Afternoon of the opening day of elk season.

The day had been going slow, partly due to the mid-week opener, and partly due to the heavy, fresh snow that limited travel. Hadn't checked an elk yet, so I dropped in on my sure bet for some fresh harvest data.

They run one of the smallest ranches in my part of the state. There are smaller places, yes, but those aren't run as serious cattle ranches. And this family hunts. With elk as their passion. Without fail, if I stop by their yard late on opening day, there will be elk hanging there, and I will get to collect some teeth.

I look up at the top of the snow covered mountains and catch a glimpse of reflection off a windshield at the top of "The Hole," nearly four miles off. Not a good sign.

As I come over the low rise and get my first look at the ranch, I can see the usual conglomeration of vehicles. Looks like they're back alright.

But there are no large carcasses hanging from the permanent racks in front of the workshop.

As I pull in, I am greeted by more than the usual complement of dogs. I have to push hard against the heeler sisters to squeeze out of the truck without being in the middle of a dog fight.

The grandmother of the family opens the door before I can knock, and invites me in. Turns out the elk hunting crew is not back. Because of the snow, they took off in a caravan of ATVs and one pickup, and left the normal hunting vehicles at the ranch. They just called (wonderful things, cell phones) to let her know they were leaving the Hole and going to check on the flats off the mountains.

That was their windshield I saw.

So we catch up on the news. How her two granddaughters are doing. One is on her first elk hunt, but only has two days to hunt before she has to go back to University City. Everyone, especially her dad, is concentrating on getting her a good elk.

We sit in their small, clean living room and talk about how hunting seasons have been. About the neighboring ranches that are up for sale. The dry summer.

Periodically I can hear a cough or some wheezing from one of the back rooms. Someone too sick or tired for the hunt?

Last winter was unusually rough in their valley. She shows me rolls of pictures of the snowdrifts over the roofs. The channels they dug between buildings. The drift that the dogs were buried in.

Literally. They were in their doghouse when the storm hit (smart dogs), and stayed there, quietly curled up to keep warm. The family thought the dogs were hiding in the outbuildings, and didn't think to dig down to the dog house for two days.

Dogs were fine, just hungry.

But this is not getting any elk checked. I remark I need to get back to work and politely head out the door.

The conversation lingers, as conversations often do, with me on the front step and her standing in the doorway, holding the screen door with one hand.

I think to ask how her husband is doing.

Her face changes, but she continues on with the same matter-of-fact tone she has had throughout our talk.

He caught a bad cough at the end of the summer, and finally went in to see the doctors.

Lung cancer. Inoperable.

They gave him 2-3 months to live. Maybe double that with chemotherapy.

He tried one chemo session, and it beat him down, weak and sick. Decided the extra time wasn't worth it, if that's how you have to feel.

So he's home, waiting to die.

I just talked to his son on the road three hours before, and he made no mention.

She is stoic as stone there in the doorway. Live on a working ranch and you know death is a part of life. But there is pain in her eyes, barely contained.

"What can you do?", she says.

She needs a tight hug right now, but I'm not the one to give it. I've known these folks for over two decades, but we're not that close. I reach up and put my hand over hers holding the door.

It's the right thing to do, but the tears start welling up in her eyes. She's fighting hard to keep her composure and rustic dignity.

I release her hand, give her my condolences, sincerely, and head back to the country.

That was just over a month ago. Ran into their son at the auction on Saturday. His dad's doing better, actually getting up and around a little.

"You should stop by."

He's right. I should.

And the wife and I ran into his sister and her husband at the grocery store after the auction. Heard all the elk hunt stories, as we blocked one aisle for over a half hour.

The granddaughter got her first elk. A good six-point. Really sorry I wasn't there to check it.

See, I checked her sister's first elk, a grand bull, a couple years ago. When she was 19 years old.

I first saw the elder sister nineteen years before, when she was less than a year old, bundled up against the cold in a carseat in the back of the old open-top jeep.

The day I checked her mother's first elk, down in the Hole.