“Shh!” hissed my dad. “Tigers?!” My whisper grew more audible. “SHHH!” “Elephants? Chimpanzees? Gorillas? Sasquatch??!” “Elk,” my dad replied. “Those are elk?” I asked. “Yes, those are elk. It’s called bugling.” “Bugling?” There are better words to describe the wild tones echoing around us. These elk shrieks, squeal and roar at the exact pitch and tone that sends chills down my spine and triggers my flight vs fight response. Or at least triggers the flight part. Find a happy place. Find a happy place. Growing up in British Columbia, I spent my fair share of time in the mountains. The Shockey freezer was always full of deer, moose and caribou, but not elk. My dad hunted black bears every spring without fail, headed to the Yukon every fall, Saskatchewan in the winter but only once did “Colorado” ever grace his calendar, and seldom did an elk grace our kitchen table. Up until last year, the only elk I’d seen was one Roosevelt elk mou...
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