THE PERFECT DAY
A True Story of a Colorado Elk Hunt, Part 3
by Charlie Steel

Join in the conclusion as Charlie reminisces about the hunt he'll never forget.

Towards noon, we got a brief glimpse of hunters' orange flashing through the trees miles away as two men on horses rode up a distant canyon. We saw them at the same time and watched them disappear. It was the only intrusion of other humans that we saw that day. An hour later, relaxing in the warm air under the bright sun, I saw the running flash of a large mule deer and then suddenly behind it, a larger buck with an enormous rack. Dawson motioned for me to take it. I raised my rifle, took off the safety, and scoped the trees where the deer had disappeared. I was hoping they would turn towards us and follow a narrow valley that lay three hundred yards below. We waited and waited and saw nothing. I finally flipped the safety and put the rifle down.

"They must have run up the other canyon," whispered Dawson.

I nodded.

"Did you see the rack on that buck?"

"It was enormous!" I whispered.

We sat there, both elated that we finally saw game. We waited another hour in silence and then Dawson spoke.

"You want to leave, or do you want to walk around some more?"

I didn't really want to go. It was a beautiful day and I still wanted to hunt, but it was Dawson's show, not mine.

"It's up to you," I said.

"Well then, let's walk down to the valley below us - looks like part of an old road and a few ponds of standing water."

I had noticed the same thing and was equally curious. We walked slowly down and came to a rutted, grass-filled road. We followed the road. I raised my rifle and carried it at the ready as we walked. The trail gently rose and we easily began to climb back toward the rising mountain. The trees were thick and dense on the left side. There appeared to be small ponds and water running along a ditch. This was a perfect place for hidden game. On some of the smaller trees were buck rubs and along the road were round dried droppings from elk and deer. From time to time we saw older elk tracks, and fresher deer tracks from that morning. Dawson and I pointed them out to each other.

We walked a long ways; in my mind I pictured a perfect rectangle. We headed back in the direction we had come. Before us was a hanging valley, surrounded by trees. We were not far from where we had climbed up the mountain. I looked to my right and saw the place we sat early that morning when it was cold and windy. As we climbed up to the open valley, Dawson pointed ahead where the grass was thick, rich, and still green on top of this high mountain.

"Looks like an old cabin there," he said as we neared the spot.

The cabin was old, made of thick pine logs, and falling down. The roof had caved in and so had most of the walls. Much of the wood was rotten. Dawson explained that Spanish sheep herders used to bring their flocks up into the mountains in the spring and stayed until fall. He said that this was probably one of their cabins.

We turned and walked back down the trail. We came to a massive log and sat down. The fallen tree was easily three, nearly four, feet thick. There was just the whisper of a light warm wind. The air smelled like fall with the rich loam of wet soil and decaying leaves. Long ago I had removed my stocking cap. My coat hung open and loose. I sat and looked up the mountain and across the open meadows searching for any movement of an elk or deer.

"Well," said Dawson. "It certainly turned into a beautiful day."

I agreed. We both stood up and headed back in the direction where we had climbed up the mountain. We followed a deer trail and came to a cliff. We climbed carefully down, zigzagging back and forth, following the trail until we came to the level top of the mountain. A hundred yards further, through grass and high ponderosa pines, we came to the cliff we had climbed that morning. I looked down and commented wildly.

"Dawson, we'll break our necks."

Dawson laughed and clapped his large, rough hands together.

"We'll see," he said. "We'll see."

"If we would have shot an elk or deer, how would we have carried it out?" I asked.

"Why, we would have quartered it, and carried out the quarters."

"A quarter on an elk would weigh more than a hundred pounds!"

The rancher laughed again. "Wouldn't be the first time I did that!"

"Maybe you, but not me! And it would mean four or more trips back and forth! If I got to here, I would just let it roll down the mountain!"

"Why, you'd bruise and ruin the meat!" exclaimed Dawson, again clapping his hands together in that way of his.

"Better than killing yourself!"

That brought a long horselaugh from the man.

"You're a better man than me," I said. "Climbing this mountain in cowboy boots. I thought I was going to die this morning. There is no way I could have carried meat down this mountain!"

Again came that laugh. I followed, slipping and sliding dangerously as Dawson dug the heels of his cowboy boots into the mountain slope and swiftly descended, zigzagging a little against the steep slope and stopping from time to time to look up and wait for me. The entire time I heard him softly chuckling. One time I stopped and looked down at him, and remembered what my father said when he was 70 or older. He would flex his huge bicep and say gruffly, "You couldn't kill me with a pick axe!" Yup, Dawson was of the same material.

"Dawson!" I yelled. Quit your chuckling, you're nothing but an old billy goat!"

Once to the truck, we sat on the tailgate, drank hot coffee and ate canned sausages and chocolate bars. Having forgotten forks; we stabbed the sausages with our jack knives and carefully shoved them into our mouths. On the way out, the road was already drying. In the meadows far below, in open fields mixed with the cattle, we saw herds and herds of mule deer. It was a hunt I would never forget. It was one of the best times I ever had - in part because of my friend, Dawson - and in part because we didn't shoot anything. It really was the PERFECT DAY.

Those interested in reading more about Charlie Steel's work may visit www.condorpublishinginc.com or www.charliesteel.net.