I was prepared. In about every way I could think of. Even sighted in the British 303 scoped rifle; it was manufactured in 1912, for the First World War.

The campsite was near Swift Creek Reservoir in south central Washington State, near Mount St. Helens before it popped its’ top. However, late in the year, at that altitude, there was snow and it was cold.

It was just the perfect place to hunt. I had been on a tree planting crew the previous summer and saw a herd of Elk; knew where they fed and watered, had the spot all picked out.

It stayed warm in the cab of the four by. I sipped coffee from a thermos, smoked a half a pack of cigarettes, knowing I was downwind from the blind, behind a stump and a windfall. Deer and Elk are not dumb animals. They have a sense of smell that can detect a human odor and certainly burning tobacco.
The Bull is also a bit crafty. When they come out to feed at first light, the Cows and the Yearlings venture cautiously out from cover to the open areas to graze; the old Bull holds back and watches.

It was time. I quietly buttoned up the truck and silently made my way down a gully and back up to where
it would be about a hundred yard shot from the heavy cover fronting the meadow. A quick check for the license and tag, patted the blade on my hip and went through the details if and when I made the kill.

One never knows. Some hunting trips you never see a single animal.

The gray dawn brightened enough so the tree line became visible. Low clouds and flurries and trailing wisps of fog sculptured the scene in an eerie way; there was absolutely no sound besides my deep and regular breathing.

Another ten minutes or so and details became clear across the meadow; the third time I thought I saw movement, I did.

A good-sized antler less Cow made a step and stopped, ears twitching, head turning side to side.

Slowly, one by one, the females ventured out. It seemed like the newest one took over guard duty as the ones before lowered their heads and browsed. I counted nine animals in all, three smaller ones among them.

Papa Bull was slow coming out, but I knew he was watching and listening and sniffing the breeze; I could feel him in my bones.

Then…one minute he wasn’t there, the next minute he was; majestic in his size and the rack of antlers that swept back and forth as he surveyed his cows and all around them.

He circled around them. Herding them a little closer together but moving into fresh grazing areas a little at a time.

Then it was time.

There was the shot I was looking for. Broadside, just below and behind the shoulder, a heart shot.

I couldn’t pull the trigger.

He was too beautiful.