Visions of Antlers Running Through My Head

The bull was bedded in the timber at the top of a spur ridge running off the mountain. There were no tracks on the side from which I approached so his appearance caught me by surprise.

My rifle was slung, and he was gone before I could bring it to my shoulder.

In one leap he vanished, only to reappear in my dreams. I can still see him if I want, whenever I close my eyes.

He’s bigger now. Those that got away seldom shrink in size.

I’ve shot other bulls – some large, some small -- and their antlers hang on the walls of my home. I can remember where I killed each one, although not as clearly as I once did. Memories blur over time.

As usual, I was hunting by myself. No one else saw the big elk rise and disappear, leaving nothing but a bed in the snow and far-spaced tracks leading off the back of the ridge.

I didn’t even tell anyone what I’d seen. Instead, I went back the next day, visions of elk antlers running through my head. Now expecting to see him, of course, I didn’t.

He may have been an unremarkable bull -- my view was fleeting -- but his rack was dark and heavy, or so I recall.

I didn’t shoot an elk that fall. The one that got away kept drawing me back to the same place. Other spots with more elk held little interest for me for the rest of the season.

A creature of habit, I tend to return to those places where I was successful in the past, expecting them to be as good as they once were. They seldom are.

A couple of years later the ranch where I’d seen the bull sold, and the new owners didn’t allow hunting. I’ve never been back.

I don’t hunt elk much anymore, preferring instead to shoot birds over my dogs. Packing out a limit of grouse is much easier than lugging elk quarters out of the mountains.

But I still think about it.

And I can still see that big bull turn and rise and disappear in a flash. I suppose I always will.

Parker Heinlein is at [email protected]