There are some days during the elk rut when I head into the woods fully expecting to have an incredible encounter and come home with the shot: a bull in the middle of a bugle, or two bulls fighting for dominance. Saturday morning was one of those days.

It was the first Saturday of autumn, and the cooler weather had the bulls bugling. Driving through the local refuge, I heard a few almost immediately and managed to grab a few proof-of-life shots. Then I caught a quick glimpse of a massive bull a few hundred yards away. I thought I could outsmart a few of the other observers on the refuge, so I pulled away and tried to position myself between where that big bull was and where I thought he was going.

The only problem was that the fog began to rise, and before long, I could barely see fifty yards in front of me. And I knew there were at least five different bulls somewhere close by. Earlier that morning, I had even put camouflage on for the first time this season. I figured this was the perfect opportunity to take a little hike and see if I could get a better view.

I spent most of the morning chasing elk. Every time I heard a bugle, I moved. Every time I thought I had figured out where a bull might be, I headed that direction. And every time, I arrived just a little too late.  That was the rhythm of my morning. Chase. Miss. Move. Miss again. By the time I started walking back toward the truck, I was more than a little frustrated.  Then I saw him. A bull elk standing almost exactly where I had started.  I had spent the morning in camouflage, trying to move quietly and blend into the landscape. In the end, I might have had better luck sitting beside a bright red truck. I couldn’t help but laugh.

Maybe there is a lesson in that. Sometimes we become so determined to find the thing we are looking for that we forget how to wait. We assume the meaningful moment must be somewhere ahead of us, so we keep moving, searching, and chasing. 

Sometimes it is. 

And sometimes it walks right past the place we just left.