Yes, I know it's not climbing; but I did take climbing gear with me.

It's that time of year again when the leaves change, the days get shorter and colder, and guys like me try to fill the freezer with meat. This time around, it was on a mule deer tag to the area northeast of Elko, NV, in an area I'm becoming fond of and familiar with due to several hunts conducted over the past several years.

My friend from Fairfield and I left Carson City on Thursday evening, spent the night in Elko with an old friend (who also drew the same tags), then headed up the Deeth road toward a long weekend of fresh air, dust, and work in the mountains. We hiked, carrying packs to haul meat and some basic survival gear. Up the mountains and down the gullies, aspens in various hues of crayola yellow, flaming orange, and silver-white bark. We crept through thickets of mountain juniper, spruce pines, and crackling dried-up mule ears. Long hours of sitting were spent on rocky volcanic ridgelines with binoculars held up against the eyes, shivering in the wind that blew our makeshift tent tarps to shreds, hoping to spot the elusive animals we determinedly sought.

At last, after days of seeing throngs of hunters plying the dusty roads in trucks and atv's, a herd was spotted working its way slowly down the mountain, some miles distant. My partners- having expended more energy in a day than they normally do in a week- were thoroughly beat, to the point that 45 minutes before sundown, they gave up the ghost and sent me away to do the dirty work myself.

I moved quickly through the sage-covered slopes, crossed the ravine and plowed headlong up the ridgeline, opposite of where the deer were sauntering downslope. Getting near the outcrop from which I hoped to take a shot, I slowed, stomach churning by now from the exhaustion that plagues you when you put out a massive physical effort, and tiptoed as quietly as I could through the dry twigs and tiny leaves that fall around the ancient and stiff-limbed mountain mahoganies. Every little rustle, snap, and raggedly stifled breath seeming to perforate the airwaves around me with deer-spooking audibility.

At last, the fabled outcrop of my recent daydream! I crept forward, rifle in hand, crouched over and head down like a scolded puppy. Peeking over the rock, exposing only enough of myself to get a clear view, I spotted my quarry. I slipped loose the pack and set it gingerly on the rock. I leaned forward, half standing half lying, and lined the rifle for and efficient shot. Nerves twitching, heart thumping, sun slipping slowly over the horizon, I steadied my wretched body and squeezed.

It was a clean kill.

The herd bolted, I tagged my animal and started the hard work. The work nobody likes. The wind kept whipping, the sun slipped away, and the drone of a thousand oblivious ATV-mounted hunters whined their way forelornely down the canyons. Just me and this beautiful dead animal, slowly fighting our way through the sage together on the side of the mountain. I paused, realizing I hadn't said my usual little word of thanks to the universe, and quickly uttered one in reverence, or maybe apology, for what I'd done and in appreciation for the meat that would feed us over the next year. I felt better. But the work continued.

So it goes, in places that some people will never see or appreciate. I invited my companions to climb; but their aching muscles and the blisters on their feet said otherwise. We finished quartering and icing my deer, admired the milky way and the fast moving clouds building over the peaks in the waning moonlight, and turned in for a fitful three hour nap in the buffeting wind and the light drizzle that just pattered over us before evaporating into the dust of a pre-dawn alpine start. One more tag to fill.