Picture In A Bible

I hope my pastor doesn't read this, since I’m about to make an incriminating confession. There are times, albeit rare, when I find myself getting somewhat restless during the Sunday morning service at church. It typically begins subtly; my tie starts to tickle my freshly shaven neck, my dress shoes suddenly seem to fit just a little too snug, and I begin to glance compulsively at my wristwatch, wondering why the hands refuse to move. Eventually I become as fidgety as a meth addict in the cough syrup aisle at Walgreens and isn’t long before I’m receiving the dreaded stink eye from my lovely wife.

Fortunately, I have in my possession a secret weapon that comes in handy when combating severe bouts of “Church Boredom.” Tucked within the deep recesses of The Old Testament in my trusty King James, is an old dog-eared photograph of myself standing atop the summit of Mount Oliphant in Northwest Colorado. My Remington 30.06 is slung at-the-ready over my shoulder, while the vast Rocky Mountains unfurls like a magnificent, endless tapestry behind me.

My father took the photo, as I posed proudly on the first day of my inaugural elk hunt, when I was just a twenty-two year old kid, fresh out of college. Now, some thirteen years later, I use the picture as a visual aid that allows me to mentally escape the occasional dull church sermon.

It’s amazing how the memories from that day come rushing back when I sneak a quick peek at that faded 4x6 Kodak snap shot. I still remember Dad’s words that first night in camp.

“We’re heading to the top of Oliphant in the morning,” he said pushing away from the dinner table inside the cook tent. “Get some sleep, you’re going to need it. Tomorrow, I’m going to show you some of the prettiest elk country in all of Colorado.”

At the time I had no idea what an Oliphant was and I particularly didn’t care for Dad’s tone when he said, get some sleep, you’re going to need it. From years of chasing whitetails with Dad back home in our native North Carolina, I’ve learned those words usually mean I’m about to walk the soles off the bottom of my Danners. But the promise of prime elk habitat piqued my interest and I drifted off to sleep that first night in camp, dreaming of sun-dappled forests teaming with big bulls.

We crawled out of our sleeping bags the following morning at the unholy hour of 4AM and saddled the packhorses by the pale glow of a propane lantern in the biting cold. After shoveling some half-cooked bacon and eggs down our gullets and bidding the customary “Kill a big ‘un” to the other members of our hunting posse, Dad and I eventually found our selves riding through a lonesome, dark stretch of forest, deep within the Elkhead Mountains. As we plodded along to the rhythmic clip clop of horse hooves against the frozen trail, my overactive imagination conjured up images of what it must have been like to have lived the life of Old Jim Bridger or Liver Eatin’ Johnson, sleeking through the timber on their trusty mountain steeds-keeping one eye open for big game and the other for hostile Crow warriors.

Eventually we came to a fork in the trail where we quietly dismounted and tied the horses to large spruce tree. Dad showed me how to wrap orange ribbon to the horse’s bridles and panniers so that they wouldn’t be mistaken for a couple of elk by some optically challenged hunter.

My legs were stiff and cramped from the long ride out of camp, but I managed to keep up to the quick pace Dad had set for us up the winding path. A mile later, we emerged into a small clearing just as the Eastern sky was aglow with the first light of dawn.

“Well there she is,” Dad puffed in the frosty morning air. “Mount Oliphant.”

The mountain, silhouetted against a crimson and purple sky, rose like an enormous, stone shark fin out of a sea of evergreen timber. It’s summit topping out over 11,000 feet above sea level, dwarfing our mountains back home in Appalachia.

“You ready?” Dad asked.

I nodded instinctively, though I wasn’t entirely sure what lay in store for me.

“Good. Now take it slow and easy, watch your step and follow right behind me. And what ever you do, when we get back home, do not ever tell your mother what we’re about to do. She’d kill us both.”

We began our ascent on the western slope, scrambling up a steep slide of ice-laden boulders, where one miscalculated step could have sent us tumbling end over end, into the jagged, rocky abyss below. At times, the climb became so steep, we found ourselves on hands and knees using the butts of our rifles to propel us forward. It also didn’t help matters that an angry, Katrina-force wind was doing it’s very best to pluck us from the narrow ridge and hurl us, flailing like rag dolls, into the next state. Dad was right- if my mother could have seen us at that particular moment she’d have beat both of us within an inch of our lives.

“I’ve seen elk run over these rocks at an all out sprint, and never break stride,” Dad said, his voice muffled by the howling wind. “For such a big animal, they can really move when they have to. Amazing animals.”

Half an hour later, our undershirts thoroughly soaked in sweat and our lungs screaming in the oxygen-depleted air, Dad and I finally crested the summit.

We stood in silence for several minutes, catching our breath and staring in awe of the unblemished landscape that sprawled endlessly below us. Off to our right we observed a pair of bald eagles cruising the thermals over the snow-capped peaks in the distance. It was as though we were literally standing on the roof of the world.

“I killed a bull up here on this top several years ago,” Dad said. “Didn’t get above zero all day. I had to build a fire while I was quarterin’ him up, just to keep my fingers from freezin’ off.”

After recovering from the climb, and snapping some photos, we entered a patch timber that lined the summit. Several yards in I detected an odd scent. It was a musky, pungent odor. A smell that I’d never before experienced in the wild. Dad turned and looked at me with a sly grin. “Elk!” he whispered. There was a noticeable excitement in his voice and a considerable spring in his step as we ventured further within the tree line. The adrenaline I felt climbing the mountain now paled in comparison to what I was experiencing at that moment.

We hunted the summit plateau for a couple of hours, where we jumped a few cows and spikes, but no shooters. From the lack of fresh tracks in the stale, frozen snow that lay scattered in the pines, it became apparent the main herd had vacated the high tops for the warmer confines of the valley below.

“Don’t worry,” Dad said reassuringly. “We’ll jump some bulls this afternoon, when we hunt the benches on the other side of the mountain. The big boys like to lay up in the shade during the heat of the day.”


In addition to the sparse elk sign, there was the discovery of another set of tracks that morning that instantly captured my attention. They were pugmarks the size of a man’s fist and it didn’t take a degree in wildlife biology to know they belonged to large mountain lion. Now for a Southerner, whose only exposure to mountain lions was watching Discovery Channel documentaries such as When Animals Attack, which routinely feature the feline predators mauling and devouring unsuspecting hikers and hunters, I became somewhat paranoid the rest of the morning. I found myself constantly glancing over my shoulder, fully expecting to be pounced upon from behind and my jugular ripped out.

Fortunately, we were both still in one piece when lunchtime rolled around and we located a spot near the summit shielded from the roaring wind by a high rock cliff. By then, the temperature had climbed to a balmy sixty degrees, so we discarded our heavy hunting coats and stretched out on the warm rocks to rest our fatigued and aching feet. While basking in the glorious, high-altitude sunshine, we dined on a hunter’s gourmet of smushed ham sandwiches, crushed Nab Crackers and Little Debbie Cakes, followed by a lovely bottle of lukewarm Redneck Champagne (i.e. Mountain Dew).

As usual when Dad and I are together, our mealtime conversation pertained to topics of the utmost importance, such as the Tarheel’s chances at a national title, the weakness of the Atlanta Braves bullpen and the on-going debate of who was the more skilled stock car driver, Earnhardt or Gordon. Yet in typical fashion the conversation eventually drifted back around to the subject of hunting.

“Now pay attention,” Dad said gesturing towards the northern horizon with a half-eaten Little Debbie. “In this direction, you’re looking up into Wyoming and the Green River. Back this a way, on the far side of those mountains, is Rifle and Meeker, where I used to hunt elk with ol’ Junior Frisbee.”

For the better part of an hour, Dad proceeded to educate me on the names of the mountains, valleys, rivers and creeks that stretched out before us. He pointed out locations on distance hillsides where he and others had bagged bulls on past hunts. He explained to me the resiliency and tenacity of a bull elk and that even a well placed shot in the vitals wouldn’t necessarily bring one down.
“If he doesn’t drop immediately, keep laying the lead to him. They’re tough old boogers.”

Eventually the lecture turned into story-time, where Dad spun hunting yarn after hunting yarn, though I wasn’t sure all of them were square with the facts. I didn’t mind though, I simply sat in silence soaking it all in like a young Luke Skywalker at the feet of an elk hunting Jedi master.

“Appreciate this,” he finally said looking into the distance while savoring the last drops of his soda. “This country may not be like this forever.”

Those words have stayed with me over the years and since that day I’ve killed my share of bulls and can now spin my own hunting tales to any one who cares to listen. But no memory can compare to those of my first day as a rookie in the Colorado high country with Dad at my side. Though I’ve read countless books and articles on the art of hunting elk in the Rockies, nothing has yet to eclipse the wealth of knowledge I received that first hunt in early October.

As far as the old photograph of that morning, it’s still there, hidden somewhere between First and Second Samuel of my Bible, though the older I get, I tend to look at it less and less during worship service. I do hope, however, to add a second photograph along side eventually. Now that I’m a father, I look forward to one day making the same trip to the top of Oliphant with my son, passing along the same wisdom that I learned that day. Only this time I’ll be the one taking the picture.