… chanted the old Irish poet Amergin.
But when this seven-point bull elk exploded from a shadowy ravine about 25 yards from where M. and I were standing, all I could think about was what a sneaky old elk he was.
There we were, two people (and two dogs) standing and talking in low voices while I photographed three mule deer about 75 yards up the slope, when suddenly there was a huge crash down to our left.
“More deer,” I thought, but it was just him. His patience had been finally exhausted, and he gave up his cool hiding place.
He angled up through the leafless Gambel oak toward the rimrock. The deer bounced off a few yards and then stopped to watch, as they do.
And I laid down the camera to help M. look for some gloves that she had left on her favorite rock on Saturday — strong winds had blown them downhill — and then we walked home again.