Sing Us a Song

After a day and a half of driving, we reached the last hour or so of the trail. We climbed one ridge, rounded a bend, and found another waiting. It felt as though we were sinking deeper and deeper into the mountains. Fall color of the aspens seemed to light up the hillsides like a wildfire, and the dirt roads narrowed as we gained elevation.

Thankfully, we found a spot off the road large enough to turn our truck and trailer around. It looked like a good place to camp: no obvious deadfall or dying pines that might come crashing down on a windy night. About thirty yards behind us, an opening in the forest revealed a view into Wyoming that looked like a Western painting brought to life.

Hunter and I cleared a patch roughly fifteen feet square among the pines and set up camp. We pitched our tents close together, then strung a cord between two trees about four feet above them and draped a tarp overhead. It gave us extra protection from rain and wind – a decision we would soon be grateful for. Beneath the tarp, we had just enough room for two folding chairs. We called it our patio.

It was the perfect place to get out of the rain, take off our boots, and enjoy a beer at the end of the day. Hunter and I spent every evening there, just the two of us. Across from the patio stood a folding table that served as our kitchen. On it sat a five-gallon jug of water for washing our hands, a YETI GoBox holding our cooking gear, and another box filled with dehydrated meals for the week. We kept our kitchen clean – you’d be proud, Denise.

With camp set up, we could come and go quickly and efficiently. Before sunrise, we would head up the mountain.

Hunter had spent months researching the units we could access. Using onX and Google satellite imagery, he’d put together an impressive, comprehensive plan for the area. He knew exactly where he wanted to start our first morning. Given the heavy pressure on public land, I was surprised no one else seemed to have the same plan.

The first thing that grabbed my attention was the water. It seeped up through the ground, turning what looked like tall, damp grass into a meadow of knee-deep mud and soggy tundra. Thankfully, our waterproof boots and chaps kept our feet dry. At 10,500 feet, near the top of the mountain, I knew it was not a river or stream but rather the pressure of the earth compressing the snowmelt, forcing it back to the surface.

Around 6 a.m., we reached a spot that looked perfect for our first bugle. Within seconds of the call, the eerie song of a bull answered from high in the meadow.

We pursued him for two days without success, then changed course rather than risk our remaining time on one bull. Over the next several days, we put mile after mile on our boots. Traversing hillsides covered with deadfall was the hardest and most dangerous part. Pine trees lay scattered like a game of pickup sticks, their broken limbs sticking out like daggers. The terrain reminded me to slow down and watch every step. One bad fall could impale you, and the thought of what to do next could be consuming. At times, it felt like something out of an Indiana Jones movie.

For seven days and six nights, we pursued the ghost of the pines. But one evening, our attention turned to something else.

A hunter had left the remains of a moose carcass at the edge of a meadow the day before. I figured it was only a matter of time before bears caught the scent. Hunter and I settled in about 120 yards away and waited.

At exactly 7 p.m., the sun touched the horizon. The mountain air cooled almost instantly. Shadows spread like a curtain across the meadow, and everything seemed to go still. Then, over my left shoulder, I saw bears make their first appearance at 250 yards away.

“We’ve got fifteen minutes before they reach that carcass,” I told Hunter.

We dropped our packs and moved silently but swiftly across half the meadow, stopping behind the only small tree nearby. We were now about sixty yards from where we expected the bears to go. Like clockwork, three black bears climbed over the deadfall with the ease of children on a playground. My nerves lit up.

Hunter fumbled as he nocked an arrow, then steadied himself and took his first shot. The largest bear sat up on its haunches and caught our scent. Its eyes locked on with Hunter’s eyes. Time seemed to stop. Hunter nocked another arrow and released his second shot, striking the bear in the chest.

Then the three bears scattered. Darkness was fifteen minutes away. Rather than search for a wounded bear at night, I decided we should return in the morning. As we turned to leave, a massive bull moose came straight toward us, seemingly unafraid. We made a hasty exit and waited for dawn.

The next morning, we could hardly wait to get back. At the scene, it appeared both arrows had passed through the bear. We thought we would find him within minutes.

We were wrong.

For a day and a half, we followed the blood trail back and forth – over the deadfall, toward the carcass, and around a wide circle in the meadow. Again and again, we walked the same route until the trail disappeared into the grass. Then the rain returned, washing away what signs remained. We never found the bear.

The wilderness takes its toll, physically and mentally. Steep hikes at high elevation, too little sleep, and too few calories drain whatever energy you brought with you. Finding sign lifts your spirits; losing it brings them crashing down. As your feet wander over the mountains, your mind wanders too. Almost certainly, you will boil empty time down into some serious thoughts about aspects of your life.

“As your feet wander over the mountains, your mind wanders too. Almost certainly, you will boil empty time down into some serious thoughts about aspects of your life.”

I had never written a song or even a poem. But one night, unable to sleep, I kept hearing words and phrases in my head. I wrote them down in my notes. This is the only song or poem I’ve ever written.

Sing Us a Song

By Jed Mazour

We ride in on high like feathered Comanche warriors,
Face paint and fearless as our forefathers, with words from their stories.

With solitude as absolute as the night sky,
Best don’t come in if you’re afraid to die.
Here the pines reach to the heavens, and the water flows from the ground,
But step cautiously – around each corner, it’s a long way down.

So please, please, sing us a song,
Our time in the hourglass is almost gone.

The early fall aspen leaves quake
And lead you to forget the decisions you’re soon forced to make.

Standing here, Lord, I’m sorry for some things I’ve done.
Can you hear me now, Father? It’s just me and my gun.

So please, please, sing us a song,
Our time in the hourglass is almost gone.

With a flash in the pan and his body on the ground,
I’ll be the first to take a knee, Lord, and praise everything around.

Bloody hands and not enough sleep to dream,
I wouldn’t trade it for anything – at least nothing that can be seen.

So try if you must, take chase to the ghost of the pines,
But mark my words: you’ll face the most challenging times.

So please, please, sing us a song,
Our time in the hourglass, it’s almost…

As it turned out, we did run out of sand in our hourglass. We didn’t come home with the majestic ghost of the pines. Instead, I came home carrying a heavy pack, spiritually. The trip also reminded me how much I love being out there. If I want to keep sharing these experiences with my family, I need to stay strong – physically, mentally, and spiritually. There were moments when I was tested and moments when I felt defeated. In those moments, I thought about what Jesus Christ had gone through. It has motivated me to keep taking the next step. I am forever grateful for your grace and mercy.

Sincerely,

Jed Mazour

From the November 2026 issue of The Kendall Gentleman.

---

Jed Mazour has written about the outdoors for The Kendall Gentleman before in The Call of the Wild, Summer Shootout at Inks Lake and Passion and Christ. For more from this issue, read Glynn Praesel: Don’t Ever Quit Climbing Trees, which includes his horseback trips into the mountains with veterans.