This is part 3, the last of my blog that describes my outdoor career. In the first two parts, I get into my early life, then my years in two colleges, three jobs in Utah, New York, and then back in Utah. Part 2 ends where I receive a phone call while working as a wildlife biologist for the US Bureau of Land Management in Vernal, Utah. The year was 1978.
It was a foggy, dreary day in northern Canada, with no promise of the fog lifting soon. I was sitting with an old Indian guide, waiting for it to clear up, hoping to see a moose in the beaver marsh shrouded by the fog. I noted that it was sunny on the slopes above us where there was decent visibility. Where we sat, we couldn't see 10 yards below us because of the fog. I wondered if it might be wise to climb higher and hunt where we could see, but I trusted the guide's wisdom.
My last blog described an elk hunt with General Chuck Yeager where he gave me his rifle. In order to keep the blog from becoming too lengthy, I omitted a profound incident that deserves to be told.
Many folks believe that elk hunting is the toughest of all hunts in North America, when considering the more common species. To be sure, mountain goat and sheep hunting can be grueling, but elk, in my opinion, get the gold medal for being most challenging, day in and day out.