The herd of Roosevelt elk emerged from the mountainous timber, just as Dad said they would when he left me sitting there. Cautiously they walked single-file, broadside, 100 yards away. The little creek in the massive ravine separating us was overflowing its banks and roaring from recent rains, typical of the Oregon Coast Range in November.
The elk slowly moved along the trail, getting closer with each step. Intense rain bounced off the hood of my rain jacket, and my hands looked cold due to the death grip I had on the old .30-06 that belonged to my late grandfather.
I didn’t feel cold or wet. Adrenaline alleviated any discomfort.
Six … seven … nine. I counted elk as they slipped from the dense Douglas firs, lining out one-by-one. Through the trees I could see the body of what I knew was a bull. It was larger than the cows, and its
