In September, I met up with Garrett Burback and John Armistead for a public land elk hunt.  We started our trip in Pulaski, New York, where we loaded a slide in camper onto the back of Garrett’s truck, filled it with bowhunting gear, backpacks, and empty coolers and headed west.  After a few long days on the road, and some restless nights in truck stop parking lots along Route 80, we arrived in Idaho.  The next 11 days were filled with steep hikes, spike camps under a moon lit sky, trout freshly caught and cooked from the creek, and my first encounter with elk.  When I returned home, a friend asked me what the best and worst moment of our trip were.  The lowest point came at the top of a ridge where we expected to find flat ground to camp on, and a herd of bugling elk to chase.  What we found was steep, rocky terrain with no good place to pitch a tent and elk that were miles off and moving away from us quickly.  We agreed to abandon this hellhole and set up at a new location the next day.  That night, we realized that a pair of binoculars had been left on the ridge where we had sworn to never return.  At first light, we hiked back up to the ridge to retrieve the forgotten gear.  As Garrett picked up the binoculars, I spotted a small herd of elk on the ridge to the north of us.  There were two bulls, a cow and a calf working their way up the mountain.  We would spend the remainder of our trip in the exact area we had cursed the day before.  The negative thoughts I had of this area were replaced with exciting hikes in the early morning dark to ridgelines where we’d glass elk as they returned to their beds.  Empty woods were now filled with close encounters with mule deer, pronghorn and loud, bugling bull elk.  In the end, we would return home with unfilled tags in our pockets and plans for next years drive west.