My own inadequacies lay manifest as I postholed up the snow covered ridge. Every labored breath a stark reminder of the wrong turns I had taken the year before. All of the mornings I had chosen to silence my alarm and stay in the warm, cocooning, opulence of my blankets. The extra helpings. The well intentioned declarations to start over when the next Monday came.  They all hit me like a punch to the gut as I willed my diaphragm to rise and fall and begged for the breath that would offer some relief, some respite from the burn of lactic acid and the ache of muscles atrophied from too little use.

To be sure, the elevation added a particular head swimming element to the endeavor, but I couldn’t blame my struggles on that. The constant wave of low level nausea had subsided enough over the last couple of days to mostly be ignored. What I battled with now were the limits of my body. The consequences of my own inaction. I was asking it to go places and do things it had become unaccustomed to. It was unprepared and it screamed out at me in defiance. I could not count on this fleshy, bloated vessel to propel me of its own accord. If I was to reach the top of this ridge, cross the scrub oak covered saddle and make my way up another ridge still, it would be something less tangible than flesh and bone that willed me there.

I looked back down at the distance I had already traversed and then ahead to the many more steps of elevation that must be gained just to catch up with my friend and guide Jay. There was an otherworldly glow all about as the light of a half full moon reflected and bounced off of the frozen precipitation. Snow that was to be measured in feet, not inches. Snow that swallowed every weary step I took towards the top. I wanted to stop, to lay down and give up, but we had seen a heard of elk top that ridge the evening prior in the last waning moments of daylight and I had a tag to fill. Beyond that I had much to prove. I wanted to prove to myself that I hadn't lost my grit and the toughness I had worn like a badge of honor for most of my working life. It had become harder to justify that feeling of resolve as I reached the final years of my 30’s and found myself settling into the excuses of a life full of responsibility. Never enough time, too much to do, always tomorrow. I had spent the last year wrapping myself up in those mitigations because I was afraid. I was afraid to be seen and afraid to fail on a stage bigger than any I had known before.

Beyond my own apprehension I wanted to show Jay that his faith in me was not misplaced. When I got to Utah, after accepting his invitation to come hunt late season elk I knew there was no hiding the extra pounds and emotional weariness that showed in my cheeks. I had told him that I expected full well the mountains would wreck me, that I would be frustratingly slow and I was embarrassed that I wasn't better prepared for the hunt. I promised him though, that I would never complain and I would never quit. It’s easier sometimes to keep promises to others than it is to yourself and I intended to lean on that promise, to use it as a crutch if need be.

The last 400 ft were the hardest. Waist deep snow and a breakable crust made any sort of dexterous movement impossible. I floundered and crawled, awkwardly using the trekking poles like ice picks, anchors against which I could pull myself a handful of feet at a time. I reached the top of the ridge a few minutes after legal light and Jay pointed out 12 cows on a narrow spine of rock below us. For a brief moment it seemed like the hunt was all but over. The elk were headed towards us and a 150 yd shot was inevitable. The universe had other plans though and affirmed to me that I had not yet earned it. I had not struggled enough for this hunt to be what I needed it to be. The cows picked up speed and angled away, pausing to look at us for an instant before they dropped out of site into another drainage.

We were momentarily dejected, but ambled on attempting to answer the most human query of all, “What lies beyond?” We stepped in the tracks left by our cervid quarry, their musky permeathions still hanging perceptibly in the cold air. I ignored the throbbing of my hip flexors and reveled in the chase. It was easier than I imagined to disregard the discomfort because I was on top of a mountain. Epic vistas and frost tipped winds were my consolation. Sluffing off the stagnation was a gift and I received it as such. Over one ridge and another we moved with as much speed as we could muster, slowing everytime we reached a new vantage point. There we would bend out knees and hunch our backs in order to make ourselves small as we peeked our heads over a high place and looked ahead.

Finally, dumb luck or fate intervened and we happened upon a heard, some 50 animals strong.  Now was a time for patience and I focused my attention on readying myself for the shot. I tensed and relaxed my muscles in order to stop the shivering. I steadied myself, rifle tractioned against my pack. I slowed my breath. I picked out a young elk and when the time felt right, I pulled the trigger.

I celebrated with Jay, but I could not allow myself to feel giddy. There was still much to do. The business of making meat had just begun and there were miles of heavy laden work ahead of us.  There was though, a great joy to the task. Less so in the culmination of a hunt and more in the satisfaction of the beginning of course correction. I had tested myself and found myself lacking in many ways, but not incapable. Not irredeemable. I was not beaten, only stove up and the stodginess could be undone. There was time to be better, there was potential still. I had begun to repair my body and revive my spirit. I knew now that the bloat would not endure.