10,000 Feet
by Greg Saunders
(5-24)
Changes in altitude,
changes in attitude, nothing remains quite the same.
10,000 feet is
where aspen groves and huge stands of fir and spruce line open meadows tinged
in wildflowers and hip-high grass. There is something very special about this
number, something magical that keeps drawing my soul back to the same spot year
after year. Below are the ponderosa and piñon
forests, hot and almost desert dry. Above
, barren scree-covered escarpments dominate like jagged teeth bared in
defiant challenge to the sky. Above and below hold a certain beauty of their
own, but 10,000 feet is where I choose to hunt
and play.
There is a spot in northern New Mexico that fits this description. In New Mexico, water is king, and if you wish to escape people and
find solitude you need to leave the
fishing waters behind. No streams or lakes to draw the crowd. No boom boxes or
ATVs. No generators and no neighbors. I have spent days in this special spot
and never seen another human. At 10,000 feet, it’s cool when the summer sun
bakes the desert and high plains. In
fall, aspens turn with the first
bugles of a September rut and the clack of antler on antler resounds across the
high-mountain fingers. Spring is crisp and ever changing, an alpine renewal
that can leave you breathless. For me it’s about wilderness and nature, and
ultimately it’s about family.
I remember the first time I visited this spot in the late
‘70s—lured there to scout in high summer by the promise of an bull elk tag in the fall, and
led there by a brother-in-law
who had logged the area a few years before. Imagine my skepticism at trying to bowhunt a logging
operation. “Did ya leave any trees?” I kidded him. He just smiled a half smile
and nodded a maybe. We cruised rugged roads through tall forests cut by deep
drainages and virtual pastures of grass. Excited, he led me down a particular
ridge to a spot I still return to year
after year. A wallow, high on the
north side of a ravine that overlooks
a spring-fed creek lined in willows and wild iris. Game trails cross like
contrails across a dusky sky. Almost in reverence he whispered to me, “Ain’t
this just elky as hell.”
That was some 33 years ago and the place still is an elky
paradise. And so much more. It’s the
spot where I taught my boys to shoot a .22 and the bow and arrow. I introduced them to flocks of wild turkeys, the
taste of campfire-roasted spruce grouse, constellations and moonlit nights so
bright you could read a book. We counted satellites and searched the sky for hoursjust to wish on falling stars. Once my wife and I spent three days in
the rain here under an
awning, tending a fire and simply enjoying the wonders of nature around us—not
a care in the world. I called a bull elk into camp one night, all the way to the
fire. I saw my first bobcat in these woods, fed chipmunks by hand and had the
misfortune of finding myself between a lovesick porcupine and his intended. I've sat at camp and watched wild horses
and elk graze in the meadow below us and listened to the bands of coyotes as
they sang to the rising moon or told of a successful hunt.
From this camp
we explore old mines, hike or bike miles of woodland game trails and satisfy
the amateur geologist within us. This is mineral-rich country and many of my
hunts ended with me carrying 20 or 30 pounds of rock back to camp, each a new addition
to the homestead landscaping. I’ve chipped away at a bluff face of white quartz when I should have been hunting, just
to see if I could find a trace of what the old miners were looking for. One fall I stumbled over the remnants
of a 100-year-old shovel in a place so remote I thought I was the first to ever to visit. On it was stamped “Good Luck.”
From camp we watch as storm clouds build and roll toward
us, lightning and thunder and whipping wind. I have seen summer snowstorms and
blinding fall blizzards and winter days where it’s more than comfortable
catching a suntan. At night,
when all is calm and quiet, I have you
may even feel felt the
earth move.
Four dogs have grown old following me around these woods,
and now a new one has taken their place, warding our camp against wild animals,
errant butterflies and the occasional passing truck. Two boys, grown from
infants to young men as tall as me,
have shared this site and my many adventures. I hope their families will share
it as well, each building memories from all that these mountains have to offer.
Adventure, solitude, simplicity and best of all, companionship.
Hunting? Yes there has been a bit of that. Every hunt is a
success whether we tag an animal or not. Usually not has been my experience, though I did kill
my first bull elk with a bow not far from where
we set up the tent. I have chased deer, called elk and flushed grouse up
and down these hills and never regretted a minute of it. I have hunted alone
and with partners, and each hunt was special.
Once I called in a bull that nearly stepped on my wife as
she curled up in a little camo bundle waiting for me to shoot. Ghost bulls,
herd bulls, satellite bulls, spikes and raghorns. All have challenged me at one
time or another. I’ve shot over ‘em and under ‘em, and the trees in front of
em. It’s not always like the hunting videos.
Memories of the outdoors and nature—that’s what brings me
back year after year, season after season. Memories of the family and friends
who have shared my adventures. Memories of my kids growing up. Memories of
dogs, old and new. Spending so much time at the same spot gives one an
appreciation of seasons and the rhythms of nature, ever changing and yet always
the same. And of course, there is the anticipation of adventures not yet
experienced, memories not yet made. Perhaps this year I will get that clean
unobstructed shot on a royal bull, just like in the videos. Mostly I anticipate
more exploration and adventure in these mountains with my wife and sons. Maybe,
in the future, a grandkid or two. That number, 10,000 feet, holds a special
place where I hope to camp and hunt for many
years to come. And when I’m old and
gray and can’t climb these hills anymore, I will still have the memories.
Greg Saunders lives in Albuquerque where he works for the New Mexico Gaming Control Board and as a
part-time teacher at the local community college. In his spare time he writes
novels, and you can see his work at www.gregoryjsaunders.com. |
