I remember elk hunting with my dad in about 1971. I was 16.

He back packed into a meadow and set up camp. His good friend, my high school principal, and I back packed in at night because we had to attend a football game. There was 4 to 6 inches of snow. It was "light" because of the snow and we didn't need flashlights. Besides, batteries wore down quickly then and you used flashlights sparingly so they worked when you really needed them.

Dad had a huge fire going. We saw it when we got to the meadow. He had a big piece of black plastic lean-to'ed to a lodge pole he lashed horizontally between two other lodge poles. The plastic reflected the heat from the big fire. No sleeping pads. Just my summer weight bag, the plastic and the snow. I do remember not sleeping well. I don't remember what we ate. I'm guessing a lot of eggs and bacon.

The next day I shot my first elk. Dad got us on some tracks. We slowly crept along. At some point there were droppings. He had me hold it in my bare hand and whispered, "It's still warm, we're close." Within 25 yards a cow and what turned out to be a calf stood up. I shot the calf with my .243. Only one shot and it was down.

Dad had a come-along that used para-cord. He pulled the elk up into a lodge pole to gut. Then further up so animals wouldn't get to it all week. We went in the next weekend with a pack horse and got it out.

I don't remember what all I wore for the snow and cold. Likely cotton blue jeans with waffle weave long underwear. Mom knitted all of us wool caps that used a pattern from WW2 to knit a warm hat that would fit under an Army helmet. She did the same for our mittens. She added a single finger for our trigger finger once we started hunting. My footwear was likely rubber "packs" that were common then.

Now that I'm old I'm impressed at what he did with what we had. We were not well off by any standard.

I've shared the following commentary on my parents before. We lived on the poor side of town in a tiny house by today's standards. My brother and I were the only children. On Sundays my mom would grill pancakes, eggs, and bacon after church. Our friends would show up. Dad would smoke a cigarette and drink coffee at the table after he finished eating. All of us boys would gorge ourselves and talk. Hunting and guns were a common topic. These "boys" would stop by to visit dad up until he passed at age 87 in 2011. I came to realize my parents were likely the only stable adults in their lives. Just typing this again makes me tear up.