The Wild West
I, some five miles into my hike, am taking the Power Line Trail to get down. I am hot, tired, sore, and hungry. Therefore, I am running. For I am ready to reach the end of the trail. Running with short, deliberate steps — calculated with rapid acuity — to avoid odd-shaped and loose rocks, and any otherwise slippery surfaces, of which there are many. Correct and precise foot placement is imperative at such speed to avoid falling or injury.
And so, focused intently on the immediate ground before me, I round a bend and all in a moment, I see movement ahead and skid to a frozen stop, arms out with alertness, eyes peeled, heart pounding. Finding myself to be both a surprisee and surprisor.
Up and into the emptiness of craggy rocks and burned stumps.
The herd of white butts just ahead is already bouncing and shuffling away. Yet shortly, in some magical unison they all stop at once — with the rear flank turning to reassess my location and potential threat level. I watch, as I am being watched. Apparently not feeling very assured, they again move as one, up higher onto the ridge, amid some tree cover — albeit is light as last year’s Cameron Peak Fire laid havoc to the area.
They again stop as a unit. Seemingly feeling slightly safer there, more than just the rear flank take notice of me this time, their long heads peering over their narrow shoulders, maintaining a jumpy and ready stance. I have continued walking, slowly and quietly. Regardless, they make one more dash just out of sight, just beyond the ridge’s crest; I guess still not satisfied that I am a non-threat. I don’t blame them though, as bad as I startled them.
I walk along, humoring dreams of moving about among them—the harmless elk whisperer—practically part of the herd…when I come around the next subtle bend and find the ridge they previously crested has kneeled down to kiss the trail I am on. They must have gotten a whiff of me in the wind just before I saw them because they are already in aggressive retreat. Taking no chances this time, they are hustling. I run along with them…well, parallel with them, for a minute, thinking things like “yeehaw!” and “raw hide!” …perhaps even saying them aloud to no one.
Elk are fast when they want to be. They create space and in what looks like a group of frazzled, rounded up cattle, did one last collective about face to triangulate my position. This, in their concert crowd frenzy, is when I notice one awkward set of antlers piercing toward the sky right in the middle of the pack. The bull and his harem. Then, in a snap, in one accord, they decide they have had quite enough of this punk human stalker. And they bolt!
The sight of it is impressive. Dozens of large animals moving across the terrain with such ease and grace, leaving a trail of arid dust behind like a deterring smoke screen. All the while they remain so close together, navigating uneven ground, rocks, trees, and the rest of nature’s stumbling blocks. The sound of it is thrilling. A concerted symphony—the cooperative stomping and pounding of…maybe 200 heavy hooves…into the earth creates an exhilarating energy in the air—a percussion bomb. It is like a runaway drum circle orchestrated by 100 children hyped up on candy and caffeine.
Down into the valley below.
Minutes later I pass over a part of the trail the elk had trampled, tilled, and tamped in their unkempt departure—the madness of movement. The lingering scent of the disturbed and upturned earth amid the fear of flight is dank and damp and delightful. I take several deep, nosy inhales. I look down the steep empty gully in the direction I thought they had gone. But no sign of their path is evident. It’d be crazy and dangerous to gallop down that steep grade anyway, right? Well, I look beyond that and sure enough they have; they are ascending the next ridge two-by-two. Astonishing. I hope out loud that no one was hurt in the process, and nod my head in appreciation, respect, and admiration for these creatures and their wild ways in the still somewhat wild west.
