It was kind of an unusual conversation to be a part of. Certainly not one I had ever anticipated.

Nor one I would want for myself.

Three of us there, still visiting after the 30-some other people had all gone. The papers all gathered, food and coolers packed and loaded, the dutch ovens emptied and cooled. Just the three of us still standing under the pavilion, the nearby creek passing gently between two aged, weathered, antique wagons.

I listened as the younger warden asked one of the most senior wardens if there might be a day or two soon where he could come up and have a horse packing trip into the elder warden's district's backcountry, to see and learn from the experienced hand.

The older warden answering in his usual slow, careful manner...

Maybe sometime in August. But once hunting seasons get going full bore in the Fall, a trip together would be kinda hard to arrange. And then after that, the weather gets kinda hard to predict, and unpleasant at those elevations.

"And, of course, by 1 January, it's too late..."

Because, as we all knew, in May his doctors gave him only six months to live.