COWBOY POETRY: Elk Hunt

Bryce Angell is a cowboy poet. Angell was raised on a farm/ranch in the St. Anthony, Idaho area with approximately 75 head of horses. Horses remain an important part of Angell's life. Angell shares his poetry with Cache Valley Daily every Friday.

The morning snow was on the ground.  Our guide sized up the air. Bellies full of       scrambled eggs.  Coffee that’d stand up your hair.

We’d planned the day a year ago.   This place of all our dreams. And there we were ready to start, surreal so it seemed.

I heard the guide make mention, “Let’s go easy on these guys.  They both look like they’re nervous.  I can see it in their eyes.”

How could we fail with such a guide?  He seems to know so much. Cuz we’re a couple of city boys.  And prob’ly out of touch.

Our leader had us pegged.  We were not tough-like hunter men.  We both were soft as Twinkies cuz each day we pushed the pen.

I knew that it was gonna be tough as sweat fogged up my glasses.  We’re just two outdoor wannabees?  We’re both slow as molasses.     

The days flew by with nothing but the blisters we’d been branded.  It was plain that we weren’t hunters and were going home empty handed.  

I wondered what my wife and kids would say to no elk rack.  Hopefully they’d all agree it’s good to have me back.   

Then our guide gave us direction.  Two bulls who had been fighting. Aim must be true, and furthermore, faster than the lightning.  

I squeezed my trigger to the right.   He shot the one still standing. And this is where the work began yet didn’t feel demanding.

The bounty had been made complete while cooking on the fire.   Should I have felt so different and held my head up higher?

Cuz after all our mountain guide did almost all the work.  So, I thought I’d keep it humble.   It was all his handiwork.

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