It's not your most aesthetically pleasing hunting environment.

But the elk are there, if you want to dodge around gas field trucks and petroleum condensate tanks to find them.

My neighbors were there, as usual. Unsuccessful this day, which is not usual.

Checked one of our new residents with his elk. Checked his elk last year, too. He asked where my dogs were.

Home. I wore them out yesterday.

I didn't tell him about our superstitious fear of this opening day.

We first allowed hunting in this desert area in, I believe, 1982. Almost no gas wells at all, back then. Nor gravel roads.

Another local family started hunting these elk that first year, and have been here every year since. Even though they moved away to Capitol City many years ago. We nearly always bump into each other on opening day.

They're on their third generation of elk hunters in this area. One of that generation went to school with our sons, and asked about them as I carved lymph nodes from her significant other's cow elk (the 6-point bull above was hers).

I came across them all again at the Towers early in the afternoon. The scattered clan was all together by then, including the flatland visitors from my Mom's state.

The middle generation had fixed the one truck that broke down, and was putting away his tools as the others gathered around for photos in front of the day's harvest. Grandpa off to the side, talking on his cell phone. (You get great reception up here on what they call the Continental Divide, but isn't.)

As I backed away to search for more hunters to check, the mechanic of the family waved goodbye.

"See you next year!" he shouted in a cheery voice.

'I'll be here,' was my reply.