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Herd Bulls

Herd Bulls

 Late evening wind slips through the pines. Shadows begin their descent along the ground, to merge with the already growing darkness deep in the forest. On strong legs the old bull climbs to a high vantage point surveying his home range. Granite peaks rise to the west. Cloud shadows slide across the deep green of forests, covering the entire valley floor and beyond. The silver shine of the Clarks Fork of the Yellowstone, snakes through steep canyons far below. The old bull is familiar with all he sees. Ten years of hard living have made him very vigilant of all that goes on in these high lands. He sports many scars and injuries. His right rear leg is crooked from a battle with a wolf pack in the deep winter snow. His front shoulder has finally healed from an arrow that sliced through his muscle last fall during the rut. One of his eyes is white, blinded by an antler tine during a fight with a rival bull in his youth. Freezing winters, deadly predators, and stealthy hunters have left their mark, but have failed to send him to the grave. The wind stirs along the ridge, every fiber of the elk’s being says flee. Human scent during these early autumn days usually means that he is being hunted. Yet caution and patience, have saved his hide on more occasions than he cares to recount. Slowly, he turns and melts into the shadowed timber, confident that his old body and honed senses will carry him to safety .

A knee replacement last fall kept the hunter out of the wild places, followed by the news that his best friend was diagnosed with cancer, and the final straw, his recent layoff from his job of twenty two years. Yet here he sits, high on a ridge looking through the scope at a huge seven point bull, a heavy horned old warrior with sweeping tines. The hunter never even considers taking the shot. He has taken several bulls in his long life and the one before him stands, as though transfixed by the raw beauty below him. Even when the old bull catches his scent and retreats slowly into the afternoon shadows, the hunter doesn’t contemplate killing the battle scarred beast. Once the bull is gone he rises on stiff but rebuilt knees and reaches for his warbag. From inside the bag he pulls out a leather sack containing the ashes of his friend, the cancer won the battle in December of last year. He walks to the place where the old bull stood and pours his friends remains over the cliff side. While tears fall to the high earth, he says, “Farewell brother, I will see you on the good red road. Thanks for joining me on this hunt”. As he descends from the mountain, a growling bugle reverberates from somewhere close by, “and farewell to you as well, brother.” he replies, as the cold clear winds dry the remainder of his tears.

The old herd bulls antler tips, clack against the tree trunks as he climbs up the mountain. The scent of the hunter still fresh in his senses. That was close he thinks, too close.

These two old bulls, the man as well as the beast share common burdens in life, hardships, danger, aging and survival. The herd bull will probably never know the burdens or joys of love, friendship and commitment. While the man, allthough wise to these three things, could not know the burdens that come with absolute survival, and constant vigilance that plague the elk in his every day. However, I can’t help but wonder and contemplate the parallels between our lives and those of the animal world.  In retrospect, I believe that we as animals ourselves, often let our minds do our thinking, when we may be better served by following our instincts when it comes to love, friendships and commitments.