I think that one of the saddest moments for a son is when he first beats his father at something and the realization that the man that he always thought was invincible is really just a human hits him like a sledge hammer. I remember the first time I beat my dad at H-O-R-S-E in the early 90’s and it still bothers me to this day. Sadly, since that day things have just continued down the inevitable slide of time, and as my father approaches 60 I know that I am watching the dusk of his hunting career approaching us. I say us because he is my only hunting partner. He has been since I was 5 and he would tie a rope around my waist and hoist me into his tiny treestand hand over hand. We barely saw anything in those days, hunting a neighbor’s farm that has since become my grandparents’. We sat in a tree not 100 yards from the tree I shot my 150” double split brow tine buck from this season. But whitetails are not my father’s passion. It is the bugle of elk that really gets his blood racing through his body and occasionally you can actually catch a glimpse of excitement in the voice of the man whose exterior is usually as hard and cold as a stone wall. He has spent a week or more chasing elk at Horse Fly Peak just outside of Montrose, Colorado for 3 decades. I have accompanied him there a number of times and have always been awed by his ability to find and get into elk. This year, knowing that his time for elk hunting is dwindling, we are not only traveling to Colorado but also to Montana to try to find a real trophy class bull. I hope only to see my dad smiling over a monster bull. One that will bring him smiles through the years that he will not be able to be my hunting partner in the mountains. And now, knowing what I do about life, I hope that I never “beat” my dad at elk hunting.