A photographic essay.
There’s a lot of empty country under that big sky. Steep and rugged, cold and windy.
You cut a track, check the wind, quarter back and forth, run an end-around to get ahead of them, hoping to spot the bulls before they scent you. It’s not easy. Unless you have a scout.
After a few long days of very tough hunting, it was almost anticlimactic. A lone coyote on the ridgeline, pointing like a field-trialer toward five bulls coming up the ridge.
Thanks to him, we were ready. Everything else was heavy lifting, knife work, and B&C scoring.