In the California deer season, back in the late ‘50s, Fred Hoy and I were hunting blacktails in the Salmon-Trinity Alps. In three seasons, we never heard a shot that was not fired by one of our own party. We would always go in as far as the fire-control roads would allow, then hike a few miles up to a cirque lake near the mountaintop, where we’d catch trout for breakfast every morning. The first day of the season, I shot a buck, and we had to run downhill for several hundred yards before killing him. While resting prior to dressing out and packing the meat and hide back to camp, Fred inspected a greenish boulder on the hillside.