It's not the top of the world, but as they say, you can see it from here.

In fact, I think there are only two other mountain tops in this small range that are higher. One by only twenty feet, the other by less than a hundred.

'Course, the peak set off by itself to the southwest is close to 600 feet taller, but it's far enough away to not look that tall.

Otherwise, you're looking down on almost everything else. The neatest part about it is, you drove almost all the way up here. True, on a strictly four-wheel drive road, a steep, narrow rocky road I have declined to drive in past hunting seasons when I was unsure of either my truck's transmission, or its tires. But the automatic transmission in this rig is great for climbing in low transfer, and I've got brand new tires on the machine.

So, here we are. Or, actually, just me. On top of a rocky knob, looking down on the rig below with the bored little masked heeler inside, parked next to the empty pickup of some elk hunters in the flat spot that serves as a parking area along the pole fence that marks the border of the outfit's management area.

Despite my confidence in getting up here, on the narrow track that often drops off for hundreds of feet on one side or the other, I do not have confidence to continue on the road down into the other canyon. Been there, done that.

And never again. We'll go back down the way we came.

But for now, I'm sitting alone on top of the highest rock pile. There's a game warden on an ATV somewhere to the northeast. The other warden working this area is, I later find, on the high peak to the southwest. The two hunters that parked their ATVs in the unofficial parking area below are on foot somewhere to the north. There's another empty truck by the gate at the bottom of the fenceline road to the south.

Someone who was not confident in either their truck or their tires.

Soon there are two spaced gunshots far, far to the north. Too far away to even consider investigating. (Little did I know I would, around dinner time, find, check and take lymph nodes from the six-point bull elk killed by those two shots.)

Shortly after, I notice a small, dark shape two ridges over, coming my way.

Deer. At least five deer, to be exact. Including a buck. And now I notice there are at least four other deer, all bucks, waiting in the draw the moving deer are entering. Feeding on the sunny slope, down out of the chilly wind (it was 35 degrees when the warden and I parted company far below, shortly before sunrise).

I bet I can get close enough for some pictures.

So, with the dearth of activity from hunters, I bail off my rocky point and, under cover of the intervening ridge, trot across the mountaintop towards the draw filled with at least nine mule deer, and speckled with pines.

I watch one buck feeding for a considerable time, and then hear a terrific clatter of branches below me.

How can those two hunters expect to sneak up on elk if they make that much noise?

But the deer are ignoring the noise. Which just cannot be, because it is a major racket. And then it slowly sinks in. Those aren't branches cracking.

That's antlers. There's bucks sparring in the valley below me. Which is a normal enough activity that the rest of the deer are ignoring it completely.

Now, this I gotta see. I start working my way down through the pines, setting each foot carefully to avoid the crunchy pine cones that cover the ground. Keeping my footfalls on hard rock, soft dirt, or fallen grass.

My passage is unnoticed by the bucks below, but I am spotted by the herd buck,

a five-point, with his four does and fawns, and they are soon gone up the head of the draw. But the bucks below are too busy fighting or eating to notice.

Two small bucks, probably two-year olds, are wrestling with their antlers, until one breaks off. But as soon as he is out of the way, a third bucks steps forward, and makes his challenge to the winner.

By rights, the challenger should be dominant. The hairs of his coat are erect, making him seem darker and larger, and he presents himself broadside to his opponent.

Trying his best to make an impression, with both his body and his rack.

The other buck is undaunted, and so the fight is on. They are actually fairly tentative as they first touch antlers. Being wary not to get a tine in the eye or some other vital spot, I assume.

But once the antlers are comfortable nestled together, the fight is on. With neck-wrenching twists...

and old fashioned shoving.

The best strategy seems to be to swing yourself on higher ground above your opponent, and then driving hard down upon him, forcing him to lose ground, and his balance. All the while, the third buck is hanging around in the wings, either picking up some pointers, or just waiting his next turn.

The two bucks are in and out of my view for twenty-one minutes as they compete for dominance over one another. (They're not competing for breeding rights. The boss buck already left with all the girls.)

Finally, one breaks contact, and steps back as if he suddenly remembered something important he had to do.

The victor stands watching, apparently surprised he has won.

Then he follows the loser, out of my sight. The clatter of antlers resumes behind a stand of pines, and I am forced to quietly shuffle downhill, timing my steps to the noise of their struggles. But somehow, some way, the third bucks realizes they are not alone, and trots off down the draw. Soon followed by the other two.

Well, there are still no more gunshots. I head up the draw, seeking the fourth little buck who had entered the pines at the crest of the ridge.

But he also soon spots me, and in two bounds is out of sight to the north. Before I can reach the rim, two shots ring out, closer than the others, and to the west. Then a third, with a higher pitch. A second shooter. Then two shots closer together than even Lee Harvey Oswald could fire. Definitely at least two shooters. I hustle to the next ridge west, and scan for orange. Gunshots continuing at a steady pace.

I soon find my hunters, three people on a bench on the opposite side of the steep valley. Shooting at two bull elk on a facing slope, probably close to 500 meters away from the shooters.

By the time it all over, at least 13 shots have been fired, and both elk are visibly hit.

The deer are forgotten. Time to get to work.

It is four hours and over two and a half miles of steep climbing before I get back to the truck to comfort the heeler panicked by all the gunfire. With two tiny elk lymph nodes in my pocket, wrapped in a paper towel.