There is an old saying in hunting: As soon as you’ve pulled the trigger, the fun is over and the work begins. I guess that could be considered true or false depending solely upon your definition of fun.

Sometimes we get lucky, and it’s only a short drag to the pickup or ATV. Sometimes what we have killed is in the bottom of the most treacherous country that has ever been bestowed upon a topographical map. The kind of country that both pack animals and mountain goats would shudder to dare.

It’s times like these where we find out who our friends are.

When I was 9 years old, my Dad and I went elk hunting up above Spray. He had bought the second season general spike elk tag, and off to the hills we went.

It was the only time I ever got to go hunting with Grandpa Keith MacArthur. I deeply treasure the memory.

Grandpa dropped us off at the top of the mountain and then drove to the bottom, hoping to catch something we might push out.

A couple of hours into the morning, Dad paused and turned around pointing to his nose. I sniffed and, for the first time ever, smelled elk.

Quietly levering a round into the chamber of his old Savage 99 .308, Dad moved slowly up the trail only maybe 10 or 15 feet. Quickly he shouldered his rifle and fired a single round. He killed a spike bull elk, and while I was big enough to carry his gun and gear, I was no help with the elk carcass.

Dad dragged our winter meat uphill and down, through pole patch and clearing until, after what seemed an eternity, we made it to the truck where my grandfather awaited. I was so happy to see him!

Tired as I was, on the way home, I kept nodding off. Grandpa was never the type to let a good opportunity go to waste. Once he was certain I was asleep, he slammed on the brakes of his old Ford pickup and exclaimed, “Sanctified fertilizer, that’s the biggest elk I’ve ever seen!”

Like a jack-in-the-box I popped up in the seat, my head panning back and forth like a meerkat, searching desperately for this elk. But there wasn’t any elk. I’d been had.

As Dad and Grandpa’s laughter reverberated around the cab of the truck, I blushed and joined in their light-hearted levity.

Another time, I think I was 16 years old, Dad came and got me out of math class. He had killed a four-point buck way up in the rocks and needed help with the extraction. I had never been so happy to get out of math class in my life.

On the hike in, Dad told me how the hunt had went and of the shot made with his favorite .22-250. The pack out was not easy. We had no pack boards and, therefore, were required to drag the whole carcass of the buck, minus whatever weight we lost from the field dressing.

At one point, we came to some rims and seeing no better way to get it down Dad took his belt and mine and fastened a sort of loop and rope around the base of the buck’s antlers.

I climbed down the rim, and he began lowering the buck down to me. I could just reach the antlers when Dad had ran out of reach and would have to let go.

As Dad dropped the buck down, I caught the antlers and wrestled the buck down to a predisposed spot; failure to do so would have sent the carcass tumbling end over end down a loose rock embankment. I was happy to get that one home to the meat pole.

When my good friend Baldemar Vargas drew a Fossil Unit bull elk tag in 2020, he took off time so he and his brother José could hit the hills. When our mutual friend Pat Farrell rolled up at work and said, “Baldy’s got a bull down,” I knew I was once again going to get to cut class.

A man’s got to have his priorities in order; luckily our boss agreed, and we let out like a couple of school boys. It was quite a hike just getting there.

Baldy and José met us at the trailhead, and we all hiked back together. With a borrowed .28 Nosler, Baldy had rested over a downed juniper tree and put a bullet right through the vitals of his bull from 350 yards away. The mood was jovial and the excitement contagious.

Upon arrival, we took pictures, told jokes and made fun of each other as we boned out the meat. Those packs we never had as a kid sure were handy that day.

We recovered the 175-grain Nosler Accubond Long Range bullet from the offside hide and snacked on a light lunch before we loaded up for the climb. Even though it was a steep climb back out of there, the mood was light, full of gratitude both for each other and to the Lord for blessing us with getting to share not just in the meat but in the experience.

It was not one that was easily earned, nor will it be easy to forget. The burning in our legs and in our lungs reminded us for a few days after of just what a wonderful gift we had been given.

Being happy for the successful hunts of our friends and family and having a willing heart when they ask for help is something all hunters should strive for. After all, it’s friendships that build our communities. Baldy, I know without hesitation, would’ve been there helping me pack out my elk had the tables been turned.

There have been many, many other packouts like these. Some with deer, others for elk. Sometimes it can take until well after dark or you need to take more breaks because someone is old or is still recovering from an appendectomy. Such is life.

To me, ladies and gentlemen, that’s what hunting is and will always be about. The bonds we share, the friendships forged and the prayer of thanksgiving that should always be in our hearts for the blessed life we get to live on the mountain.

As one fella put it a long time ago, “You can’t cheat the mountain. The mountain’s got its own ways!”

Once in awhile, the mountain might even give us easier packouts, and for those, I’m also grateful. If it wasn’t for the difficult ones, we might be less grateful for the easy ones. Isn’t it funny how that works?

Whether I’m the one who fired the shot or if I’m just asked to come along as a pack mule, the camaraderie is just as good, the air is just as fresh, the sting in my muscles is just as real and the meat tastes just as sweet. What more can we ask for?