I'd been to Yellowstone in 1994 and had witnessed the remarkable rebirth of vegetation that had followed the big fires there in '88, and I asked Steve why the ridge across from us was still barren.

"This was one hot fire," he replied. "It burned the soil, burned the roots of the trees. At first it looked like they had the fire contained, but it suddenly blew up, and to give you an idea of what that means, a guy who was riding in the valley a couple miles away was knocked right off his horse from the wind the fire drew."

We rode along the ridge another half-mile or so before stopping to bugle. An answer came back a few minutes later, and we quickly dismounted. The elk wasn't far below, and he eagerly responded to Steve's challenges. Soon we were right on top of the bull, and I held my breath as the sound of breaking twigs and clattering rocks told us how close he was.

A bull elk can be as stealthy as a whitetail buck, and when you hear one coming, it's because he wants you to. We strained for any hint of movement, and then I saw it: a tan back through the brush, a long antler tine above it.

The shot was Diana's, and I whispered to them that I could see the elk, but they were unable to because they were just a little lower than I was. When Steve motioned to follow him a short time later, I waited for the bull to bolt from behind the brush. But there was no bull. Somehow, 800 pounds of rutting elk had melted away before my very eyes.

The bull answered Steve's next challenge from farther down the mountain, and we followed. Soon the elk went silent, and I figured that, like a spring gobbler, he had decided to fold up his tent and head elsewhere. Steve continued to move slowly downhill, but he'd pretty much quit calling and I thought the jig was up. I was wrong.

We stopped beside a fresh wallow, and I pulled out my camera to get a picture of my companions next to it when a giant head and mass of antlers rose up just below us.

Montana's limited wilderness rifle elk hunt coincides with the rut, which gives gun-toting hunters a fantastic opportunity to chase bugling bulls in late September.

"Shoot that bull now," Steve commanded. "Put the crosshairs right under his chin and shoot!" Diana did, and a short time later we were standing over my wife's first elk, a fine 6x6.

Steve made short work of the bull, gutting it and splitting the brisket before covering the animal with conifer boughs to hide the carcass from the prying eyes of ravens and other scavengers until we could retrieve it the next day. We hiked back toward the top of the ridge, Steve puzzling out how best to get the horses and mules back to the kill site.

We skirted a high, sharp knob and on the main spine of the ridge knelt by a moss-lined spring seep to quench our thirst with its sharply cold water.

"If we gotta pack one bull out of here, we might as well pack two," Steve said with a grin. "Let's work out the ridge a ways and see if we can find another."

We hiked a short distance, then sat down for a quick snack. Steve blew a piercing bugle down the slope, and the answer came back almost immediately--from what sounded to be way, way down the mountain. Not wanting a repeat of my last elk encounter, I wasn't convinced that bailing off the crest of the ridge was such a good idea. Steve looked at me, saw the doubt on my face and with a smile said, "You signed on to be tough, didn't you?"