Cowboy story of Elk and Fall Colors

 

It was late fall, and I’d saddled up my ol’ horse, Blue, takin’ to the east ridge for a spell o’ ridin’. There ain't nothin’ quite like the sights you catch in the Colorado mountains, seven-thousand feet up at the foot of the Williams Fork range. The fall colors were in their full glory—reds, yellows, and golds dancin’ through the trees, just as fine as a picture.

When we reached the ridge’s end, the whole of Williams Fork Valley stretched out below us. The river meandered peaceful-like, and way off yonder, you could make out Sleepy Cat Mountain standin’ tall. As I soaked in the beauty, my eyes wandered to the aspen trees a good ways off—Quakies, they call ’em. Then I caught sight of somethin’ peculiar. Up on the ridge before the mountains, it looked as though the land itself was shiftin’.

I pulled out my trusty spyglass for a better look, and sure enough, there was a steady stream of elk, movin’ west down toward the low country. There was a storm brewin’ to the east, no doubt about it. Funny thing was, next day marked the openin’ of elk season. I couldn’t help but chuckle, thinkin’ on all them hunters up the river, trampin’ through the hills, not a single elk to be found come sunrise. Those critters had more sense than any of us give ’em credit for.