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It
is, they say, the quintessential Western adventure, taking that
pack train up to snowy plateaus and little valleys where the
wind howls like an imprisoned soul and where big bulls gather
harems as man and horse plug ahead against the cold.
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Photography
by Bill Buckley |
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The
horses plod steadily upward, hooves finding purchase on trails
that hug mean cliffs in a fashion you find tenuous. But they know
this duty, these horses do, and to the campsite they climb. Once
there, they are tethered, as tents are rigged and camp cooking
fills the hills with warmth and portent of fellowship. |
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But
horses and guides and sumptuous camp food, none of these can do
what you must do for yourself - tread afoot on these short winter
days, carrying only patience and skill and luck to find a bull,
then come in close, lay cross hairs on quarter, hear the sound
of the big mag echoing across the range. |
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If
you are lucky and the signs point your way, if you have hunted
hard every cold, crisp day, if you have climbed until you think
you could never climb again & and did it anyway, then the
big bull will make his mistake. |
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