Seldom will elk appear in your sights. When they do, you must shoot quickly and accurately. And give thanks.

Another fork takes me to the north. Thigh-deep in snow but soaked in sweat, I watch a black sky advance. The goats are too high, says Larry. One more hour, I plead. Dropping from these cliffs at night is already our lot. If the storm comes before we reach timber, our descent will be rough indeed. Slowly, and spent, we inch upward. The hourglass runs dry. But then, over one last rock, a billy lunges for the skyline. I flop into the snow, jam the crosswire against a rib and fire. The strike buys me another shot, my first goat. At midnight we reach the bottom, the storm on our heels. I’ve been lucky.

* * *

Another switchback, and the elk that eluded me are all but forgotten. In Africa now, belly-flat in grass that swishes against the legs of four elephants bent on finding me, I play mouse. They block the last light, an orange ribbon over the mopane. I’m helpless, alone, as vulnerable as a predator is not supposed to be. Their trunks snake silently above me, probing for scent. They do not hear the trip-hammer in my chest. It is not my turn to die.

* * *

Nor is it on the next path, a patch of scree I’ve negotiated, quick-step, many times. Age has slowed my stride. The marbles take my feet, and I’m in free-skid down a face with no ledges. Fingernails tear, my canteen rips from my side, bounces from the wall and splits open on rocks below. A shin’s-length from a precipice, two bleeding fingers find a crack. The scree-river slows to a trickle as the mountain holds its breath.

I’m not safe, but I’m not moving.

I have no way off this rock--yet. But one thing at a time.

Thank heaven for small favors.

And thank heaven for all adventure. I repeat it as the centerline slides under the hood and the sun pierces the clouds above, warming the bulls, coaxing elk from the thickets.

Elk I will never see.