May, ca 2019 There is a dying time in these northern territories. When the raw cold of winter takes the weakest of the wild things and puts them to the earth, stealing breath and being. I can observe not one callous nor cruel part in it, just the spinning of this planet and the comings and goings of all life. That unfeeling season, tho beautiful to behold, is now taking its leave and I am sorely pleased for it. The mountain passes has cleared some, so me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, took to trail and rid south through the valley at dawn. We kept Bitterroots to our west and Sapphires to our east as sun’s daily duty was taking place behind mountaintops. Down along the East Fork, among the cottonwoods and willows, we saw quite the number of elk, them that bitter chill laid no claim to, and I imagined them to be reveling in warming day to come. We made our way up and over mountain peak, and at Lost Trail we wondered down again into Idaho ...