Nine degrees fahrenheit, six thirty AM, six inches of snow, two horses, two saddles, one cow elk licence, one rifle, five hunting knives, saddle bags, wool socks, gloves, hats, coveralls and face masks. Dec 14, 2013 Uinta Mountains, scrub oak, juniper, red rock cliffs, occasional grove of quaking aspen, mountain ash, bull pine and the historical marker of an old time homestead.
The horses working upward toward the next bend in the trail, steaming nostrils and anticipation of the next moment of rest as eager hunters glass the slopes. Hooves shod with sharp steel spikes for ice traction. Thick winter coats becoming damp with sweat. An occasional slip of the foot on steep ground as snow builds up on hoof bottoms. Gentle loyal attitudes plug onward, upward, eager to move forward, to cover the distance. Nose down, shoulders laboring the steep incline of frozen earth crossing tracks of cottontail, coyote, mule deer and wapiti.
Mountain peaks pierce the ceiling of wistful clouds. The air as still as a glass sea. The fresh scent of spring grass lost in the cold, buried deep in months past. Golden tufts of tall grass adorn the meadows, silently, stiffly, sleeping the winter away exposed above the snow to the cold long nights and warming daily in the shallow sun.
A very still day in the mountains. Four hours of hard riding before wildlife presents its self. A strange day in the wild to see no creature moving, hawks adorn the currents, and ravens are never far away but today was unique. A deer standing proud on the mountainside her ears erect, tail twitching, never stepping just owning the mountain, her matriarchal home. Eighteen deer near her in the brush and too close for comfort move up the slope toward her, bounding and stepping carefully over rocks and fallen logs. Hours later plodding past this very spot the large doe now lays near the very tree she stood by silently alertly watches two hunters, two horses on their homeward journey.
Silence, majesty, monarchical are the woods of this country. The summers grass fattening the herds, the streams quenching their thirst. The winters sleep nourishing the soil. Deep long rest for the roots and the bear. Days of crisp icy air on the wings of eagles and jays. The slopes stand firm for the pines and the trees display the adornment of father winter clothed in his frosty robes of ice. The rocks tell a story of ages past beyond the comprehension of the lion and the wolf. Yet the snows tell a story of their next meal as they follow the tracks of deer and the hare.
Two riders, two saddles, four boots, two human hearts filled with the spirit of indescribable beauty. The sound of the screeching hawk imprinted on their memory. The sight of vast valleys filled with the creations of God imprinted on their souls. Home to tell the tale to their little ones, eight young eyes wide with the wonder and the hunger for the adventure of the wild places.
