I often hiked in the forests that surrounded Jackson Hole. The forests were deep, the fir trees tall, the lakes clear with the Teton range reflected in their calm surfaces.
The autumn forest was loud with the sounds of bugling elk and bellowing moose.
This was their season, the rutting season, what a name for the season of love in the forest.
This was also the hunting season, but in contrast with the multitude of hunters from all over the U.S. and the constant sight of dead elk strapped to pickup trucks that I saw in town, I never saw any hunters or heard any shots in the forest.
Out-of-town hunters hired local cowboys to guide them and I believe the forest we spent time in was off limits to them.
A guy friend of mine, whose name now escapes me, and I would hike to one of the lakes. This became our regular hike, Moran perhaps, was the name of the lake?
We'd sit down, our backs against a tall tree and we'd be very quiet. Most of the time, nothing happened. On a few occasions a small herd of elk would come to the other side of the lake, some to drink, some to watch.
While we never saw them butting horns or mating, seeing them in the wild was so worth the hike and the wait.
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All of this was later to become memories of my time in Wyoming. Memories I've written about before and will no doubt continue to write about here every now and then.
I'm in a way using my blog to write my memoir, not of just one period in my life, but a memoir of good times and the good memories those times created for me to reflect on, smile at, and write about in my old age.
