They were still far below us, feeding in a steep canyon below some rimrock. There were two or three bulls, apparently mature from body size and fullness of mane.
Chris had earmarked a rimrock ledge for our next vantage point, and we got to it without undue panic on my part.
A child of these demanding, difficult prairie breaks of stunted cedar and pinon, interminable sand washes and abrupt sandstone rimrock and abutments, he owns the usual worries of a dry land rancher mortgaged to the hilt.
All the grass that seemed to indicate something about possibility, that pushed up in low places and along rimrock edges full of yellow-blossomed sunflowers, is sun-dried like hard wire, tempered and napped into cowlicks and distinctly seared between the hard hills.
Making frequent communications with Jeff, via hand signals, I snaked down through the rimrocks until he indicated I was directly above the buck.
With a quickly mapped stalking route, I began the 2,500-foot ascent toward the rimrocks. The journey, which took upward of three hours, proved to be taxing to say the least.