When I moved to Montana from Illinois in 1980, I had several whitetails, turkeys, and small game under my belt. My hunt lust was focused now on one thing: a nice bull elk. The image in my mind was that big bull bugling on the edge of a meadow in the sunlight as I bore down on him from high atop a ridge. Having failed to fill my tag in the regular season, I was awarded a 'late-tag' in the winter of 1984. A game warden told me to hike up high and wait, but there would be four feet of snow where I was going, so I should wear snow shoes and start around 3AM to be at the top by daylight...Sweat turns cold a half-hour or so after a big hike. Two hours later and nearly frozen, a grizzled guide on a horse rode up to tell me that the heard had moved out overnight. He had seen but one lowly set of tracks, a small bull from what he could tell, heading into the timber below us. His client was mad and cold so they were headed to the bar; he'd buy me a shot and a beer if I stopped by later. I fished the jerky and Coke out of my pack, took two bites when a small bull stepped out from the timber and stared intently downhill, probably at the departing guide. When I stopped by to collect the drinks, I didn't try to hide the blood on my jacket. It wasn't the bugling elk in the sunny meadow I had envisioned, but it was in every way memorable and special, in the way only hunting memories can be. The boyhood image of the majestic trophy bull in the meadow is still vivid in my mind; High and Mighty.