The last grip of winter’s cold hands clinched the Rockies as we left Arkansas headed towards the western peaks. The words of John Muir rang in the alacrity of our highway speeds while pulling the two-horse trailer – “The mountains are calling and I must go.”
“Those snow flakes are the size of quarters,” I said to Kolby as we drove. It was April 28th and a snowstorm had just dumped its load on Montana. “Bears love the snow,” I said sarcastically. After a short pause for emphasis, I shook my head, “No, they don’t,” I said. It was pretty early to be bear hunting. The weather-related drama was secondary to my internal anxiousness about traveling with livestock across the country; it’s a complicated process, and it was our maiden voyage. But even more ominous was the looming possibility of another unsuccessful hunt. This would be my third expedition and I’d never been in gun range of a bruin. This type of hunting ain’t easy, and it’s no respecter of people.
Just a week before I’d asked Kolby Morehead if he’d come along. He wasn’t prepared, but said he was up for the challenge. After getting health papers for the mules, checking our gear, and shooting the Best of the West 300 Win Mag, we were northbound on the 30-hour road trip. From my exp