My husband and I were archery hunting as the sun peeked over the mountain giving every leaf the glowing colors of early autumn; glistening off the frosty dew; lengthening the shadows of the timber. Donned in our camouflage, we hoped to be invisible to the elk we were hunting. We sat in Porcupine Meadow. Quills of elk trails led to and from the lush creek bottom that wound through the valley floor.

A few elk began their cautious descent into the valley. These were cows. Last year I had a cow tag and I only saw bulls. This year I have a bull tag. I let down my bow in disappointment, but watched with amazement as the massive creatures lowered their heads to graze, their eyes glowing in the morning light. The elk took turns grazing so that many eyes could keep watch over the herd. The animals continued to saunter and feed across the meadow before disappearing into the timber along the east end, becoming shadows once again.

My husband asked if I wanted to trek up to Sagebrush Meadow. In the Wind Rivers, everything is a steep incline or rugged decline. Sagebrush was another long hike up the corresponding hill. "I'd rather hunt the Quakies," I answered, referring to the stand of aspen trees we'd passed through in the dark.

"On the hour," my husband said to me. "Keep your radio on channel six."

"Every hour," I replied as he disappeared into the thicket where the elk had gone, I smiled. I'd rather hunt on my own terms. I pushed the button to turn on my radio, checked the volume and then started treading on the heels of an old elk trail. Leaves crackled beneath my feet as I tried to step as softly as I could. I caught a glimpse of gray fur behind a tree about 70 yards to my right. Crouching in a tribal squat, I removed my cow call from my vest pocket and slowly brought it up to my lips as the elk's head turned towards me. It was another cow. I sat motionless, hours transcending into mere moments, watching while she wandered through the forest.

I saw no more elk, but as I crawled through the trees I realized why my husband enjoys hunting. The sunlight dissolves within shade and blooms in glowing colors as golden flaxen of the aspens contrast with emerald green of new growth. The faded wildflowers and forgotten leaves add tints of yellow and orange to the forest floor. The air is peaceful. The wind chimes through the leaves and creates a rhythmic rustling carrying scents so fresh any animal that passes through can be detected. Elk leave a strong odor of musk. Bear traces are more like dirt. Raccoons have a rotted stench.

Suddenly, my radio clicked three times; the signal for elk. I pressed the button on my receiver as I pulled the radio from my belt. "I got one," my husband's voice said. "That's the good news."

"And the bad news?" I answered.

"He ran off. I've got to blood track him," he told me. I sighed, wishing I'd stayed with him. He always finds elk. Why didn't I go with him? While my husband relayed the details of his hunt, I relaxed. I realized that if I'd been there, he would have let me shoot, and that would have changed everything. The situation was better this way. I had faith in his abilities to track a thin trail of blood, even spots. He was an expert while I was still a novice.