My buddy of fifty years, Tom Theobald, a beekeeper/poet/author in Colorado, and I used to explore the American West together in the 70s and 80s – on horseback, over Spring rapids and Summer-slow rivers for many days in spectacular canyons, and driving on back roads just to see where they led.

One late-night drive across Yellowstone with Tom, I took a ranch road (actually, just a couple of tire tracks in the high grass lit by my headlights) onto the high plains looking for a place to drop our sleeping bags. We finally stopped, tucked into our bags and slept on the freezing-cold ground scattered with pockets of snow. I fell asleep looking at a star-filled sky from under the brim of my hat. When I woke at first light there was a heavy mist rising off the ground. I looked around from inside my bag and saw we were in the middle of what appeared to be a scattered outcropping of large, dark boulders, morning steam rising from each. And then I thought the one closest to me moved. In disbelief I scanned about and saw another move. We were laying in the middle of a buffalo herd.

I rose slowly, tucked my hands into my down vest, and wandered between them, unbothered by me, to the edge of the tumbleweed meadows about a hundred feet away until I could go no further. I stood at the top of a high cliff and looked down as far as I could see, from left to right, over a river that wandered far below in meandering curves until finally disappearing into distant trees. The day opened enough to light the river up in a thin flash as I stood there. And then…a bald eagle swept over the river from a distant downstream, until it plucked a large fish from the water and lifted up off the valley floor to my level...sweeping by me so close, the pulse of wind coming off its wings the only sound.

"What the….did I just see this”? “Hey Tom”, I called out to him still sleeping. “You’re not going to believe what’s going on around here".

My wilderness experiences with Tom continues into the late-seventies. I was editor/publisher of Adventures In Dining, a food & wine magazine I created for Central California, based in the coastal town of Carmel. I had just finished attending some cooking workshops and was pumped with enthusiasm. It was August.

Tom had taken a job as an elk hunting guide for Budges Wilderness Lodge, in the Flattops Wilderness Area, the third largest U.S. Wilderness area in Colorado, and home to large herds of big game, including elk. He called me one morning.

“Hey Gary. Can you take some time off to cook for a bunch of elk hunters for a week in September? You would be cooking for fourteen at a drop camp that I’ll set up the week before at 11,000 feet. You can cook on a propane stove, in a wood-burning oven and over an open fire. From the lodge, which is a half-day drive into the mountains from Vail, we’ll be another full day on horseback pulling a string of mules and pack horses up a narrow trail of switchbacks to our camp. You can put together the menu – bring whatever foods and wines you want. Your costs will be covered. Anything you make will better than the beans and burgers these guys are used to. They won’t be expecting you or what you might come up with. Just come be in this spectacular country and cook. You and I will have a couple days in camp before the hunters arrive. Oh, and It’s likely you’ll get snowed on. You’ll love it”.

I had some time available because I just sent the next issue of my magazine off to the printer. So, without too much hesitation, I said, “Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll send you a menu in a few days”.

“Oh, Gary, please bring with you some of that herb you are growing in the back yard. We’ll have a good time”.

The menu I created for the twelve day adventure was purposely one that would surprise and delight a bunch of elk hunters, most of them financially well off enough to be acquainted with fine cuisine, as well as being able to afford the $6000 per person cost just for the chance to take down an elk.

I was to be in charge of feeding all a hearty breakfast before Tom would saddle up their horses and take each one to their respective stands in the mountains to wait in the cold day for an elk sighting and shot. When they returned to camp in the late afternoon, I would be serving them a dinner prepared during their absence, at one large table. Because I believe that a good dining experience can change one’s life I cherished the opportunity to make their trip memorable, whether a kill was had or not. And so, I loaded the car with fine wines, foods, spices and some backyard cannabis and drove toward Colorado, with the sunroof and windows open, a puff of sweet smoke into the sky… singing to the music of Linda Ronstadt, The Eagles, and Aretha Franklin. ‘Rocky Mountain High,’ here I come.

The dirt road into Budges Lodge, off the highway outside of Vail, was a bumpy two-hour drive up until ‘up’ flattened out into rolling meadows with sparkling streams and a backdrop of even more ‘up’ in the distance––peaked in snow before sky took over. The following day I would head ‘up” again on the back of a horse.

I arrived at the lodge and was greeted by Tom, who introduced me to a few of the ranch hands. They would be managing the packhorses and mules for the rest of our trip so Tom and I could focus on the hunters who would be arriving in three days. When Tom saw how much food and wine I brought with me he said, “We’re gonna need another mule just to pack up all these wines. No problem. Let me show you where you’re sleeping. You’ll be in the bunk house with me and the rest of the hands.”

The next day, Tom and I left the lodge early with our string of packhorses in tow. Within an hour the open trail bent left toward an expanse of meadow with a severing stream of snowmelt lined with out-of-season wildflowers. Heaven!

The trail soon narrowed to the width of a horse then lifted off the valley floor to some miles of switchbacks through a golden maze of aspen trees. This was a vista of early Americana when beaver ponds and wandering herds of big game flourished. Overwhelmed with appreciation to witness the splendor I called out, startling my horse, “Thank you Tom.” He knew.

When we got to camp I could smell the coming of snow.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been called into wilderness. Being alone: on the water, in the prairie or the desert, on majestic mountain tops, in the jungle or the woods, I’ve enjoyed mystery, adventure and discovery in the natural environment.

This was one of those true wilderness experiences.

After riding into camp Tom and I were alone for a couple days–before the hunters arrived in a line of pack horses loaded up with additional supplies.

I completed setup of the 20’ x 30’ cook-tent with a stovetop, oven, tables, hanging lanterns, food and wine storage. I cherished this time with Tom, much of which we filled with laughter or complete silence––sitting around the campfire with sparks and stories chasing stars; or perched on a large rock looking over a deeply wooded valley, and from this, an up-facing grassy mountain about a half-mile away. We passed a joint of ‘California-grown’ between us and tracked the paths of graffiti-in-action on the fields of snow across from us, by a herd of almost fifty elk. We talked of children and changes; the consequence of a fast-growing world population consuming the balance of our planet’s natural resources.

In the morning, we left camp on horseback. Low, slow-moving, clouds told of an arriving snow. Open high meadows with pools of snowmelt were surrounded by large scopes of forest branches, twisted by the wind, still holding the last layering of fallen snow. The brisk air around us at eleven-thousand-feet smelled teasingly brief. I was stoned on the most natural of drugs: an intoxicating sensation of wilderness and the sweet redolent musk of horse and saddle that invited stories of Louis & Clark and matinee western movies.

Tom wanted to explore a variety of locations he planned to station each hunter to await the appearance of elk. We found a spot to sit in the snow with our backs to a fallen tree and waxed poetic about anything or nothing. We even fell asleep in the pleasant pause of listening and found our way back to camp just before dark.>

After settling in our tent for the night both of us enjoyed reading while listening to the mountain speak from our neighboring cots. Our last light of the day from the headlamp each of us wore, was clicked off usually with, “Pretty good day to be alive.” It was not unusual for Tom to reach over to click off my headlamp after I fell asleep with book across my chest.

There is a preciousness about looking out for one another that grows in a friendship, especially one that has weathered many years of changes in one another.

A couple days later, when the hunters arrived, led by a couple of grizzly ranch-hands, the camp bustled with invigorating introductions, tent assignments, personal histories and announcement of camp rules and hunting etiquette. Tom let it be known that there was a good chance that each would return home with elk meat…or maybe only with some stories of a grand experience. My job, as camp cook and chef de cuisine, was to entertain and nourish them with good food paired with exceptional wines.

Our welcoming night of fine dining (I believe that night I served a menu of Crown Roast of Pork with an apple/sausage/chestnut stuffing, Caesar Salad, fresh vegetables from Utah lowlands, Flamed Dark Chocolate Cointreau Mousse set in molds I carved in the shape of elk droppings, finished with Cognac around the fire) was followed by late-night calls of “Good Night, John-Boy” (Remember the television classic, ‘The Waltons’?), and dreams of a new day with following herds.

The next day, as with all days, I was the first to wake–generally an hour before first light. I started the fire outside the cook tent and hung a kettle from a tripod filled with makings for the day’s soup. I woke all with a call of, “Breakfast in fifteen,” set the table, and bagged up lunches for each to saddle up and take to their stand in the woods. During the night, it started to snow. Soft, big flakes of snow, drifting more than falling. With an inch already on the ground, everyone was saddled up and led from camp by Tom to their assigned stands.

I retreated to fireside–stoked it with timber for a long flame: my butt on the ground with legs outstretched toward the fire, back against a fallen log, and a canvas tarp pulled over me leaving just a small space under the brim of my western hat for viewing the dance of flames and the mountain meadow falling away behind. The snow started in a parade of white petals. I fell asleep…as warm as any animal in hibernation.

On waking, before I could see anything, I could feel the earth speak of oncoming horses. From under my hat, I could only see white. I was completely covered with six inches of snow.

“Hey Gary. You in there?” called Tom.

I rose from under my snowy blanket to a team of horses and riders lookin’ down on me. The was fire still going. The soup was near ready for dinner. It was time stop counting my blessings behind closed eyes and make dinner for the hungry crew.

Tom and I continued our ‘Gourmet Wilderness Adventures’ periodically for four years afterward, in the summer during full moons and in the autumn for hunting season. At one point I received a telegram from ‘Merv Griffin (television) Show’ wanting to feature our adventure, but I chose to only promote our trips locally and by word-of-mouth.