I remember it well. My friend Guy Miner had just made his longest career shot in the hunting field at 405 yards. It was with his favorite .30-06 and, as fate would have it, the old Marine had negotiated a bullet through the heart of a cow elk in spite of a 15 mph crosswind.

As Guy and Zach made their way over to his elk, I ran back to where we had previously staged our packs to belly-crawl across a couple of hundred yards of mixed-country flats to get within range. As I walked past the spot from where Guy had fired his shot, a certain green-colored cylinder lying on the ground caught my eye.

It was an empty .30-06 case that some hunter years before us had fired in his hunting rifle. In that same flat, who knows how long before, somebody else had taken aim at some kind of game animal and let fly.

I envisioned them sitting in maybe the exact spot where Major Miner had sat. Perhaps their rifle had only open sights or a more simple rifle scope. Maybe they had pursued a huge mule deer buck on horseback or, like us, had belly-crawled across the sparsely covered flats after a Rocky Mountain elk.

When the moment of truth came, they flicked off the safety and let fly. They sighed in relief as their animal dropped to the ground and dipped their Stetson-clad head to the earth and said a silent prayer of thanksgiving as their buddy gave them a congratulatory slap on their buffalo plaid-covered back.

Grinning, I gave the souvenir to Guy, telling him where I had found it. After admiring it he put it in his jacket pocket. I didn’t have to tell him of its significance; he already knew. For he and whoever had been there before us had shed blood on the same sacred ground, and that connection they shared of two men — decades apart, no doubt — pursuing food for their families was an undeniable bond.

I know of folks who have found rimfire Henry cartridge cases, no doubt remnants from the Indian Wars of the 1860s. That cartridge could’ve been fired by a Bannock or Shoshone hunter in pursuit of game, but it could’ve easily been fired in battle. Others I know have found cartridges fired in a .44-40 Colt SAA revolver, maybe some desperadoes squared off with the town marshal over an unauthorized bank withdrawal.

Cartridge cases ranging from the nearly nonexistent .256 Newton or .35 WCF, or even more popular numbers like a .300 Savage or .30-30 Winchester, have been found out in the middle of nowhere right here in Grant County. The thought that I might be picking up a case that was fired by my ancestors who were some of the earliest settlers hereabouts is touching, to say the least.

When you’re out hiking or hunting, it pays to look around. You never know what kinds of small treasures may lie in the brush as a souvenir from days gone by. These spent cases are history, after all, and history must be preserved.

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