First Solo Deer

I put a primer on the nipple of the breech plug, strapped on my camouflaged backpack and shouldered my muzzleloader. About five minutes into the trees I remembered I had forgotten a headlamp. I hesitated and almost turned back toward the truck, but thought, “Naa, I doubt I'll need it.” And with that, I continued into the forest. 

It was a beautiful fall day. Aspen leaves blazed in hues of orange, red and yellow, some of them breaking from the tree and wistfully dropping to the ground. There was not a cloud in the sky, nor a breeze to be felt. I had traveled here several miles on a bumpy dirt road and hadn't seen another soul. I felt as if I had the whole valley to myself. 

I parked off the road beneath a canopy of trees. Then I walked due east toward a gently rising hill. The terrain was a mixture of aspen and pine, with a sprinkling of small meadows and fallen trees. I walked slowly, every step with intent and always scanning for deer or elk. I only had a license to hunt the former, but I never complain to see the latter. 

To my disappointment I spotted a loose band of cattle feeding in one of the meadows. They saw me right away and immediately began to stampede to the north side. “Wonderful,” I thought sarcastically, “that's all I need are a bunch of cows to scare all the deer.” Here in the West, stray livestock is always an issue and it is possible to find sheep or cows grazing on public land. 

On a whim I changed my trajectory to the northeast. The cattle froze and went the other way. Soon I found myself again away from the livestock and in my own solitude. 

I came to the edge of rocky hill, at the bottom of which was a wallow. I sat down, slipped a camouflaged mask over my head, propped my gun on a shooting stick and waited. I will admit that this was more likely to be a place for elk than deer, but I didn't mind that. I also had a camera and would love to watch close-up a giant bull elk rolling around in the wallow. 

As I waited I noticed carvings on the aspen, one from 1930 and the other 1918. The names associated with those dates had now deteriorated with time and appeared illegible, their once fine cursive now a swollen black mark against the white trunk of the aspen. Apparently this little spring had been visited by humans for over a century, and most likely longer. 

After twenty or so minutes I became inpatient and decided to move on. After all, I was hunting deer, not elk. I found a nice game trail and followed it into a grove of aspen. I couldn't believe the beauty of the season. All around me the trees glittered in fall colors. The sun neared the horizon causing occasional rays of sunlight to pierce the forest floor. I stopped to take a few pictures. This is an issue that often makes me a poor hunter. I tend to look for landscape rather than game, searching for deer in the most picturesque place rather than where they might practically live. 

I walked through another grove of aspen and in the distance I could see the open space of a meadow. There I saw a half dozen of the black cows I had seen earlier. My first instinct was to once again switch course, but then a white object caught my attention. 

It was difficult to discern the object at first sight because between me and the meadow stood and long stand of tree trunks. I observed from a distance through the slits of open space. I pulled out my binoculars and honed in on two white objects. As I anticipated, they were the snow-white rumps of two deer, both of them at first glance appearing to be does. They fed on the grass in the meadow along with the cattle.

Although I was not in the market to shoot a mother doe, I decided it best to stealthily move forward to gain a closer vantage. Still some distance away, I softly stepped toward the animals, always moving when their heads were down and concealing my movements as best I could behind the cover of trees. I would then find a larger aspen, stop my motion and peer from behind the trunk through my binoculars to assess the situation. Then I would repeat the process. 

At last I came to a location I deemed good enough for the time being. I knelt down behind a tree and glassed toward the meadow. Although I was still about 175 yards away, I could observe the situation much better. I now saw three deer, one of them a spike and another a small two-point. 

In my mind I debated whether I wanted to shoot. The hunt was still early, but I had a lot of things going on and it would be nice to get the hunt out of the way. It would also be nice to get “something” since the last few years I got nothing. But on the other hand, I had a few days off work and if I were seeing bucks now, the odds were I would see more as time went on. 

As I debated in my mind I had my gun propped up on the shooting stick and also leaned against the aspen. I followed the deer in my scope, keeping a close eye on the two-point. There was a stand of trees between me and the meadow, which often blocked my view of the grazing deer. I was also keenly aware of the half-dozen cattle mingling among them. I did not want to shoot someones cow. 

The two-point stood in the cross-hairs with ample time to take a shot. I decided I was going to do it. With my thumb I cocked the hammer and waited for the right moment. I exhaled, then squeezed the trigger.⸺Then a whimpering pop. 

What the heck!!!???

Only the primer had fired. The startled deer heard the tiny blast and scattered to the edge of the meadow. “Well, that's that,” I thought as I figured all the animals would now scatter. But to my surprise, after looking my way, they all resumed their evening meal. 

At first I was baffled as to why only the cap had went off. But then it dawned on me⸺I had forgot to load my gun! I felt so silly, but at least no one else was here in the forest to witness my folly. 

I pulled a speed reloader from my possible bag and emptied two 50-grain pellets of black powder into the barrel of my inline muzzleloader. Then I flipped the reloader over and nuzzled a .50 caliber bullet inside the barrel. With the ramrod I pushed it down until it was snug with the pellets. Then I replaced the cap. 

Now I resumed my watch of the meadow. The three deer resumed eating as if I wasn't there. But from the edge of the clearing I noticed new movement. Two new deer arrived on the scene. And they were bucks! The first was a taller two-point and the second a three-point, with a possible small fourth branch. 

I was determined I would shoot one of the two, I just had to decide which one. Neither was a trophy, but they were big enough for me. The two-point appeared as if he were a bit taller and thicker than the other, but the other wasn't too shabby himself and had a third point. After brief contemplation, I chose the three-point. 

I followed him in my scope as he too grazed on the grass. My biggest obstacle was the black cow that stood directly behind him. By now the sun had set and we were entering the hour of twilight. Whatever I did, I needed to do it soon. 

When I felt the cow was removed at a safe distance, I put the cross-hairs right on the deer's vitals. This would be roughly a 175-yard shot. Once again I cocked the hammer and when the moment was right, I pulled the trigger. 

Boooom!!! 

There was no doubt this time that the gun fired correctly. From the plume of smoke I saw what may have been the three-point take off to the right while the others scattered to the left. The cows backed off also. I assessed the situation, not sure whether I had hit him or not, then reloaded my gun.
 

I stood up and slowly walked toward the scene. The closer I got the deer took off, but the cows stayed to watch. I scanned the ground for any downed animal, but saw none. Then as I approached closer, I peered to my right and saw the three-point floundering beneath the trees. He was hit hard, but appeared unable to move anything besides his head. I waited five minutes, not wanting to spook him enough to get up and run. When it appeared that he was losing the fight, I approached him closer and put a final shot through the back of his head. He was dead. 

I have shot many deer in my life, but they have always been with family or another person. I am now fifty-years old and this would be the first deer I shot and took care of completely on my own. I was all by myself. The time was now 7:30 and I knew the sun had set ten minutes ago. I knew I had a long night ahead. 

I cut the jugular and kneeled at the foot of the deer to begin the process of gutting him out. The first thought that crossed my mind was that I should have brought the headlamp. Darkness was now setting in and I attempted to set my flashlight down in a way that it would cast light onto my area of work. 

The knife slit into the deer's underbelly and I was careful to stay away from the gut sack. My left fingers stayed beneath the skin and held the innards down as my right hand sliced the skin upwards. At this moment I really wished I had another person to hold the legs open to ease the work. Instead, I had to use my left knee to spread his legs, and even that kept slipping. The flashlight kept falling out of place also, which was very frustrating. And I never could place it in such a manner that it illuminated my work in an appropriate manner. 

In the end, I had performed one of the worst gutting jobs of my life. Blood ran up to my elbows and all over my pants. I'm sure there was an organ or two that remained inside the cavity. And as for the bladder and intestines, I'm pretty sure I somehow nicked them and there's no doubt that some fecal matter ended up on the meat. But the job was done and now it was time to move to the next step. 

Using a water bottle from my pack I washed the majority of the blood from my hands and arms. Now I had to drag the deer back to the dirt road. As I figured, I was about 1,300 feet away as the crow flies. The problem was that in that distance I would have to walk through a myriad of trees and fallen logs, all in the dark while carrying a flashlight and gun. 

I devised a plan that I would set my gun and flashlight down the way about fifty yards. Then I would go back, find the deer and drag him to the light. Then I would repeat the process. This worked well the first several times and I became overly confident of my dragging-in-the-dark skills. 

On the next one, not only did I grab the deer by the antlers and drag him to the flashlight and gun, but I dragged him past that point by a couple dozen yards. 

But the problem began when I decided to carry the flashlight in my hand as I dragged the deer. This worked once, but the second time I did it, when I returned to get my gun, I couldn't find it! I searched all over the place, shining the beam into the wooded landscape, but finding nothing. So I decided to return to the deer to reorient myself. To my complete consternation, I couldn't find that either! What a mess. I couldn't find my gun or the deer and I was probably walking around in circles, getting further away from where I should have been. 

The truth is, I didn't know where I was. At this point, everything looked the same. Some patches had aspen, others had pine, and some had more fallen logs than usual. I searched the ground for any footprints or drops of blood, but could detect nothing. I did this for twenty minutes to no avail. At one time I knelt and gave an earnest prayer. The woods were a spooky place at night and the beam from the flashlight cast all sort of shadows. I also worried about mountain lions. I had never seen one, but knew they came out at night. No doubt they would be looking for an easy meal. 

Then I spotted the gun. Hallelujah! From there I reoriented myself and within a few minutes I found the deer. I gave an audible thanks to God and continued my chore of dragging the deer. 

I have to inject that this was no easy task. The body of the deer was of no small size. Happily for me the course was slightly downhill. The longer I dragged, the more the muscles in my arms, hands and back began to ache. I often had to stop, just to give them a breather. But adrenaline was a mighty factor and little did I ponder on the stressful state of my muscles. 

As I pulled the animal over logs and around bushes and trees, I knew that I was getting near my destination. I came to a point where I could make out a faint alley-way through the trees, and in my humble judgment, I sensed that the road sat at the end of the corridor. 

Anxious to rid myself of the gun, I dropped the deer and walked to the end of this corridor, feeling that the deer would be simple enough to find when I returned. To my pleasure, after a hundred or more yards of walking, I arrived at the dirt road where I sat the muzzleloader down against a log. Then I returned for the deer. 

I thought I returned exactly as I came, but when I arrived there was no deer in sight. Here we go again, I thought. Again I walked all around, shining the beam on every tree and bush. Twice I even returned to the gun and retraced my steps. Still nothing. I arrived at a point where I was confident it had to be. There I set up two logs against a tree so I couldn't lose the spot. Then I went out searching. 

I found a splotch of blood and attempted to gauge how close I was to the two logs leaned against the trees. Of course, I couldn't find them either. I couldn't believe how disoriented everything came after dark. The deer had to be somewhere close to here, but where?

After another fifteen minutes of maddening search, I spotted the dead animal next to some bushes. And to make matters more bizarre, it was only ten yards away from where I had leaned the two logs against the tree! How did I miss that??!! 

At last I finally arrived at the road with the deer. The truck was close by and I drove it to the deer, shining the headlights onto the bedraggled three-point. With all the remaining energy I had, I hefted the weighty animal into the bed of the truck and there I cut out the tag from my license and tied it to the antlers. 

It was now ten o'clock. I had expended two and a half hours since I had shot the deer. I now had a drive home and more work to do after that. The family would be sleeping and I didn't want to wake them. I arrived home, hung it in my garage and proceeded to skin the hide. 

By the time I showered and wound down, ready to crawl into bed, it was three in the morning. You would think I would be sleepy and I definitely was. But sleep didn't come quickly. As I lied in bed, my mind kept returning to the blackened forest, either dragging or searching for that damned elusive deer! ♠ 

 

The ubiquitous Paul Hunter aspen.

The Death of Eri Lacy

Eri & Millie Lacy. The little boy is probably their son, Robert.

Young Earl came bounding down the hillside pumped on adrenaline. Most eleven-year-old boys wouldn't measure up to the task, but Earl was a Lacy, and by definition, that made him tough as nails.

The rugged slope bent steeply toward Plateau Creek, which was now beginning to disappear into the obscurity of darkness. Earl climbed over boulders, pushed through scrub oak, and slid down ravines to make it to the bottom. He carried a Winchester 30-30 rifle, but soon chucked it aside to lessen the burden. As night set in, the January air turned even colder.

At last he arrived at the bottom and emerged from the growth of scrub that grew along the slopes of the hill, panting like a wild dog, blonde hair disheveled, with scrapes and cuts over his clothes and body.  At the top of his worn-out lungs he exclaimed:

“Grandpa is dead! Grandpa is dead!”

Millie Lacy with her two sons, Howard and Earl in 1941.

Eri Lacy—my great-great grandfather—died on January 12, 1941 from a heart attack. High on the bluff, he had been packing a deer over his shoulders, down to the cabin where he lived at the confluence of Plateau Creek and the Colorado River. His grandson, Earl Lacy (Junior), was with him, and carried the rifle with which Eri had just shot the deer. Although the deer was shot out of season, and would be considered “poached” by today's standards, Eri was doing what people did back then to feed their families.

When the news of Eri's death arrived at the cabin, everyone stirred into action. Junior's dad, Earl Sr., had been drinking with a friend from the Garfield Mine, Walter Scott, and the two were quickly roused from their slumber. Junior's younger brother, Claude, was fetching water from a nearby spring and hauling jugs back to the cabin.

Immediately, young Earl led his father and mother up the steep escarpment to look for Grandpa Eri. Claude was ordered to stay behind, and Walter Scott went into town to get help. They carried a coal oil lamp and pushed their way through the ever growing darkness. At the age of thirty-six, Earl Lacy Sr. was still a very strong man, having been a professional wrestler in his early days. Adrenaline helped push him up the hill, as Eri was his father. Earl's wife, Garnette, who was very fond of Eri, followed the man and boy up the slope.

The rugged hike to Grandpa's body was dangerous at any time, and even more so in the dark. The tall ridge raises above the confluence of the Colorado River and Plateau Creek in western Colorado. The footing in some places can be treacherous, and often, the drop-offs fatal. I'm sure this was a route that Earl and Junior traveled often. At the upper end of the hill is a ravine that leads to the top of the plateau, sure to be a prime spot for hunting deer. 

Carving in a rock, indicating the death location of Eri Lacy.

Nearly a mile from their little cabin along the banks of Plateau Creek, the beam of the lantern cast its light on the body of Grandpa Eri. There is no account that I could find that describes the emotion of this event. I'm sure that Earl searched for a pulse, and perhaps shed some tears. We do know, however, that Earl found a large rock and wedged it into the crotch of a tree to mark the spot. Then he lifted his father onto his shoulders, perhaps in a fireman's carry, and began his way back down.

Even for a powerful man like Earl, the hike down was no easy feat—especially while carrying a grown man. Winter temperatures set in, making for a brisk night. Not only did he have to contend with the steep slope, but also with loose dirt, cactus, rocks, branches, patches of snow, and slick mud. The lantern cast needful light upon the path in front of them, but also created distortions with shadows, and failed to illuminate very far ahead. At one point, Earl slipped down a small embankment and hurt his back, an injury that bothered him the rest of his life.

About half way down, the group met with Walter Scott, who had brought Earl's brothers, Howard and Bob with him. They brought headlamps from the mine and helped carry Eri down the hill to the cabin where they could load him into the car and take him into town. He was only sixty-three years old when he passed away.

Eri and Millie Lacy on their wedding day in 1898.

Eri Lacy was born on March 7, 1875 in Burrton, Kansas to James Addison and Catherine Hatton Lacy. His mother was said to be full-blooded American Indian. Eri was the seventh of nine children. On March 16, 1898, he was married to Myrtle Millie Ansel in Newton, Kansas. Five children were born to this union: Howard William, Arthur Earl, Mary Marie, Pearl Kathryn, and Robert Raymond.

Eri and Millie lived in many places throughout Kansas and eastern Colorado. We know that he had his own Wild West Show where he also worked as the “pick-up” man for those who rode the horses⸺he was the one who helped them off their horse. When he lived in Syracuse, Kansas, he worked for the state highway, driving a team of mules to a road grader.

Around 1937 they moved to western Colorado where they lived in a cabin north of Palisade. They were the first of the Lacy family to move there—many others soon to follow suit. While in Palisade, Eri enjoyed playing poker at the local bar.

Of her grandfather, who died three years before her birth, Alice Barker spoke highly of him: “My mother, who was his daughter-in-law, said he was probably the finest man she ever knew, which is saying a lot, coming from a daughter-in-law. She just thought he was fantastic. He was crazy about Myrt (his granddaughter) because she was named after his wife. He called her his little Myrtie Ann and had a little rocking chair built like his, to sit beside his, so they could rock together. I wish I had known more about him because it sounds like he was really a nice guy.”

Millie Lacy at the grave of her husband, Eri, at the cemetery in Palisade, Colorado.  (1941)

Seventy-four years later, several descendants of Eri Lacy gathered at the bottom of the hill, near the creek from where their ancestor died. This location has been somewhat of a pilgrimage for us, although I worry that the tradition is dying out with the newer generations. For me, this was my third time to make the ascent, the first as a child with my grandpa Lacy, and the second in 2000 with my dad's cousin, Brett, and his kids, Dustin, Tanner, and Nate, and my brother, Walt.

This latest hike, however, was a little different. It had been many years since any of us had hiked to the location, and we were hoping, although not completely confident, that we would find it. To boot, we brought with us a group of 24 people, including 15 kids, all of them great-great-great grandchildren of Eri Lacy. And it was deep July, heading in to August, and the big ball of sun was already weighing heavily upon us by the time we began.

Abandoned structure near Plateau Creek, near where Eri Lacy lived in 1941.

The junction with Plateau Creek is reached by driving seven miles northeast of Palisade on I-70, and taking the Collbran exit. Immediately on the right-side, after rounding a long corner, is a turnout spot.  This is where we parked. An old stone building sits in decay at the parking spot and I wonder if this was one of the structures owned by the Lacy's in 1941. Any other sign of their being here, such as the service station, has long been torn down and removed. 

View of Colorado River and the Grand Valley Diversion Dam.

With Camelbaks and water bottles, our little horde began the trek up the side of the hill, the steepest part of the entire hike. According to the stories, the path that we took was the exact route taken by Earl, Garnette, and little Junior as they walked with lantern in-hand to retrieve Eri. The route taken by Junior right after Eri died, and while carrying the gun, was straight down the hill and more direct, but steeper and more dangerous.

At the crest of the hill there is a fine view of the Colorado River and the Grand Valley Diversion Dam in De Beque Canyon. Plateau Creek runs into the river near the interchange of the freeway.

Once all the straggling munchkins caught up with the front, we took a small water break and my dad told the full story of Eri's death. Although he wasn't born when his grandfather passed away, the story has been passed down.

From the crest (there is no path), the hike makes a u-turn to the south, but continues upward for a little while longer to create some distance from the precipitous cliffs now on our left. Once on top, the hill either slopes to the Colorado River side, or to the Plateau Creek side, and it is necessary to stay below the ridge on the Plateau Creek side. 

Descendants of Eri Lacy take a breather while hiking to the location of his death.

 

Plateau Creek snakes alongside the highway, as seen from the hike up the hill.

There are some good view-points of the creek and the road that straddles its side, known as the Grand Mesa Scenic Byway. It was at one of these stopping places that we began to learn that we might run into problems. Water bottles now began to deplete, and complaints of the heat from the kids murmured through the ranks. As for where we were going, that was becoming less obvious all the time. The terrain turned rugged and the side-canyon where we would have to go looked to be too wild for kids.

And as for finding “the spot,” we were only hoping to find it. None of us had been there in years. Walt and I had been much younger at the time, and my dad, now sixty-five years old, was exhausted with all the kids. As for myself, I relied on my “Google intuition” that I hoped would lead me directly there.

Our July heat was very different from the January chill that Earl and Garnette felt as they climbed the hill in the dark. I'm sure they carried no water, nor stopped to enjoy the views along the way, nor to eat a granola bar. I have to admire Earl Jr. for leading them to “the spot” in relative darkness. The trees and the rocks and the slopes begin to blend together when you're not familiar with them. This leads me to believe that for the Lacys of 1941, this was their stomping ground where they played, climbed, and hunted. That would also explain how Junior managed to run straight down the hill without getting ledged up.

Amidst the pleas to turn around and return to the vehicles, Walt and I persuaded our group of kin to stay with us for just fifteen more minutes. “If we don't find anything by then,” we told them, “you can go back.”

During the next quarter-hour, my hopes began to diminish that I would be able to show my kids where Eri Lacy died. We approached the mouth of the little canyon where we knew we must enter, but the terrain continued to push back with steep embankments, thorny bushes, and bouldering rocks. I knew that the mothers carrying toddlers on their backs would never want to venture further, and all but the hardiest of kids would refuse.

At last, we gave everyone the choice to continue on, or retreat. With most water bottles now empty, every person, except Walt and I, chose to return. We sent them on their way, but promised to join them shortly. This put pressure on us to hurry and find the location, so as to not leave them waiting too long.

The hike makes a turn into this side-canyon.

The side-canyon that pours from the plateau is where Eri died, but the question remained as to how far up the canyon we needed to go. From our hillside perch, we had to descend around the bend of the hill over very tricky earth. Without the kids to slow us down, we could now move at a quicker pace.

Sometime after the death of Eri, one his sons, probably Claude, returned to the spot and carved in a rock: “ERI LACY DIED JAN. 12, 1941.” This he did next to the tree in which he had wedged the rock. I remember when I had visited the site many years ago that the rock had then moved several feet above the ground, raising with the tree as it grew. These two landmarks, the rock and the carving, marked the spot that we searched for.

Once in the side-canyon, Walt and I split up and each scoured the area along the drainage in places where we thought it might be. My first two spots proved to be wrong.  As I began to move up-canyon, I heard Walt yell out that he had found it.

I hurried toward his voice and found him standing in the middle of the canyon bed, next to a large boulder that carried a faint inscription on it. None of the letters were as pronounced as I had remembered—the day and year had almost disappeared. To the left of the carving was another inscription, this one less deep and hurried that read: “Claude, Walt, and Karson Lacy.”

Walt pointed out to me that the tree that held the rock had blown over and was now lying next to the boulder. The rock that Earl Lacy placed inside the crotch was still there. 

The large boulder on the left is the rock that Earl Lacy carved to indicate that Eri Lacy died here.  The fallen tree is the one with the stone placed in the branches. 

 

Looking up-canyon.

I couldn't help but to wonder how long this little memorial would last. The inscription had faded since I had last seen it, and the tree had blown over. In another seventy-four years, would every sign of Eri's death be obliterated?

We spent another twenty minutes loitering around the site, searching for other relics. I would have liked to hike further up the canyon and onto the plateau to see if I could find where Eri might have killed his deer.

At length, Walt and I strapped our light loads onto our backs and began working our way back down. We knew we had it easy because our steps had the advantage of full sunlight and we were not carrying dead-weight over our shoulders. When we arrived at the bottom, we found that one vehicle had been left for the two of us to take back to the hotel. We unstrapped our gear and then I walked across the road and dipped my entire head into Plateau Creek, swishing it around for a few seconds, then dabbing it off with an old shirt. We stepped in the vehicle, cranked up the air, and drove to Palisade. 

Claude Lacy and family at site of Eri Lacy's death in 1992.

Postscript. The rifle that Earl Jr. tossed as he ran down the hill was a Winchester 30-30. It was found a year and a half later by Eri's son, Howard Lacy. They were hoping that if they found the gun that it would still be usable, as times back then were difficult. Their hopes were in vain, however, and the rifle proved to be rusty and of no use.

Eri's wife, Millie, continued to live in Palisade after her husband's death. Her grand-kids knew her as “Little Grandma Lacy.” Sixteen years later on February 12, 1957, she was killed in an automobile accident in Deschutes County, Oregon while traveling with her grandson. She is buried alongside her husband—just across the fence from a corn field—at the cemetery in Palisade. ♠

The pink line represents the approximate hiking route to site where Eri Lacy died.

Sources

Barker, Alice Lacy. Interview by John Lacy, March 30, 2009.

Lacy, Claude. Conversation with John Lacy, June 27, 2000.

Lacy, Claude. Interview by John Lacy, August 16, 2005.

Double Rainbow

Prologue

Yesterday, after a long hike hauling my gun, camera, and pack, I was relieved to finally arrive at my vehicle and pull the weight from off my back. After a quick bowl of granola I put the cooler and jug of water back into the Trailblazer, got inside and drove away. Inadvertently, I left my camouflaged backpack near the stand of trees next to the road.

Twenty miles later, after traveling down a slick and muddy road, I discovered my mistake.

Hesitant to return on the treacherous road with an impending storm, I continued my route to home and decided to return at first sunlight to pick it up. After all, very few people traveled that particular road, and most of them, I would guess, were honest folk.

My backpack had much of what I used to function during the hunt: water bottles, a sandwich, deer bags, bone saw, granola bars, flashlight, first-aid kit, camouflaged poncho, sweat shirt, a point and shoot camera, and phone.

Same place, next day

It is six-thirty in the morning and we have been traveling since five. I am with my sixteen-year-old daughter, Kaitlyn, and we have traveled almost sixty miles up the mountain, in hopes of being the first people here.

The headlights beam ahead on the road as we wend up the final hill toward our destination. Fallen aspen leaves litter the damp pathway. As we crest the final hill, I am relieved to know we are the first ones here. But my heart sinks as I scan the ground where I parked last night. No backpack!

“It's not here,” I tell Kaitlyn as I grab a flashlight and get out of the vehicle. With a small shaft of light I examine the ground again for any sign of my property. ¡Nada!

Knowing there is nothing else I can do for now, we gather the gun and everything we need to hunt.

Just like déjá vu, as we walk up the hillside, we spot two raghorn bulls on the skyline. One of them was there yesterday morning, but now I am excited that Kaitlyn can see them too. We stop and watch for a minute, but then continue our walk to the lookout point.

We nestle down next to a small pine tree and Kaitlyn rests the muzzleloader on her lap. The forecast said that this morning would have a zero percent chance of rain. Already, I can see a fierce pack of thunderclouds headed our direction.

Although we spot no deer in our little clearing, the gradual building of the sunrise catches our attention. The first object to turn orange are two puffy clouds just ahead, floating over the valley. In another minute, the thunderclouds that are headed our way change from dark gray to vibrant pink.

By the second, this sunrise is building and growing and mutating until it fills the entire sky with blazing colors! Kaitlyn and I are in awe at the magnitude of the spectacle. We are at 9,000 feet in elevation, surrounded alpine slopes and golden quaking aspen, and now, the sky is radiating like a wildfire.

As my camera is currently MIA, I am grateful that Kaitlyn has her phone, and she anxiously uses it to capture a few pics.

As the sunrise reaches its apex, a stiff breeze kicks in and we feel a drop or two of rain. Anxious to look-over another nearby hill, I signal to Kaitlyn that we get up and move along.

Back up the hillside we move, using agile movements over strewn rocks and broken branches that speck the ground. We move closer to our next observation point, but by now, the rain is beginning to come in pelts. We glance the hillside and see that there are no obvious animals and quickly decide it is time to turn around.

As we change directions, we look to the sky and spot a quickly forming rainbow that appears to be growing from the mountain. Before our eyes, the colors of the bow become as vibrant as any color can be, and then, a second rainbow forms above the first. The double rainbow, anchored to the ground on both ends, grows in the middle until it is completely linked.

Our hats, our hair, our coats are becoming drenched, but we don't want to go because this is one of the most amazing things we have ever seen. Not only do we feel on top of the world because of our high vantage point, but now with the rainbow, we feel as if we are in heaven!

Even the hills around us, covered with tawny-colored wild grass and wind-swept trees, are radiating a golden hue. The sky everywhere is a swath of pink.

Kaitlyn wants her picture with the rainbow, so we stop in the wet wind to get a shot.

They say in some eastern beliefs, that a double rainbow is a sign of good fortune. Sometimes it can be regarded as a good sign, as if heaven is smiling upon you.

We put the phone up, tuck our heads, and make a brisk walk back down the long rocky hill to the vehicle.

Epilogue

It has been almost two months since I left my backpack on the mountain. Every day, for a month after that, I hoped to get a phone call from someone who made the find. It was easy, right? My phone is in the pouch, with no password, no blocks. Just turn it on, call about anyone in my contacts, especially those with names like 'Mom' and 'Dad'! I even sent myself a text: “To the person who found my backpack, please call my wife's phone at this number . . .” Still—nothing!

Where is my double rainbow? Where is my sign of good luck? Where are all the answers to prayers that I have sent to heaven? One thought that kept reoccurring in my mind was the Buddhist concept of attachment. On this earth, we tend to grasp, or “attach” ourselves to all sorts of worldly possessions that in the long-run, don't matter. I don't pretend to understand the concept fully, but I can relate in a Christian context that there are really very few things that we carry with us to the next life—and a backpack isn't one of them!

So, I've got my wonderful family, and a beautiful world to live in. I enjoy health and freedom. I feel a connection and a faith with my Maker. I am at peace with most people I know, and although I'm not perfect, I feel blessed in many ways. This is my double rainbow. ♠