If you lived through only one of those winters that elk has, you would write books about it.

“If you lived through only one of those winters that elk has, you would write books about it. You would become a shaman. You would be forever changed. That elk from the winter stands there on the summer evening, watching from beside the forest. It keeps its story to itself.” – Craig Childs, The Animal Dialogues: Uncommon Encounters in the Wild

My big brother is here in ‘Braski, all the way from upstate New York.

He’s a 25-year-old out-of-stater with broad shoulders, a solid background in east coast whitetails, extensive butchering knowledge, more pride than he knows what to do with, and a track record of being good at… pretty much everything. And while I’ve always called him my big brother, I’ve got three whole years on the guy, though it’s hard to tell by looking at us.

Welcome to Wyoming.

With him came:

• My uncle, my father’s brother, Brian
• A duffel bag packed tightly with camo, long johns and wool socks
• An old Ruger 338 on a cushioned bed of foam
• A box of ammo for said rifle
• A 12-pack of PBR
• Several cans of Vienna sausages 
• And a mission

February 14, 2017: Four moths post man camp. Yeah, he’s still eating those things.

He’s here the lucky one of the three of us that entered to draw a Wyoming elk tag.

The hunt unit is general, and we plan to dedicate the next seven days to many miles of walking (the most intense hiking and climbing any of us have ever done), a week of primitive camping (come rain, sleet, wind, snow and temperatures near 0 degrees), and making every effort to figure this shit out as we go (let’s be honest here).

The mission? I suppose there are two.

1.    Mission WYo wapiti: shoot a bull worthy of the cost to enter, draw, prepare, travel and take the time off work back east.

2.    Do it with this rifle – a possession of my father’s, our hero, that’s sat unused in the upstairs gun cabinet for years without ever being fired.

Why? Because we lost him.


The blood, breath and life of our five-person family stopped fighting the metastasizing cells in his body and quit hurting the previous June.

To say this is a mission then, is truly an understatement.

It’s really a quest. For comfort, for some kind of closure, for some kind of reassurance; affirmation that things are going to be alright and we’re going to make it through this and somehow, someway see better days down the road.

 

WYo “Man Camp” – October 2016.

We’re here for dad, for Ronnie.

So we head into the Snowy Mountains on a gorgeous 65-plus-degree day, set up camp, make plans for the next day, scout, laugh, relax and dream of the 5x5 that’s out there… somewhere among the deadfall, just waiting for us.

 

Operation “Find ‘em,” day one.

Two days and two missed opportunities later, the sky goes dark, the WYo wind whips and the weather changes. Rain then sleet then snow and soon, the tough hiking down and climbing up and in and out of canyons becomes a brutal endeavor. The ground is wet, the snow heavy and the temperature plummets. Our clothes freeze while we sleep and our propane heater, as per the warning on the box we all chose not to read, refuses to function. We later learn, after taking the time to give said neglected box a quick glance, that at elevations over 7,500 feet, most Buddy Heaters won’t fire up for anything. Write that down, you’ll want to remember it.

In the Snowy Mountains of Wyoming, when it rains it blows, sleets, snows and keeps on snowin’.

Day three is more of the same – wind, rain, hail, sleet and snow. Lots and lots of snow. It’s wet and heavy and we spend a long cold day slipping up hillsides and sliding down into ravines.


Growing up, I spent years as a high-level competitive gymnast. I lived in the gym, spending four or more hours a day for years on end in the tiny, tucked away building. I was covered in sweat, chalk dust, athletic tape and blood more often than I was not.


Point being I know work.


And day three, was work like I’d never drug myself through before. We walked and trudged and breaked for bagels with peanut butter, smoked oysters and lukewarm joe. We hiked and fell and fumbled through the day.


No elk.

 

Some old-fashioned things just can’t be beat. Things like fresh air, sunshine, dirt-filled fingernails and the sound of Ronnie’s 338 echoing through miles of Wyoming deadfall.

Day four was toughest of all. My uncle hung back at camp, needing a respite from the brutal punishment us younger adults so willingly threw our now battered bodies into. The three of us that remained piled into the Durango and headed out early – as in many hours before daylight early. We drove, got lost, turned around, and eventually, made it to our entry point. Three hours, countless up-downs over the growing mountain slopes and several buckets of back sweat later, we stopped to gather ourselves.


Heaving, huffing and trying to find a comfortable way to stand on the near vertical ground we came to rest on, we stood. Taking in the silence, looking out over Wyoming at nearly 10,000 feet. No one spoke.

Have you ever seen Wyoming from 10,000 feet? Heaven. That’s the only thing it compares to. That’s the only word I can conjure. It’s the most incredible thing a person could ever see. There’s nothing to say, you just stand there gaping, unmoving feeling nothing but warm and small.

It’s something you have to suffer for – if you survive the blister-inducing climb to the ridge, then you’ve earned the view. It’s heaven. 

The author and her 25-year-old, broad-shouldered, luckier-than-a-you-know-what big brother, Matthew.

Slowly, without speaking, we began to move again, bent 90 degrees at our waists we slowly angled up toward the ridge. Right, left, sticks, right, left, sticks, thud – my brother drops to chest. His mouth is open, his eyes huge. He smiles and points. Up. Up over the ridge.





Instinctively, when he dropped so did I, flattening myself in the snow to ensure no part of my body was visible over the ridgeline beside me. I crawl on belly and elbows until I can peek over the edge.
 
The sun is blinding.


The wind whips.
 
There are elk everywhere.


 


To be continued…