During that first weekend Rhett managed to join us for a few days.  That he drove for a day to get there was a testament to his propensity for hunting, something we share.  The poor kid arrived at three a.m.  Not wanting to disturb us old guys snoring in the main cabin, he slept in his truck.  At five thirty he was pounding on the door asking excitedly if we were ready to go.

Rhett and I set out together and I marveled at how adept he had become with tracking skills and the pursuit of quarry.  There were several times he pointed out far off animals or significant clues that I had missed.  Far less concerned with filling my second tag we concentrated on letting Rhett fill his first of the season.  Rhett had hunted, and successfully killed, seven elk since he could legally carry a rifle at the age of twelve.  He had not yet been successful in his quest for a big branch antlered bull although there had been occasions where he had come close.  I proudly recalled an evening two years prior when, with shooting light had almost gone, he passed up a three hundred yard shot at a huge seven point bull simply because he wanted to make certain he had a clean shot and didn’t just wound the magnificent animal.

On more than one occasion his quick eye caught something I had missed and I remembered that it was sometime right around my own father’s mid-fifties that we had pulled even in skills, if not yet in experience.  It amuses and satisfies me that sometime thirty or forty years from now Rhett will be thinking the same thoughts as he accompanies his son or daughter in wild and remote places seeking a link to his ancestry in pursuit of wild game.