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FOREVER WILD

​Leading two pack-horses up the trail along Bald Ridge, I take in the wild Wyoming mountains, skyline then dip deeper into the Absaroka Wilderness.  Glancing back, I feel the haunting presence of seven-plus generations who had ridden in awe beneath the same sunrise.  Three hours later I appear from the edge of a grove of willows like a ghost gripping my Winchester.  Looking at the dead cow elk, I feel a little lonely and think of my great grandfathers, my mountain brothers and the forever-wild bond we share.  Wyoming’s outdoor heritage means more than pretty pictures and fresh air. It’s about a wildness that courses through our state and through the veins of those lucky enough to get mud on our boots stomping around it.  We are forever united with the wild of Wyoming. 
         A 7th generation Wyoming native, that wild blood runs deep in me, uniting me with my great-grandfather who died taking an elk on Carter Mountain, whose ashes speak from the Absaroka Range.  They speak of the freedom of the wilderness and the rejuvenation that can only be found on a ridge beneath an evening lightening storm where they call me to the wild in the mountain and the wild in me.  I am united with my grandfather when I pull into a rancher’s yard who long ago quit allowing hunters and I say, “I’m Ol’ Swede’s grandkid,” right before they let me on and I drive the same roads that Ol’ Swede made in his Model A 60 years ago.  After bagging my goats, I dunk the skinned and cleaned carcasses in the same creek my ancestors did.  This bond will keep me coming back to the hills I love religiously for years to come.
         Six years of mountain wrangling unite me with my Great Grandpa Russ who was a guide and other old time local guides as wild as Ned Frost and Mel Stonehouse.  Every time I ride into camp and tie my pack string to a hitching pole built by one of these mountain legends, I get an awesome rush.  When I share a fire and the silence of The Thorofare with hunters on the same ridge where my great-grandpa shared the wild with clients, I see his spirit rise from the smoke to sit beside me.
         As a man, that wild blood runs deep in me uniting me with adventurers like August, who set off for the marines more than two years ago, but whose wild spirit rides with me on every hunt.  It unites me with Dion who I skipped school with, so we could cook lunch over a fire by a secret waterfall.  He just had a baby boy, and I can see the wilderness in that baby’s eyes as well.  These men are more than friends, they are my brothers because of the wilderness bond we will always share.
         Wyoming’s outdoor heritage is rich with memories.  The ridges and streams whisper all of our stories and a thousand only known to the wildlife that has drank and bathed, fought and mated, given birth and died by their shores.  Then there are my memories rich with the heritage of a state, a wilderness, a family, and a band of brothers that are all forever wild.

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