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Belly-crawling 50 yards can be a punishing task when you're slithering through snow at 8,000 feet. Cradle a rifle in your arms, and the job becomes truly agonizing. Your biceps burn, your heart pounds and your breath comes in ragged gasps.
Stuart Littlefield had just completed such a crawl. Now he lay panting behind his guide. The duo had spent the better part of 20 minutes creeping under the very noses of a hundred elk, making for a small boulder that would provide cover and a steady rifle rest.
Ahead, the elk slowly fed. Some grazed while others lay bedded, soaking in the warmth of the late-afternoon sun. Out in front, several 5-point bulls alternately grazed and sniffed at passing cows, testing the breeze for estrous scent. Cows mewed and smaller bulls jostled one another. And occasionally one of the 5-points would raise his voice in a shrill bugle. Stuart settled in behind his rifle.
A policeman and former SWAT team member, he was desperately trying to find his zone—to block out everything around him—but it wasn't working. His mind raced, his heart thumped, his eyes burned from the glare of the sun on the fresh snow. The smell of sage and elk filled his nostrils. And somewhere in the back of his whirring mind a thought came: "So this is elk hunting."
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