In the pitch dark of this early morning, I made my way along the trail on my traditional “Thanksgiving Day” hunt. In the distance, I heard the  conversation of living water and rock. The “babbling brook” informed me that I was arriving at my first checkpoint, the first of four creeks that marked my orienteering by flashlight into my remote elk “hidey hole.” I jumped a deer at creek two. At creek three, I spooked an elk that crashed through the brush like a freight train. I crossed the power line just before creek four and knew instinctively that it was “time to climb.”

The cliffs heading up to “Whisper Peak,” were no picnic with a heavy daypack equipped with survival gear and my .300 Winchester magnum. As I traversed up open rock, the wind cut into my sweaty body. I made it to my spot, changed into a dry top layer and waited for the sun to rise. As I sat with rifle across my lap, my thoughts reflected to what the first Thanksgiving day might have been like.

I recalled visiting Plymouth Rock as a kid.  Imprinted on my young mind were the salty breezes and the crashing waves. In 1621, Plymouth colonists celebrated the harvest with the Wampanoag native peoples in what was transcribed by Edward Winslow and William Bradford as the first “Thanksgiving Day.” The fare they described was quite unlike the typical American feast of today. Numerous waterfowl such as ducks and geese were one of the main staples. Wild turkeys, fresh and smoked fish, as well as maize, cabbage, beans, onions and squash rounded out the mainstays. According to the scribes of that day, the natives brought five deer, and a variety of edible plants that included native berries, grapes and plums.  These writings mention no desserts as no ovens and very little sugar probably eliminated these treats. In the dreams of my mind’s eye, I picture a gathering of handsomely dressed Indians adorned in buckskin, maidens fashionable with jewlery of natural materials. I visualize them meeting with hearty colonists among the fall colors of eastern beech, oak and birch.

And then the golden light and warmth of the sun awaken me. I look out the hills in front of me and spot some movement. Three ridges to my east, across the the deep ravine at about 800 yards I spot elk. The cows move in a low opening, as I carefully crawl to a better observational angle. I take a rest behind a down log. It’s a long ways and they do not see me. I slide my map out and calculate the distance at almost a half mile. My heart pounds as I catch a shaft of sunlight beaming down from the heavans to illuminate a beautiful bull elk of at least six points. I spend hours trying to position and spot a bull lower down in the brushy opening feeding, that I may feed on him this winter. That I may survive.

But it is not to be. Eventually, fatigue and dusk approach. I must make my way back, and crisscross my path across the slopes and under cover when possible towards my point of beginning. At a pause on the cliffs I overview this amazing drainage and mountain splendor. I catch the movement of another hunter below me. He is pulling a toboggan. He is a tired guy and looks to be pulling about a half an elk. I drop down the cliffs carefully to give him a hand and spell him a bit. We take turns pulling the load, and I help him get it to the last hill before the spot where our rigs are parked. He is eternally grateful, and so am I as I give thanks on this day.

On a personal note. My younger brother recently has been going through a serious medical situation.  My eyes have been opened to an army of angels that have come to our side in this crisis. I give sincere thanks to the warm-hearted health professionals out there who have helped him in a remarkable recovery so far. I give thanks for his courage, and my mom’s also.  Immeasureable appreciation to his friends and mine, who have helped “Team Baxter “ in so many ways. That is what my Thanksgiving is about this year. I hope yours is truly full of good health and grace.

(Brian Baxter is a naturalist and outdoor columnist for The Western News.)