out 300 yards. A spike, perhaps arnforkhorn: any elk is a good elk, you canrnhunt for weeks up here without seeingrnanything. A rock ten feet away offered arnrest. I crept to it, knelt, cradled the forestockrnin my gloved hand, took aim, andrnfired.rnThe young bull lifted his head andrnstared above my own into the tops ofrnthe trees behind me as the crash of thernexplosion rebounded around us. Thernvertical distance was greater than I hadrnestimated, causing me to hold too highrnand send the bullet a foot above him. Irnsettled the crosshairs on the brisket andrnfired again. The bull staggered underrnthe impact of the hit, turned slowly, andrnwalked behind the root mass of a fallenrntree overgrown by saplings. By the timernI reached him he was stretched on thernground, with just enough strength tornscrape the duff with his hooves. I circledrnhim carefully, and discharged a final shotrninto his neck. Back in camp, Linda hadrnheard the reports and had coffee waitingrnwhen I arrived there.rnWe were on the kill an hour later, Lindarnwith her camera, I with my knife, saw,rnand a pair of hatchets. I spent somern.time and even greater effort in turningrnthe 600-pound carcass to position thernhindquarters downhill from the frontrnones, and in rolling it securely onto itsrnback. Then, taking a pinch of belly skin,rnI ran the point of the knife under it andrnslit the tough hide from pelvis to brisket.rnThe paunch, pale, slick, and warm,rnsmelled powerfully of sagebrush. Withrnthe knife, I cut it free of the encompassingrnframe of bone and cartilage, and severedrnthe esophagus, windpipe, heart, andrnlungs—pulverized by the 150-grain .338rnWin. Mag. slug—while the body cavityrnfilled with the purple blood. Then, seizingrnthe hind legs below the elbow, Irnrolled the carcass twice, three times, andrnspilled the guts in a pile on the ground,rnsaving only the liver which I placed on arntree stump close by.rnI severed the legs at the knees and elbows,rncutting first with the saw, thenrnpopping and crushing the ball joints withrna hatchet, and moved up to the neckrnand head, which I removed above thernshoulders. By now it was noon and wernwere beginning to tire, particularly Lindarnwho had been holding the camera allrnmorning to photograph the butchering,rnbut still the work was only started. Irnpaused to chase a camp robber off thernliver, which in any case was shriveling inrnthe sun (I don’t care for the stuff myself).rnand to strip off my leather vest, flannelrnshirt, and bandana, everything stiff withrnthe dried brown blood, before setting tornwork again in my Army wool pants andrnlong-johns under the hot October sun.rnWith the knife and saw I divided therncarcass behind the short rib. Then I upendedrnthe front half, set the blade ofrnone hatchet across the top of the spine,rnand pounded the hatchet with the headrnof the other. With excruciating slowness,rnthe blade sank into the spinal column,rncleaving bite by bite downwardrnthrough bone and marrow. Manyrnhunters pack in a chain saw for the job ofrnquartering, but as well as being a cumbersomerntool it can be a lethal one: severalrnseasons ago a game warden from BigrnPiney severed his own femoral artery andrnbled out in minutes beside the carcass.rnIt was past one o’clock when I finishedrnquartering the front half and beganrnon the hind one, my hands blisteredrnthrough the bloodsoakcd leather gloves,rnbut by two the job was done and we werernready to return to camp for the horses.rnOr horse: on the single occasion when Irntried to pack an elk on the gelding, hernran over me in his headlong flight downhillrnand threw himself over an embankmentrninto a creek bottom. By three wernwere back with the mare, who stood patientlyrntied to a tree while we struggled tornheave the front quarters into the panniers,rnone on each side of the saddle.rnThen down to camp to unload, and backrnto Indian Ridge for the hind ones. Atrnfour we were once again in camp withrnthe meat cooling on a compacted snowbankrnand our insides tingling from infusionsrnof Jim Beam cut with handsful ofrnsnow.rnWhile Linda gathered wood for a fire,rnI picketed the horses and afterward satrncrosslegged on the pine needles to attackrnthe Jim Beam bottle again, feeling therngreatest satisfaction I had known all year;rnthree elk in five seasons is good work.rnThe sun dropped behind the ridge andrnimmediately the darkened air chilledrnabout the orange flames and the columnrnof gray smoke rising through thernpine boughs where the saddles, blankets,rnguns, and ropes hung around the pitchedrntent. Supper was beef stew, tortillas panfriedrnin butter, black coffee, and whiskey.rnWhen we finished eating the stars werernout and the horses, grazing clumps ofrndead grass at the ends of their picketrnlines, barely visible. I snubbed them to arncouple of pine trees for the night andrncrawled into the tent on hands and kneesrnbehind Linda. We zippered into thernbags and lay in the dark for some minutesrnbefore one of us spoke. “Do yournthink we ought to move the meat?” “Irnwas just lying here thinking about it.”rn”The horses will warn us if a bearrncomes.” “Um.” “Well, shall we movernit?” “Yes. Let’s go move it.” We rosernand went out half-dressed into the coldrndark where, seizing the great shaggy bullstinkingrnbloody quarters between us, wernlugged them away from camp to anotherrnsnow drift at the edge of the park.rnThe wind got up in the night enoughrnto shake the tent, but at daybreak the skyrnwas clear. Because the mare can packrnonly half an elk at a time, we had tworntrips to make down to the crossing andrnback. While Linda made breakfast, Irnhurried to strike camp, load the packs,rnand settle the panniers over the mare’srnsaddle. The elk quarters were cold, slippery,rnand hard to handle, heavier thanrnthey had seemed the day before. Lindarnrode out on the gelding while I followedrnon foot, leading the mare.rnWe made slow progress on the steeprntrail. The dead weight bore hea’il’ onrnthe mare’s front legs and knees, and therngelding flared his nostrils and blew eachrntime a breeze carried the scent of elk tornhim. But it was a splendid morningrnagain, the sky almost white at the horizonrnand cobalt overhead, the parallelrnridges dark with pine and saddled by yellowrnparks, the tawny desert far below repeatingrnon a lesser scale the series ofrncrests and ridges rolling eastward. On arnprecarious sidehill we caught up with arnmule train packing a couple of elk and arnbig bull moose, to which the gelding reactedrnlike a rodeo horse. I consideredrntaking my sidearm from under my coatrnand shooting him, but Linda protestedrnthe idea of having to walk out.rnWe made Fontenelle Crossing byrnnoon, where Linda waited by the creekrnwith the mare, the meat, and herself forrncompany while I took the gelding fromrnher and went loping away cross-country,rnproceeding from one bow in the roadrnto the next. I made La Barge Creek inrnhalf an hour, and 15 minutes later wasrnat the crossing again. I parked the truckrnand trailer in a swag in the road, andrnlooked up the forested canyon to therndistant wall of Indian Ridge, a high redrnbarrier keeping back the sky, where thernlast elk quarters waited. The geldingrnstamped. “We’re burning daylight,”rnLinda said.rn50/CHRONICLESrnrnrn