Tourist season is fully upon us.

The first restaurant I stopped at, which was her choice, was nearly full. Likewise for the second, my Plan B. Both full of workers and family travelers.

Hardly the place to sit and take a table for an hour or two.

I settled on McD's. And because my compadre was twice delayed by over twenty minutes by construction, I waited contentedly through the long, slow incompetent lines to get my coffee and pies.

Still, she was almost an hour late. So late she had her husband stop by with her journals, just to save time.

And then, there we sat. Reminiscing about events of the past winter, one day at a time. Her flipping through her daily notes, me through mine.

When did the elk first show up?

7 December.

When did their urine first turn pink?

28 February.

When did the first elk go down?

5 March.

When were the first elk killed?

6 March.

How many were killed on the 11th of March?

15.

On the 12th?

6 more.

And on we went. Day by day. A chronicle of the events. Days full of memories, a few of which were good. Most were not. Until the final days...

When was the last elk killed?

18 March.

When did the elk leave?

18 March.

And the final tally?

89. Because there was that one last bull, whose prone body was not found until late April, having died in a pile of his own feces.

Someone we did not rescue from a slow death.

And perhaps, on Wednesday, our chronology will mean something to the others involved.

A more pleasant memory, from April...