then one day last winter, my pal Del Ray stopped by the office one morning with an announcement.

"I'm going to get my hearing tested, and then I'm going to get some hearing aids, and you're coming with me," he said.

He wouldn't take no for an answer.

When I got my new hearing aids a few weeks later, whole worlds of sound opened up that I had forgotten.

Suddenly, I could carry on discussions with groups of people without having to just smile and nod as though I heard and understood everything that was being said. I discovered that the turn signal in my truck made a noise, and my son Sander no longer had to repeatedly say, "Dad, the turn signal is still going." I could hear newsprint rattle when I turned the pages.

And most wonderful of all, I could hear birds that I had no memory of hearing. Ducks and geese and owls were always easy. Ravens, crows, and magpies were within my range. I could always hear a single meadowlark on a still spring morning. But all those thousands of little birds with beautiful songs and calls that were too high-pitched for my battered ear drums were an epiphany.

I was thinking about all of this last Sunday while I was picking my way through a dark forest flanking a babbling headwaters stream in search of an ever elusive elk.

I thought of the day, 10 or 15 years ago, when friend Casper had asked me, "So, how many elk do you think you may have missed out on because of not being able to hear them when they moved?"

Of course, it was a question I couldn't answer. As I recall, however, I did try.

"Well, Casper, I don't really know. I'll say 11 for sure," I replied.

But last week, although I now have a pair of very satisfactory hearing aids, I wasn't wearing them. That's because, even with some of the finest of modern technology, they still roar like jet engines when I am standing on a ridge with the wind blowing gale-force right through me. And, I don't want to lose one of those expensive little mechanisms to an errant twig while I'm crawling through a patch of brush. Nor do I want to have one snagged along with my hat when I misjudge a low-hanging branch. I would hate to have both disappear into a snowbank when I lose my footing and do one of my patented face plants.

It seems to be good common sense to save those hearing aids for civilization. But on Sunday, I thought of Casper's question and started wondering what I might be missing out on in the elk department because of my poor hearing. I came to the arbitrary conclusion that perhaps three opportunities to fill my elk tag had eluded me that very morning. It was a good solid number to try out with my pals when I got back to the truck.

I also discovered that my hearing deficit did not have much of an impact on my ability to hear the big bull moose that I rousted from the heavy downfall. In full flight over logs that criss-crossed one another like pickup sticks, the huge animal created a din reminiscent of the last demolition derby I attended at the Western Montana Fair.

Elk are different, I thought to myself.

That explains it.

When I got back to the truck, I put my hearing aids in so I could report to the boys on the way home. Missed out on three elk. I'm sure of it.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Greg Tollefson is a freelance Missoula writer whose column appears each week in Outdoors. He can be reached at gtollefson@bresnan.net.