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Utah looked like Alaska, with a low ceiling of battleship gray clouds obscuring the sky and the remnants of last night's snowfall slowly turning into slush in the wet streets. I was just entering a small town that nestled in a valley between mountains that were mostly hidden by those clouds. The high country on both sides of the highway would hang on to most of its snow until next spring.

The trees, on the other hand, were dropping their leaves quickly now. Aspen groves on the lower slopes were already bare, and the only color highlighting the mountains came from the red brush in the avalanche chutes. Cottonwood trees lining the riverbanks in the valley carried only about half of their yellow foliage, and fallen leaves covered most of the front lawns in town.

Over a foot of snow fell high on the mountain where I killed the cow elk the morning before. Magpies gathered while my guide, Frank, and I skinned and quartered the elk. We took turns carrying the quarters up the hill to the truck, leaving the other behind to keep the scavengers away from the meat. When we finally climbed into the truck and drove off, the magpies crowded around the remnants in a raucous feeding frenzy. We didn't leave much behind, and I'm sure the birds cleaned up most of it before the snow buried everything. Snow heavy clouds obscured the sky as we made our way slowly along the jeep track that wound down the mountain toward the dense copse of aspens where I left the trailer. ...

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