Elk in the Mosquito Range… Revisited

The Colorado Rockies

There must’ve been close to 100 elk filling the valley below me, and I was astounded. I didn’t want to do anything to call attention to myself, so I just sat there quietly, peering over the boulder from afar. It was some sort of luck or fate that put me in that right place and at the right time because getting into a position to see a big bunch of wild animals was not one of my goals for that day.

I was actually focused on getting a group of teenage backpackers up to a flat summit campsite on Horseshoe Mountain in Colorado’s Mosquito Range before dark. And by that point, it was still several miles to our north. It was tough enough terrain to deal with as it was, and we certainly didn’t need anything like wildlife viewing to further complicate things or slow us down.
As I kept walking, the group of 5 stayed well behind. Once I got to the rock, I knew that I’d have several minutes of elk-watching time to myself before the group of backpackers caught up. So to that end, I just kept hunkering down and hiding behind the big rock, staying out of the wind, and drinking in the sight of the elk for all it was worth.

As I looked down, I also looked outward. Something almost seemed to be feeding my eyes with what I was supposed to be seeing. The principal peaks of the Mosquitoes jutted out of the ridge we were crossing as it kept going on to the north and finally melted into Mt. Democrat. Down below, a few buildings on the fringe of Fairplay dotted a part of the edge of South Park, which loomed large in its vastness, separating me from the Tarryall Mountains and Pike’s Peak off to the east. Mt. Silverheels and the alpine peaks of the Park Range dominated the northeastern sky. Flecks and patches of snow were all over the place and distinguished the greens of the ground from the blues of the sky, as summer was just beginning to creep into the high country even though it would soon be fall. The herd below me, composed of cow elk and their calves, grazed and meandered around. The fresh grass was undoubtedly sweet, and I understood how there were only a few days each year when they could even come up that high as they chased the freshly sprouting green things. Most of the animals were scattered above treeline, but a few were evident in the trees below. I took note of the herd’s outrider scouts around the perimeter, who were paying heed to the wind and looking for any movement. The lookouts mostly watched down into the valley. They held their heads up, sniffing into the gentle breeze, which was conveniently hitting me in the face, sending my scent off in the opposite direction from them. The others, probably mostly thinking about where they would put their teeth next, just grazed.

For that moment in time, I could almost feel their confidence in where they were. I was struck by how the animals moved about effortlessly and seemed to be an integral part of the alpine scene before me. I had no doubt that my position behind the rock and a couple of hundred feet away and downwind of the nearest outrider was a good place for observing. Still, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling I had that I was a spectator to something I wasn’t supposed to be seeing.

Nevertheless, the uneasiness couldn’t keep me from watching, and I was increasingly mesmerized by the spectacle as it continued unfolding in its own subtle way. Then it happened as if there wasn’t enough for me to mentally absorb, to begin with.

A group of 6 yearling calves climbed to the top of one of the more massive snowfields in the area and began sliding down it on their feet. Two cows hovered around the base of it as if they were supervising. Whenever the “skiers” reached the bottom, whether they were in a heap or still on their feet, they’d turn and go back up for another go.

I couldn’t help but notice how they were careful to space themselves to avoid crashing into each other. Good idea, I thought to myself. At times, they actually made it to the bottom without falling, although that wasn’t the case very often. Some were obviously better at it than others. I wondered if they were known within the herd for that particular ability. Whenever one of them got tired, that one stayed at the bottom and went off to graze. But, others would invariably show up to fill the spot so that the snow sliding event seemed like it might very well go on forever.

I avoided the impulse to yell out instructions. But I did wonder who among them chose the snowfield, assessed the weather conditions, or was prepared to spring into action if one of the slider-downers got hurt.
Was it one of the calves themselves that decided it was a good place to slide? Or was it one of the cows or a collective of the two? For whatever reason, I’d always thought that elk and other big wild animals didn’t know about or have time for such things as play. But, I saw with my own eyes that they apparently do, and the realization turned my world upside down.

And then, the first of the human teenagers caught up and huffed loudly in relief at having gotten there. While I knew they were all headed my way, the sound startled me, nonetheless. When I looked up at him, I caught a glimpse of the herd bolting for the trees.

“You made it,” I said to him.

As he took the final few steps up to my vantage point, I turned my head and looked back down into the high mountain valley, now void of elk but thick with the blues of Alpine Forget-Me-Nots.

“What do you see,” he queried?

“Flowers,” I answered, “lots of wildflowers.”

Colorado mountains
The view from a ridge top. The slopes of Mt. Silverheels and Mt. Baldy

Author: David Appleton

I was born and raised in Texas and currently live in the Texas Hill Country, spent some 30 years living in the smack dab middle of Colorado, and have spent a lifetime adventuring and leading others on adventures in many parts of the wild world.

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