He was as good as mine, and for an hour he kept coming up my canyon. If there was a problem, it was that I wouldn’t be allowed to shoot him until he crossed a fence 200 yards below me—stepping off private land, where I didn’t have permission, onto National Forest land, where I was waiting. When he got to the fence, he stopped and studied the situation. He looked huge through my riflescope, and I stretched my finger toward the trigger. But he didn’t cross.