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It was a scene straight from a Leanin' Tree Christmas card. The five-by-five bull elk was moving uphill on a well-traveled path through lodgepole pine while snowflakes as large as dollars and wetter than kisses pasted his sides. He was so close it seemed I could reach out and tickle his ribs with my gun barrel. I had a cow tag so the bull was not mine to take, plus I was guiding a trophy hunter from Florida for whitetail, not elk. The bull moved on never knowing I was there but years later I...
