I set out of camp on the second and final morning, aware but not intimidated by the fact it was my last day to hunt. My step had a decent bounce to it and I was still gleefully taking in all this new country. I admired the evidence of an elaborate beaver complex that had years ago flooded what was once was a good sized aspen grove. All the trees had died and since fallen into what nature had transformed into a meadow. The dam had long ago blown out and no beavers had since undergone reconstruction efforts. Just portions of the old dam remained in the deforested creek bottom. I was pondering the timeline of these events as I made my way up the finger I'd planned to climb to survey the larger network of feeder canyons and folds. I'd barely made it out of the trees and into the "dead head" phase of the climb when in the distance off to my right a figure caught my eye. Three or so hundred yards to my right a large bull elk strolled along the neighboring ridge line. 

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