Photo Essays

September Without Me- September 15, 2026

I couldn’t sleep last night. This happens to me periodically. I remember the first time clearly. I was twelve years old, lying awake the night before opening day of deer season. It happened again and again on the eve of opening day through much of my early teen years.

But last night was not that kind of sleeplessness. This was the kind where every time I turned, my shoulders ached. My body groaned, and I longed to find rest. Sleep finally came sometime in the wee hours of the morning, and I crawled out of bed around seven. I had hoped to get out early and experience some of the elk rut unfolding in the hills and valleys surrounding our home. It has been an unusually busy season in my world, and the workload has only increased over the past month or so. Ministry, family, speaking, projects, responsibilities—good things, mostly.

But meanwhile, just over the ridges, bulls are gathering cows. Bugles are carrying through the valleys. Calves are following their mothers. One of the great annual rhythms of this place is unfolding without asking whether our calendars have room for it. It can be hard in busy seasons to make time to get outside and pay attention. Yet this magnificent thing happens whether I make time to witness it or not. 

The fog was especially thick this morning, and the 45-degree air had a crisp bite to it. Somewhere beyond what I could see, the bulls were bugling. As I traveled the dirt roads of the local elk refuge, a cow appeared through the mist. I stopped the truck, listened for a moment, and then I saw him. Through the fog and brush stood the bull I would spend much of the rest of the morning trying to follow as the sun burned its way through the dense moisture clouding my view. He sounded off with a bugle that made the hair on the back of my neck stand. For a moment, he looked directly at me. Then he turned and disappeared into the autumn olive almost as quickly as he had appeared.

It wasn’t long before the cow and her calf made their own entrance. She leaned down and nuzzled her little one. 

In the distance beyond them, the bull was still bugling, often answering bulls on the opposite hillside.

I wasn’t sure where I could go to get another look at him, much less a photograph. Eventually, I decided being on foot was my best option. I left the safety and convenience of the truck behind, grabbed my camera, and started up a dirt path toward the sound, hoping for a clearer view while still keeping my distance. As I climbed, the bugles grew closer. My heart was racing from more than just the climb. Almost immediately, the decision was rewarded. The massive bull stepped from the dense cover much closer than I expected, and for a moment we locked eyes.

Exhilarating doesn’t quite describe it. Thirty yards is close enough that a bull elk no longer feels like a photograph waiting to happen. With each step he took, my adrenaline climbed a little higher. At that distance, there was no mistaking his size.

The dark mane around his neck, the weight of his body, the deliberate way he moved through the goldenrod—it all felt different without the distance that usually separates observer from animal.

Then the massive frame of his 7x7 antlers caught the morning light and reminded me that I had a camera in my hands. I started taking pictures. It had never been my intention to get that close. I usually err on the side of caution and keep considerably more distance between myself and these animals. But wild animals have a will of their own, and sometimes they close the distance for you.

Thankfully, his attention wasn’t on me. He made that clear with bugle after bugle, each one directed toward the cow somewhere ahead of him. The sound is difficult to describe if you have never heard it up close. It begins with something almost impossibly high for an animal that large and then tumbles into the guttural sounds that belong to the rut.  Soon he broke into a gentle jog in her direction.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, it became difficult to remember that I had come hoping to make photographs. Thankfully, there were moments when I did capture the experience, but it made me wonder: what would have happened if I hadn’t gone? What if I had simply chalked this morning up as another missed opportunity because I was too exhausted?

The truth is, it wouldn’t have changed anything for this bull, the cow, or her calf. They continued on long after I headed back to my truck and drove home, but the encounter changed me.  I’m still tired. I still have a massive workload waiting for me. But somehow, I came home with more than I left with.

For a little while this morning, I was simply there, witnessing one small part of a rhythm that has been playing out in these hills long before I crawled out of bed.

And it would have happened without me.