Misanthropy Loves Company

Just west of Gypsum Colorado and north of a dot on the map called Dotsero there are a series of switch backs that will take one up to 11,000 feet (plus) passing Basque sheep herders in their caravans along the way. The Flat Tops wilderness is like no other place in Colorado (or in the world, but my experience in that is limited). Further back there are literally no roads, just game trails in the dark timber, further down, the roads exist but can still be blocked by snow drifts in June. The dark timber eventually gives way aspens which give way themselves to scrub oak and arctic/subarctic plains until the entire land mass drops off the limestone cliffs.

It is to this area that we've gone elk hunting for years. At last count we've lost one trailer, and one outfitter's tent to the weather. We about added a 4-Runner this year, but more on that on later. I must confess that when it comes to elk hunting I lack what many would call a "killer instinct". Yeah I get up before dawn and go push and post and the game trails but my heart's not always in it. For starters, the land itself is surely enough to make even the most devout atheist believe in God as you watch a sea of clouds come below you and fill the numerous ravines as you sit on a limestone outcropping above . Secondly, for some reason when I find myself totally without distractions I am unable to quash the desire to read. Many a year has gone by (and possibly many an elk) with me sitting on a game trail, ridge or any other place with my nose stuck in a book. A good portion of the Brothers Karamazov was digested in a bush in the middle of clearing into which I had crawled before dawn one year. Finally, Elk are truly majestic creatures and though members of my party have had the opportunity to get elk, they like myself are simply awe struck at the sight of such elegance and grace. So it was again this year as once more we headed up.

I was fairly sick on Saturday and didn't get out until well after the alarm went off at 4:45am but still headed out early enough to catch the snow storm move in while overlooking the steep draws of French Creek while having lunch. By the time we returned in the evening it had started to accumulate on the tents and getting the fire going was a bit of a challenge. But still, it's always a pleasure to spend time with family in what surely must count as a paradise of sorts.

Sunday morning my brother and I were both up fairly quickly and out to investigate. As we drank coffee and ate our breakfast we looked back at our tent which had partially collapsed due to the snow storm. When we hollared to the other tent about going hunting they enquired about the snow. We informed them that it was indeed still snowing and were annoyed (though not surprised) to hear that they would not be going out. We quickly came came to an unspoken understanding that with a partially collapsed tent, an unabating snowstorm and two older companions with a string of bad luck in regards to losing things up here in bad weather that discretion was indeed the better part of valor and that a hasty retreat from the area was in order.

As we finished loading up the truck to leave I opened up the cab door and surveyed the scene. On the bench seat between my brother and myself lay two pistols, additional clips for said pistols, rifle ammo, knives, cigarettes, cigars, cans of beer, some other smokable entity of a more questionable legal nature and Waylon Jennings belting out Bob Wills Is Still the King, and "if that ain't country I'll kiss your ass". Now admittedly we're very gonzo, but still.

We progressed up out of camp towards the main road with my dad in the lead until we came to one of the steeper hills and the 4-Runner first stalled in its advance and on a second attempt actually slid sideways off of the side of the hill. We were last up the hill and once I topped out my brother told me that I'd better go back and see what I could do. So cigar in mouth (I left the beer behind) I ran down the hill to find my dad trying to get out his chains. Surveying the situation I quickly came to the conclusion that chains at this point would be unnecessary and could be counter productive. Articulating this in my usual graceful vernacular I said, "fuck that". I hopped in the 4-Runner, donned the alpine hat my uncle had brought home from the service. I proceeded to get the truck up and out. I happily return to my truck, put in Jerry Jeff and lit another stogie knowing that we would all get down from the flat tops in one piece.

Decent Teamster? Possibly. Great White Hunter? Definitely not.