The musty smell of elk hung softly in the thick forest.

A slight breeze pushed it down the slope to the trailing hunters.

Without a sound, the young hunter eased upward through the snowy thicket.

He had often joked with exaggerated pride that he could move through the country like ground fog.

Now every fiber in his body was trying to make that true.

Ahead, shadowy forms of elk picked their way upward.

The frosty mist of their breath hung in the air as they worked through a jumble of downed trees.

It was a perfect hideaway for elk in Montana's Gallatin range.

The mountain was steep, it faced northeast, and it was covered with blowdown, an old growth pine that was giving way to a thick growth of spruce.

Elk knew the place well, and they took shelter there, secure in the wild tangle.

The law allowed the taking of antler bulls and the hunter searched for antlers as he and elk maneuvered upward, slowly pushing through thigh deep powder snow.

Then suddenly he saw it right above him, staring at him, and elk, watching him.

He studied the motionless face that peered through the tangled timber.

It was close, less than 30 yards separated them.

The boy was sure he could see the base of the bulls' antlers, but the heavy timber obscured everything else.

The two watched each other, first caught in mutual surprise, and then frozen in suspended time.

The need for a decision was upon them both, and the stillness of that silent thicket hearts pounded and tension stretched the minutes.

It was the boy's first chance to kill an elk in years of expectation had been carried up the mountain to this moment.

The elk would not move, not a twitch.

The hunter needed something to reveal, to confirm without a doubt the presence of antlers.

The boy's father shadowed the stock, and the youth turned his head looking to his father for verification that it was right to shoot.

That slight motion broke the stalemate, and the thicket erupted as elk bolted and crashed away through the timber.

...